IF OR IS | luberto

4 | When Saturday Shifts

He doesn't suppose he's done too bad.

The fig preserve cornetti from Signor Gucci's bakery lay like glossy cowrie shells washed along a balmy shore, glistening with fragrant butter. The yellowing cookbook he often dusted off when visiting the Marcovaldos pulled through for him yet again, the almond biscotti realized from its pages emerging from the oven in a plume of sweetness, sturdy enough to sop up morning, the bitter glow of coffee and the soothing aftertaste of easy wakefulness.

He slides the last round of eggs from the skillet onto a clean plate and cuts the heat. The combined scent of cold-cut ham and the tacky yolks is redolent of death, the mean tang of it an itch in his nose. It was a biological reaction, he knew, but it felt strange that he was the one who had prepared it, anyway.

He takes a sip of coffee.

He would do anything. Eggs fell into that category. The sacrifices made for others are often small.

Luca had just refilled the espresso machine with fresh grounds when Alberto shoulders open the front door, brow stitched at the top of his nose. He turns, revealing a large bucket gripped at the lip in thick rubber gloves. Water sloshes over as he shuffles forward. Massimo looms over his shoulder, a broad trap tucked under his arm, and his small eyes widen when they land on Luca.

"Luca? This is a nice surprise."

Luca beams. Over the years, Massimo had come to expect Luca's unannounced appearances and Alberto's flimsy excuses ("It's a sea folk holiday, isn't that right, Lu?"). They weren't an oblivious bunch. They all knew that Massimo saw right through them, but it was his nonchalant acceptance of them regardless that kept the energy easy-flowing; Luca and Massimo both understood that Alberto needed a reason larger than "I missed him" to not feel like a burden.

So if playing along kept Alberto happy, well, who would Massimo be to protest?

"Buongiorno, signor. Hungry?" Luca spins around to collect ceramic plates from the cupboard and begins setting the table.

"Sì, but it will be a moment. Alberto and I must take care of this first."

The silverware comes next, and it's quick work considering there are only three of them. "What is it?" he asks, straightening the last fork. "Can I help?"

"It's no big," Alberto chimes. As he waddles past the kitchen table, he butts shoulders with Luca. "Sorry, could you just get the door? This is heavy."

"Sure thing." He scuttles past so that he can prop open the door with his palm. As Alberto passes, the water sloshes again, painting Luca's toes in frilly teals. He twists his lips and peeks curiously into it, glimpsing an amorphous smear of red before Alberto disappears into the butcher room.

"What's in it?"

"Lobster," Massimo answers, tailing Alberto. He gestures with the trap. "We bind the claws and sell them live. Better for cooking this way."

Luca scrunches his nose, imagining being boiled alive. It made sense, sure—Luca knows enough about the dangers of infectious bacteria in shellfish from Pinchy Pessa's numerous brawls with other show crabs in the cast—but he can't help but wonder how far the risk extends, what exactly people were willing to sacrifice for an end; in this case, a solid meal. Food poisoning was relatively low on the scale.

But humanity?

A heavy thud resonates from the back room, then the clatter of the trap. As if on cue, Alberto emerges with a sun-kissed lobster, which flails its pincers. It looks clumsy and slow as if its joints are packed with tack, rolling around in gummy putty.