This surprised Brunetti, unaccustomed as he was to such generosity from the owners of bars; from the owners of anything, for that matter.
‘She’s a good girl, Barbara,’ the old woman said. ‘I knew her mother.’
‘So how long do you think you were in there, Signora?’ he asked.
‘Maybe half an hour,’ she answered, then explained, ‘It’s my dinner, you see. I go there every night.’
‘Good to know, Signora. I’ll remember that if I’m ever over here.’
‘You’re over here now,’ she said, and when he didn’t respond, she went on: ‘The Americans, they went in there. Well, two of them did,’ she added, lifting the cane again and pointing at the bar.
‘They’re in the back, having hot chocolate. You could probably talk to them if you wanted to,’ she said.
‘Thank you, Signora,’ he said and turned towards the bar.
‘The prosciutto and carciofi is the best,’ she called after him.
3
Brunetti hadn’t been in the bar for years, ever since the brief period when it had been converted into an American ice-cream parlour and had begun to serve an ice-cream so rich it had caused him a serious bout of indigestion the one time he had eaten it. It had been, he recalled, like eating lard, though not the salty lard he remembered from his childhood, tossed in to give taste and substance to a pot of beans or lentil soup, but lard as lard would be if sugar and strawberries were added to it.
His fellow Venetians must have responded in similar fashion, for the place had changed ownership after a few years, but Brunetti had never been back. The tubs of ice-cream were gone now, and it had reverted to looking like an Italian bar. A number of people stood at the curved counter, talking animatedly and turning often to point out at the now-quiet campo; some sat at small tables that led into the back room.