into his mouth. He shoved the corkscrew into the black bottle before handing it to Blume. “If you’d be so kind, I’m a little breathless?”
Blume pulled out the cork, handed the bottle to the Colonel, who filled up Blume’s glass. Blume pushed his glass back to the Colonel, and said, “No thanks.”
“But it’s a Sassicaia. Not the famous 1985 vintage, more’s the pity, but even so.”
“I do not drink,” said Blume.
The Colonel held the glass by the stem and lifted it up so that the ruby highlights in the dark wine became apparent. “I see,” he said. “And this is because you are an alcoholic?”
“No. I just thought I should give it up, that’s all,” said Blume. “I prefer to keep in shape.”
The Colonel placed his nostrils over the rim and inhaled, sipped the wine, paused, pursed his lips, then drained half the glass. “You must be an alcoholic. There is no other reason for not drinking Tuscan wine. I’m disappointed, but I am sure we can still manage to work together. Informally.”
He unwrapped a bundle of waxed paper to reveal a pile of sliced ham. He peeled off the top slice with his thick fingers. “This culatello is particularly sweet. Try it.”
Blume hesitated, before finally helping himself to a thin slice of meat. It was good.
The Colonel cut a wedge of yellow cheese with a black rind, handed it to Blume, and said, “Gran Bastardo.”
“Who?”
“The cheese. That’s what it’s called. Comes from the Veneto,” said the Colonel. “By the way, if you insist on treating this as murder, just remember that Treacy’s business partner John Nightingale is the one with the most to gain and the most to lose. Most to gain because maybe he knows where Treacy has hidden his wealth and is now about to help himself, but most to lose because he may have just killed the goose that lays the golden eggs. You know, I can’t bear to see you sitting there drinking nothing. There’s some mineral water in the fridge, help yourself.”
“I don’t drink mineral water. Tap water is fine.”
The Colonel tore at a hunk of bread. “You’re not eating. Here.” He pushed over a plastic carton with soft white cheese. “Testa del Morto. Lovely on the bread. Slide a slice of ham over the top, fold, and . . .”
“No thanks.”
“Fine. More for me, then.” The Colonel chewed for a while, then started fingering around in his mouth. “Always get these strands of flesh . . . stuck between my teeth. I don’t suppose you have any toothpicks on you?”
Colonel Farinelli eventually decided the solution to the annoyance in his mouth was to down another glass of wine.
“As I said, I knew Treacy very well, once. I also knew his business partner John Nightingale, though less well. The two of them came to my attention in the 1970s.”
The Colonel pushed away his plate, and continued, “Henry Treacy and John Nightingale were a very effective pair. Treacy specialized in sixteenth-century forgeries. He used to say no artist after 1620 was worth imitating.”
“In America, we’re taught that’s when history starts,” said Blume.
“Sounds to me like Treacy was right,” said the Colonel. “No, I mustn’t do that.”
“What?”
“Scoff at other cultures. Especially the Americans. They are the new Romans. Practical, murderous, and efficient. Now I know you insist on being taken for an Italian, but you must admit, it’s a strange thing for us Italians to have foreign names in law enforcement, though for some reason we have had a number of half-foreign magistrates, hundreds of half-breed journalists.”
“I met three Filipino recruits, recently,” said Blume. “Plenty of Croats and Serbs in the force, too. And some German names. It’s not as rare as all that.”
“I am not happy with these developments, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
“Maybe you can tell from my face how fascinated I am by your views on race, Colonel?”
“You need to learn how to give conversations time to
Blume pulled out the cork, handed the bottle to the Colonel, who filled up Blume’s glass. Blume pushed his glass back to the Colonel, and said, “No thanks.”
“But it’s a Sassicaia. Not the famous 1985 vintage, more’s the pity, but even so.”
“I do not drink,” said Blume.
The Colonel held the glass by the stem and lifted it up so that the ruby highlights in the dark wine became apparent. “I see,” he said. “And this is because you are an alcoholic?”
“No. I just thought I should give it up, that’s all,” said Blume. “I prefer to keep in shape.”
The Colonel placed his nostrils over the rim and inhaled, sipped the wine, paused, pursed his lips, then drained half the glass. “You must be an alcoholic. There is no other reason for not drinking Tuscan wine. I’m disappointed, but I am sure we can still manage to work together. Informally.”
He unwrapped a bundle of waxed paper to reveal a pile of sliced ham. He peeled off the top slice with his thick fingers. “This culatello is particularly sweet. Try it.”
Blume hesitated, before finally helping himself to a thin slice of meat. It was good.
The Colonel cut a wedge of yellow cheese with a black rind, handed it to Blume, and said, “Gran Bastardo.”
“Who?”
“The cheese. That’s what it’s called. Comes from the Veneto,” said the Colonel. “By the way, if you insist on treating this as murder, just remember that Treacy’s business partner John Nightingale is the one with the most to gain and the most to lose. Most to gain because maybe he knows where Treacy has hidden his wealth and is now about to help himself, but most to lose because he may have just killed the goose that lays the golden eggs. You know, I can’t bear to see you sitting there drinking nothing. There’s some mineral water in the fridge, help yourself.”
“I don’t drink mineral water. Tap water is fine.”
The Colonel tore at a hunk of bread. “You’re not eating. Here.” He pushed over a plastic carton with soft white cheese. “Testa del Morto. Lovely on the bread. Slide a slice of ham over the top, fold, and . . .”
“No thanks.”
“Fine. More for me, then.” The Colonel chewed for a while, then started fingering around in his mouth. “Always get these strands of flesh . . . stuck between my teeth. I don’t suppose you have any toothpicks on you?”
Colonel Farinelli eventually decided the solution to the annoyance in his mouth was to down another glass of wine.
“As I said, I knew Treacy very well, once. I also knew his business partner John Nightingale, though less well. The two of them came to my attention in the 1970s.”
The Colonel pushed away his plate, and continued, “Henry Treacy and John Nightingale were a very effective pair. Treacy specialized in sixteenth-century forgeries. He used to say no artist after 1620 was worth imitating.”
“In America, we’re taught that’s when history starts,” said Blume.
“Sounds to me like Treacy was right,” said the Colonel. “No, I mustn’t do that.”
“What?”
“Scoff at other cultures. Especially the Americans. They are the new Romans. Practical, murderous, and efficient. Now I know you insist on being taken for an Italian, but you must admit, it’s a strange thing for us Italians to have foreign names in law enforcement, though for some reason we have had a number of half-foreign magistrates, hundreds of half-breed journalists.”
“I met three Filipino recruits, recently,” said Blume. “Plenty of Croats and Serbs in the force, too. And some German names. It’s not as rare as all that.”
“I am not happy with these developments, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
“Maybe you can tell from my face how fascinated I am by your views on race, Colonel?”
“You need to learn how to give conversations time to
Similar Books
