I hesitated for a second but decided to answer it. I was on my way to the kitchen for a glass of water when the phone rang again. Once I had switched off the iron and put it away with the ironing board in the hall closet, my mind felt a good deal clearer. I ironed three shirts, checking them over for wrinkles and putting them on hangers. The order is always the same, and I count off each stage to myself. I divide the job into twelve precise stages, beginning with the collar (outer surface) and ending with the Which is what I always do when I'm upset. As if nine minutes would be too short or eleven minutes too long. Minutes? Come to think of it, she seemed awfully sure about those ten minutes: it was the first thing out of her mouth.
What were we supposed to understand about each other in ten minutes? What can two people understand about each other in ten In any case, it had nothing to do with me.Īfter lunch, I went back to my library novel on the living room sofa, glancing every now and then at the telephone. Understand each other? Understand each other's feelings in ten minutes? What was she talking about? Maybe it was just a prank call. Little softer than al dente, but it had not been dealt a mortal blow. Thanks to the phone call, the spaghetti was a Back in the kitchen, I turned off the gas and poured the contents of the pot into a colander. With no outlet for my feelings, I stared at the phone in my hand until I remembered the spaghetti. "If this is some new sales gimmick, you can forget it. "Hold on a minute," I said before she could hang up. A little change in mood can do amazing things to the tone of a person's voice. I'll call back," she said, her voice now flat and expressionless. "Spaghetti!? What are you doing cooking spaghetti at ten-thirty in the morning?"
"Sorry, but you caught me in the middle of making spaghetti.
The spaghetti pot was steaming nicely, and Claudio Abbado was still conducting The Thieving Magpie.
I leaned over and peeked through the kitchen door. That's all we need to understand each other." Her voice was low and soft but otherwise nondescript. "Excuse me? To whom did you wish to speak?" I'm good at recognizing people's voices, but this was not one I knew. "Ten minutes, please," said a woman on the other end. I lowered the flame, went to the living room, and picked up the receiver. It could have been somebody with news of a I wanted to ignore the phone, not only because the spaghetti was nearly done, but because Claudio Abbado was bringing the London Symphony to its musical climax. When the phone rang I was in the kitchen, boiling a potful of spaghetti and whistling along with an FM broadcast of the overture to Rossini's The Thieving Magpie, which has to be the perfect music for cooking pasta.
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