Free The Art of Killing Well by Marco Malvaldi, Howard Curtis Page B

affection, but by reality. Given that her interlocutor was silent but looked dubious, she continued:
    â€œThe trouble is that my dear brother has no terms of comparison, and this makes him think that he is much more intelligent and cultivated than he really is. He has always found it difficult to make friends, and he grew up together with Lapo, who although he is still my brother is certainly no genius. My grandmother always says of Lapo that the best one can say, if one is forced to say something good about him, is that he dresses well.”
    Artusi said nothing. Cecilia had not cited herself as a term of comparison, for all too obvious reasons. She was a woman, and this was 1895. At that time, as far as public opinion was concerned, a woman barely had a soul.
    This was an era when Italy was taking shape, and people were passionate about politics. They were years in which there was much discussion of unity, constitutions, rights and freedom. Unfortunately, barely two years had passed since New Zealand – a country literally a world apart from us, being on the other side of the globe – had been the first on earth to give votes to women.As an Italian woman, our Cecilia would have to wait another fiftyone years to vote, assuming she survived cholera outbreaks, two world wars and the three or four pregnancies which presumably awaited her. She could not vote, and she could not be elected. The only possibility she had to play an official public role would be if someone tried to rape her, and failing to do so, killed her: in that case, very probably, she would have been made a saint by popular demand. As a career prospect, it must be admitted that it had its limitations.
    All this Artusi and Cecilia said to each other with their eyes, in much less time than it has taken you to read it. After which, Artusi resumed cautiously:
    â€œIn any case, signorina, I am pleased that you have honoured me with your trust. Believe me, I am truly touched, and I would be happy to reciprocate.”
    â€œDo you mean that?”
    â€œIt has been a long time since I last lied to a woman, signorina.”
    â€œGood. Then you would be doing me a great favour if you found a way to sprain your ankle.”
    Ah, it’s finally happened, said Artusi’s eyebrows. Either I’m becoming deaf, or I’m losing my mind.
    â€œI’m afraid I do not understand.”
    â€œYou see, Signor Pellegrino Artusi, like you I find the hours spent at Mass could be put to better use. Especially when one finds a person of the world with whom one can converse about things of substance, which is something that rarely happens to me.”
    â€œI understand, signorina, but—”
    â€œPlease be so good as to let me speak, since you seem to me the only resident of the castle who is kind enough to listen to me when I speak. You are a guest here, and master of your time, which means that you can do what you like, but for me not to be present at Mass would be considered highly reprehensible, and would certainly result in punishment. But, if a guest hurt himself while I was with him, it would be even more reprehensible if I didn’t help him. That is why, if you demonstrated that you had sprained your ankle, I would be able to bandage it to perfection, after which we could walk to the castle. You would have to go slowly, since you are infirm, and I, as the master’s daughter and an expert nurse, would have to help you. We would miss Mass, it’s true, but we would arrive just in time for lunch.”
    Artusi looked at the girl, and a slow smile wrinkled his stern whiskers.

    They walked slowly in the sun, Artusi and his makeshift handmaid, laughing like two old friends or two people amusing themselves behind each other’s backs.
    They were close to the castle and had slowed down even more. Artusi had already rattled off two or three of his stories, and was now telling Cecilia about the cholera outbreak of 1855, and how he had