‘You’re not unwell, dottore?’

‘No, no. Overwork, I expect.’

Nicodemo nodded sagely. He wouldn’t of course dream of prying further — one didn’t interrogate the local police chief — but a sympathetic word never went amiss.

‘Ah, this terrible business.’

A silence fell, which the restaurateur perhaps broke to avoid the appearance of any possible indiscretion on his part.

‘And to think that he came here once to eat!’

‘Did he like the food?’ Zen replied, with a trace of sarcasm that was entirely lost on the other man.

‘But of course! He too was rediscovering his heritage, just like me when I first returned.’

Zen hurled his cigarette into the gutter.

‘I’m sorry, I thought you were referring to the American lawyer.’

‘I am! As soon as I saw the picture on television I recognised him.’

‘Signor Newman ate here?’

He sounded no more than politely interested.

‘Only once. It had come on to rain suddenly. He sheltered in the doorway for a while, then came inside when it didn’t stop. He asked my advice about what to order and after he’d eaten we got chatting. First in Italian, then in dialect. The rough stuff, from up in the Sila mountains. He hadn’t spoken that for years, but it gradually came back to him. Like discovering that you can still ride a bicycle, he said.’

Nicodemo shook his head.

‘He seemed delighted to be home again, just like me. And now this happens! Calabria can be harsh to her sons.’

He grasped Zen’s arm lightly. Zen did not care to be touched by strangers, but had come to recognise this as an accepted rhetorical gesture in the south and managed to control his instinct to recoil.

‘I really shouldn’t ask this, dottore, but do you think he’ll be all right?’

Zen freed his arm by making another of the rhetorical gestures used to punctuate lengthy discourses between men in the street, an activity as normal, frequent and essential to civic life in Cosenza as it had been in the Athenian agora.