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________
Gabriella Matos
I'm definitely in Italy.
If the short and sparse conversation between my executioner and his men didn't give me any great clues, the chaos of the kitchen where I am now eliminates any and all doubts I might have had. They speak Italian and shout all the time.
The space is strangely modern and classic at the same time. It's ridiculous that my first thought when I walked in here was that it seemed as if I'd walked into an interior design magazine. I don't think these magazines kidnap people.
All the walls in the room are covered in cabinets in a shade of blue that I can't describe as anything other than burnt, because it has the same softness as burnt pink, and that's the only thing I can compare this color to. The moldings on the cabinet doors make them look like they came out of a dollhouse.
In the middle of the huge kitchen there is a wood stove and, above it, a white stone structure where different types of pans hang. In the center of the space there is an island with a stainless-steel countertop on one side and marble on the other. In the corner, on the right, a huge work or dining table, I don't know.
There's an army of uniformed women walking back and forth, and I blink, standing still as useful as a chocolate teapot whereI was told to stay. I didn't understand the words that were said to me, but the expression of contempt on the face of the elegant woman who pointed her finger at me before marching out of the kitchen definitely left no room for doubt about the meaning of the foreign words.
She doesn't want me here, and judging by her clothes, she owns the house. A couple of women wearing different uniforms move around me, come to the kitchen, give me a look of disapproval, and then leave with mocking laughter.
It's not the first time it's happened, it seems, I'm some kind of attraction for the house staff. I am distracted by watching a cook knead bread, the woman has a huge stainless steel basin next to her from where she takes out portions of dough, kneading them with punches and rolling them out until she is satisfied, before setting them aside on a platter in front of her and move on to the next one.
My distraction ends when the elegant woman returns with another, dressed in a black suit. They both show irritation with my presence as they walk towards me. The woman in the suit hands me a set of clothes, a uniform like the one the women who left here just now, after taking a look at me, were wearing.
“Vaicambiarti nel bagno dietro. Veloce![45]”
“Sorry, I don't understand” I say, accepting the clothes she offers me.
The elegant woman touches her fingers to the bridge of her nose before shaking her head. She raises her other hand, keeping it flat before turning on her heel and leaving the kitchen. This I understand very well. She's refusing to have to deal with me.
“Scema![46]” the woman in the suit says before shaking her head with even more disapproval than the first and turning her back to me.
That doesn't seem like a good start.
***
Luigia hates me.
Luigia hates me a lot.
I don't know what I did to the woman other than not understanding a single word she said, but the one I believe to be the castle's housekeeper simply doesn't like me. She returned to the kitchen a few minutes after turning her back on me earlier today. Afterwards, she pushed me into a bathroom at the back of the house and all she had to do was rub the uniform in my face, as if having given it to me and then taking me to a bathroom wasn't a clear enough message. She wanted me to change, I did, and after that we spent the whole day playing an imitation game. She would take me somewhere and show me what I should do, then she would watch me the whole time.
If I did it right, I had to deal with her frown and disapproval, if I did it wrong, I had to deal with her bad-tempered words and abrupt gestures, repeating the same thing a thousand times in a clear insinuation that I was an idiot for not being able to do something as simple as polishing silver the way she wanted me to do.
However, considering the kind of jailer I imagined I would have, judging by the huge men I met earlier, I'll accept the angry old woman and would do it with a smile on my face if I didn't feel like I'd simply unlearned how to smile in the last twenty four hours.
My entire body feels heavy as I drag it forward, following, or trying to, the housekeeper's footsteps. She walks hurriedly and mumbles word after incomprehensible word as she passes through hallway after hallway without giving me the chance toobserve anything around me. I hope she doesn't expect me to find my way back to the kitchens on my own after this.
Come to think of it, that's probably what she expects me to do and is just making my life difficult so she can complain about it and give me dirty looks later. Well, Luigia, try harder, because her boss has already broken all my self-preservation sensors, sideways glances don't scare me.
I just want to sleep until my jailer comes to pick me up for work tomorrow, that's all. Sleep and not think. Sleep and forget.
At the end of a long corridor, she finally stops in front of a rustic wooden door, I look at the other doors, all closed and without external bars. I wonder who lives behind them, if anyone lives behind them. Luigia turns to me, her lips and face contorted in disgust as she speaks.
“Questa è la tua camera.[47]” I don't understand a single word.
I mean, I think I understand something like “this is”, but she speaks too quickly, jumbling one word into another and in the end, I'm wondering if she's talking about a camera. But my confusion only lasts until the moment she opens the door, and my eyes widen when I see what's behind it.
I blink several times to make sure the vision isn't some kind of prank being played by my own exhausted mind, but Luigia complains, waving toward the interior of the room and my feet move.
Of course, the work would not be over yet.
