The delight that contrasts always bring meant that the philologist’s phrase ‘Don’t fiddle while Rome burns’ is always linked in my imagination to the remark Sra Piccioni came out with in relation to Formiguera, or Darsonval, if you prefer. If Tintorer knows Italian — I told myself — he should possibly think about that unexpectedly tender ‘voglio tanto bene …’ she uttered. The possibility always exists (I thought) that Ada Piccioni harbors a soft spot for the infirm, even if she barely knows them, as is the case here. One sees all kinds of behavior under the sun and some (even though it’s one big show) are particularly unpleasant. What did the good lady really mean by that obsequious comment? Could it perhaps mean that she’ll throw out the philologist and replace him with Formiguera, alias Darsonval? I thought it was such an amusing prospect, especially considering my presence there, that if I didn’t burst out laughing, it was only because I didn’t want to risk having to launch into lengthy explanations.
I’ve just mentioned the chill that seemed to settle in on our arrival. We had to find a conversation topic, and we settled on the particularly harsh, unpleasant winter we were suffering. Sra Piccioni regaled us with stories of her long experience of the Berlin climate and wearisome winters in the German capital. What she said was interesting enough. Formiguera listened, intrigued; Tintorer was overawed, like most modest folk, in the presence of people they think are important. Serafí slept on. He sighed now and then, sighs probably triggered as much by his dream-life as by a deep sense of well-being. As I felt Sra Piccioni still had a lot left to say, was still gushing, I decided to make an effort to sum up the situation in which I found myself.
“You bumped into Tintorer in the café, I told myself, and the first thing he said was that he’d been looking for me. As Formiguera had been invited to leave his lodgings and was refusing to go to hospital, the philologist had taken him to his rented room. Of course, that was a temporary measure, until he finds an adequate solution. To find one he asked me to accompany him, and we’ve been here some twenty minutes and nobody has yet said a word about the apparently urgent matter to be resolved. In fact, the only words uttered — the li voglio tan bene — show that the issue has already been resolved. Sra Piccioni uttered that sentence with such tender warmth, imbued it with such cloying emotion, that it is quite clear she wants the dancer to stay. This lady is experienced enough to know how to sort things out in the manner that best suits her. The fact is Formiguera will stay on here, and if he’s in the mood, rests, and looks after himself, he could be back dancing in the Kursaal within less than three weeks, at so much per dance — with mature ladies who might be fat or thin, though are more likely to be fat. If that’s how things are — I told myself — and it all points necessarily that way, what on earth is my role in this curious affair? What did Tintorer have in mind when he invited me here? Does he not have a clue or is he a total moron?”
Sra Piccioni interrupted her monologue and left the room. I made the most of her departure to ask Tintorer whether he didn’t think it time to mention the problem, because in any case I should be thinking about returning home. I said that employing the euphemisms imposed by the sick man’s presence. The philologist seemed overwhelmed by my insistence, and started replying but had said very little by the time Sra Piccioni returned carrying a large tray she set down on the table next to the chair where she was sitting, flashing her sad teeth at the listless dancer. A magnificent dish of spaghetti was steaming on the tray, the thinnest angel-hair kind that brought to mind memorable restaurants in Rome. The pasta had been seasoned alla bolognese, with meat sauce and indispensable Parmesan cheese. A magnificent flask of Chianti, set alongside the horizontal dish, provided the admirable counterpoint of a vertical presence. Sra Piccioni offered Formiguera the splendors from her dish with such an effusion of sentiment that I don’t think she could have invented a more deliberate gesture to indicate that our presence was entirely de trop — and if I speak of our presence, it’s, naturally, because I’m including Tintorer. The dancer greeted the tray halfheartedly but as soon as he saw how expertly Sra Piccioni prepared the ingredients for his helping, all hesitancy seemed to abandon his weary head.
“It looks really tasty …!” I told the dancer.
“Bah … I suppose I’ve got to eat something or other,” he said with the lethargy the fug in clubs tends to nurture.
“And don’t they look tasty!” I heard the philologist whisper in my ear in a quivering voice discretion barely concealed.
Once he had tucked in, Formiguera had to make a real effort to show he was still so indifferent. Nonetheless, everybody observed his quickening fork movements. Sra Piccioni anxiously followed the parabola of every single one. When she saw everything was going exactly to plan, her face relaxed and she resumed her fascinating monologue on Berlin’s winter climate — ensuring that his glass of wine always received its requisite minimal top up.
I looked at Tintorer, and pitied him. His beady eyes moved alternately from Sra Piccioni to the pasta the dancer was devouring with increasing ardor. It was obvious — though he perhaps didn’t see it as yet — that his situation was becoming more fragile by the second. He’d brought me there to help resolve the deplorable state of insecurity in which our compatriot found himself and in a few hours the situation had developed in such a way that everything suggested that the well-meaning philologist would soon be the one in a state of total flux. This turnabout was palpable. At least it was the conclusion I drew — a conclusion I’d equally have drawn before the spaghetti made its appearance, but the dish of pasta and half liter of Chianti with its almighty burden of emotion had brought final confirmation.
Sra Piccioni left the room with a tray that was considerably lighter. In her absence, the philologist turned to Formiguera and declared that Sra Piccioni was a fascinating woman; his statement provoked such an attack of hilarity in the dancer he had to stuff a handkerchief in his mouth, to avoid letting on how stupid he thought the individual who’d prompted it was, and to avoid over-emphasizing the excellent impact that small dinner party was having on his general state of health. Sra Piccioni soon reappeared with a magnificent apple pie — one of the excellent creations of German pastry-makers — with a perfect base and a magnificently tasty covering of preserved fruit. The dancer attacked that delicious concoction with relish while his Italian hostess resumed her description of the dramatic snowfalls over Berlin and Eastern Prussia in February 1921.