to dreary provincial capitals where his presence was openly resented by everyone concerned, and the other half sitting in his windowless office at the Viminale typing up unreadable and no doubt unread reports. But before Ellen had a chance to ask him about this, Ottavio appeared in person at their table and the subject changed to that of food.
Ottavio outlined in pained tones his opinion that people were not eating enough these days. All they ever thought about was their figures, a selfish, short-sighted view contributing directly to the impoverishment of restaurateurs and the downfall of civilization as we know it. What the Goths, the Huns and the Turks had failed to do was now being achieved by a conspiracy of dietitians who were bringing the country to its knees with all this talk of cholesterols, calories and the evils of salt. Where were we getting to?
Such were his general grievances. His more particular wrath was reserved for Zen, who had told the waiter that he did not want anything to follow the huge bowl of spa¬ ghetti alla carbonara he had forced himself to eat on top of the vegetable soup Maria Grazia had prepared at home.
‘What are you trying to do?’ Ottavio demanded indignantly. ‘Put me out of business? Listen, the lamb is fabulous today. And when I say fabulous I’m saying less than half the truth. Tender young sucklings, so sweet, so pretty it was a sin to kill them. But since they’re dead already it would be a bigger sin not to eat them.’
Zen allowed himself to be persuaded, largely to get rid of Ottavio, who moved on to spread the good word to other tables.
‘And how have you been?’ Zen asked Ellen, when he had gone.
But she wasn’t having that.
‘Why haven’t you told me this before?’
‘I didn’t think you’d be interested. Besides, it’s all past history now.’
‘When did all this happen, then?’
He sighed, frowned, rubbed his forehead and grimaced.
‘Oh, I suppose it must be about … yes, about four years ago now. More or less.’
Surely he had overdone the uncertainty grotesquely? But she seemed satisfied.
‘And now they’re suddenly putting you back on that kind of work? This must be quite a surprise.’
‘It certainly is.’
There was no need to conceal that, at any rate!
‘So it was 1979 you quit?’
‘The year before, actually.’
‘And you got yourself transferred to a desk job?’
‘More or less.’
He tensed himself for the follow-up, but it failed to materialize. Fair enough. If Ellen didn’t appreciate how unlikely it was that anyone in that particular section of the Rome police would be allowed to transfer to a desk job in 1978 of all years, he certainly wasn’t going to draw her attention to it.
‘What made you do that?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I was just fed up with the work.’
The food was brought to their table by Ottavio’s youngest son, a speedy little whippet who, at fourteen, had already perfected his professional manner, contriving to suggest that he was engaged on some task of incalculable importance to humanity carried out against overwhelming odds under near-impossible conditions, and that while a monument in the piazza outside would be a barely adequate expression of the debt society owed him, he didn’t even expect to get a decent tip.
They ate in silence for several minutes.
‘So, what have you been up to?’ Zen insisted. ‘How’s business?’
‘Very quiet. There’s a big sale on Tuesday, though.’
Ellen made a living acting as representative for a New York antique dealer, but it was a case of profiting from a lifelong hobby, and one that she had tried in vain to get him to share. Zen had had his fill of old furniture!
‘How long will it be altogether?’
‘Not long, I hope.’
‘Do you know Perugia?’
Perugia, he thought. Chocolates, Etruscans, that fat painter, radios and gramophones, the University for Foreigners, sportswear. ‘Umbria, the green heart of Italy’, the tourist
Ottavio outlined in pained tones his opinion that people were not eating enough these days. All they ever thought about was their figures, a selfish, short-sighted view contributing directly to the impoverishment of restaurateurs and the downfall of civilization as we know it. What the Goths, the Huns and the Turks had failed to do was now being achieved by a conspiracy of dietitians who were bringing the country to its knees with all this talk of cholesterols, calories and the evils of salt. Where were we getting to?
Such were his general grievances. His more particular wrath was reserved for Zen, who had told the waiter that he did not want anything to follow the huge bowl of spa¬ ghetti alla carbonara he had forced himself to eat on top of the vegetable soup Maria Grazia had prepared at home.
‘What are you trying to do?’ Ottavio demanded indignantly. ‘Put me out of business? Listen, the lamb is fabulous today. And when I say fabulous I’m saying less than half the truth. Tender young sucklings, so sweet, so pretty it was a sin to kill them. But since they’re dead already it would be a bigger sin not to eat them.’
Zen allowed himself to be persuaded, largely to get rid of Ottavio, who moved on to spread the good word to other tables.
‘And how have you been?’ Zen asked Ellen, when he had gone.
But she wasn’t having that.
‘Why haven’t you told me this before?’
‘I didn’t think you’d be interested. Besides, it’s all past history now.’
‘When did all this happen, then?’
He sighed, frowned, rubbed his forehead and grimaced.
‘Oh, I suppose it must be about … yes, about four years ago now. More or less.’
Surely he had overdone the uncertainty grotesquely? But she seemed satisfied.
‘And now they’re suddenly putting you back on that kind of work? This must be quite a surprise.’
‘It certainly is.’
There was no need to conceal that, at any rate!
‘So it was 1979 you quit?’
‘The year before, actually.’
‘And you got yourself transferred to a desk job?’
‘More or less.’
He tensed himself for the follow-up, but it failed to materialize. Fair enough. If Ellen didn’t appreciate how unlikely it was that anyone in that particular section of the Rome police would be allowed to transfer to a desk job in 1978 of all years, he certainly wasn’t going to draw her attention to it.
‘What made you do that?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I was just fed up with the work.’
The food was brought to their table by Ottavio’s youngest son, a speedy little whippet who, at fourteen, had already perfected his professional manner, contriving to suggest that he was engaged on some task of incalculable importance to humanity carried out against overwhelming odds under near-impossible conditions, and that while a monument in the piazza outside would be a barely adequate expression of the debt society owed him, he didn’t even expect to get a decent tip.
They ate in silence for several minutes.
‘So, what have you been up to?’ Zen insisted. ‘How’s business?’
‘Very quiet. There’s a big sale on Tuesday, though.’
Ellen made a living acting as representative for a New York antique dealer, but it was a case of profiting from a lifelong hobby, and one that she had tried in vain to get him to share. Zen had had his fill of old furniture!
‘How long will it be altogether?’
‘Not long, I hope.’
‘Do you know Perugia?’
Perugia, he thought. Chocolates, Etruscans, that fat painter, radios and gramophones, the University for Foreigners, sportswear. ‘Umbria, the green heart of Italy’, the tourist
Similar Books
Random Victim
Michael A. Black
The White Voyage
John Christopher
Grave Intentions
Lori Sjoberg
The Tainted City
Courtney Schafer
The Delicate Matter of Lady Blayne
Natasha Blackthorne
The Passover Murder
Lee Harris
Yours for the Taking
Robin Kaye
Cooking for Picasso
Camille Aubray
Crash Deluxe
Marianne de Pierres
Falling for Owen
Jennifer Ryan