Chapter 2:
A few days later, the darling of Europe felt herself once again ascendent, amazed by the transformative power of late morning sunshine sparkling on the barbed wire of the prison encampment. She laughed and trilled and hummed by turns, her smooth skin glowing with restored good spirits. So delighted did she feel that as she sat down for lunch, she was inclined to be magnanimous and forgive the chef for the egregious error of over-cooking the spaghetti. She was even tempted to offer him an autograph. Until lunch arrived.
It was still spaghetti and still sticky, but this time, it had received the terrible insult of being covered with an oozy, dark brown substance the chef had the gall to identify as sauce. And it was even saltier than before. After the obligatory bite Signora Castafiore stood quickly, hands on hips, sunny disposition abandoned in the face of culinary affront.
"No, no, no," she said emphatically. "I cannot eat it, it is an insult to my palette."
The chef merely raised an eyebrow and twitched his mustachio as he lifted the plate off the table. "Eh, we try again," he said, once more retreating to the confines of his kitchen.
Signora Castafiore sat back down and began to chew her bottom lip. Madre de dio, but this was a fine kettle of noodles. She tapped her long fingernails on the table as she thought. One dish of over-cooked pasta: unacceptable, even unforgivable. Two dishes of over-cooked pasta: definitely a problem. And if the situation continued... She shuddered at the thought; best not to dwell on such things. The Milanese Nightingale had been in far more dire circumstances in her life, a few performances of Wagner* among them. But none, unfortunately, had filled her with the same dread she felt as she sat at the bare little table in the cramped prison dining room.
Something would have to be done.
OOOOO
Three days later, she prepared herself for whatever might come, be it an overbearing Wagnerian tenor or - equally loathesome - over-cooked pasta. Entering the dining room, she remained standing, ready to stand her ground or suffer mortal peril in the attempt.
The conflict, when it came, was short and sharp. The chef arrived, not with the usual plate, but with a whole pot of pasta, all of it sticky, over-cooked, and much too salty. There was no sauce, and for that at least, Signora Castafiore was grateful. She poked her fork into the pot somewhat savagely, withdrawing a long, thin strand of spaghetti. It dangled menacingly from the end of the utensil as the pride of La Scala slowly drew it into her mouth, chewing purposefully and swallowing with the greatest precision, the well-toned muscles in her throat working perfectly. Formalities completed, she laid the fork down, wiped her lips with the napkin, then lifted the pot and upended it over the chef's head. The offensive contents tumbled out in a sticky clump, most of it sticking to his cap and ears, a few bedraggled noodles dangling from his mustachio like forlorn bits of sea-weed on a ship's hull. The pride of La Scala returned the pot to its owner's hands, then stepped back and raised herself to her full, and considerable, height. Composing herself and filling her lungs to their fullest, she began.
"Young man," she trilled, "I have dined in the houses of nobles and royalty and enjoyed the finest delicacies of all the great cultures of the world. I have tasted the richest wines of the East, the most delicate pastries of France and Switzerland, the astonishing fruits and vegetables of the tropics and the Orient, and the marvelous courtesy of chefs all over the world." Signora Castafiore paused for breath, warming to her subject as if to one of Signor Bellini's arias. "Do you know with whom you are dealing, mio piccolo? I am the Milanese Nightingale, the pride of La Scala, the darling of Europe, diva straordinaria. I am Bianca Castafiore, and I will tolerate no disrespect to my person."
Her final statement was delivered with a stunning crescendo, such as would shatter glass and bring adoring audiences to their feet in torrents of applause and gushing platitudes. To the little mulatto chef, it meant very little: he merely shrugged his shoulders, turned, and shuffled out of the door, spaghetti still dangling from his head.
"And next time, don't over-cook my pasta!" il diva shouted after his retreating figure, her whole body quivering with righteous indignation and her face thunderous.
OOOOO
And so the conflict continued, week after week, pot after sticky pot of over-cooked pasta. Confrontations in the dining room became a testing-ground for the Signora's patience. Pasta days fell into an uncomfortable rhythm, with her taste of whatever disturbing offering the chef brought sparking arguments, appeals to the man's finer feelings, and outbursts of extreme disapprobation. More often than not, the chef left the dining room wearing the pasta. Despite the Signora's increasing temper, the little man's attitude never varied: a scowl, a shrug, and a bland "We try again, senhora," was the extent of his response. And so it continued.
Until the day, just before her trial, when Signora Castafiore realized what lay at the root of the problem.
The trial itself came and went in a blur of flash photography and clamoring San Theodorian lawyers, politicians, police, and press members. In the midst of the tumult, Signora Castafiore remained her cool, stylish, magnetic self, her hair and make-up perfect, her stunning smile always in place, her voice as sweet and lyrical as it had always been. Having overwhelmed the jury with her obvious innocence and remarkable presence, she returned to her cell and prepared for the performance of a lifetime.
*Nota Bene: the Wagner referenced here is Richard Wagner the composer, not Igor Wagner the accompanist.
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