The Wedding Officer

17

THE NEXT time Alberto came to Fiscino he brought a chicken, which he asked Livia to cook for him.

“It’s not a young one,” he said, holding it by the neck and regarding it critically as it flapped and wriggled in his grasp. “Or particularly plump. But you know what they say: Gallina vecchia fa buon brodo. The older the chicken, the better the broth.” He pulled the chicken’s neck to snap it before handing it to her with a bow.

She had not eaten since the last of the loaf was finished, and her mouth watered as the bird bubbled in the stockpot with an onion, celery and some carrots that Alberto had also brought. “Will you eat with me?” he asked her.

“I can’t. I’m the cook.”

“You don’t have any other customers.” He laid two places on her kitchen table. “It’s a good chicken,” he said persuasively.

She went to stand over by the stove. “Even so.”

When the broth was made, he watched as she took the bird out of the pan and placed it on a dish. The broth she served to him just as it came out of the stockpot, thickened only with a little pasta.

“Such a simple dish,” he said, sucking it down in great spoonfuls. “Yet so difficult to cook well. It’s wonderful, Livia.”

She couldn’t help being pleased. “Thank you.”

“Won’t you try some?”

“No.” She had already decided that she would eat later, from the leftovers. Even Alberto, surely, could not devour a whole saucepan of broth, not in these days when many people had not tasted meat for a year, and a chicken such as this could feed a whole family for weeks.

“Suit yourself.” He went back to the broth. “It really is very good.”

She could see that the soup was that wonderful gray color that comes from a well-boiled chicken, speckled here and there with golden morsels of fat. She was by now dizzy with hunger, and if she had not had the stove to lean against she might have fallen. She watched as he drained every drop.

“And now,” he said, reaching for the chicken, “for the secondo.”

He broke it open with his thick fingers, deftly easing the breast meat away from the bone, twisting off the legs and thighs with well-practiced movements until the bird lay dismembered on the serving dish. “Please,” he said, indicating the other place at the table.

“I can’t,” she said again, but as the aroma of cooked chicken flesh filled the air, she felt weak again, and surely when her legs were so wobbly it was no great crime to allow herself to flop into a chair. Alberto pushed a long sliver of breast meat into his mouth, and chewed it with an expression of rapture. Then he picked out a smaller piece and held it toward her. She started to reach for it, but then she felt his other hand on her arm, gently pushing it back toward the table. She understood what he wanted now, and obediently opened her mouth as he put the piece of chicken to it.

She closed her eyes. It was easier that way. She could feel his thick fingers, slick with chicken grease, pushing against her lips, but all she could taste was that chicken, the rich, thick meaty flavor of it, filling her mouth and her mind, blotting out everything else. Then it was gone, and she could not help it—she had opened her mouth for more, the way a baby bird opens its beak to be fed. She felt two thick fingers pushing into her mouth, and she found she was sucking the chicken grease off them eagerly, desperate for every last morsel.

When he pulled his fingers away she opened her eyes, ashamed of what she had just done. But there was more chicken in his hand now—the sella, saddle, two tiny pieces of dark flesh from the underneath of the bird, just behind the wings: the best part of the meat. Again she closed her eyes, and again she felt his fingers pushing into her mouth until she had licked them clean.

She heard his voice in her ear. “When you asked me, last time, why it had to be you,” he said quietly, “I told you a lie. It wasn’t just that I can’t afford to be laughed at. It’s because I love you.”

It was easier to keep her eyes shut, to blot out what was happening, what she was hearing. She said nothing, and after a little while another sliver of chicken was pushed between her lips.

After he had gone she felt sick. But that evening she went to a corner of the kitchen, where she had carefully collected all the chicken’s blood into a saucepan.

“I’ve had an idea,” she said to Marisa. “What about the tank?”

“Which tank?”

“The one that broke down after you made a spell against the tedesco soldier. If we could get it to work, we could use it instead of a tractor.”

Marisa considered. “I would need some cock’s blood.”

Livia held up her saucepan. “How about a very old cooking hen?”

“Possibly. But, Livia, neither of us knows how to drive a tank.”

“So?” Livia shrugged. “It can’t be that difficult. Soldiers do it, and look how stupid most of them are.”

That afternoon they went up to the field behind the village where the German tank had broken down. Marisa poured a foul-smelling concoction into the fuel reservoir from a bottle she had brought with her. Then she laid her hands on the tank’s outer plates.

“Try it now,” she said.

Livia climbed inside. It was very dark—the only light came from a few slits in the armor. The interior smelled of engine oil, rank male sweat and another, smokier smell that she realized must be cordite.

She sat in the driver’s seat and looked at the controls. They seemed simple enough. On either side of her were two large levers, which presumably controlled the two tracks. In front of the driver’s seat a tiny eye slit showed a very limited view of the way ahead. On her right were a number of other levers and switches whose function she couldn’t work out. A black button looked as if it might be the starter motor. She pressed it. Nothing happened. She tried pushing all the other levers around to different positions, then tried again. This time the whole tank shook—she thought for a moment she had somehow fired the gun, then she realized it was just the engine catching, right under her feet. The interior filled with dense black smoke. She pushed at the levers, and the machine lurched forward.