Frame-Up (11 page)

"You know, Cecilia, that I would come even if you were the worst
cook in the world. I’ll bring a good bottle of wine. What should it be, red
or white or rosé?"

"We’ll have veal
osso buco
."

"One of my favorite dishes, and I know just the right drop for that."

"Would seven suit? We can then chat a bit before eating."

"I’m all yours,
bella
."

You’ve done it, the child in me shouts, while another voice warns
"Inviting a chef to a meal? Are you mad?" I have a queasy feeling in my
stomach, but I can’t tell why.

Then suddenly I remember that on Monday night I have tentatively
planned to hack into Lewis’ network and search Edward Long’s files.
How silly of me to invite Silvio when I should focus all my energy on
clearing my name! What is happening to me?

Monday, 27
^th
October, 10:25 a.m.

I knock at the door of the van’s owner and wait for him to appear. It has
turned out to be a glorious Indian summer day, pleasantly warm, little
wind, the occasional white puff cloud slowly passing by in a blue sky,
swept mostly clean by yesterday’s strong winds.

After handing over twenty fifty-pound notes, making him sign my
prepared receipt, and receiving the vehicle registration certificate, I take
the vehicle to a do-it-yourself car grooming place. I want to have it
washed outside and its interior vacuum-cleaned and sponged off. I also
apply grease to all doors. The squeaking vanishes.

Although I offered to do all the change-of-ownership formalities, I
have no intention of doing it, at least for now. If any of the uses I planned
for the vehicle will raise suspicions, they will reach a dead end with the
previous owner since he never got to know any personal details about me.
It is a simple safety measure. Once my quest has come to a successful
conclusion, I will have no hesitation to dump the van somewhere or sell
it on without my name ever having been registered. I also intend to park
it several streets west from my apartment where street parking is
unrestricted.

Monday, 2:35 p.m.

Returning home after shopping for dinner — I managed to buy four nice,
thick veal shank pieces with pink marrow in the bone — I check for any
messages on the answering service. Somes called just before noon, telling
me that all the items they took away for checking are ready to be picked
up. Just that, nothing else. No apology for having me unnecessarily
inconvenienced. It is obvious that they didn’t find anything. I told them
so.

I rush out again, take the Central Line to St. Paul’s and walk to the
Snow Hill Station. When I announce the purpose of my visit to the
receptionist, she says: "A moment, please," and makes a call, saying only:
"Miss Walker is here." She asks me to take a seat.

A few minutes later, Somes appears.
Why her?
I wonder, as my
apprehension rises. Is she going to return the material herself?

"Miss Walker, before I authorize for your things to be returned, you
will have to answer a few further questions. Follow me," she orders and
starts walking away.

Her message did not say anything about answering questions, nor
would I answer any without the presence of my lawyer. I remain sitting.
After a few steps, she turns around, visibly annoyed.

"Miss Walker, I ordered you to follow me."

"Miss Somes, your message did not specify that you intended to
question me, or I would have brought my lawyer along. I came here only
to take possession of my things."

"The questions are simple requests for clarification. There is no need
for your lawyer to be present."

"I will be the judge of that. Go ahead. Ask."

For a moment her eyes betray hatred before the expressionless reptile-like curtain descends again. An internal struggle seems to take place
before she asks: "The memory of your cellphone was empty. Why?"

"It was not empty. All my contacts were listed when I handed it in."
I was not going to make it easy for her.

"But the registers for messages are all empty."

"Because out of principle I never store any messages, just in case I
misplace or lose the phone and it falls into the wrong hands."

"So you admit that you wiped the memories before you handed the
phone to us?"

"No, I don’t admit that. If you had listened carefully, you would have
heard that I never store any messages out of principle, neither those I
receive nor those I send out."

"That’s the same thing."

"No, you imply that the purpose was to deprive the police of the
record, whereas my action of deleting any messages is not directed at the
police."

She remains standing in front of me for a few seconds, her reptile eyes
on me. I wonder what she is going to do next.

To my surprise, she goes over to the receptionist and simply says:
"Take Miss Walker to the bailee." She disappears up the staircase without
giving me another look. It feels like I’ve just won a little victory.

I’m back in the apartment shortly after four with all my things. It’s
time to start preparing for dinner and that includes taking a bath first. It
has been more than a year that I indulged in the luxury of a bubble bath.
I can’t tell why I have that sudden urge for long soaking.

Monday, 6:55 p.m.

I chide myself for being so nervous. I want everything to be perfect. But
why? It feels like going out on a first date, and there I’m only having a
man, a friend, for dinner with whom I’ve been on the familiar ‘
tu’
basis
for almost three years, in fact, before I met Gary, rather than the formal
‘Lei’
reserved for mere acquaintances or strangers. I rearrange the glasses
for the bubbly, straighten the slices of ciabatta bread, shift the olive oil
and the Dukkah, a spicy Lebanese dip of ground nuts, I’m going to serve
prior to dinner. Italian pop songs are discretely playing on my stereo.

I return to the kitchen. The meat is simmering in a heavy ceramic pot.
Coarse
bramata
is soaking in the salted liquid, a mixture of milk and
water, seasoned with a pinch of nutmeg, and ready to go into the
microwave. The ratatouille only needs reheating. Even the butterhead
lettuce is washed and ready to be tossed. The kitchen table has been set;
the plates are in the warming drawer; and a homemade chocolate mousse
keeps cool in the refrigerator.

