Boggia, for instance, and Francesconi, both cross their ts with flourishes, you know. I was astounded. The young man even kept some of the brigand’s characteristics when told that he was now an infant.’
Horton, who had been listening with interest, suddenly interjected, much to Lombroso’s evident irritation, ‘Maybe it was the effect of the hypnosis. He was in a trance, after all. That can’t do much for your handwriting!’
Lombroso breathed heavily through his nose and went on, ‘Then I returned him to the status of the brigand and, lo, the script was as rough as ever but had a certain childish roundness about it. Fascinating!’
‘Will you be writing that up for the new edition of L’uomo delinquente, Professor?’ asked James. ‘I heard you were working on one.’
‘I wonder why it hasn’t been translated into English?’ Horton said, his eyes glinting mischievously.
Lombroso grunted. It was clearly a sore point.
‘I’m sure it will be before long, Professor,’ James said.
Lombroso turned and beamed at him. ‘We understand each other, young man. That is a good thing.’ He patted his stomach and took out his pocket watch. ‘Now I think it is time for some lunch. I will take you somewhere special. We should mark the beginning of our work together, I think.’
Lombroso nodded at Horton, as if to dismiss him, and then turned on his heel and walked quickly out of the room. James didn’t know what to say. He thought that Horton would have been offended but he merely shrugged and bid him good day.
‘Don’t worry, I’m used to it,’ Horton said in a reassuring tone, as he ostentatiously pulled out a silver cigar case and casually offered one to James. ‘By the way, has he asked you to one of his famous salons yet?’
James shook his head.
‘Don’t worry, he will. They’re quite something. Anyone who’s anyone turns up there at one time or another. See you there!’
With that he gave a short bow and left. James followed him out and hurried to catch up with Lombroso who had set a challenging pace, perhaps in an effort to shake off Horton. They paused only to collect their hats and canes then on they went, striding through the streets of Turin together. There was little opportunity to take in the fine baroque architecture, such was the punishing speed at which Lombroso was travelling. Occasionally he would slow down in order to greet a colleague or a friend but, for the most part, they swept along in silence, through the stone arcades that lined the streets and across piazzas, passing fountains and fine palazzos shining in the thin autumn sunlight.
James began to speculate as to what might be awaiting them. He was looking forward to trying some of the local cuisine for his landlady was that rarest of beings, an Italian who could not cook. She served up stodgy English food, presumably in the vague hope that it would make him feel at home, and he was hoping that at last he would taste something more appetising than boiled sausages and suet pudding. Still, at least she had not heard of Scottish cuisine, which was something, he supposed.
On they travelled, walking through the Porta Palazzo market, a Torinese institution. The sights and smells of fresh garlic, wild mushrooms and other produce almost overwhelmed him. Pyramids of gigantic yellow peaches were balanced precariously next to ripe strawberries, the last of the season, sent up from the South – not so much an offering but more a brash boast of the superiority of the climate and its fruits. Everywhere fearsome-looking women pushed and pulled at the produce, checking the ripeness and readiness for their planned dishes. Small, ragged boys ran round shouting cheekily at the stallholders and their customers who shouted back and shook fists in the air in a futile gesture towards discipline.
Soon they were in another section where the smell of the sea was unmistakable. James peered at the gleaming mounds of fish, their mouths hanging open
Horton, who had been listening with interest, suddenly interjected, much to Lombroso’s evident irritation, ‘Maybe it was the effect of the hypnosis. He was in a trance, after all. That can’t do much for your handwriting!’
Lombroso breathed heavily through his nose and went on, ‘Then I returned him to the status of the brigand and, lo, the script was as rough as ever but had a certain childish roundness about it. Fascinating!’
‘Will you be writing that up for the new edition of L’uomo delinquente, Professor?’ asked James. ‘I heard you were working on one.’
‘I wonder why it hasn’t been translated into English?’ Horton said, his eyes glinting mischievously.
Lombroso grunted. It was clearly a sore point.
‘I’m sure it will be before long, Professor,’ James said.
Lombroso turned and beamed at him. ‘We understand each other, young man. That is a good thing.’ He patted his stomach and took out his pocket watch. ‘Now I think it is time for some lunch. I will take you somewhere special. We should mark the beginning of our work together, I think.’
Lombroso nodded at Horton, as if to dismiss him, and then turned on his heel and walked quickly out of the room. James didn’t know what to say. He thought that Horton would have been offended but he merely shrugged and bid him good day.
‘Don’t worry, I’m used to it,’ Horton said in a reassuring tone, as he ostentatiously pulled out a silver cigar case and casually offered one to James. ‘By the way, has he asked you to one of his famous salons yet?’
James shook his head.
‘Don’t worry, he will. They’re quite something. Anyone who’s anyone turns up there at one time or another. See you there!’
With that he gave a short bow and left. James followed him out and hurried to catch up with Lombroso who had set a challenging pace, perhaps in an effort to shake off Horton. They paused only to collect their hats and canes then on they went, striding through the streets of Turin together. There was little opportunity to take in the fine baroque architecture, such was the punishing speed at which Lombroso was travelling. Occasionally he would slow down in order to greet a colleague or a friend but, for the most part, they swept along in silence, through the stone arcades that lined the streets and across piazzas, passing fountains and fine palazzos shining in the thin autumn sunlight.
James began to speculate as to what might be awaiting them. He was looking forward to trying some of the local cuisine for his landlady was that rarest of beings, an Italian who could not cook. She served up stodgy English food, presumably in the vague hope that it would make him feel at home, and he was hoping that at last he would taste something more appetising than boiled sausages and suet pudding. Still, at least she had not heard of Scottish cuisine, which was something, he supposed.
On they travelled, walking through the Porta Palazzo market, a Torinese institution. The sights and smells of fresh garlic, wild mushrooms and other produce almost overwhelmed him. Pyramids of gigantic yellow peaches were balanced precariously next to ripe strawberries, the last of the season, sent up from the South – not so much an offering but more a brash boast of the superiority of the climate and its fruits. Everywhere fearsome-looking women pushed and pulled at the produce, checking the ripeness and readiness for their planned dishes. Small, ragged boys ran round shouting cheekily at the stallholders and their customers who shouted back and shook fists in the air in a futile gesture towards discipline.
Soon they were in another section where the smell of the sea was unmistakable. James peered at the gleaming mounds of fish, their mouths hanging open
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