Seven Seasons in Siena by Robert Rodi Page B

closer without contaminating the bread with my schvitzing, and even if I could, I don’t have time for exactitude—I’ve got too many loaves to get through. Every time I check the bag, there seem to be even more of them brimming over the top, as if it’s the sack Jesus blessed when he fed the multitude.
    I cast furtive glances over my shoulder. Everyone else isworking away quite contentedly, laughing and joking, and no one appears to be gushing great quantities of their bodily fluids. What in God’s name is wrong with me? Why am I the only freak who’s sweating like a packhorse? Fortunately, I’m wearing all black, so the widening stains at my collar and under my arms aren’t likely to show. If I can just quietly keep working, maybe I’ll stay beneath everyone’s radar; no one will even notice me …
    â€œHello,” says someone, interrupting me in midthought. I whirl with a start and almost slip on the small reservoir beneath my feet.
    A young man is standing at my shoulder; midtwenties, a head full of dark, curly hair, a pleasant smile. I return his hello, realizing only now that he’s addressed me in English.
    â€œMy name is Duccio,” he says, also in English.
    â€œLucio?” I ask, thinking I’ve misheard him.
    â€œDuccio,” he corrects me. “It is a Tuscan name.” In other words: you’re an outsider. I lift my hands—covered with sweat and crumbs—to show him I’m in no fit condition to shake. He nods and says, “Silvia told me you had arrived. I am in charge of the kitchen tonight; I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you.” He plonks an open bottle of red wine and a plastic cup next to the cutting board. “Thank you for your help. Please let me know if there is anything you need.”
    â€œI will,” I say, and he gives me one last smile before he turns to go. As soon as he does, I’m free to flick away the drop of sweat I feel hanging from the tip of my nose. With any luck, he never even noticed it.
    The wine is a very civilized gesture and reduces my anxiety somewhat; it’s also exactly what I need right now, because all the bread I’ve eaten has rather lodged in my gullet. It feelsgood to wash it down, especially with something so rich and smooth and … and.…
    Â â€¦Â and warm. I realize after only two or three swallows that it’s having an entirely disastrous effect on my body temperature. I was sweating profusely before; now it’s as though I’m made of wax. Sweat runs into my ears and down my neck. It collects in the little V beneath my lower back. It moistens my socks inside my shoes. When I shift my footing, I squish. And beneath my feet is a virtual pond; it must look as if I’ve wet my pants over and over.
    And I still have dozens of loaves to go.
    I’m not going to make it; I can feel it. I can’t be in this much physical distress without something bad happening. I’ll swoon, or faint, or—I don’t know, just collapse inward, dissolve into a little gelatinous blob.
    I put down the knife and try to pull myself together. Panicking isn’t going to help. I force myself to relax my shoulder muscles and take a few deep breaths. I remind myself that the sweat glands are the body’s own air-conditioning system. Sweat is what cools us down when we’re overheated. Sweat is our
friend
. Soon I will have regained my equilibrium, and I will feel perfectly fine.…
    Twenty minutes pass, and screw that science shit, IT’S NOT WORKING. I can’t move at all without creating a fine spray in the air behind me. Anyone taking even the slightest glance my way must notice how alarmingly drenched in perspiration I am. My only comfort is that the kitchen is now in full swing—the dinner service is under way—so no one’s likely to look at me, not even when they come rushing over for my baskets of bread. I’m