Everything is ready, but still I walk back and forth checking myself for
the third time in the full-length mirror close to the entrance door. I’m
wearing a sleeveless black knit with a narrow silk scarf casually slung
around my neck and falling down in front and behind. The choice is both
demure and provocative — no décolleté, but skin hugging. I wear no bra,
the scarf both hiding and revealing my breasts. Standing sideways, I
observe my silhouette — breasts like half lemons, maybe on the small
side, a flat stomach, the slight curve of my thighs, a hint of red in my
dark-brown curls, falling loosely to my shoulders, the result of a red-head
father and a dark-haired mother. I feel reassured.

When the entrance intercom finally chimes at five past seven, I
deliberately count to ten before answering and releasing the door.
However I open the apartment door the moment I hear the elevator arrive.
Silvio is carrying a bottle in his left hand and a small bouquet of red roses
in his right. His warm smile goes right to my heart. Rather than the
customary brushing of cheeks, he kisses me on the mouth. A short kiss,
but full of promise. Then he steps back and exclaims: "Cecilia, let me
feast my eyes on you … You look gorgeous." He hands me the roses.
"Look, they match the color of your scarf."

"Thank you Silvio. Call me Ceci. That’s what close friends call me."

"Ceci? How cute!"

"Most people here don’t know what it means. Come in."

I step aside to let him enter, close the door and follow him into the
living room. I notice that he surveys the room with interest.

"You’ve got a nice place here." He picks up one of the ceramic vases
and looks underneath. "Orvieto … exquisite shape."

"Yes, and the colors are so subtle, not the often glaring tones of
Orvieto. Take a seat, while I put the roses into a vase. Is Prosecco all right
with you?"

"Certainly, it comes from where I grew up." Naturally, we spoke
Italian.

When I return from the kitchen with the roses in a vase and the
Prosecco, he is studying the two remaining antique prints that have yet
escaped Carlo’s fingers. I offer him a glass and we chime them together,
saying "
cin’cin
" and smiling at each other.

While we nibble on the ciabatta — he compliments me on the Dukkah
— he asks if there have been further develop.m.ent in my current
troubles. I report that the police returned the computer. Referring to his
remark on the Prosecco, I question him about where he grew up.

 Fifteen minutes later, I get up. "Will you excuse me? I have to do
some final preparations."

"I’ll join you," he replies, taking the tray with the nibbles and the
bottle of Prosecco, and follows me into the kitchen. "Nice kitchen and
this smells enticing." He stands close behind me, both hands on my
shoulders. I can feel the heat of his body. "And what is this?" he asks,
pointing at the
bramata
. "Instant polenta. You disappoint me, Cecilia."

"Not instant, never. It’s very coarse
bramata
."

"Sorry, but cooking it —"

"— takes an hour? Not the way I do it in the microwave. Twelve
minutes at most."

"Really?"

"Yes. Three times four minutes, stirring and breaking up any lumps in
between." I turn around, pleased that I could teach an expert something
about making polenta without having to stir constantly to prevent the
mush sticking to the bottom of the pot.

He sees my triumphant smile, laughs, and then kisses me again,
lingering this time. The sensation shoots right to my groin. It is
disconcerting, taking me by surprise. Almost alarmed, I turn back to my
final dinner preparations.

He tells me more about his youth.

"And what made you come to London?" I query.

"I was head hunted, and the money was twice what I got in Padua."

"But life is also much dearer here."

"Yes, I found that out only after I arrived."

"And do you intend to stay here?"

"No, sooner or later I want to be my own boss, run my own
restaurant."

"In England?"

"No, I miss home, the mountains, even the people. No, it will be
somewhere in Northern Italy, hopefully at one of the lakes or in the
mountains. And you? How come you speak both Italian and English
without the slightest accent?"

So I tell him a bit about my life, growing up in London, the parents’
divorce, early adulthood in Lugano, before returning to London. By then
dinner is ready. He praises my cooking. I can’t quite believe him. I
presume that he is simply being nice and say so.

"Oh, no, you’re mistaken. The seasoning of the
osso buco
was
exquisite. No chef could do better."

"Real Swiss Maggi chicken cubes," I reply laughing.

"I thought there was a hint of chicken in it. And this is the best polenta
I’ve eaten ever, truly. We usually don’t use a mixture of milk and water.
Not stirring it intermittently makes it less mushy. One can still feel the
grits, and the Parmesan at the end gave it the final touch. So don’t put
your cooking down."

"Thank you, Silvio, it’s very generous of you to tell me that."

He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "It isn’t only your
food that is delicious. It is also you."

I actually blush. Nobody has ever said something like this to me. I
suddenly realize that Gary simply took me for granted for most of our
time together. I almost get angry with myself for letting Gary intrude into
the easy intimacy between Silvio and me.

We eat the dessert and drink the doubly strong espresso in the living
room, sitting side by side on the sofa.

At one point, he holds my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. His are
a deep, dark brown, under bushy eyebrows, bright, full of questioning
expectation.