Chapter 9
Rome. 1983.
“Enrico, stop pacing, per favore. You’re making me nervous.”
Sira and Enrico were in the kitchen of the new house in Sperlonga, Enrico throwing open the large window that faced the woods so that the springtime air could drift in. His sister adjusted a cobalt-blue linen tablecloth she had found in the market that morning. “There. That’s lovely, isn’t it?” she said with satisfaction, stepping back from the table. “It rather suits the feel of the kitchen. Anyway, what’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” answered Enrico nervously, opening a cabinet and rummaging inside. “Where’s the macchinetta?”
“You mean the moka pot? Look on the bottom, to the right. I used it this morning.”
“The moka pot. You’re turning into an American, Sira,” he laughed, pulling out the small cof
