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The English Assassin :: Silva Daniel
Страница: 146 из 209Then he read the stack of clippings and obituaries he had collected by trolling newspaper websites on the Internet, followed by the dossiers Anton Orsati had just given him. He slept for a few hours; then, before dawn the next morning, he placed a small overnight bag in the back of his jeep and drove into the village.
He parked in a narrow street near the church and walked to the house where the signadora lived. When he knocked softly on the door, she pushed open the shutters in the second-floor window and peered down at him like a gargoyle.
“I had a feeling it was you. The scirocco is blowing. It brings dust and evil spirits.”
“Which one am I?”
“I can see the occhju from here. Wait there, my child. I’ll just be a moment.”
The Englishman smoked a cigarette while he waited for the old woman to dress and come downstairs. She answered the door in a widow’s plain black frock and pulled him inside by the wrist, as though she feared there were wild animals about. They sat on opposite sides of the rough wooden table. He finished his cigarette while the old women tended to her oil and water.
“Three drops, though I’m certain I already know the answer.”
He dipped his finger into the oil and allowed three drops to fall into the water. When the oil shattered, the old woman embarked on her familiar routine of blessings and prayers. When he repeated the test, the oil coalesced into a single ball, floating on the surface of the water. This pleased the old woman.
“That’s a neat trick you’ve got there,” said the Englishman.
“It’s not a trick. You of all people should know that.”
“I meant no disrespect.”
“I know. Even though you are not a Corsican by birth, you have the soul of a Corsican. You are a true believer. Do you wish to have something to drink before you go? Some wine, perhaps?”
“It’s six o’clock in the morning.”
The old woman tilted her head, as if to say, So what.
“You should be at home in bed,” she said. Then she added: “With a woman. And not the whores that Don Orsati brings you. A real woman who will give you children and see to your clothes.”
“The women of Don Orsati are the only ones who will have me.”
“You think a decent woman wouldn’t have you because you are a taddunaghiu? ”
The Englishman folded his arms.
“I want to tell you a story.”
He opened his mouth to object, but the old woman was on her feet before he could utter a sound and shuffling into the kitchen for the wine. The bottle was dark green and had no label. Her hand shook as she poured out two glasses.
He parked in a narrow street near the church and walked to the house where the signadora lived. When he knocked softly on the door, she pushed open the shutters in the second-floor window and peered down at him like a gargoyle.
“I had a feeling it was you. The scirocco is blowing. It brings dust and evil spirits.”
“Which one am I?”
“I can see the occhju from here. Wait there, my child. I’ll just be a moment.”
The Englishman smoked a cigarette while he waited for the old woman to dress and come downstairs. She answered the door in a widow’s plain black frock and pulled him inside by the wrist, as though she feared there were wild animals about. They sat on opposite sides of the rough wooden table. He finished his cigarette while the old women tended to her oil and water.
“Three drops, though I’m certain I already know the answer.”
He dipped his finger into the oil and allowed three drops to fall into the water. When the oil shattered, the old woman embarked on her familiar routine of blessings and prayers. When he repeated the test, the oil coalesced into a single ball, floating on the surface of the water. This pleased the old woman.
“That’s a neat trick you’ve got there,” said the Englishman.
“It’s not a trick. You of all people should know that.”
“I meant no disrespect.”
“I know. Even though you are not a Corsican by birth, you have the soul of a Corsican. You are a true believer. Do you wish to have something to drink before you go? Some wine, perhaps?”
“It’s six o’clock in the morning.”
The old woman tilted her head, as if to say, So what.
“You should be at home in bed,” she said. Then she added: “With a woman. And not the whores that Don Orsati brings you. A real woman who will give you children and see to your clothes.”
“The women of Don Orsati are the only ones who will have me.”
“You think a decent woman wouldn’t have you because you are a taddunaghiu? ”
The Englishman folded his arms.
“I want to tell you a story.”
He opened his mouth to object, but the old woman was on her feet before he could utter a sound and shuffling into the kitchen for the wine. The bottle was dark green and had no label. Her hand shook as she poured out two glasses.