with time all things were possible.
‘Are your brothers coming?’ Zen asked Silvio, who shook his head briefly.
‘Pietro’s in London. And Daniele is not interested in this sort of thing.’
But Zen remembered hearing Crepi tell Silvio that afternoon, ‘But not Daniele, eh? God knows what he’s capable of!’ So whatever sort of thing it was, the youngest Miletti was being deliberately kept out of it.
Gianluigi Santucci’s raucous voice suddenly cut loose, as if someone had flicked the volume control on a badly tuned radio.
‘Well, that’s his tough shit, in my opinion! If people arrive late they can’t expect everyone else to wait for them. It’s not as if he’s the head of the family or an honoured guest!’
Crepi explained to the others that they had been discussing whether or not to wait any longer for Ubaldo Valesio.
‘What’s the point in waiting?’ Cinzia’s husband demanded. ‘These lawyers are always stuffing themselves, anyway. Lawyers and priests, they’re the worst!’
‘Yes, let’s get on with it!’ Silvio agreed. Judging by his tone, he meant ‘Let’s get it over with’.
Crepi turned to Zen.
‘Dottore, you’re the neutral party here,’ he said with exaggerated heartiness. ‘What do you say?’
Fortunately Cinzia saved him.
‘Oh, I’m sure the Commissioner feels just the same as the rest of us!’ she cried. ‘Let’s eat, for heaven’s sake! I’m starving, and you know Lulu’s digestion is always a problem. Standing around waiting just gets the juices going, you know, eating into the stomach lining. Horrible, disgusting. But he bears it like a lamb, don’t you, Lulu?’
The dining room was cold and smelt damp. It was lit by a large number of naked bulbs stuck in a chandelier whose supporting chain ran up several metres to an anchorage planted with surreal effect in the midst of the elaborate frescos which covered the ceiling. Zen had plenty of time to study these buxom nymphs and shepherds disporting themselves in a variety of more or less suggestive poses as the meal proceeded at a funereal pace, presided over by an elderly retainer whose hands shook so alarmingly that it seemed just a matter of time before a load of food ended up in someone’s lap.
The tagliatelle was home-made, the meat well grilled on a wood fire, Crepi’s wine honest and his bottle-green oil magnificent, but the dinner was a disaster. Ubaldo Valesio did not arrive, and without him, by tacit consent, the kidnapping of Ruggiero Miletti could not be mentioned. With this tremendous presence unacknowledged there was nothing to do but be relentlessly bright and superficial. Cinzia Miletti thus came into her own, dominating the table with a breathless display of frenetic verbiage which might almost have been mistaken for high spirits. Antonio Crepi punctuated her monologues with a succession of rather ponderous anecdotes about the history and traditions of Umbria in general and Perugia in particular, narrated in the emphatic declamatory style of university professors of the pre-1968 era.
Silvio sat eating his way steadily through his food with an expression midway between a squint and a scowl, as though he were looking at something repulsive through the wrong end of a telescope. Gianluigi Santucci contributed little beyond occasional explosive comments that were the verbal equivalent of the loud growls and rumbles emanating from his stomach. The woman in the grotesque trouser-suit, who was apparently Silvio’s secretary, said not one word throughout, merely smiling ingratiatingly at everyone and no one, like a kindly nun watching children at play. As for Zen, he studied the ceiling and thanked God that time passed relatively quickly at his age. He could still remember half-hours from his childhood which seemed to have escaped the regulation of the clock altogether and to last for ever, until for no good reason they were over. Crepi’s dinner party made the most of every one of its one hundred
‘Are your brothers coming?’ Zen asked Silvio, who shook his head briefly.
‘Pietro’s in London. And Daniele is not interested in this sort of thing.’
But Zen remembered hearing Crepi tell Silvio that afternoon, ‘But not Daniele, eh? God knows what he’s capable of!’ So whatever sort of thing it was, the youngest Miletti was being deliberately kept out of it.
Gianluigi Santucci’s raucous voice suddenly cut loose, as if someone had flicked the volume control on a badly tuned radio.
‘Well, that’s his tough shit, in my opinion! If people arrive late they can’t expect everyone else to wait for them. It’s not as if he’s the head of the family or an honoured guest!’
Crepi explained to the others that they had been discussing whether or not to wait any longer for Ubaldo Valesio.
‘What’s the point in waiting?’ Cinzia’s husband demanded. ‘These lawyers are always stuffing themselves, anyway. Lawyers and priests, they’re the worst!’
‘Yes, let’s get on with it!’ Silvio agreed. Judging by his tone, he meant ‘Let’s get it over with’.
Crepi turned to Zen.
‘Dottore, you’re the neutral party here,’ he said with exaggerated heartiness. ‘What do you say?’
Fortunately Cinzia saved him.
‘Oh, I’m sure the Commissioner feels just the same as the rest of us!’ she cried. ‘Let’s eat, for heaven’s sake! I’m starving, and you know Lulu’s digestion is always a problem. Standing around waiting just gets the juices going, you know, eating into the stomach lining. Horrible, disgusting. But he bears it like a lamb, don’t you, Lulu?’
The dining room was cold and smelt damp. It was lit by a large number of naked bulbs stuck in a chandelier whose supporting chain ran up several metres to an anchorage planted with surreal effect in the midst of the elaborate frescos which covered the ceiling. Zen had plenty of time to study these buxom nymphs and shepherds disporting themselves in a variety of more or less suggestive poses as the meal proceeded at a funereal pace, presided over by an elderly retainer whose hands shook so alarmingly that it seemed just a matter of time before a load of food ended up in someone’s lap.
The tagliatelle was home-made, the meat well grilled on a wood fire, Crepi’s wine honest and his bottle-green oil magnificent, but the dinner was a disaster. Ubaldo Valesio did not arrive, and without him, by tacit consent, the kidnapping of Ruggiero Miletti could not be mentioned. With this tremendous presence unacknowledged there was nothing to do but be relentlessly bright and superficial. Cinzia Miletti thus came into her own, dominating the table with a breathless display of frenetic verbiage which might almost have been mistaken for high spirits. Antonio Crepi punctuated her monologues with a succession of rather ponderous anecdotes about the history and traditions of Umbria in general and Perugia in particular, narrated in the emphatic declamatory style of university professors of the pre-1968 era.
Silvio sat eating his way steadily through his food with an expression midway between a squint and a scowl, as though he were looking at something repulsive through the wrong end of a telescope. Gianluigi Santucci contributed little beyond occasional explosive comments that were the verbal equivalent of the loud growls and rumbles emanating from his stomach. The woman in the grotesque trouser-suit, who was apparently Silvio’s secretary, said not one word throughout, merely smiling ingratiatingly at everyone and no one, like a kindly nun watching children at play. As for Zen, he studied the ceiling and thanked God that time passed relatively quickly at his age. He could still remember half-hours from his childhood which seemed to have escaped the regulation of the clock altogether and to last for ever, until for no good reason they were over. Crepi’s dinner party made the most of every one of its one hundred
Similar Books
