By Patricia Winton
One rarely thinks of fish as a murder weapon, and Caroline Woodlock certainly didn’t have murder on her mind as she surveyed the vast piscine assortment spread out at the market near Piazza Vittorio in Rome. A display of fresh anchovies; flat flounder; a swordfish, complete with its sword; four types of clams and three of squid; little octopuses scarcely two inches long; and fat slices from large octopus tentacles, their suckers gleaming in the light, rose at a 45 degree angle before her. The briny air smelled like a day at the seashore.
A journalist now covering the international culinary scene, Caroline worked on an Italian cookbook for Americans in her spare time. She planned to adapt the recipe for caciucco, the stout fish soup of Livorno that her grandmother had carefully written years ago in her tight, Tuscan hand. Today, Caroline searched for a substitute for “cicada of the sea,” something that she didn’t think she would find in America and something she didn’t think Americans would eat if she could. She traced her tongue along the gap between her two front teeth as she considered what to choose.
The market echoed with its usual din of noises. An old woman selling vegetables called out “Ecco belli. Guardate ai miei peperoni freschi. Colore di scarlatto e d’oro. Scegliere.” Here, beautiful people, look at my fresh peppers, scarlet and golden. Take your choice.
The butcher hoped to lure the Friday fish-eaters to his stall. “Filetto di maille. Sotto costo. È un regalo.” Pork tenderloin. Below cost. It’s a gift.
A cacophony of voices clamoring for the fishmonger’s attention swirled around Caroline. Suddenly, a voice at the adjacent stall rose above the others.
“Mi hai trattato a pesci in faccia!” The angry voice echoed throughout the suddenly quiet market.
Who had thrown fish in someone’s face. At the next stall, two men argued, or at least one argued with another. The screamer’s left index finger wagged against the other’s nose, magenta face reflecting his rage. No fish scales clung to his eyebrows; no octopus hung from his hair, but Caroline feared that the finger wagger risked a stroke or worse as he spewed his anger along with his spittle onto the other man’s face.
The angry man wore a red knitted cap pulled close around his ears and a gray, nondescript jacket zipped up to his chin. The language that Caroline had learned at the knee of her prim Italian mother didn’t allow her to decipher his expletives, but she understood the gist.
The object of his anger stood placidly, saying nothing. The calm man wore a multi-pocketed vest and a sardonic smile. His silence seemed to further enrage the screamer.
Fish in the face. I wonder what that expression mean? And why is this man so angry?
A crowd gathered around the two, and as the decibel level lowered, Caroline turned back to the fishmonger to select more ingredients for her soup.
A journalist now covering the international culinary scene, Caroline worked on an Italian cookbook for Americans in her spare time. She planned to adapt the recipe for caciucco, the stout fish soup of Livorno that her grandmother had carefully written years ago in her tight, Tuscan hand. Today, Caroline searched for a substitute for “cicada of the sea,” something that she didn’t think she would find in America and something she didn’t think Americans would eat if she could. She traced her tongue along the gap between her two front teeth as she considered what to choose.
The market echoed with its usual din of noises. An old woman selling vegetables called out “Ecco belli. Guardate ai miei peperoni freschi. Colore di scarlatto e d’oro. Scegliere.” Here, beautiful people, look at my fresh peppers, scarlet and golden. Take your choice.
The butcher hoped to lure the Friday fish-eaters to his stall. “Filetto di maille. Sotto costo. È un regalo.” Pork tenderloin. Below cost. It’s a gift.
A cacophony of voices clamoring for the fishmonger’s attention swirled around Caroline. Suddenly, a voice at the adjacent stall rose above the others.
“Mi hai trattato a pesci in faccia!” The angry voice echoed throughout the suddenly quiet market.
Who had thrown fish in someone’s face. At the next stall, two men argued, or at least one argued with another. The screamer’s left index finger wagged against the other’s nose, magenta face reflecting his rage. No fish scales clung to his eyebrows; no octopus hung from his hair, but Caroline feared that the finger wagger risked a stroke or worse as he spewed his anger along with his spittle onto the other man’s face.
The angry man wore a red knitted cap pulled close around his ears and a gray, nondescript jacket zipped up to his chin. The language that Caroline had learned at the knee of her prim Italian mother didn’t allow her to decipher his expletives, but she understood the gist.
The object of his anger stood placidly, saying nothing. The calm man wore a multi-pocketed vest and a sardonic smile. His silence seemed to further enrage the screamer.
