For All the Gold in the World by Massimo Carlotto, Antony Shugaar Page A

analyzing my encounter with my Cora. It didn’t take me long to realize that this was a complicated situation. On the one hand, I couldn’t tell her the truth because that would mean betraying my pact with her husband. On the other, it was wrong to start a relationship based on a lie. Luckily, at the moment, the chance of anything really happening was decidedly slim and I had all the time I’d need to rack my brain for a solution. For the nth time, circumstances were against me. And that couldn’t be an accident. I was slipping inexorably into a wallow of self-pity when I saw the fat man coming toward me with a worried grimace.
    â€œI want seafood,” he announced. “I’ve already talked to Beniamino. We’ll go to Punta Sabbioni, hop on his speedboat, and head for that little restaurant we know in San Pietro in Volta.”
    â€œYou don’t look like somebody who’s in the mood to celebrate.”
    He shook his head decisively. “No. We’ve always worked twisted cases, but this one is the worst yet.”
    â€œObviously on the way over you’ll tell me all about . . .”
    â€œNo,” he said, cutting me off. “When you tell a story twice, there’s always a chance you’ll leave out crucial details. Plus, I need to think.”
    Max was a man of his word. He split a pack of cigarettes with me, but said not a word—except to complain that it made no sense to spend a small fortune putting a stereo system into a car so old it didn’t even have air conditioning.
    June had come, dragging with it a mantle of oppressive heat. I promised I’d talk to the mechanic, even if I already knew the answer.
    Beniamino was fresh from a night on the high seas. He’d transported an old fugitive who, after many, many years in Bulgaria, had decided to come back and turn himself in to the cops—though not until after he’d seen his two daughters.
    â€œIt broke my heart,” said Rossini. “He looked like a homeless bum. He’d calculated his pension wrong, and going on the run has its costs.”
    â€œThen where did he find the money to pay you?” I asked, knowing the fares my good friend charged.
    Old Rossini opened his eyes wide in surprise. “The passenger traveled gratis, Marco.”
    Of course. I should have guessed. The outlaw heart and its rules. I apologized; I’d opened my mouth without thinking.
    To lighten the mood, Max started in on the air conditioning.
    â€œThis love affair of yours with old Å kodas is the affectation of a radical-chic old schoolmarm,” Beniamino piled on as
Sylvie
’s powerful engine roared to life.
    I refrained from responding. We were all tired, on edge, and worried about what the fat man was about to tell us.
    Luckily, the trip was short and agreeable. The water was calm and a slight westerly wind provided a perfect antidote to the heat.
    I was always happy to go to San Pietro in Volta, a charming little town on Pellestrina, one of the largest islands surrounding Venice. I liked lazing on the benches or walking along the waterfront. It was a place where time went by at a different pace.
    That day, after tying up, we immediately slipped into a well-known restaurant. In silence, we ate our antipasti, which had been paired with an ice-cold white pinot.
    When the waiter took our plates away, announcing the arrival of the
risotto agli scampi
in just five minutes, Beniamino turned to Max with an impatient gesture. “So, what have you found out?”
    â€œThe man who roughed up Imbriani and spouse in Liège to get Oddo’s name is called Kevin Fecchio, forty-three years old, a goldsmith by profession.
    â€œThe company in the Vicenza area where he still works was founded by his older brother Maicol—that’s the Venetian version of Michael. Maicol was considered a real artist and he was the one who designed a successful line of jewelry, starting with the bracelet