In the first block of flats where I lived for two months while everything else was arranged or, as they like to put it here, sistemato, was a wonderful old gated lift. The lift had wooden panelling and glass windows decorated with deco motifs. At the back of the lift there was even a little red upholstered seat where you could prop your shopping or rest your feet. It was always such a stately progress in that lift, one felt like a dowager duchess or a queen ascending to the top.
In Katarina’s flats, however, there was no lift. As we lived on the top floor, it was a terrible sweat to get in the shopping, especially if you were lugging up bottles of Monticchio water; which is why I feel it’s important to mention the Professoressa’s basket.
The Professoressa lived on the third floor, and her basket was attached to a pulley. She had an arrangement with the fellow from the salumeria next door. The Professoressa would send down her basket. “A post,” he would shout from down below when all the bottles of Monticchio water were in. “A post’,” she would shout back when the bottles had arrived safely at her floor.
It was such an elegant solution, or so I thought until, one day, I saw the fellow from the salumeria lugging the bottles of Monticchio up the stairs.
“Buongiorno, Professore,” he said, after pausing for breath.
“Buongiorno,” I said. “What’s going on?”
“Piccoli diavoli,” he said. “Those kids of the plumber are little devils.”
“What have they done?”
“Hanno meso degli scarafaghi dentro la borsa della professoressa,” he said. “They put some cockroaches in the professoressa’s shopping.” “How terrible,” I said, though I could not help giggling all the way down the street until I reached the faculty and spat it out to Gavin.