Unsalted

by Slawka G. Scarso

Rumours spread fast, like the waters of the river Arno during a flood: the Republic of Pisa has blocked the ships of salt for Florence. They’re keeping the salt for themselves.

As I unload the flour from the cart, I see my master discussing this with the miller. He spits on the ground. I watch his spit mix with the acrid contents of a bucket someone threw from their window earlier, and rush inside.

I miss the countryside, I miss the subtle scent of the flowering olive trees, of the damp soil in the woods around my late father’s farm. I miss the aroma of the ham aging in the cellar. But my mother said I was lucky that this man, unlike her, didn’t have six children to feed. He had none. He’ll teach you a profession, he’ll treat you like a son, she said.

He doesn’t. I was fatter when I was one of six starving children on a farm, but he’s teaching me how to bake bread, of this I’m grateful. And I do love the aroma of the wood burning in the oven, and of the loaves later. I try to fill my nostrils with it, so that once in the streets I won’t notice the city smells.

My master comes back inside.

“We’ll have to make do without the salt,” he says.

I watch him mix the flour with the water. He reaches out for the salt, out of habit, and stops. He shakes his head, and murmurs something I cannot grasp. I knead, following his example. He slaps me on the head when I’m not fast enough or not strong enough. Floury marks of humiliation that stay on my back and on my hair and have everyone laugh at me in the streets.

“What did you do this time?” people ask.

Hours later, we pull the bread out of the oven and once it's cool enough, he breaks it. When we taste it, I see disappointment on his face.

“How am I to expect people to buy this bread?”

I look at him, uncertain whether he wants me to answer. To be safe, I keep quiet. This usually prevents me from getting another floury slap.

Then I remember I have a little piece of salami left in my bag. It was the Easter present my mother sent me from the farm, and I’d like to make it last till Saint John’s, so I cut only a thin slice. I add it to my bread. I smile as I chew, and my master notices. He looks at me in wonder. I hesitate, then cut a slice for him as well. Thicker, this time. He takes it from me, adds it to the bread. His enthusiastic chewing gives me a courage I never knew I had.

“They’re perfect together,” I say.

He looks at me and as he raises his hand I wait for another slap, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he puts his hand on my shoulder.

“Well done,” he says.

The next bread, he makes it to sell. I can tell because he stamps it with his stamp, which has his name on it, the name of his father, and the Florentine fleurs-de-lis.

“One day, I’ll make you a stamp like this one,” he says.

About the author

Slawka G. Scarso has published several books on wine in Italy and works as a copywriter and translator. Her short fiction has appeared in Ellipsis Zine, Streetcake Magazine, Necessary Fiction and Spelk, among others. She lives between Rome and Geneva with her husband and her dog, Tessa. Find her on Twitter (@nanopausa) and on her website (www.nanopausa.com).

About the illustration

The illustration is "A medieval baker and his apprentice" from an illuminated manuscript on parchment, ca. 1500. Bodleian Library MS. Canon. Liturg. 99, Image: Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford. Made available under a Creative Commons non-commercial license, with attribution (CC-BY-NC 4.0: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/).