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“Oh yeah. I grow them myself,” she says proudly.
I give her an approving look. “You garden?”
“Nothing that fancy. I have a few pots where I grow vegetables to save on groceries. How much thyme and basil do you need?”
I rattle off an amount and she scurries away, returning seconds later with fresh leaves.
“Thanks.” I set them aside and snoop around her cupboard until I find a box of pasta. It’s not a brand that I’ve ever seen before, but it’ll do for now.
Nardi directs me to where she keeps her pans. I select all I need, spot a few burnt marks and other mysterious stains on them, and get to work on filling the sink with soap and water.
“Those are already washed,” she points out.
“I’ll wash them again just in case.” I roll up my sleeves.
Nardi retreats to the table and leans against it, watching me with her arms folded. “Your wiki profile says you’re a germaphobe. I guess it’s true.”
“I prefer the term ‘health conscious’,” I say, gliding the wash cloth along the blender blades with the precision of a surgeon.
She snorts. “That’s the same thing.”
“I’m not scared of germs. I’m… aware of them.”
“Then you’re also ‘aware’ of all the germs on raw meat and vegetables. How did you ever learn to cook?”
“I used to order fast food all the time because I was so busy. Then a news story broke about the rat infestation in my favorite takeout place.” I almost gag at the memory. “Cleanliness is very important to me, so I rarely eat out anymore. I have someone come in to make my meals now, but I used to do it all on my own before I hired her.”
The dishes clank loudly as I wash them and set them in the rack to drain. I pause from my work to look up at her. “Also, there’s no need to go online. If you have questions about me, you can just ask.”
“You’ll tell me anything?”
I pause. “Anything that isn’t government classified.”
As she ponders the statement, I set the water for the pasta to boil while I shred the parmesan, grate the lemon and crush some garlic. Next, I begin to roast the pine nuts in a pan. The nutty smell wafts through the air, already promising a flavorful meal.
“Did you really sponsor a new wing for Josiah’s school?” Nardi asks.
My wrist, that had been tossing the nuts back and forth in the pan, goes still. Nardi is boring a hole in my face, searching for a hint of duplicity.
Returning my attention to the pan, I answer. “Yes.”
“And what about this building? Did you buy it too?”
Rather than answer straightforwardly—which will, undoubtedly, make me seem like an obsessed creep, I ask, “Do you know much about the original owner of the apartment?”
“Me? No.”
“His name is Zuniga.” I turn off the stove and transfer the pine nuts into the blender along with the thyme, basil, parmesan, olive oil and lemon juice. “Zuniga’s great-grandfatherwas a Polish immigrant who worked hard to purchase a plot of land in the city.”
Since the blender is too loud to continue speaking, I stop. The loud whirring competes with the faint banging of the workmen downstairs. I make a mental note to take back my instruction for them to work all night. I was being selfish about my own rushed timeline and I wasn’t being considerate to Nardi and the other residents.
The blender continues to whir. All the ingredients blend together and form a vibrant green sauce. I check the consistency, approve it and then leave it there to start on the pasta.
Nardi urges me, “What were you saying about Zuniga again?”
I trace through my thoughts, find the thread of the story and continue, “The land was passed down to Zuniga’s grandfather who built a textile factory. During the war, Zuniga’s grandfather turned the factory into a metal sheet manufacturer.”
I stir the pasta, checking the consistency often to make sure it doesn’t get too limp.