Pasta Imperfect - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,31

the cathedral in 1296 and continued for over a hundred years." Jackie was bent over at the waist, sucking in air as she read from her guidebook. "Then in 1420...a guy named Brunelleschi started building the dome and completed the project sixteen years later." She glanced up at me, gasping. "He must have been on the same time schedule...as the guys supervising Boston's Big Dig."

I massaged the stitch in my side and trained a look up ahead at the multitude of stone steps that spiraled blindly to the top of Florence's famed Duomo. "How many steps...does it say we have to climb?"

She scanned the page. "Four hundred and sixty-three."

"How many do you think we've climbed so far?"

"A thousand. The number in the book must be a mis-print."

We were pausing for breath on a flight of ancient stone risers that formed a tomblike staircase between the inner and outer shells of the dome. It was 8:55 now, and fairly cool, but later in the day, I suspected this place would heat up like a blast furnace. The passageway was cramped and hardly wide enough for our shoulders. The air was stuffy, the masonry walls cold and implacable, the ceiling a low-arched patchwork of brick and mortar that hung claustrophobically close. A solitary fifteen-watt light, shielded within a mesh cage high on the wall, was our only source of illumination. It was kind of like wandering through a Disney World version of the human ear canal.

Jackie straightened up slowly, retrieved her minirecorder, and spoke haltingly into the unit. "If you want an aerial view of Florence...forget the one from the top of the Duomo. Do yourself a favor. Take the helicopter tour instead." She shoved the recorder back into her bag. "I don't get it. How come I'm feeling this climb more than you? Why am I so out of breath?"

"Maybe you're pregnant."

She speared me with a narrow look. "I have no uterus. Remember? It's not standard equipment for transsexuals yet. But speaking of those who have, and those who have not, how would you like to --"

"I am NOT going to act as a surrogate when you and Tom decide to have children, Jack! Forget it. End discussion."

"My, my. Aren't we testy this morning. Come on, Emily, you can tell me. What's wrong?" She looked me up and down. "Well, other than your wardrobe is history, and you've been shlepping around in the same dress for three days."

Since she'd slept through breakfast, I'd given her the lowdown on last night's disasters on the trek over, so she was up to speed with current events. "My wardrobe is not history. I'll get my things back. You'll see. I've set a plan in motion."

"Good. Let's talk about me then." She clasped her hands in a pleading gesture, hung her head, and in a pathetic voice cried, "I hate my roommate! Can I room with you instead?"

Unh-oh. "Who's your roommate?"

"Jeannette Bowles. A food critic from Burlington, Vermont. She writes a column critiquing all the ski resort restaurants in the New England area. I'd like to write a column critiquing her. Too pushy. Too self-absorbed. Too arrogant. While I was sleeping last night? She drank all the bottled water I'd gone out to buy earlier and left me with the twenty-thousand-lire stuff, which, by the way, tasted so terrible, I spat it out and dumped the rest down the sink. Stay away from that brand, Emily. Where does the hotel get that crap? The local sewage treatment plant? And then she skulked out this morning before I could confront her about it. Plus, with all her skill and expertise in the field of journalism, she knows she has this romance contest all sewn up and feels dreadfully sorry for all the other poor shmucks who are even bothering to enter. Blahblahblah. Yadayadayada. On, and on, and on. Don't leave me in the same room with her, Emily. I'm bigger than she is. It could get ugly."

I exhaled a long breath that echoed softly through the stairwell. "Is there anyone on this tour who isn't having roommate problems?"

Jackie looked gleeful. "Oh, goody. You mean, I'm not the only one stuck with a dud?"

"Amanda Morning thought she was stuck with a dud."

"Amanda. She's the one with the spiked hair and the vegetable peeler lodged in her nose, right? I met her the other night at the book signing. I hear she's writing a groundbreaking zombie romance. You know what they say. Write what you know."

I rolled my