Chapter 23: The Lake Flat

My flat in Wiedikon was built for one woman and one boy.

By Sunday it held five people and a pot of Vittorio's sauce.

He had taken over the stove at noon.

"You are putting too much salt," Rocco said, from the doorway.

"I have cooked this sauce since before you were born."

"You burned it in the spring."

"I did not burn it. It rested."

Jamie sat at the table on two phone books and a cushion, banging a wooden spoon against a brass wheel.

He gave the argument his full attention.

"Nonno," he said. "Salt."

"You see?" Vittorio said. "The boy agrees with me."

"The boy has never tasted it."

"The boy has taste."

Quentin, who had come back from the airport with Jamie's other train under his arm, stopped in the doorway and tried not to laugh.

He lost.

Rocco took the spoon from Jamie, and Jamie took it back.

"That's an Uncle Rocco spoon," Rocco said.

"Mine," said Jamie.

They both looked at me for a ruling.

"It's his," I said.

Rocco gave it up at once.

It was the easiest thing I had seen him do.

By nine the plates were stacked in the sink.

Vittorio had fallen asleep in my armchair with his cane across his knees and a brass wheel in his hand.

Rocco had left for his hotel, after putting Jamie to bed with a story about a train that could not stop.

Jamie had only made him read it twice.

Quentin closed the bedroom door softly and came into the kitchen.

I was standing at the window, looking at the lake.

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