The Italian Letters. Linda Lambert

      Lucrezia smiled as she sank her hands into the brine. “Her son, Guido, teaches most of the classes now, but Lorenza hosts a few friends from time to time.”

      “So, what is puttanesca, anyway?” Justine asked, watching her mother mash the small sardines with a mortar.

      “Juice those lemons for me while I tell you the story.” Lucrezia wiped her hands on a towel. The shiny patina on the surface of her skin glistened in the late-afternoon light.

      “How many do you want?” asked Justine, slicing each lemon in half and turning it upside down over the juicer, forcing the liquid into the bowl below. More pungent aromas filled the room.

      “Four will be plenty. Now listen . . . this tasty sauce is related to the world’s oldest profession. It originated in Naples and the official name, Pasta alla Puttanesca, means ‘Pasta the way a whore would make it.’ Quick and easy, between tricks. I love it!”

      “Devil!” Justine laughed at her mother’s delight in all things sensual. The late-afternoon sun caressed the casement windows and a crystal vase full of yellow bougainvillea.

      Lucrezia grinned without turning around. “In the 1950s, brothels were state-owned and these ‘civil servants’ were only allowed one market day. So this dish, made quickly from common ingredients kept in the larder, fit the bill. With three of Italy’s choice cooking ingredients—anchovies, capers, and black olives—it’s a salty, saucy taste worthy of a king. A naughty king, perhaps. You think the men will like it?”

      “I don’t understand men much anymore, Mom. Not since Egypt.” Justine slid the jar of black olives nearer her mother.

      Lucrezia glanced at her daughter, who chose not to return her gaze.

      Instead, Justine moved her stool to the opposite side of the island and set the bowl of dough in front of her. Only then did she look up.

      “What’s going on? I hadn’t realized your self-doubt was so strong.” Her mother pulled up a stool as well, giving her full attention to Justine. Without looking down, she started to cut the peppers into thin slices.

      “I’m still having trouble trusting myself. I got it all wrong with two men, one in love and one in work. Maybe three. How much worse can it get?”

      “A lot worse. You could have married one of them.”

      “Good point, Mom,” she laughed. “But you know how much I pride myself on being able to read people.”

      “Yes, the work of an anthropologist.”

      “That’s right. Well, my abilities failed me this time. I blew it.”

      “You’re too hard on yourself, dear. Surely there were reasons.”

      “Amir suggested that both reasons related to Dad. Ibrahim was Dad’s friend and colleague. And as you know, Nasser claimed to be Dad’s student, so I . . .”

      “So you didn’t apply your usual rigorous screening,” her mother interrupted. “Makes sense to me.”

      “It makes sense, but how can I trust that it won’t happen again?”

      “You can’t trust that life isn’t going to throw you curves. Anyway, I understand that Amir is here.”

      “To work with Dad as an archaeologist.” Justine took a deep breath.

      “Well then, what’s going on? What does Amir have to do with any of this? Cute little kid, but I haven’t seen him since he was a child. Tell me . . .”

      Justine told her mother about the night before: the dinner, her outburst, their making love. She kept her eyes on the focaccia.

      “Ah. I see. Is it men you don’t understand, or yourself?” Lucrezia sliced into a red onion and tears ran down her cheeks.

      Justine hammered at the focaccia dough with both fists. “Both, I guess.”

      “I don’t mean to confuse the two. I’ve always been puzzled by men’s egos, their need to compete, to win. Sometimes at any price. But I’ve also learned that you can’t generalize about men, or women for that matter. The best you can do is be aware, be present. Keep your antennae up but don’t be overly suspicious.”

      “Like Andrea?”

      “Like Andrea.”

      Justine was quiet for several moments as she methodically rolled out the dough, placing it into three waiting oiled pans, pressing thumbprints across the surfaces. She had learned the traditional way to prepare focaccia from her Grandmother Laurence during teenage summers with her.

      Lucrezia scooped richly scented rosemary from another bowl and handed it to her daughter, who scattered it evenly over the surface of one of the breads. She placed sliced tomatoes and grated pecorino on another loaf, and red onion and kosher salt on the third. Satisfied with the colorful focaccia, they looked up at each other, quietly savoring the bond that often grows between women who cook together.

      “Where did you get your wisdom, Mom?”

      “The Etruscan goddess Menrva, of course,” she laughed, taking her daughter’s face into both hands and wiping away her tears with her thumbs, leaving a residue of oil on each cheek.

      Justine took the stairs to her room two at a time. She needed to run. Running was her emotional equalizer. When she was stressed or worried or angry, it cleared her vision and released muscle tension; when she was happy, the run heightened her joy, her energy, opening up possibilities. She slipped into her black running shorts, remembering how violated she’d felt on her run that first morning in Cairo when a stranger’s hand had reached between her legs. After that incident, she’d worn only loose clothing on the streets of Egypt.

      Justine started up the pathway leading across the Fiesole hills, behind the Villa San Michele, and upward into town. At first her pace was uneven, her heart beating wildly. Wild sweet peas, poppies, and orchids reached for her ankles, and the scent of lemon and mulberry trees filled her lungs. Honeysuckle and wild roses clung to terraces nearby. Glorious, she thought. Such beauty inevitably rested Justine’s life in perspective. Her heart slowed and her pace evened. She knew that life was uncertain, and wondered why she had to be reminded.