shining armour climbed yet again upon the broad back of his noble steed, prepared to ride off in pursuit of justice?’
‘Oh, stop it, Paola,’ he said with an embarrassed smile. ‘You make me sound like such a fool.’
‘No, my dear,’ she said, picking up her glasses and putting them on again. ‘I make you sound like my husband and the man I love.’ Hiding whatever expression accompanied these words, she looked at the papers and added, ‘Now go into the kitchen and open the wine. I’ll be out as soon as I finish correcting this paper.’
Wishing the children could see and then emulate the celerity with which he obeyed their mother’s command, Brunetti went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He took out a bottle of Chardonnay and set it on the counter, opened the drawer to search for the corkscrew, then changed his mind, replaced the bottle, and took out one of prosecco. ‘The workman is worthy of his hire,’ he muttered as he popped the cork. Taking glass and bottle, he retreated to the living room in hopes of finishing that day’s
Gazzettino
.
Twenty minutes later, they sat down to lunch. The argument over the CD had apparently been settled , he hoped most fervently in Chiara’s favour. She at least still remained browbeaten by her parents into using a Discman: Raffi had last year bought a small stereo system for his room and insisted upon using it to broadcast to the family, and to that part of the world within a fifty-metre radius of their home, a sort of music which made Brunetti think longingly of the symptoms of tinnitus he’d once read about: constant mechanical roaring or buzzing in the ear that blocked out all other sound.
In keeping with the change in season, Paola had made risotto di zucca and into it at the last minute had tossed grated slivers of ginger, its sharp bite softened to amiability by the chunk of butter and the grated parmigiano that had chased it into the pot. The mingled tastes drove all dread of Raffi’s music from Brunetti’s mind, and the chicken breast grilled with sage and white wine that followed replaced that music with what Brunetti thought must be the sound of angels’ singing.
Brunetti set down his fork and turned to his wife. ‘Bring me a Braeburn apple, a thin slice of Montasio and a glass of Calvados,’ he began, ‘and I will cover you in diamonds the size of walnuts, place pearls as white as truffles at your feet, pluck emeralds as large as kiwi fruit…’
Chiara cut him off before he could continue. ‘Oh,
Papà
, all you ever think about is food.’ Coming from someone as voracious as she, this was the basest sort of hypocrisy, but before Brunetti could reproach her, Paola put a large bowl of apples in front of him. ‘Besides,’ Chiara continued , ‘how could anyone wear an emerald as big as a kiwi fruit?’
His plate disappeared, replaced by a clean fruit plate, a small knife and fork.
‘
Mamma
would just use it as a paperweight, anyway,’ Raffi said, reaching for an apple. He bit into it and asked if he could be excused to go and finish his calculus homework.
‘If I hear a single note of that noise before three this afternoon, I will come into your room and drive bamboo shoots into your eardrums, permanently deafening you,’ his loving mother said, nodding to him that he could leave the table and letting Brunetti know who had won possession of the CD. Raffi grabbed two more apples and left, quickly followed by Chiara, who slipped away in his wake.
‘You spoil him,’ Brunetti said, cutting a not particularly thin slice of Montasio. ‘I think you should be firmer with him, perhaps begin by threatening to tear out his fingernails.’
‘He’s only two years younger than some of my students,’ Paola said, picking up an apple and beginning to peel away the skin. ‘If I began doing any of these things to him, I’m afraid of what I might be led to do to the students. I might be maddened by the smell of teenage blood.’
‘It
‘Oh, stop it, Paola,’ he said with an embarrassed smile. ‘You make me sound like such a fool.’
‘No, my dear,’ she said, picking up her glasses and putting them on again. ‘I make you sound like my husband and the man I love.’ Hiding whatever expression accompanied these words, she looked at the papers and added, ‘Now go into the kitchen and open the wine. I’ll be out as soon as I finish correcting this paper.’
Wishing the children could see and then emulate the celerity with which he obeyed their mother’s command, Brunetti went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He took out a bottle of Chardonnay and set it on the counter, opened the drawer to search for the corkscrew, then changed his mind, replaced the bottle, and took out one of prosecco. ‘The workman is worthy of his hire,’ he muttered as he popped the cork. Taking glass and bottle, he retreated to the living room in hopes of finishing that day’s
Gazzettino
.
Twenty minutes later, they sat down to lunch. The argument over the CD had apparently been settled , he hoped most fervently in Chiara’s favour. She at least still remained browbeaten by her parents into using a Discman: Raffi had last year bought a small stereo system for his room and insisted upon using it to broadcast to the family, and to that part of the world within a fifty-metre radius of their home, a sort of music which made Brunetti think longingly of the symptoms of tinnitus he’d once read about: constant mechanical roaring or buzzing in the ear that blocked out all other sound.
In keeping with the change in season, Paola had made risotto di zucca and into it at the last minute had tossed grated slivers of ginger, its sharp bite softened to amiability by the chunk of butter and the grated parmigiano that had chased it into the pot. The mingled tastes drove all dread of Raffi’s music from Brunetti’s mind, and the chicken breast grilled with sage and white wine that followed replaced that music with what Brunetti thought must be the sound of angels’ singing.
Brunetti set down his fork and turned to his wife. ‘Bring me a Braeburn apple, a thin slice of Montasio and a glass of Calvados,’ he began, ‘and I will cover you in diamonds the size of walnuts, place pearls as white as truffles at your feet, pluck emeralds as large as kiwi fruit…’
Chiara cut him off before he could continue. ‘Oh,
Papà
, all you ever think about is food.’ Coming from someone as voracious as she, this was the basest sort of hypocrisy, but before Brunetti could reproach her, Paola put a large bowl of apples in front of him. ‘Besides,’ Chiara continued , ‘how could anyone wear an emerald as big as a kiwi fruit?’
His plate disappeared, replaced by a clean fruit plate, a small knife and fork.
‘
Mamma
would just use it as a paperweight, anyway,’ Raffi said, reaching for an apple. He bit into it and asked if he could be excused to go and finish his calculus homework.
‘If I hear a single note of that noise before three this afternoon, I will come into your room and drive bamboo shoots into your eardrums, permanently deafening you,’ his loving mother said, nodding to him that he could leave the table and letting Brunetti know who had won possession of the CD. Raffi grabbed two more apples and left, quickly followed by Chiara, who slipped away in his wake.
‘You spoil him,’ Brunetti said, cutting a not particularly thin slice of Montasio. ‘I think you should be firmer with him, perhaps begin by threatening to tear out his fingernails.’
‘He’s only two years younger than some of my students,’ Paola said, picking up an apple and beginning to peel away the skin. ‘If I began doing any of these things to him, I’m afraid of what I might be led to do to the students. I might be maddened by the smell of teenage blood.’
‘It
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