Fish in the face. I wonder what that expression mean? And why is this man so angry?
A crowd gathered around the two, and as the decibel level lowered, Caroline turned back to the fishmonger to select more ingredients for her soup.
On the way home, Caroline stopped at the supermarket for other supplies. She paused before the frozen foods case. There certainly were many differences between the offerings here and those in an American supermarket. The few ready-to-eat dishes required cooking in a frying pan or the oven. Nothing here for the microwave. Bags of grilled eggplant and roasted peppers lay beside little boxes of frozen basil and parsley. But she wanted to buy no frozen foods and hurried to find basic condiments like olive oil and salt.
* * *
At the top of the fountain, Neptune looked down majestically onto it all from his shell-shaped cart. Caroline edged her way through the crowd to get a better look at the two winged seahorses pulling Neptune’s chariot. The one on the right portrayed the benevolent sea, responding calmly to the gentle touch of the Triton driving it; its fishtail curled in repose. Beneath it she saw the coins thrown by those Swiss girls and thousands of other tourists glinting in the water, each one the symbol of a dream.
She descended the steps and turned left. Before her the second Triton strained to hold onto his raging seahorse, representing the fury of a stormy sea. The creature’s nostrils flared, and its fishtail lashed against the rocks at its back. Caroline’s gaze drifted to the small pool to the left of the truculent seahorse; something besides tourist coins shimmered in the water.
* * *
“Nino.” Caroline’s breath came in quick puffs as she raced up the stairs leading to the National Graphic Arts Gallery in the building behind the fountain. “I saw fish swimming in the Trevi Fountain!”
A short, balding man with a fringe of white hair floating along his collar line drew her towards him, kissing first the left cheek and then the right in the traditional Italian greeting.
“Impossible,” he said. “You just saw the reflection of coins thrown in by the tourists.” He took her by the elbow and guided her into the exhibition.
Caroline rolled her caramel-colored eyes. She needed Nino Nardo’s help with the cookbook project, but porca miseria, being a professor of Italian culinary history and traditions at the 700-year-old La Sapienza University did make him haughty.
“A couple of years ago, a prankster threw red dye into the fountain. It gushed through Neptune’s basin and made quite a spectacle,” Nino continued as he gently steered Caroline to the left towards a man as hairy as Nino was bald. “The police keep a sharp lookout now. You didn’t see fish in the fountain. It’s impossible. Isn’t that true, Commissario?” He winked at the hairy man.“May I present Caroline Woodlock?” he added.
“My brother’s quite correct,” the man said, taking her hand. “I’m Aldo, the more handsome of the Nardo brothers. And yes, I’m a police commissioner.” He pretended to plant a kiss on her palm. Caroline stammered hello, and she forgot to tell Nino about the bizarre scene at the fish market.
Nino had invited her to the opening reception of the photography exhibit by Georgio Delfino to introduce her to Rome’s culinary elite. Now he guided her through a gallery lined with photos of chefs at work. Delfino was known for choosing props that revealed secrets about his subjects.
Caroline glanced at a photo showing a fat, balding chef, sitting with his legs splayed; a massive bowl of water with cleaned artichokes and lemons floating in it stood on the table beside him. He clutched a paring knife and stripped off the outer leaves of yet another artichoke.
Her gasp echoed throughout the gallery. For a moment, she froze, her eyes riveted upon the chef in the photo ̶ her cousin, victim of a brutal murder a few months ago. He had been stabbed with his own knife. The knife in the photo?
“I didn’t mean for you to see that one, Caroline.” Nino said. He propelled her forward, but she looked over her shoulder at Edoardo’s sweet smile.
The professor guided her into the midst of a prosecco-sipping clump of people, but her thoughts remained with Edoardo. She drew a deep breath and looked around.
A ruddy-faced man in crisp white chef’s jacket stood in the middle of an admiring crowd
“Who is that man?” asked Caroline.
“Oh, that’s Paolo Ricci. È in gamba. I’ll introduce you.”
“He’s in the leg,” repeated Caroline. “Nino, what does that mean?”
“It means he’s an expert. And he is. He knows as much about fish and the Italian table as anyone in the country, aside from myself, of course. He grew up as the son of a Livorno fisherman, and he knows the sea as well as the kitchen. He’s one of Rome’s best chefs.”
