If fish is the prince of the Christmas table, the saltwater eel is certainly king.
The big eel with its jutting jaw, fat and slippery and perennially on the move, brought home partially stunned by the brown paper in which it’s wrapped, comes back to life the minute it’s tossed into a bath of fresh water for a wash, and becomes very much like a snake, wriggling before the fascinated and terrified eyes of the children who stand watching the whole bloody preparation, never to forget it as long as they live. In fact, the cut-up pieces of eel continue to move in the blood as if possessed of a life of their own, as if the animal were capable of defeating death itself, until finally, coated in flour, they land in the frying pan and become the main dish of Christmas dinner, served with a traditional laurel-leaf garnish.
On Via Santa Brigida the basins with saltwater eels were virtually under siege, more and more so as the time passed and the hour to return home drew near. One of the most active vendors, a dark and handsome young man with a charming smile and a deep voice, drew women to his stand by picking up clusters of eels and swishing them around in the large basin before him, shouting:
“They’re dead and they’re alive, authentic saltwater eels, the tail of the Devil himself!”
The symbolic phrase, the reference to the Devil’s tail and life and death, attracted the commissario’s attention and he moved away from Maione through the crowd. The brigadier stayed behind, keeping an eye on the Boccias, who seemed to be having good luck with their sales.
When Ricciardi was near the eel tank, as one large eel was being moved from the scale to a paper wrapper, it suddenly twisted and lunged and flew into the street.
The girl who’d just bought it watched it hurtle through the air, as surprised as the fishmonger by the eel’s sudden spurt of energy as it landed at the feet of a couple who happened to be passing by. The man noticed it first, and he darted to one side, knocking flat to the ground a little boy who was walking by and holding his mother’s hand. The woman, in turn, screamed and hiked up her skirts with both hands, breaking into a sort of propitiatory dance around the poor creature as it writhed on the stone slabs of the sidewalk.
In the space of a few seconds, the place was a madhouse: some people were screaming, while others were laughing; a few little girls burst into tears because they’d suddenly been separated from their parents; and everyone was diving forward at once in an effort to catch the huge eel, which, slippery and contorted as was its nature, managed to slip through all of their hands.
Ricciardi watched, openmouthed, the only person to remain motionless amid all the confusion.
He stood staring at the elusive, uncatchable eel. He watched it slither through one outstretched hand after another until suddenly, with a forward lunge, the very same fishmonger who had let it get away seized it, restoring it to its fate.
But by that point, Ricciardi had vanished.