No Rest for the Dove by Margaret Miles Page B

inside to watch her own efforts.
    “What is to be done now?” he asked from a low stool, as Charlotte continued to stir.
    “In a few minutes I’ll ask you to pour more kettle water into the bath, to heat it further. Once it comes to the proper temperature, it has to be kept there for about an hour. Then we’ll remove the whey. You might help by lifting and pouring out what’s in the vat—just onto the cheesecloth I’ve stretched over that bowl, there—so the curds can drain. After another half-hour it can go onto the boards, where I’ll knead in the salt. Then it all must be pressed into the molds, which I’ve lined with more cloth.”
    “And your work will be done?”
    “
Then
, we put weights on the top of the molds. In another hour, more weight, and in three hours time the cheese should be almost dry. I’ll rub each one with salt,and take them all down to the cellar to ripen. They’ll be turned every so often for two months, at least, before the first comes to table.”
    “How I adore the patience of women! The liquid—this whey—you will make it into
ricotta
?”
    “I’m afraid I don’t know what that is … but the family in Mr. Longfellow’s piggery finds whey very enjoyable, and beneficial.”
    “Your country is indeed a rich one.”
    “Have you helped to make
ricotta
before?” she asked, after her hand went briefly to a few twists of cider-colored hair that had begun, as usual, to fall.
    “I remember only that the liquid was made sour and eaten in my father’s house—the rest, he sold to be made into fine cheeses for others. But I did not make
ricotta
myself. As a young boy, my chores were outside. Then, like the cheeses, I was sold to a
conservatorio
in Parma. There I sometimes visited the kitchen to help, and to find something more to eat. But for long hours each day I only studied, and sang. Now I think I will surprise you. Even as a boy I was called Il Colombo, but not for my fine voice; as you know, the dove sings less well than many other birds. No—you see, one feast day, some of us were allowed to eat many
piccioni
—doves, as you say—after a special mass sung at one of the great churches. From that time, I longed to be rich so that I might keep such doves myself. I also hoped to learn the tricks of the bird-catcher—the fowler—by following him into the forest outside the city; in that way I should always have the little roasted songbirds, the ortolans, to eat. I see I do surprise you! But though I was hungry for such things, I was also glad to have more bread to eat than many others, whose voices did not show the promise of my own.”
    Something made her want to turn away from this picture of a boy hungry for birds, as he himself was taught tosing—but Charlotte found her curiosity too strong. Instead, she asked a daring question.
    “I suppose we can never truly understand the ways of Rome here, but didn’t your clergy—your priests—didn’t they forbid what was done?”
    “Sì,”
he answered simply.
    “But then …?”
    “At the
conservatorio
, everyone prayed I would be taken to serve Il Papa one day, paid for with good money. Of course this was to be for the glory of God! Yet it is said to be against God’s law, to do what is done to so many. The cardinals even say it is enough to condemn such a
dottore
to the
inferno
—but, they also hope we will sing for them like the angels. It is for this reason the Holy Father allows, and pays, and looks the other way. Life, you see, is never without sin, even in Roma.”
    “But you did not go to Rome?”
    “I grew too charming,” Lahti admitted with a laugh. “When my voice was ready, my teachers were offered more by the theaters than by the cardinals. In Italy, you know, young men often play the parts of women in the operas; and of course, no women are allowed in the choirs of the Church—this is the order of the Pope. In the theater, it can be unpleasant, even dangerous, for a woman to walk the stage. My own