The man’s shiny bald head glittered like a halo; he spoke with soft, measured words and smiled politely. Caroline closed her eyes to conjure up the man she had seen screaming in the market on Friday. His head had been covered with a knitted cap, but she recognized this bald chef as the crazed man who had waggled his finger and screamed about fish in his face. What a startling transformation from maniacal madman to elegant chef!
Nino introduced them and Paolo Ricci shook her hand. “Nino has told me you want to know more about caciucco. It’s the specialty of my hometown. I’m sure I can help. Shall we meet tomorrow? My restaurant is nearby.” He gave a stiff little bow and released her hand. No kisses here; she sighed with relief.
After chatting with a number of other impressive people, Caroline returned to the photos. She saw several of the chefs she had just met. Marco, the pastry chef, licked a dollop of whipped cream from his finger and twinkled at the camera. Pippo, the vegetarian specialist, smiled shyly as he carved a fennel bulb into an elaborate flower. Fennel, is Italian slang for homosexual. How had the photographer had convinced Pippo to pose holding finocchio. In his photo, Paolo masterfully wielded an enormous knife with his left hand, chopping parsley.
Caroline looked around for the photographer, but everyone she asked said, “I saw him a minute ago. Try the next gallery.” She wandered through the galleries and glanced an open curtain. The piazza spread before her. She leaned out, looking down onto the Trevi Fountain. The water gushed over the rocks and coins sparkled through the foam.
But there beneath the window, in the smaller pool at the feet of the bellicose seahorse, fish darted in the water. She looked round for Nino. Where had he gone? She found him at the far end of the last gallery and they returned to the window. She looked down onto the fountain again.
As the water flowed into the small basin, it changed from crystal clear to a brilliant red. She could no longer see the fish. Then a human arm rose from the water, blood streaming from ripped flesh.
* * *
Those deadly fish had masticated the dead man’s softest parts, cheeks and eyes, buttocks and thighs. No one could recognize the poor creature. Aldo Nardo, who had taken charge of the investigation, said it appeared that the fall on the rocks had done as much damage as the fish. But the presence of piranhas meant murder, not accident, he had said.
Caroline gave herself a shake. She didn’t want to dwell on that image, so she turned off the burner and left the kitchen. She wandered around the apartment, picking up a book here, rearranging a chair there. The sight of blood, albeit diluted by the Trevi, brought back the image of Edoardo’s blood-soaked body that she had discovered lying on his restaurant kitchen. Perhaps it was simply coming upon his photo so unexpectedly, followed by the sight of blood in the fountain. At least this corpse was a stranger, and she wouldn’t come face-to-face with the killer as she had with Edoardo’s.
She collected her notebook and recorder for her meeting with Paolo, still mystified by the finger-waving, screaming maniac at the market who turned into the super polite chef at the reception. What did he mean when he accused the other man of throwing fish in his face?
With a sigh, she reached for an Italian-English dictionary. She hated admitting that she needed it. Pesci in faccia. A grave insult. Hmmm. Caroline tried to remember the man Paolo had screamed at. What could he have said to insult the chef, causing him to lose control that way.
She played with this puzzle as she left the apartment. She had plenty of time before the appointment with Paolo, but she needed fresh air. Each time her thoughts turned to the blood in the fountain or even the tomatoes in the pot, she shivered. She wanted a clear head for the interview with the chef.
* * *
Caroline skirted around the edge of the Trevi Fountain. A remnant of red and white striped police tape fluttered from the railing around the fountain, but the tourists knew nothing about death in the water and happily tossed their coins and snapped their photos.
She ordered an espresso at a nearby bar and sat down to review her notes and pass the time before her meeting. A cloud passed over the piazza, casting a shadow on the fountain in the distance. The second hand on Caroline’s watch crept along. She reached for a newspaper lying on an adjacent table. As usual, the headlines focused on a scandal first. Today, they described in lurid detail the latest sexual escapade of a government official. An image of the Pope saying mass during his current trip abroad provided balance.
Caroline unfurled the paper. Paolo’s unknown adversary stared out at her from the lower half of the page. The police had dragged his body from the Trevi last night and now identified him as Giorgio Delfino, the photographer! The cloud over the fountain grew darker. Caroline shivered again.
Had Giorgio insulted Paolo in some way with his photo? Caroline closed her eyes. She remembered the knife and the parsley but nothing remotely suggestive like Pippo’s photo. Caroline had to look again. She grabbed her bag and raced to the gallery.
