Tomorrow's Vengeance (6 page)

‘I can't believe it,' the woman on my left muttered, laying the Bible down on the crocheted afghan that covered her knees. ‘That word's so offensive!'

‘Darkie, you mean?' I said, although I knew quite well the word to which she was referring.

The singer began the second verse, singing from memory, her voice growing sweeter, stronger and more confident as she went along.

The woman holding the Bible leaned in closer and whispered, ‘It's racist.'

‘Well, to be fair,' I whispered back, ‘it's been over one hundred and fifty years since Stephen Foster wrote “My Old Kentucky Home,” so we should probably cut the man a little slack.'

‘They should change it,' she insisted.

‘They did,' I told her. ‘In Kentucky nowadays, it's summer and the
people
are gay.'

‘Really?' she said. ‘The people are
gay
? Doesn't sound like much of an improvement to me.'

The gentleman on my right had apparently overheard our conversation. Just as the singer launched into the chorus, joined by practically everyone in our vicinity, some singing in harmony, he leaned across me. ‘Well,
I'm
gay, Edith, so stop whining.'

I suppressed a laugh, gave the old guy a mental high five and, in my passable alto, joined in with him and the others:
‘“Weep no more, my lady. Oh, weep no more today. We will sing one song for my old Kentucky home, for my old Kentucky home far away.”'

As the last notes of the hauntingly beautiful and melancholy tune died away the guy leaned over, extended his hand and introduced himself. ‘I'm Chuck,' he said. ‘I live upstairs.'

‘Hannah,' I replied.

‘Family?' he asked, indicating Edith, who glowered disapprovingly like my great aunt Gerty.

I grinned. ‘No, Edith and I just met. I'm waiting for a friend.'

The pianist had a bottomless stock of Stephen Foster in her repertoire. ‘I Dream of Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair,' was followed by ‘Beautiful Dreamer' and a sensitive performance of ‘Old Black Joe,' at which point Edith harrumphed, gathered up her Bible and stomped out of the lounge, her afghan trailing like a bridal train along the carpet behind her. Whether the singer noticed her departure or not, she seemed to sense that the mood of the audience needed lifting after singing about lost friends calling us up to heaven, so she launched into a spirited rendition of ‘Camptown Races.'

Rather than prance around the room like several of the book club women were now doing, I checked my watch. Where the heck was Naddie? Thinking I might have gotten my wires crossed and she could be waiting for me in the dining room, I excused myself and headed off to search for her.

Except for the tables and chairs, the dining room was empty.

At the far end, a pair of doors labeled IN and OUT led, I presumed, to the kitchen. The doors were substantial, but not sufficiently padded to muffle the clang of pots, the clink of utensils and the sound of raised voices coming from the kitchen behind them.

‘Idiota! Debo hacer todo yo mismo?'
Something metal clanged to the floor, followed by a string of words so vile that if I'd uttered even one of them my mother would have washed my mouth out with soap and grounded me for a week. Then:

‘Idiota! Tarado! Pelotudo!'

Idiota
, I got. But I'd majored in French, so the rest was lost on me, not that they'd teach words like that in Spanish 101 anyway. I didn't need a translator to know that whoever was on the receiving end of the string of expletive deleteds wafting out of the kitchen like the aroma of sautéed bacon and onions was probably hiding in a cupboard or cowering in a corner, protecting his head with his arms.

I decided to get out while the going was good, but I ran into Naddie coming the other way. She paused, cocked her head and listened. ‘Gosh, I wonder how he
really
feels?'

‘Raniero?' I guessed.

Naddie nodded. ‘No doubt. Looks like an angel but has a devil of a temper. Save us from perfectionists with short fuses.' She glanced at the antique Regulator hanging on the wall behind the hostess station. ‘We're a bit early, Hannah. Would you like to see my town home before lunch?'

I was about to reply when Raniero yelled, ‘Go! Jump in the oven! Make my life easier!' followed by the bright, sharp sound of shattering glass.

As if on cue Filomena erupted from the Tidewater Bar into the dining room, linked her arms through both of ours and urged us gently back toward the lounge, safely away from whatever disaster was noisily brewing in the kitchen. ‘The chef, he is temperamental, you know? Have you seen the show on television,
Kitchen Nightmares
? Raniero, he is like that Gordon Ramsay. Everything must be just so. You wait here. I'll go see what's the matter.'

