At the End of a Dull Day by Massimo Carlotto, Anthony Shugaar Page A

she explained, pointing to her.
    Gemma was half-hidden behind the pillar of a portico. She was moving her feet as if she were dancing out of time to some unheard music, and she was greedily sucking down lungsful of tobacco smoke.
    I walked over to her. “Look, I really don’t know what . . . ” she mumbled.
    â€œStarting tomorrow morning, you quit smoking.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œDidn’t you say you were in love with me?” I replied in a harsh tone of voice. “I wouldn’t deign to consider a woman who reeks of tobacco smoke. If you want to put yourself on the market you’re going to have to straighten up and fly right.”
    I turned around and returned to Martina’s side. “Every­thing’s fine now, darling,” I reassured her. “Your table’s the one in the corner. You’re going to have to eat in the company of a prosciutto producer from Montagnana and his wife, but they’re lovely people, you’ll both like them.”
    Gemma avoided my eyes all evening. Her mind had been turned inside out. The next move was up to her. On the one hand, I hoped that she’d throw the door open to me, so I could take control of her life and pillage her self-respect. On the other hand, part of me hoped she wouldn’t do it. That would be the last thing I needed, now that I’d opened a hotline with Brianese on the matter of the two million euros.
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    I would have bet anything that the Counselor would come back in person but instead he sent Ylenia, his faithful secretary. She adjusted her designer glasses on the bridge of her nose. “The Honorable Brianese would like to speak with you,” she announced. “But he has a meeting and he won’t be able to come by until very late this evening. He begs you to wait for him.”
    â€œFor Counselor Brianese I’m always available,” I replied in the same pompous tone.
    She turned to go, stamping her heels ever so slightly. It annoyed her that I hadn’t used the term of respect “Honor­able” to refer to Brianese, but there was no way I could get the phrase out of my mouth without seeming irreverent.
    It was an evening packed with exciting new developments. Martina waved me over to their table and proudly announced that Gemma had decided to quit smoking.
    â€œIt’s not an easy thing to do,” I commented as if she weren’t sitting right there. “I know lots of people who tried but couldn’t do it.”
    â€œDon’t be so negative,” she scolded me. “You ought to encourage her, not discourage her.”
    â€œNo, he’s right,” said the smoker in question, rising to my defense. “But I’m going to do my level best to quit.”
    Next it was the turn of the proprietor of a well known
enoteca
. He took a seat at the counter and ordered an
amaro
. The bartender reached around to grab the bottle but I stopped him. I pulled out a bottle of cognac from my personal stock and poured a couple of snifters. His eyes were red, with dark circles of anxiety and exhaustion. He was the picture of a man in trouble. It didn’t cost me a thing to be nice to him and see if we could be useful to one another.
    â€œI wouldn’t expect you to drink a syrupy concoction like that,” I said, handing him the snifter.
    â€œI’ve got problems with my shop and I don’t know how to get out of this situation,” he muttered in dialect. “Just think, my father started the business as just a humble little wine shop and tavern. Then, when everyone had plenty of money and started putting on airs that they were all wine connoisseurs, and my customers would only drink wine that came out of a bottle with a label and a certification of origin, I changed the sign and took the sommelier course at the Chamber of Commerce . . . ”
    â€œAnd now you’re one of the countless businessmen and shopkeepers hit hard by the