Page 74 of Just for a Taste

Dozens of documents were fanned out in front of me on the floor, each in various stages of notation. Empty pens punctuated the border, freshly drained of ink. As indicated by the graphite smears on the side of my hand, I had switched to pencil after having to run back and forth for new pens, but this had proven problematic in its own right.At least, I thought as I dusted up shattered lead,this is all for a good reason.

After another experimental tap resulted in tingling in the tips of my toes, I hobbled to my feet and went to fetch a dustpan. It had taken me several days to touch many of the papers; those that were deliciously yellowed and musty in that strangely aged yet timeless manner all but told me outright they were unarchived relics. I had been cautious about transferring them to the scanner Zeno fetched me, but it was all worth it now.

Upon entering the kitchen, my stomach gurgled, and the fridge called to me immediately. I took a large gulp of cold water and it hit the back of my mouth, as searing as vodka. Yet another punishment for neglecting my body. I wished I could say the reason for skipping meals was all passion driven, but I knew a substantial part of it was that I had become horribly reliant on Signora Carbone’s cooking.

I grabbed a handful of chips, shook out the last of the numbness, and strode to the window. I started to untuck the blackout curtains, then abandoned the task immediately. What would greet me on the other side, besides an empty courtyard? Only once had I seen anyone out there—a flash of Urbino. Not even birds flitted about anymore. For all I knew, I was in the middle of some masterfully crafted set.

How many days had it been? How many hours? I glanced at my phone for some clarity—12:37—but was surprised to realize I didn’t know whether this was past noon or past midnight. I counted on my fingers, and found that I knew, at the very least, I had been spending my time in the archives for two weeks.

I hadn’t leftla cantinaother than to go on walks or explore on foot, and Zeno never expected me to join him on his various excursions. I was a homebody and reading in the courtyard and taking open-air showers was enough for me on most days. Zeno, therefore, delegated himself the task of going on errands for the both of us.

Increasingly, I saw the car drive off into the distance just far enough for his phone to access cellular connection, but whatever phone calls he was making were incredibly brief. As of late, other cars from town had met him to deliver food, amenities, and a terse exchange of words. I didn’t bother to ask what was going on; in truth, I was far too distracted in my world and our shared world.

I considered going outside to reorient myself but instead stuffed the chips in my mouth and trod back to the study, dustpan in tow. In the pursuit of knowledge, time had proven meaningless. I was so close, I could taste it. Whatever was in that box, I sensed, was the key to all the secrets the family held.

I reviewed my work once more. To the untrained eye, I had tossed the documents around carelessly, but I knew the order of the chaos. Four segregated areas of documents. Front and center were a highly annotated set of letters between Ferdinando and La Bambagia beside photocopied diary entries. Ferdinando often wrote his journal free-form, and trying to chronologize various entries with these letters had proven to be a challenge in its own regard. Then there were some old family photos with loose captions scrawled on the backs, many of which were relevant and many of which would make for little more than pretty decor.

I briefly scanned over the set of documents to the right of all this. An old report card from the 1970s, notes between high-school sweethearts from the 1940s. Precious ephemera, sure, but not relevant to my work. After tidying up my snapped pencil, I noted their contents on a folder and slid them into it. I focused on the contents in the left pile, sorting them into the center and right based on theorized utility. With the left freshly emptied, it was time to refresh my four groupings—leads, possible leads, probable dead ends, and things to assign into the above categories.

I returned to the corner of the study, where I had left off, dustpan still in hand. I had just cleared off a shelf, and it was the least I could do to tidy up a bit. Though more successful at scattering the dust than gathering it, my handiwork had revealed something I hadn’t noticed before: strange indentations on the back wall of the shelf. I squinted at it for a bit and ran my finger along the edges to no avail. Then, just as I was about to give up, I remembered what was in the dustpan. With the end of my fresh pencil, I ground up some of the broken lead into a coarse powder. I coated my finger in the graphite, then smeared it over the writing. With the carvings contrasted with the darkness, it was easy to read now:

Festina lente.

Make haste slowly. The family motto of the Medici.

The omniscient phrase was scratched grotesquely into the wood, as if by a pocketknife. I didn’t recognize the handwriting at all—it wasn’t the flowery, slanted hand of Zeno, nor was it the quick writing of Doctor Ntumba. Despite being carved out with a knife, it was uncannily square and soulless, as if produced by a monospace typewriter.

Why would the family motto be written here?

My ears had been poised to expect the sound of feet on a ladder, so it cut through all of my thoughts when I heard it. I physically and mentally tossed aside what I was doing and ran to the door.

“Zeno!” I cried, rushing toward him with a grin.

How he had learned to climb down the ladder with bags in his hand was a mystery to me. Luckily, his feet had already touched the ground by the time I arrived, and he allowed me to take a few of them in my arms and rush them inside more quickly. I set them on the kitchen island with a huff and looked inside. “Did you get everything?”

An astonishing number of bags joined the ones I had brought in, answering my question.

“I certainly hope so. You know, you don’t have to cook for us,passerotta. I am more than happy to have dinner brought to us.”

“I know,” I said with a smile. “I like cooking for you, though.”

It feels domestic,like we’re really a couple.

“I’m certainly not complaining.” He returned my smile with one of his own and smoothed my hair. “It’s not as if I can find Robert ’n’ dumplin’ soup anywhere in Italy.”

My face burned, and I feigned annoyance as I poured chicken broth into a pot. “That’s a low blow, considering you don’t leave a single drop.”

Zeno scoffed and did not riposte any further. Perhaps he knewIhad the high ground here. Instead, he set a stalk of celery onto a cutting board and attempted in vain to puzzle what knife would be appropriate to chop it.

“I don’t want you chopping your finger off.” I nudged him away toward the hallway. “Go and pick out our music for tonight.”

“So you’re requesting that, instead of doing manual labor, I listen to music?” With a crooked smile, he tilted his head toward me. “My, what a dreadful thing you ask of me, Cora! How shall you repay me?”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help but smile as well. “Isn’t the soup enough?”

Zeno playfully scoffed, “Formymusical expertise? No earthly pleasure is comparable.”

I brought the produce to the sink, and I shot him a coy look over my shoulder once I began to wash them. “No earthly pleasure, huh? I’ll remember you said that.”

---