I could think of several television chefs who would be better role models for Raniero than the foul-mouthed Gordon Ramsay – Jamie Oliver, for instance, or Bobby Flay – but decided the suggestion wouldn't be appreciated.

There was a deafening crash of crockery. Filomena winced. ‘It's that stupid Korean girl again. We have two kitchens at the colony,' she explained. ‘One we must keep kosher for our Jewish residents. This girl, she doesn't understand that the meat dishes and the dairy dishes must be washed separately. There are always mixups.'

‘Once they come out of the dishwasher, how would anybody know the difference?' I wondered aloud.

Filomena stared, wide-eyed, as if I'd suggested she cut the grated parmesan with sawdust. ‘Raniero would!'

My eyes made a sweep of the dining room. I estimated it could seat one hundred and fifty, maybe two hundred diners. ‘How many Jewish residents do you have?'

‘Around twenty,' Filomena said.

‘There'll be several more in a month or two,' Naddie added. ‘Having a kosher kitchen is a big selling point for Orthodox Jewish seniors. We're also one of the very few communities of this type that caters to the dietary requirements of Muslims.'

‘And vegetarians,' Filomena cut in. ‘Low salt, low fat, dairy-free, gluten-free – we do whatever our residents require.'

Just thinking about a day in the life of the resident dietician made my head spin. It would be worse than planning the menu when Emily brought friends home from college for Thanksgiving, but I wasn't nearly so accommodating as Calvert Colony appeared to be. I drew the line at serving Tofurkys or vegan pumpkin pie made with tofu instead of eggs.

‘What do Muslims require?' I asked, genuinely curious.

‘Food must be certified halal,' Filomena said. ‘This means “lawful” or “permissible.” Pork is a no-no, just like it is for the Jews. In general, what is kosher is also halal, as long as the correct words are said over it at the time the animal is slaughtered.'

‘We're very careful about the Circle U and the Crescent M at Calvert Colony,' Naddie explained.

Filomena nodded. ‘There are other symbols for kosher and for halal, but those two are the most common.'

‘Tomorrow is Italian night,' Naddie said, changing the subject. She snagged a menu from a wooden rack near the hostess station and handed it to me. ‘Why don't you join me? You won't be disappointed.'

I quickly scanned the page –
Antipasto
,
Il Primo
,
Il Secondo
,
Contorno
. ‘Very proper,' I said with a smile. ‘You'd think you were in Rome.'

‘The Bucchos come from a long line of restaurateurs,' Naddie informed me. ‘Raniero brought a great deal of experience with him from Argentina.'

Filomena beamed. ‘My brother and I, it is our dream to have a restaurant one day. It will be
asado
, how do you say? Steak house.'

‘
Asado?
Is that anything like
churrascaria
? Where they bring grilled meat to your table on skewers?'

Filomena nodded. ‘Exactly. Twelve different kinds. And a salad bar, very fancy.'

I glanced back at the menu again, puzzled.
Bruschetta alla Napoletana. Tortellini alla panna. Capelli d'Angelo alla chef.
It didn't sound Spanish to me. Paul and I often dined at Jaleo, a tapas restaurant in D.C.
Setas al ajilio con la serena. Camarones en salsa verde. Arroz con pollo.
Now
that
was Spanish.

‘This menu is so Italian,' I observed as I slipped it back into its holder. ‘And you're from Argentina. I was expecting Spanish, I guess.'

‘My brother and I, we are
Italo-Argentino
,' Filomena explained. ‘During the Second World War, many of our countrymen went to Argentina. Our grandfather, too. In Italy, he was
avvocato
, a lawyer, but he dreamed always to own a restaurant. Argentina was, how do you say, land of opportunity?'

I was quiet for a moment, letting that information sink in.

As if reading my thoughts, Filomena raised a hand and said, ‘I know! Nazis. You are thinking Nazis.' She shook her head so vigorously that I thought the pearl studs might drop off her earlobes. ‘
Nonno
, he was not Nazi. After the war, Italy was all ruins. Foreign armies taking over everywhere. There was no work, so he goes to Argentina like so many people.'

