Free Three-Card Monte by Marco Malvaldi, Howard Curtis Page A

in with the politeness that the residents of Pineta reserved exclusively for strangers and those who were slow on the uptake, “is that the poor man died from respiratory arrest. A rather unusual respiratory arrest. At least so it seems.”
    â€œI don’t understand,” Snijders said, groping for a chair, an obvious clue that even though he didn’t understand, it was his intention to stay there until some light was thrown on the matter.
    â€œIf you want to get to Pisa,” Massimo said, “I think you ought to set off now. Not that I’m trying to interfere . . . ”
    I just want to carry on minding my own business. If Fusco finds out, he’ll arrest me and put me in prison with all the rest of the retirement home. Which is why, kind and friendly professor, if you stopped asking questions and just got the hell out of here, I might still have a slim hope that all this could remain confined to the inside of this bar for the half day required before the news becomes official.
    â€œOh, it doesn’t matter,” Snijders said with a smile, glancing outside at the rain that continued unperturbed to drum on the roofs of the cars. “I don’t think the Leaning Tower is made of sugar either. It should still be in the same place if I go there this evening. Could I have a cappuccino please?”
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    â€œIt’s quite incredible,” Snijders said, playing with the crumbs of the croissants (five of them) remaining on the plate.
    It had taken about twenty minutes, subdivided into two of introductions, five of actual narration, and thirteen of extra time during which the old-timers bickered with one another to make sure of the right to speak, to explain the facts—and above all what had been said about the facts—to the attentive and very curious Dutch professor. Now, while Snijders was observing how incredible it all was, Massimo was thinking more or less the same thing.
    Incredible.
    I attract gossips like flies. From all over Europe they come. I should start putting it on the menu. Espresso, 80 cents. Cappuccino, 1 euro. Slander of people I’ve never seen or known, on the house.
    â€œIncredible, but true,” Aldo said out of a sense of inertia: Snijders was silent, and since this was, after all, a bar, somebody had to say something. “Just like in one of those puzzle magazines.”
    â€œTrue,” Del Tacca cut in. “The trouble is, even the people investigating won’t get any further than the crossword. You should know, my dear Professor Sneie, that the inspector we’re talking about isn’t exactly on the ball.”
    â€œOn the ball?”
    â€œWhat Pilade means,” Aldo translated, “is that the person dealing with the case is no genius.”
    â€œIt depends on the moment,” said Tiziana, who was now participating fully in the discussion. “Say what you like, but this time he did something clever.”
    â€œIt depends on the person,” Massimo said, wiping the tables with a cloth just to have something to do and trying to tell himself over and over that this was his bar, although maybe not for much longer, because if you murder your grandfather they’ll arrest you, which makes running a bar a little difficult. “If he’d told me and only me, maybe yes, that would have been clever. But to tell the official town crier of the Annoying Old Men’s Cooperative doesn’t strike me as a great idea. Who was the information supposed to be kept from? The people at the conference. Who’s the first person you tell? A delegate to the conference. You do the math.”
    â€œCome on, Massimo, don’t talk crap. How was Fusco to know that someone from the conference, someone who actually speaks Italian, would show up here today? It was an accident.”
    One of the most tiresome aspects of human beings is the ridiculous belief that they are not responsible for the consequences of their