‘Well, keep what you’ve just heard to yourself. I suppose I shouldn’t have spoken so freely in front of you-’
‘My lips are sealed,’ he promised. ‘I swear never to tell Primo Rinucci what you really think of him.’
‘Thank you, but be careful. Since we don’t know what he looks like, you might find yourself talking to him without knowing it’s him. He’s probably the sort of low life who’d keep his identity secret just to be mean.’
‘Yes,’ he said, with a touch of guilt. ‘I suppose that’s possible.’
‘But then, his being Italian would be a giveaway.’
‘Maybe not,’ he couldn’t resist saying. ‘Not all Italians say Mamma mia! and wave their hands. In fact, I believe some of them are indistinguishable from normal human beings.’
Try as he might, he couldn’t keep a note of irony out of his voice. Luckily she was too preoccupied to notice.
‘But he’d have an accent,’ she persisted. ‘He wouldn’t sound English like you and me.’
He cleared his throat, then seemed to go into a kind of trance. In truth he was struggling with a temptation more overwhelming than any he’d known in his life. A wise man would tell her the truth before it was too late.
But it was already too late, and never had he felt so reluctant to be wise.
‘By the way, I should have asked your name,’ Olympia said.
He played for time.
‘What?’ he asked vaguely.
‘Your name.’
‘My name.’
‘That’s right. What is it-your name?’
She spoke patiently, and her eyes showed that she thought she was dealing with a halfwit. Was that better than telling her that he was Primo Rinucci?
For one wild moment he teetered on the brink of the truth.
Tell her who you really are. Be honest. Play safe.
He took a deep breath. To blazes with honesty! As for safety-nuts to it!
‘Jack Cayman,’ he said.
It had been the name of his English father. It was many years now that he’d lived in Italy as a Rinucci. But his early years had left their mark, and he could still speak English without a trace of Italian accent. So it was easy for him, now, to look Olympia in the eye and claim to be Jack Cayman.