‘I read somewhere that Italians began immigrating to Argentina in the middle of the nineteenth century,' Naddie explained. ‘Today, sixty percent of the Argentinian population has Italian roots.'

Filomena was nodding. ‘
Si, si.
If you want a good Italian meal you go to Buenos Aires.'

‘Where do you come up with those statistics, Naddie?' I asked, impressed, as always, with her seemingly bottomless reservoir of obscure facts.

My friend shrugged. ‘Jorge Mario Bergoglio?'

I blanked. ‘Who?'

Naddie punched my arm. ‘The new Pope, silly. Don't you read the newspapers? Until becoming Pope Francis, he was the archbishop of Buenos Aires. Born and raised in Argentina but his parents were Italian.'

‘
Exactamente!
' Filomena's eyes sparkled with pride, I imagined, for the incredible success of one of her countrymen.

‘Go, now,' she said after a moment, making shooing motions with her hands. ‘Lunch in twenty minutes. You come back then. I'll save the best dessert for you – crème brûlée.'

‘Ah …' I breathed as Naddie and I left the dining room together with the sound of smashing crockery still ringing in our ears. ‘Filomena said the C.B. words. I will be putty in that young woman's hands.'

‘Yes,' Naddie replied. ‘But if Raniero can't get it together in the kitchen, they'll be serving it to you on a paper plate.'

‘Mark well that in the Catholic Mass, Abraham is our Patriarch and forefather. Anti-Semitism is incompatible with the lofty thought which that fact expresses. It is a movement with which we Christians can have nothing to do. No, no, I say to you it is impossible for a Christian to take part in anti-Semitism. It is inadmissible. Through Christ and in Christ we are the spiritual progeny of Abraham. Spiritually we are all Semites.'

Pope Pius XI, Speech to Belgian pilgrims,

September 6, 1938.

A
lthough Naddie's town home was only steps away we drove there in her golf cart, a souped-up Club Car that had been tricked out like a powder blue 1957 Buick Electra, with tailfins so extreme that they reached your destination a week after you did.

Situated in the middle of a block of eight semi-detached homes, each with a distinctive façade, Naddie's new residence wasn't all that much bigger than her double-sized apartment at Ginger Cove, but it had a superior layout, at least for her purposes. In her so-called retirement Naddie had become an accomplished watercolorist; her work was shown at local galleries, where it sold well. To accommodate her passion she had converted the town home's master bedroom into a studio where finished paintings mounted on boards were either hung or propped up against the walls, some protected by glass. An easel held a half-completed study of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge at sunrise as seen from her window. A photograph of the same view was clipped to one of the cross pieces.

‘Why are these in the trash?' I asked as I bent down and retrieved a handful of paintings from under a takeaway clamshell in an oversized plastic tub.

‘Watercolor's an exacting medium,' Naddie explained. ‘You have to get it right the first time.'

I ruffled through the rejects: bayscapes, garden scenes. ‘These are lovely.'

Naddie snatched the paintings out of my hand and tossed them back in the trash tub. ‘Not my best work,' she said, and that was that.

We were sitting side-by-side on the living room sofa, leafing through a portfolio of her recent work – currently on display at a gallery in Baltimore's historic Fells Point – when the doorbell rang. Naddie slid the portfolio onto my lap and got up to answer the door.

‘Izzy, do come in,' I heard her say.

‘I was passing by and saw your golf cart in the drive, so I thought I'd see if you wanted to come out and play,' a gentle voice said.

‘I have company, but it's somebody I'd like you to meet. Don't just stand there on the doorstep. Come on in.'

Izzy was about Naddie's age, but I found it impossible to guess any closer than that. She wore white Nikes, cropped pink exercise pants and a pink-and-black-striped Ralph Lauren hoodie. Abundant snow-white hair was piled into a bun high on her head in an old-fashioned, Gibson Girl sort of way, yet somehow she managed to look incredibly modern.

I stood and extended my hand. ‘I'm Hannah Ives. Naddie and I go way back.'

Izzy beamed. ‘I'm Ysabelle Milanesi, but everyone calls me Izzy.'

‘Hannah and I are having lunch at the hall today,' Naddie said. ‘Would you like to join us?'

‘I'd be delighted. The only thing in my refrigerator right now is half a tuna salad sandwich left over from yesterday.'