John Palcewski (forioscribe) wrote,
John Palcewski



“Mom and the rest of them went for a walk on the beach, but I told them I was too tired, and stayed here,” Vittoria said. “So while they were gone I snooped around.”
“What were you looking for?”
“A photo album, so I could see if any of these so-called relatives of mine look like me, as my mom claims.”
“Did you find one?”
“Nope. But I found this old book.”
“Let me guess. It’s Italian, with strange drawings, and bound in leather.”
“Hey, how did you know that?”
“I’m familiar with it.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. Your mom got it from her grandmother, when they lived in Buonopane, here on Ischia. It’s full of spells. Stregheria. Italian witchcraft, an ancient pagan practice. It’s been passed down for generations in your family.”
“Oh, my God!”
“There’s more.”
“Like what?”
“You used that book to cast a love spell on me.”
“I did?”
A long pause.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “The only reason you keep calling and telling me that you love me is because I cast a spell on you, right? Without the spell we wouldn’t be talking right now.”
“Not true. There’s more to the story.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Before you lost your memory, you made this same angry accusation. That I don’t really love you, that I was just forced into it. So guess what?”
“You waited for a full moon, got your mother's book, and at midnight took the spell off.”
“I did?”
“What happened then?”
“I didn’t stop loving you.”
“Because I loved you before you cast the spell.”
A long silence.
“That’s nice. I wish I could remember these things because they’re…”
“Verrrry interesting.”

“So what did you eat today?”
“Spaghetti with clam sauce.”
“Sounds good.”
“It was. My mom called me into the kitchen, made me sit down to watch her. She said that I should know how to cook.”
“Good idea. It’ll come in handy when you are here with me, as my love slave. Part of the job is fixing me good things to eat.”
“Dream on, buddy.”
“You’ll obey my every command.”
“Right, uh-huh. Anyway, my mom showed me how to do it.”
“Tell me.”
“She put a bunch of live clams in a pot of boiling water. Spaghetti in another boiling pot. Then into a pan she poured olive oil over some chopped garlic. Then she dribbled some of the clam juice into the pan, and let it sizzle. When the spaghetti was ready, she poured the sauce over it, and added all the clam pieces.”
“Sounds delicious.”
“It was.”
“You may not remember, but I used to feed you.”
“Yes. And I can prove it.”
“I have a videotape of you sitting on my lap in my apartment in New York. It shows me giving you spoonfuls of my famous clam chowder, which you loved.”
“You have this on videotape?”
“Yes. From time to time I watch it, to remember how good it was when we were together.”
“What kind of clam chowder?”
“Lots of fresh baby clams in a sauce made with herbs and heavy cream. Freshly ground pepper, salt.”
“Mmmmm. Maybe that would put a spell on me, huh?”
“It always did, sweetpea,” I said. "And it will again."


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