Like Delfino’s other photos, the one of Paolo exuded atmosphere. The chef’s left hand grasped the glistening knife. The crisp photo captured the tilt of the blade as it cut the parsley. One could almost hear it hit the wooden board. Caroline examined every inch of the picture, trying to find a trace of insult. The shallow depth of field had the chef and the knife in clear focus, but the background blurred. On the counter behind Paolo some small rectangular boxes stood in a row. They looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t identify them and nor read the labels.
On her way to Paolo’s restaurant, she phoned Nino to tell him about the market incident and how her idiom deficiency had led her to misunderstand the exchange.
“Caroline, don’t tell Paolo what you heard,” Nino warned her. “And don’t roll those big caramelle. He could be dangerous.” She held the phone in her outstretched hand for a moment before clicking off.
* * *
Paolo offered much advice for her article. “You need lots of garlic for caciucco. And don’t use fancy fish. You need some octopus and mussels. Plain fish.”
Caroline switched off the recorder and closed her notebook.
“Thanks a lot for your help. You’ve been really kind.” Packing up her tools, Caroline ventured one more question.
“What do you think of the market at Piazza Vittorio? I thought I saw you there on Friday.”
Paolo sucked in a breath.
“I like most Roman markets, but now I must get back to work.” His brusque response signaled goodbye.
“I saw you talking with Giorgio Delfino,” she said. “How did he insult you?”
The question transformed the gentlemanly Paolo into the lunatic she had seen on Friday. His face once again became purple, and he began spitting his words.
“Have you seen my photo? He stacked boxes of frozen parsley behind me. It made me look like an amateur. A professional chef never uses frozen ingredients—especially not frozen herbs! He wanted to belittle me.”
Caroline recalled the little boxes of frozen parsley and basil that she had seen in the supermarket. All this anger over a box of parsley?
“It’s just a photo. You look very professional, masterful even, the way you use the knife. He showed you as the great chef that you are.
Paolo grabbed the knife he’d used to filet the swordfish and turned toward her. “Puttana! You don’t understand anything.” Caroline felt his spittle hitting her face. She dodged around the island in the center of the kitchen. He jabbed at her with the knife, but she danced out of reach.
His breath came in sharp bursts. A fine line of moisture beaded on his upper lip.
“He had to die. It was so easy. I carried the piranhas in an insulated bag, much like the ones old women use to go to the market.” He jabbed again, and warmed to his topic. Caroline pulse beat against her eardrums.
“I rested the bag on a stone at the edge of the fountain.” Paolo continued. “The policeman on duty often comes to my restaurant, and we chatted a minute. Then I pointed to a teenaged tourist.
Jab.
“Taking off her shoes to climb into the fountain.”
Jab.
“The policeman ran to shoo her, and I dumped the fish. Easy.”
He continued to thrust the knife with rhythmic strokes. Caroline looked for something to deflect the blade. Paolo made another lunge around a corner of the island. She grabbed the fish’s sword and planted her feet firmly in a fighter’s stance.
Like the Ancient Mariner, Paolo continued his tale. “Those windows in the gallery form a little alcove behind the curtains. I called Giorgio over to look at the fish below. One shove and out he went.”
Paolo jabbed again, but Caroline blocked his knife with the swordfish sword.
“I must have pushed the curtain open when I fled,” he said. “Otherwise it would have been tourists who saw the body first and not you.”
Paolo raised his left arm high. As he began a downward strike, Caroline thrust upward with her fishy weapon, piercing the flesh of his bicep. He howled and dropped the knife.
At that moment, Nino and Aldo barged into the kitchen. Blood dripped from Paolo’s arm, and once more he spewed obscenities and spittle. Caroline laid the swordfish sword on the counter. Her heart thumped against her ribcage, and she looked at Nino.
“After Edoardo’s murder last year,” she said, “I thought all chefs faced danger. Now, it’s the chef who’s the murderer.”
Aldo restrained the belligerent Paolo and radioed for assistance. To Nino he said, “Bring Caroline to the Questura in an hour. She’ll have to make a denuncia.” A sergeant handcuffed Paolo and led him away. A stream of expletives hovered in the air behind him.
Together Nino and Caroline walked to the Trevi. He silently handed her a small coin. She descended the steps and the mist cooled her face. She gazed for a moment at the benevolent seahorse and its Triton blowing gently into a conch. Then she turned her back on the fountain, raised her right arm and tossed the coin over her left shoulder, uttering a small prayer.
The End
If you like this story, you might consider buying Fish Tales, The Guppy Anthology. Ordering information is available at the top of this page.
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