Part 17 (2/2)
”Just look at Stolz. He's licking his greased whiskers as if the potatoes were cooking under his nose.”
”Look at Franz gaping.”
”They have a dog's hunger, and in order to make them sing ...”
”You want me to cook a little supper such as I can cook if I set myself to it, stick it under their noses, and ... Youngster, that's a magnificent idea! When I write my _Manual of War Cookery_ I'll put you on the frontispiece as the first of kitchen strategians. Leave things to me and in half an hour I'll hand you out a couple of stews that would raise up the dead better even than Garibaldi's Hymn!”
Pinocchio heaved a sigh. He had won such a battle that, if he had been a German, would have caused the people to hammer I don't know how many nails into his statue. While Ciampanella was bustling about on all sides, plucking two young fowls, peeling potatoes, frying lard and onions, melting b.u.t.ter in a saucepan, preparing a stew in another, Pinocchio was striding up and down the kitchen, long and narrow as a corridor, eying stealthily the two prisoners, who were beginning to show signs of a growing restlessness. They had been fasting for more than twenty-four hours and their last food had been such a mess that it might have been requisitioned from the poultry-yard and the stable.
Ciampanella seemed eager to surpa.s.s himself. He hovered over his pots without paying any attention to Pinocchio, but talking in a loud voice as if he wished to impart a lesson in cookery to half the world.
”Listen, youngster, when you want to eat two savory young fowls you must cook them in the Roman fas.h.i.+on according to Ciampanella's recipe, which, when it is written down, will not have its equal in _Urbis et Orbis_. I call it the Roman fas.h.i.+on, but it might also truly be called the Ostrogothic fas.h.i.+on ... but that's the way. Take two young fowls and cut them into pieces, put a good-sized lump of b.u.t.ter into a saucepan and a little onion and fry it a little; dredge the fowls with flour, and put them to simmer in the b.u.t.ter; when they are browned put in some tomato paste, salt and pepper, and let them cook down, later a grain of nutmeg, cover it and let it cook.... Do you smell that odor, youngster? And just think how it will taste! You'll lick your napkin like that dirty Croat who ... Ho! ho! look at his tongue hanging out.... Ho! ho! ho!”
The air was filled with a fragrance so entrancing that it would have given an appet.i.te to the mouth of a letter-box; so imagine how the miserable two felt, who, after all, were men of flesh and blood and had no other defect than of having been born under the Executioner's scepter. Stolz with his mouth wide open breathed in the air in deep breaths, tasting it hungrily as if he could really taste the odor that tickled his nostrils. Ciampanella stepped in front of him, and spouted out one of his special speeches, gesticulating with his fork.
”Well, Mr. Croat? How do you think we do it? Franz Joe is worse off than the least of our Alpine troops, because we are not reduced to gnawing bones like you who make war in order to fish, as the proverb says, in troubled waters. What a delicious odor, isn't it? But don't stand there with your mouth open or I'll fill it with dish-water.
Here's some!”
”'Talian pig!” howled Stolz, half strangled with nausea and disgust, spitting all around.
”If you call me an Italian pig again, I'll break your head in spite of the respect they teach us is due the enemy, because in this world it is t.i.t for tat.”
”Listen, Ciampanella,” Pinocchio interrupted at the right moment, ”if the chickens are done we could sit down at the table and offer a bite to Stolz.”
”That's a good idea, youngster.”
While the boy was setting the table and the chef was dis.h.i.+ng up the stew, from the distance came several tremendous rumblings, which brought a smile to the faces of the prisoners, who exchanged significant glances. The sound came from our six-inch guns that had been dragged with such effort to the alt.i.tude of nine thousand feet and arrived the day before by way of the _filovia_, which were now opening fire on the enemy's trenches. If Franz and Stolz had had even the faintest suspicion of this they would have changed their expressions.
”Dear Ciampanella, as a cook you should be put on the pedestal of a monument. This chicken is a masterpiece. If that imbecile of a Stolz, instead of standing there like a dog with his tongue hanging out, a foot away from the tail of a hare, could give a lick to this drumstick, I wager he would desert his emperor and demand Italian citizens.h.i.+p.”
[Ill.u.s.tration]
”For my part, I'd rather give him the chicken than the citizens.h.i.+p.”
”I would as lief have it,” Stolz risked saying, pa.s.sing his tongue over his whiskers.
”I guess so.”
”And I'll give you not only a drumstick, but half a chicken with gravy and a loaf of bread to go with it, if you'll tell me ...”
”We can't talk; don't want to betray our country.”
”Dear Stolz, you're a fine fellow, but if you can't talk I can't give you anything to eat and we are quits. But I haven't asked you to betray either Croatia, or even Hungary, if you are afraid of Franz's hearing you.”
”Oh, he speaks only Magyar.”
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