Read Online Malavita by Tonino Benacquista - Free Book Online

dead with her cheese grating and, unable to think of a comeback, forbade him to use that word.
    â€œMom,” Belle said, “your son isn’t using the word pornographic in the sense that you think.”
    â€œThe French are fed up with refinement and healthy eating,” Warren continued, “that’s all they ever hear about. Steaming, boiled vegetables, grilled fish, fizzy water. We’re going to free them from guilt, Mom, we’re going to give them fat and sugar – that’s what they expect from us. They’re going to come and eat here as if they were going to a brothel.”
    â€œWatch your language, boy! You wouldn’t dare talk like that in front of your father.”
    â€œDad agrees with me. I caught him playing the stupid American in Cagnes, and people were begging for more, he made them feel so clever.”
    Maggie listened to her son holding forth as she continued to put the final touches to her Tex-Mex potato salad, toss the Caesar salad and drain the ziti before dropping them into the tomato sauce. Warren fished one out and tasted it, still boiling hot, from the giant transparent plastic salad bowl.
    â€œThe pasta is perfect, Mom, but it’s going to betray us.”
    â€œ? . . .”
    â€œThey’ll realize that we were Italians before we became American.”
    Fred rolled into the kitchen with an air of abstraction. Warren and Maggie stopped talking. With the same gesture as his son, he picked at the pasta, chewed it carefully, nodded at his wife and asked her where the meat was that he was supposed to be cooking later. Not having chosen it himself, he half-heartedly inspected the merchandise, weighed up a few steaks and examined the mince. The fact was, he had left his study in order to give himself a little time to reflect on a passage he was finding particularly difficult.
    The word I hate most in the world is “sorry.” Anyone thinks I’m sorry, I shoot them on sight. The day I took the oath and shopped everyone, all those lawyers and judges would like to have seen me bow my head and beg for forgiveness. They’re worse than priests, those little judges. Me, regret anything about my life? If it was all to do again, I’d do everything – EVERYTHING – the same, just avoiding a couple of traps at the end. Apparently, for the French, regretting is when the painter repaints his canvas. Well, let’s say that’s what I’ve done, I’ve covered a masterpiece with a new layer and that’s all the regretting I’m going to do. A guy who regrets his life – he’s worse than an immigrant who doesn’t feel any more at home in his new country than in the one he’s left behind. Me, I’ll never be at home again with my brother criminals, and honest folk won’t make space for me anywhere. Believe me, regrets are worse than anything.
    Fred was getting in a muddle with his definition of regrets. He could see how clumsily he was expressing himself, but was unable to change anything. The parallel with his life was all too clear.
    â€œI’ll start the grill about six,” he said. “I’ve got to finish my chapter.”
    He went solemnly back to his veranda, which, tonight, would not be open to the public.
    â€œHis chapter? What does he mean, exactly?” asked Warren.
    â€œNo idea,” Maggie replied, “but just for the sake of the survival of the human race, it might be better if no one ever found out.”
    *
    Three hours later, the whole neighbourhood was crammed into the garden – no one would have missed it for anything. They came prepared to stay up late, taking advantage of the unseasonable warm weather, perfect for a garden party. And they had made sartorial efforts too, the women in white or brightly coloured summer dresses, the men opting for linen and short-sleeved shirts. The buffet was laid out at the end of the garden, loaded with salads and