Adam's Rib by Antonio Manzini

right this way.”
    He rushed over to the cash register. He bent down and finally pulled out two lovely red shopping bags, big enough to accommodate a heavy sweater.
    â€œNo, smaller. The smallest one you have.”
    The man smiled, bent over again, rummaged around a little more, then pulled out another shopping bag. It was black, with rope handles, and the Tomei logo enclosed in laurel branches. “Like this?”
    â€œExactly! That’s it. Now let me ask you to concentrate for a moment. You might be very useful to me.”
    â€œOf course. Ask away.” Signor Tomei leveled his pale blue eyes at Rocco’s.
    â€œYesterday or sometime in the past few days, a woman came to see you, perhaps you know her, Esther Baudo? About thirty-five, with curly hair?”
    The man looked up. “No . . . I don’t remember. A woman, you say?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œCertainly, if you had a photograph . . .”
    â€œTry to remember.”
    â€œLook, right here and now? I couldn’t say, nothing comes to mind. And I’m not always present in the store. Sometimes my wife takes over for me, or my son . . . and mornings there’s a salesclerk . . . and she works part-time .” The wayhe pronounced the English word in Italian, rounding his r ’s and hitting his t ’s especially hard, was clearly meant as a proud display of his splendid and hard-won Anglo-Saxon pronunciation.
    â€œShall I leave you the number of my mobail ?” drawled Rocco, cocking an eyebrow and twisting the English word into a mockery in Italian.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHere, I’ll write it down.” And he stepped over to the briarwood table where the cash register stood, between the electronic credit card reader and two baskets piled high with cotton lisle socks. Rocco was almost tempted to buy a pair, but twenty-three euros seemed too high a price, no matter how nice they might be. Any market stand would sell you three pair for ten euros. Sure, they might not be made of cotton lisle or cashmere, but as long as he was wearing his Clarks desert boots, those socks weren’t going to last long anyway. After he jotted down his phone number he turned to look at the proprietor of the shop. “I’ll arrange to send over a picture of the person who might have been here.”
    â€œAll right. I’ll show it to my wife and son and my part-time salesclerk,” he replied, once again with the impeccable English pronunciation.
    â€œJust to get an idea, what could you fit into such a small shopping bag?”
    Signor Tomei turned the bag over again in his hands. “Well, I’d say a necktie, or possibly a pair of suspenders.Or even a pair of socks. If you wear Church’s shoes, maybe a pair of shoelaces. I can’t think of anything else. Oh, yes, cuff links. Brass cuff links, you see? They’re on display in the window.” He pointed at a small set of wooden shelves full of shiny buttons. “They have replicas of all the flags of the British navy. They’re made of brass and enamel; do you want to take a look?”
    â€œNo, thanks. Now, this is important: call me if anything occurs to you.”
    â€œWell, tonight we’re about to close. And tomorrow I only work a half day. It’s a holiday, you know?”
    â€œA holiday?”
    â€œYes, it’s a holiday because my wife is Irish and we celebrate it. It’s March seventeenth.”
    â€œI’m still not following you.”
    â€œIt’s St. Patrick’s Day!” And once again, he uttered the name of the saint in perfect English pronunciation.
    â€œAh, I see. That’s why the pubs have flags with shamrocks on them downtown,” said Rocco.
    â€œSure, it’s a holiday now in Italy too. But you know why? It’s just an excuse to drink, not for any other reason . . .” He laughed long and loud. And alone.
    â€œJust another piece of information: do you sell women’s