Fundling, who was getting behind the wheel.
“Sarcasmo.”
“Did you think that up?”
“It’s just what he’s called.”
Fundling cast her a quick glance, and she noticed again how fast his eyes moved. They were brown with a golden luster to them. He had a broad, strong nose and high cheekbones. His black hair was shoulder length, and his skin darker than that of most Sicilians. Maybe he had Arab or North African ancestors.
The dog nuzzled the side of her head from behind and panted into her blond mane of hair. She turned around, took his head in both hands, and ruffled up his coat behind his ears. “So you’re Sarcasmo. You seem a lot more pleased to see me than your master.”
Fundling started the engine and pulled out. “Going to fasten your seat belt?”
She patted Sarcasmo’s head one last time, then turned forward and adjusted the seat belt. Fundling switched on the CD player. She thought the music coming softly over the speakers was jazz. The dog let out a resigned snort, stayed in the middle of the backseat, and leaned into the bend in the road with practiced ease. Fundling drove at a steady pace, observing the rules of the road, and she wondered if that was for her, for the dog, or simply out of a sense of duty.
“What breed is Sarcasmo?” She couldn’t believe she was actually engaging in small talk. But Fundling’s calm manner was a challenge.
“He’s a mongrel,” he said. “Nobody knows what his parents were like.”
The road wound its way through mountains covered with trees. After a quarter of an hour they passed the place where the road branched off to Piazza Armerina, a picturesque little town standing on a hill. The cupola of a domed church rose above the higgledy-piggledy rooftops, golden yellow against the sky.
“Had any breakfast?” he asked.
“Doesn’t matter.” Her eating habits were catastrophic, as the doctors had told her more than once. She simply didn’t enjoy food; she’d always been like that. Her mother rarely cooked, eating school meals could do actual bodily harm, and she hated fast food.
“I have some with me,” said Fundling. “You’ll find it behind my seat.”
She groped around there, while Sarcasmo took his chance to lick her cheek with his rough tongue. She found the handle of a basket, brought it to the front of the car, and looked inside. Tramezzini , triangular sandwiches made of white bread with the crusts cut off, filled with dark slices of ham, mozzarella cheese, or mortadella, and two tiny beakers of coffee.
“All fresh from the bar in your village,” he said. “Don’t worry.”
She scrutinized him. “I wasn’t worrying. Why would I?”
“Can’t hurt to worry a bit sometimes.”
She found she really was hungry, and bit into one of the cheese tramezzini . It was delicious. It was as fresh as he had claimed, and after she had eaten it, she ate another right away. Even the coffee was still hot, and very strong.
“Sorry,” she said, munching. “You too?”
“Had some already, thanks.”
“When did you start out?”
“I got up at four, same as every morning.”
“That’s pretty early.”
“Sarcasmo doesn’t think so.”
“Hey, Sarcasmo.” She took a piece of ham out of one of the sandwiches and offered it to the dog behind her. Sarcasmo snapped it up without chewing and begged for more.
She put the basket down on the floor of the car in front of her feet, and leaned back, feeling well fed and content. She had left a note for Zoe: Back home by tomorrow evening, don’t worry . She didn’t bother to wonder how Florinda would take the news. She hadn’t come here to answer to anyone, and she certainly wasn’t going to get into the habit of feeling guilty just for doing what she wanted to do.
After half an hour the green of the fertile hills around Piazza Armerina grew sparser, turning to islands of shrubs, cacti, and small plantations. At Valguarnera it became the ochre yellow of the bleak landscape of steppes
“Sarcasmo.”
“Did you think that up?”
“It’s just what he’s called.”
Fundling cast her a quick glance, and she noticed again how fast his eyes moved. They were brown with a golden luster to them. He had a broad, strong nose and high cheekbones. His black hair was shoulder length, and his skin darker than that of most Sicilians. Maybe he had Arab or North African ancestors.
The dog nuzzled the side of her head from behind and panted into her blond mane of hair. She turned around, took his head in both hands, and ruffled up his coat behind his ears. “So you’re Sarcasmo. You seem a lot more pleased to see me than your master.”
Fundling started the engine and pulled out. “Going to fasten your seat belt?”
She patted Sarcasmo’s head one last time, then turned forward and adjusted the seat belt. Fundling switched on the CD player. She thought the music coming softly over the speakers was jazz. The dog let out a resigned snort, stayed in the middle of the backseat, and leaned into the bend in the road with practiced ease. Fundling drove at a steady pace, observing the rules of the road, and she wondered if that was for her, for the dog, or simply out of a sense of duty.
“What breed is Sarcasmo?” She couldn’t believe she was actually engaging in small talk. But Fundling’s calm manner was a challenge.
“He’s a mongrel,” he said. “Nobody knows what his parents were like.”
The road wound its way through mountains covered with trees. After a quarter of an hour they passed the place where the road branched off to Piazza Armerina, a picturesque little town standing on a hill. The cupola of a domed church rose above the higgledy-piggledy rooftops, golden yellow against the sky.
“Had any breakfast?” he asked.
“Doesn’t matter.” Her eating habits were catastrophic, as the doctors had told her more than once. She simply didn’t enjoy food; she’d always been like that. Her mother rarely cooked, eating school meals could do actual bodily harm, and she hated fast food.
“I have some with me,” said Fundling. “You’ll find it behind my seat.”
She groped around there, while Sarcasmo took his chance to lick her cheek with his rough tongue. She found the handle of a basket, brought it to the front of the car, and looked inside. Tramezzini , triangular sandwiches made of white bread with the crusts cut off, filled with dark slices of ham, mozzarella cheese, or mortadella, and two tiny beakers of coffee.
“All fresh from the bar in your village,” he said. “Don’t worry.”
She scrutinized him. “I wasn’t worrying. Why would I?”
“Can’t hurt to worry a bit sometimes.”
She found she really was hungry, and bit into one of the cheese tramezzini . It was delicious. It was as fresh as he had claimed, and after she had eaten it, she ate another right away. Even the coffee was still hot, and very strong.
“Sorry,” she said, munching. “You too?”
“Had some already, thanks.”
“When did you start out?”
“I got up at four, same as every morning.”
“That’s pretty early.”
“Sarcasmo doesn’t think so.”
“Hey, Sarcasmo.” She took a piece of ham out of one of the sandwiches and offered it to the dog behind her. Sarcasmo snapped it up without chewing and begged for more.
She put the basket down on the floor of the car in front of her feet, and leaned back, feeling well fed and content. She had left a note for Zoe: Back home by tomorrow evening, don’t worry . She didn’t bother to wonder how Florinda would take the news. She hadn’t come here to answer to anyone, and she certainly wasn’t going to get into the habit of feeling guilty just for doing what she wanted to do.
After half an hour the green of the fertile hills around Piazza Armerina grew sparser, turning to islands of shrubs, cacti, and small plantations. At Valguarnera it became the ochre yellow of the bleak landscape of steppes
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