duty! Flopping over on my side, I gave my pillow a punch, determined to go back to sleep. I’m happy to say that, worries and espresso aside, I did—probably out of sheer perversity.
“Carolyn? Carolyn? For Pete’s sake would you pick up?”
I woke with a start, heart racing, and recognized Jason’s voice. He must have been shouting into his telephone at the hotel because I could hear him from Vera’s office in the far corner of the apartment.
“All right. You’re still mad at me. I’m sorry I wasn’t more sympathetic. But don’t go out investigating. Please! I called my dad. He’s flying in this morning. He’ll hire a detective. So just—just have some great meals and write about them. OK? I’ll check out of the hotel and join you on Sacramento Street by 6:30. I love you, sweetheart. . . . Well, I guess you’re not going to pick up. OK. Bye.”
He’d already hung up by the time I managed to disentangle myself from the sheets—I must have had a very restless night—and stagger out of the bedroom, around the dining room table, and into the office, where a lighted digital clock told me that it was 6:30. He’d called me before going out to run. Only a mad man would consider running up and down the hills of San Francisco. Only a mad man couldn’t wait to call until he got back and I might be up. I punched the replay button and listened to his message. Have some great meals and write about them indeed! He was still trying to tell me I shouldn’t look into the murder of what’s-her-name. And Jason’s father was going to hire a detective to help his ex-wife? Like I believed that !
I stumbled back across the apartment and fell into bed. I still planned to go straight over to the center, but nine o’clock should be quite early enough.
10
Frittata with the Pizza Man
Carolyn
S howered and dressed, I was peering into the refrigerator to see what Vera had in stock, hardly anything, when someone knocked at my door. A voice called, “ Bellissima, is-a me. Bruno Valetti. Answer the door. I’m-a hear you toilet an’ you shower, so I’m-a fix you a tasty frittata. Is omelet Italiano. Si ?”
Saved by the neighborhood tenor, I thought and dashed to the front door.
Mr. Valetti stood before me with the lovely aroma of an Italian kitchen wafting from his spatula. Or was it imagination that made me think that I could already smell the frittata? “Come!” he cried. “The mozzarella is-a almost melt.”
We scampered downstairs. Feeling mildly vindictive, I thought of my husband who, by staying at the hotel, was going to miss a lovely breakfast. The omelet, fresh from the oven, was creamy and dripping with cheese, flavored with mushroom, onion, and ham chunks that had probably been sliced from a delicious product of Parma. I glanced around, but no such ham hung from his ceiling. However, braids of garlic and onion festooned his kitchen, and his table was tiled like an ancient Roman mosaic and surrounded by four of those miserably uncomfortable, rush-bottomed chairs whose seats are rimmed by hardwood. Such rims have left indentations on the bottoms of generations in Mediterranean Europe.
While I complimented Mr. Valetti on his delectable frittata, I glanced surreptitiously at the design on his table. I had read recently about pornographic mosaics found that year in a unisex Pompeii bathhouse, which information prompted the thought that I might be eating my breakfast on an embarrassing depiction of ancient sexual practices.
“I see you look-a my tile. I’m-a do it myself. A hobby. Si ? I get furniture that don’t look good on top. I’m-a tile it like an old mosaic in a picture book. You wanna see the one inna my bedroom?”
“No, thanks,” I said hastily. The kitchen table didn’t seem to be pornographic, but it was hard to tell because it was covered with the cast-iron frying pan in which he had made the frittata; plates, cups and saucers, wildly painted in red and yellow; a vase of purple
“Carolyn? Carolyn? For Pete’s sake would you pick up?”
I woke with a start, heart racing, and recognized Jason’s voice. He must have been shouting into his telephone at the hotel because I could hear him from Vera’s office in the far corner of the apartment.
“All right. You’re still mad at me. I’m sorry I wasn’t more sympathetic. But don’t go out investigating. Please! I called my dad. He’s flying in this morning. He’ll hire a detective. So just—just have some great meals and write about them. OK? I’ll check out of the hotel and join you on Sacramento Street by 6:30. I love you, sweetheart. . . . Well, I guess you’re not going to pick up. OK. Bye.”
He’d already hung up by the time I managed to disentangle myself from the sheets—I must have had a very restless night—and stagger out of the bedroom, around the dining room table, and into the office, where a lighted digital clock told me that it was 6:30. He’d called me before going out to run. Only a mad man would consider running up and down the hills of San Francisco. Only a mad man couldn’t wait to call until he got back and I might be up. I punched the replay button and listened to his message. Have some great meals and write about them indeed! He was still trying to tell me I shouldn’t look into the murder of what’s-her-name. And Jason’s father was going to hire a detective to help his ex-wife? Like I believed that !
I stumbled back across the apartment and fell into bed. I still planned to go straight over to the center, but nine o’clock should be quite early enough.
10
Frittata with the Pizza Man
Carolyn
S howered and dressed, I was peering into the refrigerator to see what Vera had in stock, hardly anything, when someone knocked at my door. A voice called, “ Bellissima, is-a me. Bruno Valetti. Answer the door. I’m-a hear you toilet an’ you shower, so I’m-a fix you a tasty frittata. Is omelet Italiano. Si ?”
Saved by the neighborhood tenor, I thought and dashed to the front door.
Mr. Valetti stood before me with the lovely aroma of an Italian kitchen wafting from his spatula. Or was it imagination that made me think that I could already smell the frittata? “Come!” he cried. “The mozzarella is-a almost melt.”
We scampered downstairs. Feeling mildly vindictive, I thought of my husband who, by staying at the hotel, was going to miss a lovely breakfast. The omelet, fresh from the oven, was creamy and dripping with cheese, flavored with mushroom, onion, and ham chunks that had probably been sliced from a delicious product of Parma. I glanced around, but no such ham hung from his ceiling. However, braids of garlic and onion festooned his kitchen, and his table was tiled like an ancient Roman mosaic and surrounded by four of those miserably uncomfortable, rush-bottomed chairs whose seats are rimmed by hardwood. Such rims have left indentations on the bottoms of generations in Mediterranean Europe.
While I complimented Mr. Valetti on his delectable frittata, I glanced surreptitiously at the design on his table. I had read recently about pornographic mosaics found that year in a unisex Pompeii bathhouse, which information prompted the thought that I might be eating my breakfast on an embarrassing depiction of ancient sexual practices.
“I see you look-a my tile. I’m-a do it myself. A hobby. Si ? I get furniture that don’t look good on top. I’m-a tile it like an old mosaic in a picture book. You wanna see the one inna my bedroom?”
“No, thanks,” I said hastily. The kitchen table didn’t seem to be pornographic, but it was hard to tell because it was covered with the cast-iron frying pan in which he had made the frittata; plates, cups and saucers, wildly painted in red and yellow; a vase of purple
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