Read Online Malavita by Tonino Benacquista - Free Book Online Page A

different sauces, with two little casks of red and white wine at each end. A few yards away, people gathered around the still-cold barbecue, impatient to see it lit. Maggie welcomed her guests with open arms, pointed them towards a pile of plates, answered all the expected questions with prepared answers, and expressed her great happiness to be living in this Normandy which had been so dear to the memory of her parents. She showed them round the house, introduced each new arrival to her two children, whose job it was to divide the guests between them and entertain them as much as possible. She accepted all invitations, including the suggestion that she join an association to protest against a local building threat. She took down a great many telephone numbers. How could they possibly have guessed that soon their private lives would have no secrets for Maggie?
    Belle attracted more attention than her brother. Belle always attracted attention – from men and women, young and old, even from those who were suspicious of beauty, who had perhaps suffered from it at some time. She was good at reversing the roles, and playing at being the guest, allowing herself to be served, answering questions. All Belle had to do was be herself, and imagine that she was addressing her public. Warren, on the other hand, cornered by a small group of adults, was undergoing a grilling. Ever since he had arrived in France, he had been asked a million questions about American life and American culture, to such an extent that he had made a list of the most frequently asked: What’s a home run? What’s a quarterback? Do people really grill marshmallows over a flame? Do all the sinks have grinders? What does trick or treat mean? etc. Some of the questions were surprising, some not, and, according to his mood, he would either deny the clichés or reinforce them. That evening, against expectation, nobody asked him to play this role – on the contrary, he found himself obliged to listen to the interminable stories of those who had been over there. Starting with a neighbour who had just come back from a visit to New York for the marathon.
    â€œAfter the shopping, I went to have dinner at the Old Homestead Steak House, at the corner of fifty-sixth and nineth Avenue. Do you know it?”
    Warren had, between the ages of nought and six, been to New York fewer than a dozen times, to a skating rink or a toy shop, and of course that visit to the hospital to consult an asthma specialist, but he had certainly never been to a restaurant, and definitely not this steak house he’d never heard of. So he didn’t answer, but the man wasn’t waiting for an answer.
    â€œThere were just two dishes on the menu – steak weighing less than a pound, and steak weighing more than a pound. I was being asked to choose between a piece of meat of less than five hundred grams, and one of more than five hundred grams. I was pretty hungry after running about twenty-six miles, but still I just took the ‘less than a pound’ and I had to leave half of that.”
    The other man leaped on the story in order to cap it with his own, about a lunch in Orlando.
    â€œI had just got in from the airport, I was on my own, I went into a pizzeria and saw on the menu that there are three sizes – large, small and medium. Well, I was so hungry that I ordered the large one. The waiter asked how many people it was for and I said I was alone. He burst out laughing. Take a small one, he said, you won’t finish it. And he was right – it was like the wheel of a truck!”
    Warren smiled, exasperated at not being able to answer back. The size of the dishes, that was all they remembered about his country. Just to confirm this, the third man brought them back to New York, to Grand Central Terminal.
    â€œThey told me the seafood there was wonderful. I went to John Fancy’s, which I’d been told was the best fish restaurant in town. Terribly