Page 31 of A Death in Cornwall

“Eggs and tuna.”

The barman slipped the triangular sandwich into a paper bag and placed it on the countertop. Gabriel handed over a banknote and indicated that no change was required. Then he asked, “Do you know Bar Cupido, Bartolomeo? That pizzeria on the Fondamente Nove?”

“The one by the vaporetto stop? Sure, Signore Allon.”

“There’s a fellow who works there. I believe his name is Gennaro.”

“I know him well.”

“Really? What’s he like?”

“Nicest guy in the world. Everybody loves Gennaro.”

“Are you sure we’re talking about the same Gennaro?”

“Is there a problem, Signore Allon?”

“No,” said Gabriel as he plucked the paper bag from the bar. “No problem at all.”

He ate the tramezzino while walking back to the church and listened to La Bohème while removing the last of the surface grime and yellowed varnish from the altarpiece. The stained-glass windows were black by the time he finished. He recorded the true condition of the painting with his Nikon, then locked the door of the church and walked to the Museo vaporetto stop. Ten minutes elapsed before a Number 4.1 finally appeared. It ferried him southward across the laguna, past San Michele, to the Fondamente Nove.

As he approached Bar Cupido he saw Gennaro at his outpost behind the counter. Ordinarily, Gabriel frequented the establishment only in the morning, but on a frigid night like this, its bright interior was warm and inviting. And so he went inside and in pitch-perfect Italian placed his order, a coffee and a small glass of grappa, thus signaling that he was a Venetian and not some interloper. Five minutes later he went out again and set off toward the Rialto Bridge, wondering why the nicest guy in the world, the one everybody loved, seemed to despise him. The answer came to him as he was climbing the stairs toward his apartment, drawn by the savor of his wife’s cooking. “Yes, of course,” he muttered to himself. It was the only possible explanation.

***

“Perhaps I should have a word with him,” said Chiara.

“I’m sure he would love nothing more.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“That Gennaro the barman has designs on my wife.”

“You were obviously listening to opera while you were working today.” Chiara poured a generous measure of Barbaresco into a wineglass and placed it on the kitchen island. “Drink this, darling. You’ll feel better.”

Gabriel settled atop a stool and gave the wine a swirl. “I’ll feel better when you tell me that I’m wrong about you and your friend from Bar Cupido.”

“It’s only a harmless little crush, Gabriel.”

“I knew it,” he murmured.

“I’m old enough to be his mother, for heaven’s sake.”

“And I’m old enough...” He left the thought unfinished. It was too depressing to contemplate. “How long has this been going on?”

“Has what been going on?”

“Your affair with Gennaro the barman.”

“You know, Gabriel, you really should wear a mask when you’re using solvents. It’s clear the fumes have taken a terrible toll on your brain cells.”

Chiara removed the lid from the stainless-steel Dutch oven resting on the stovetop. The mouthwatering aroma of its contents, a rich duck ragu seasoned with bay leaves and sage, filled the kitchen. She sampled the dish, then added a pinch of salt.

“Perhaps I should taste it as well,” suggested Gabriel.

“Only if you promise never to raise the subject of Gennaro the barman ever again.”

“Is it over between the two of you?”

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