Vita Nuova Read Free Page A

dieting.
    ‘There’s nothing fattening in any of these meals, so as long as you don’t overdo it with bread . . . and remember to take them out of the freezer the night before. . . .’
    Well, he’d forgotten. He had other things to think about, so, until she came home. . . .
    It had been difficult for Teresa, too, with a sick mother-in-law to care for and no husband to comfort her—but at least she hadn’t been on her own. She’d had the children and his sister Nunziata. It took both of them just to turn her in the bed. . . .
    The loneliness of sitting here, eating by himself, night after night, like now.
    Bit more cheese. He liked it freshly grated, didn’t like it sitting in a bowl in the fridge for days, the way some people did, and some restaurants, too. It went sour. He liked chewing the basil leaves in his sauce, too, and he always told Teresa to leave them whole. The boys picked them out and left them, and Teresa—
    Damn! He should have told her about the prosecutor’s sudden affability. Women are better at understanding that sort of thing. Could be, of course, that in the end he’d remembered that the marshal had been right about that so-called suicide. No, no . . . as if he’d care either way, and even if he had cared, he’d have forgotten by now. It was years ago. No chance of calling this one a suicide. Wouldn’t do, anyway. Rich families don’t like it.
    Chewing over the morning’s events, one phrase came to the surface: Robberies in villas like this one. . . .
    ‘No, no. . . .’ Bit of bread—only a small piece. Had to mop up the last traces of sauce.
    He got up from the table and washed his bowl, fork, and glass and the big pan. There was still some sauce in the small one, so he put it in the fridge.
    ‘No.’ Had the family whose coat of arms was above the doors still been in residence, that might have been true. Paintings and so on. But no, he’d seen backstage before the prosecutor arrived. The man lying in the private clinic might have been rich enough to buy the villa, but all that building work going on behind and the second swimming pool, hardly the style of a noble Florentine family. He’d talked to the builders—well, one of them, anyway, since the others didn’t speak Italian. They were all from Rumania, apart from one Moroccan, and they were working right through August, dividing the colonnade and outbuildings behind the villa into three luxury flats with a communal garden and pool. Two of them had already been sold. People from Milan, the builder said. And then there was that kitchen full of all the latest expensive equipment . . . a far cry from the Florentine nobility, that was. From what little he’d seen of those people, they counted how many matches their servants used. No. No. . . .
    He glanced around his own tidy kitchen, switched the light off, and went back to his office where the two or three notes he’d taken that morning lay on his desk ready to be worked up into a scene-of-the-crime report. It was a simple enough job—or it used to be, until the arrival of That Thing.
    ‘That Thing,’ as he always referred to it, was the personal computer sitting in the middle of his desk. He’d avoided it as long as he could, but, these days, all information had to be computerized and so available throughout the country. Even the daily orders to which only he had the password. All very efficient, of course. He sighed as he switched the wretched Thing on and waited. It was so slow. He’d have had a good half of his report typed with two fingers by now, but instead here he was listening to tiddly bits of music while it sent up pretty pictures, offered him a dozen things he didn’t want, asked him for the same old information and then—just when he thought he could get started— popped up with a suggestion that it could run an anti-virus check.
    ‘No-o!’ Blast the thing. Still, might as well say yes. He could be having a think about things. . . .
    The mother and