His father was an irascible and impulsive man, unable to keep a job, or a friend, for any length of time. He always had to be right, could not bear opposition. Worse, he had no patience with incompetence, would criticize a plumber for using the wrong tool, the butcher for a badly trimmed cutlet, the postman for a delayed letter, though he never minded if the bills arrived late. Walking on the street with him was both joy and horror for the young Brunetti, for he never knew when his father would begin to rage at the person who walked too slowly in front of him or too close to his side.
But once on the water, he could have been Patience on a monument, so easily did he slough off all concern with time or efficiency of movement. He spent hours with Brunetti, placing his son’s hands back in the right places, then, after a few minutes, stopping the boat and moving forward to where his son stood to slide them gently back. ‘Just there, Guido,’ he remembered him saying, patting his son on the shoulder or head when he managed to keep his hands in the right place long enough to row five metres.
He remembered, too, the time when – he must have been fourteen – his father had suggested, oh so casually, that he try rowing from the back of the boat that day. His heart could still thump at the memory; first at the fear of not being able to establish command of the boat and then with unfettered joy when his father called back to him, ‘Well done, Capitano.’
He returned from his reverie and looked at his watch; he had only ten minutes to get to his meeting with Lolo. He arrived late, but so did his friend: they entered the campo from opposite sides at the same time.
Seeing him after so long a time, more than a year, Brunetti was struck by how happy he was to see Lolo and how deep were his feelings for his old friend. ‘Lolo,’ he called, and the Marchese, who had been walking towards the bar on the corner, turned in his direction. He quickened his pace towards Brunetti, and they embraced warmly, holding one another like two bears and then letting go, only to hug one another again, even more strongly.
As they did each time they met, for it was always after lengthy intervals, first one and then the other said, ‘You look just the same,’ after which they pounded each other on the shoulder and embraced again.
‘Where have you been?’ Brunetti asked, taking a closer look at his friend. Only then did he see how pale Lolo looked, no trace of the deep tan he often brought back from his international adventures. He was thinner, too, his cheekbones prominent under his dark eyes.
‘Argentina,’ he answered, taking another whack at Brunetti’s shoulder, as if words could not sufficiently express his delight at seeing him again. Then he added, his smile fading a bit, ‘For my sins.’ And then, more brightly, ‘And trying to keep an eye on my investment.’
Curious as he was, Brunetti thought it would be better if they could continue over two glasses of wine, so he put his hand on Lolo’s shoulder and guided him towards the bar.
The place had been renovated since Brunetti had last stopped there for a drink. The wooden counter with the worn pink linoleum surface was gone, replaced by a slab of white marble that could have been looted from an Etruscan tomb. Customers no longer stood in front of it to drink a quick coffee or glass of wine but were encouraged to sit on high, seemingly precarious, steel stools with neon-orange plastic seats. The bottles lined up on the shelves in front of the very clean mirror carried graphically sophisticated labels that made no attempt to suggest their contents.
The six old wooden tables, scarred, scratched, and burned by generations of clients, had followed the counter into retirement. Brunetti and Lolo hesitated momentarily at the door, and then by unspoken agreement went to the back of the room and took their places at one of the three-legged tables that stood against the wall. Because they were both tall men, they found themselves sitting high above the mirrored surface of the table.
Brunetti saw a thin-faced man in his fifties, tall and muscular, his eyes surrounded by the tiny lines that come from too many years of too much sun, looking now out of place in his strangely pale face.
A waiter approached, and Brunetti asked for a glass of white wine. ‘Due,’ Lolo said, apparently as uninterested as Brunetti in the long list of possibilities the waiter had begun to suggest. So long as it was white and cold.
‘Argentina?’ Brunetti prodded when the waiter left them.
Lolo lowered his head and rubbed at his hair with both hands. His hair, Brunetti had noticed, was still thick and dark; indeed, it rustled audibly as Lolo rubbed his hands through it. That finished, he looked at Brunetti and said, ‘One of my brothers has a cattle ranch there. He asked me to go down and help him out of a mess.’
‘How long were you there?’
‘Three months.’
‘On the ranch?’
‘In the office of the ranch, mainly,’ Lolo said and looked up at the arrival of the waiter, who set the glasses on the table and went back behind the bar. ‘Doing what I could to save things.’
That, Brunetti surmised, as he picked up his glass and tapped it against his friend’s, explained his lack of colour. But what could have taken three months? ‘What about your family?’ he asked.
Confused, Lolo said, ‘My brother is family. They’re all there now.’ He took a long taste of the wine, set the glass down and said, ‘Argentina’s is better.’