He could easily have left it at that, or made some stupid remark which would have put an end to everything there and then. Instead, he nodded sagely, as though she had said something profound.
‘Books are good, but to learn a language properly you really need a teacher.’
This had confused her, with its offered plethora of responses, but only for a moment.
‘I can’t afford such luxuries. Besides, I prefer to find things out by making mistakes.’
He had laughed, seemingly spontaneously, so that she forgave the impertinence of his next remark.
‘God almighty, a woman who can make me laugh! Where have you been all my life?’
His name was of course already as familiar to her as her own, which perhaps helped to explain the ease with which things took their course, quite as though it had already been written in a book she knew by heart. But all books come to an end. Now, two months later, she sensed that the pack of unread pages was running low.
Never mind, there was work to be done. She walked out on to the stage and set to work with a will, thinking about what she had overheard from another of the cleaning staff about what was to happen the next day. Some sort of duel, it seemed to be, like the one between Black Michael and King Rudolph’s double, only with pots and pans instead of swords and pistols.
About ten minutes later a man and a woman came out on to the set from the wings, treading straight through the area that Flavia had just washed and waxed. She glared at them but said nothing.
‘So, this is it,’ the woman said to the man. She was about thirty, with fashionably distressed hair, was clad in a beige business suit and carried an imposing briefcase. ‘This one will be your kitchen. Ugo’s is on the other side. Both are visible to the audience, but not to each other or to the judges, who will be seated at the table in…’
‘Delia!’
The man jogged her arm and pointed at Flavia. He was large and bearded, with the air of someone who would have liked to have a good time but didn’t know how. That pushy crow he was with certainly wouldn’t be able to help, thought Flavia, instinctively moved to take Lo Chef under her battered wings. Such scavengers had descended on her own country too, she had heard. Maybe Viorica had even become one. You needed serious wealth and clout to ship food parcels such as the one she had just received intact across so many frontiers.
The woman strode over to where Flavia was leaning on her mop.
‘I’m sorry, but I must ask you to leave. I’m having a very important meeting with Signor Romano Rinaldi about his event tomorrow and we cannot be interrupted.’
Flavia shrugged.
‘No capire. Di Ruritania.’
She waved her hand vaguely, as though indicating some large but undefined shape at the rear of the set. Delia gave an irritable shake of the head and walked back to her companion.
‘It’s all right, she’s just some asylum seeker. Doesn’t understand Italian. Now, as I was saying, the jury will be in the central dining area through there, again visible to the audience but not to either of the competitors.’
The man took about half a dozen very short, very loud breaths. He grabbed a bottle of pills from his pocket and twisted the knob of a gleaming tap in the kitchen area. Nothing emerged.
‘The water’s not hooked up!’ he squealed.
‘It will be by tomorrow. Here, I’ve got some Ferrarelle.’
She passed him a plastic bottle and he downed the pills with a grimace.
‘So, how many are ours?’ he croaked.
‘Paleotti, Aldrovandi, Sigonio, Colonna and Gentileschi,’ Delia replied. ‘Zappi and Giovio are leaning towards us, but could go either way, while Orsini will certainly vote for Ugo. They have the same publisher, apart from anything else. But that will just make it look better. The main thing is that whatever happens you’re bound to win. So relax, okay? There’s nothing to worry about.’
‘That’s easy for you to say! You’re not the one who’s going to have to stand up in front of Christ knows how many million viewers and actually do it.’
Flavia made a show of passing her mop over the false-tile vinyl floor, but in reality she was listening carefully. Her spoken Italian was not perfect as yet, although by no means as primitive as her reply to the crow had suggested, but she understood the language very well indeed. When you are a young woman, poor, powerless and alone in a strange land, you learn fast.
The woman called Delia gave a snort of what sounded like exasperation.
‘Listen, Romano, everything’s going to be all right. Trust me. You’ll do fine, you’ll look fabulous, and above all you’ll clear your name of this ridiculous slur once and for all. If you’re nervous, just double your normal dose of beta blockers.’
She paused and looked at him significantly.
‘But nothing else, all right? No coke, no speed, and none of whatever those pills are that you’ve been popping. Not until the event’s over. Understand? After that you can do what you like.’
The man nodded grudgingly. Delia indicated a large video screen hanging at an angle above the set.
‘The list of ingredients will be displayed there. Glance at it briefly but with apparent interest. Remember, it’s supposed to be the first time you’ve ever seen it. Scrutinise it with a nonchalant, relaxed expression, as if your mind is running through all the possibilities offered before making a spontaneous decision. Then turn decisively away, go to the stove and get the pasta water going before starting in on the sauce. Do everything with panache and naturalezza. Maybe sing a bit. But not too much, okay?’
She pointed to the kitchen counter.
‘The ingredients will be laid out here. Just pick out the ones we’ve been through with Righi and leave the rest alone. No last-minute improvisation, please. I’ll arrange for a litre bottle of Lo Chef Che Canta e Incanta oil to be placed here. Naturally a celebrity such as you wouldn’t dream of using an inferior product, plus it’ll give our label some nice exposure.’
She looked around.
‘What else? Knives here, next to the cutting board. Pans over here. When the dish is ready, press this buzzer. Someone will come and take the pasta bowl from you and carry it out behind the set and in through the back of the dining area, so that in theory the jurors don’t know which kitchen it came from. In fact your bowl has a distinctive orange patterning at the rim, subtly different from Ugo’s. Our people will be in no doubt about which one is which.’
She looked at him.
‘Any questions?’
‘Something’s going to go wrong,’ the man replied in a dull voice. ‘I just know it.’
‘For God’s sake, Romano! Nothing will go wrong. Nothing can. I’ve covered all the angles. All you have to do is be here on time, with a clear head, and put together a simple bowl of pasta that even I could make blindfold. Besides, it doesn’t matter if it’s any good or not. Haven’t you understood yet? You’re bound to win! It’s all been arranged.’
She glanced at her watch.
‘Right, let’s go back to the hotel. The press conference starts in half an hour.’
When they had left, Flavia finished up her cleaning, then returned all the equipment to the storage room before leaving the concrete wasteland of the fiera complex and heading for the bus stop. The video display indicated that a smog alert was in effect, all vehicles with uneven numbered plates being banned from the streets, and that her bus would arrive in six minutes. She took out her phone and dialled.
‘It’s me. I had to work overtime because of this chef’s duel they’re having tomorrow. Where are you? Oh. Well, I’m starving. La Carrozza in half an hour? Yes, I know you’re going through a bad patch, Rodolfo, but it will do you good to get out. Ah, here’s my bus. A presto, caro.’
Flavia climbed aboard the bus with a smile on her lips that had nothing whatever to do with the silly intrigues on which she had been eavesdropping. I’m going to meet my prince, she thought.