Death in Sardinia by Marco Vichi

you another tartine?’ she said, getting up and coming over to him.
    ‘Thanks, Rosa, I’m fine.’
    ‘Well, that’s enough red wine. Now we’re going to drink some Monbazillac,’ she said, taking the glass out of his hand.
    ‘Another gift from Paris?’
    ‘ I love Paris in the springtiiiime …’ Rosa blared, fluttering all the way to the kitchen in her purple pumps. A hammer would have made less noise.
    ‘Aren’t the people downstairs going to complain?’ Bordelli asked loudly.
    ‘No, there’s only an old witch who’s deaf,’ Rosa yelled from the kitchen. You couldn’t really say she didn’t have a knack for concision. It was still drizzling outside. Every so often a drop left a long, thin trail on the windows that gave on to the terrace. Gideon hadn’t moved. He looked like a rag. Bordelli stubbed out the cigarette and lay down. With eyes closed he started listening to the hiss of the rain on the rooftops. From the kitchen came the hammer-blows of Rosa’s high heels. She returned to the living room, carrying a transparent plastic tray with a bottle and two wine glasses.
    ‘Ta-da! Ta-da!’ she said, advancing in dance steps. Bordelli, who was nearly asleep, gave a start.
    ‘Inspector … You wouldn’t be turning into an old fogey on me, now, would you?’ Rosa asked, setting the tray down on the coffee table in front of the sofa.
    ‘Maybe I am,’ he said, yawning. Rosa popped the cork out of the bottle. Bordelli sat up and yawned again. The just-opened Monbazillac gave off a sweet odour of nobly mildewed grapes, and Bordelli felt at peace with the world.
    ‘Uncouth as you are, you’ll probably think it tastes like Lambrusco,’ she said, filling the goblets. Bordelli picked his up, but as he brought it to his lips, Rosa grabbed his arm.
    ‘Wait, you big monkey! We need to make a toast!’ she said, all excited. One could never open a bottle at her place without toasting. She’d picked up the habit in France – that is, in Paris, which she seemed to think counted for all of France.
    ‘To your marriage,’ Bordelli proposed, trying to clink his glass with Rosa’s, but she pulled hers away suddenly, almost spilling the wine.
    ‘I’ve manage to avoid it for this long … You little shit!’ she said.
    ‘Then you decide.’
    ‘Let’s toast the person who bumped off the loan shark … May he live long and never be caught by you. What do you say?’ she asked, raising her glass.
    ‘We can certainly toast him, though you know of course he’ll never escape me.’
    They were about to clink glasses when Rosa pulled hers away again.
    ‘ Dahnlezyé …’ 8 she said.
    ‘Don’t cheat, monkey, look me in the eyes or it doesn’t count.’ Another Parisian custom, according to her.
    ‘How’s this?’ Bordelli asked, looking her straight in the eye with his own wide open. The glasses touched and made a fine crystal sound. They drank a sip. Words could not describe the fragrances rising into their noses. Gideon stretched, opened his eyes, cast a bleary glance at them and went back to sleep.
    ‘You can’t send him to jail,’ said Rosa, a gleam of triumph in her eye, ‘he’s done humanity a favour.’
    ‘I certainly can, just you watch.’
    ‘No, no, no,’ she said, smiling, taking a generous sip of wine.
    Bordelli did the same, emptying his glass.
    ‘This yellow nectar’s not bad,’ he said. She refilled the glasses, trying to impart great refinement to her gestures. As she grabbed the bottle by the neck, her little finger immediately shot up. Bordelli had once tried to tell her that if she moved more naturally she would be even more beautiful, and she had replied with something like:
    ‘Do you mean to say that an old whore who never got past the first grade can only spit on the floor, curse, and scratch herself between the legs?’ But this was another reason Bordelli was so fond of her: she never minced words. Rosa slapped him lightly on the knee.
    ‘Hm?’ he replied groggily, again