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By Root 1320 0

motive, a certain amount or, as you might say today, a quantum of affection, of "eros," was also involved even in "matters of interest," in crimes which were apparently far removed from the tempests of love. Some colleagues, a tiny bit envious of his intuitions, a few priests, more acquainted with the many evils of our time, some subalterns, clerks, and his superiors too, insisted he read strange books: from which he drew all those words that mean nothing, or almost nothing, but which serve better than others to dazzle the naive, the ignorant. His terminology was for doctors in looneybins. But practical action takes something else! Notions and philosophizing are to be left to scribblers: the practical experience of the police stations and the homicide squad is quite another thing: it takes plenty of patience, and charity, and a strong stomach; and when the whole shooting match of the Italians isn't tottering, a sense of responsibility, prompt decision, civil moderation; yes, yes, and a firm hand. On him, on Don Ciccio, these objections, just as they were, had no effect; he continued to sleep on his feet, philosophize on an empty stomach, and pretend to smoke his half-cigarette which had, always, gone out.

For the 20th of February, Sunday, Feast of Sant'Eleu-terio, the Balduccis had invited him to dinner: "At half-past one, if that's convenient for you." It was, the signora said, "Remo's birthday"; and in fact, at the City Registry, Remo had been inscribed as "Remo Eleuterio," and baptized as such at the Church of San Martino ai Monti, so as to mark the day of his birth. "Two names that have a nasty ring to certain ears nowadays,"{1} thought Don Ciccio, "both the first and the second." But for a guy like Balducci, who didn't give a damn about anything, they were a downright waste. The invitation, like the last time, had been issued by telephone two days ahead, a call "from outside" at the Collegio Romano Station, or rather, to give the street address, Santo Stefano del Cacco. First, in a melodious voice, the signora herself had spoken to him: "This is Liliana Balducci"; and then the old goat took over, Balducci, following up. Don Ciccio, after having kept the Sabbath with a visit to the barber's, took the signora a bottle of fresh oil from home. The Sunday dinner was happy, in the light of a marvelous afternoon, with confetti still littering the pavements, and an occasional carnival mask, a toy trumpet, an azure Cinderella or little devil in black velvet. The men talked about hunting: of expeditions and dogs: of guns: then about the comedian Petrolini: then about the various names they give the mullet all along the Tyrrhenian coast, from Ventimiglia to Cape Lilibeo: then the scandal of the day, Countess Pappalodoli, who had run off with a violinist; a Pole, naturally. Only seventeen. The story went on and on.

When he came in, Lulu, the little Pekinese bitch, a ball of fluff, had barked, and angrily, too; well, when she stopped growling, she had sniffed his shoes at length. The vitality of those little monsters is incredible. You feel like petting them, then stamping them. They were four at table: he, Don Ciccio, the husband and wife, and the niece. The niece, however, wasn't the same one as last time, that is to say on the Feast of San Francesco, this one was much younger, barely emerging from childhood. The other niece —the one on San Francesco's day—was only a niece after a manner of speaking: she looked like a peasant bride, her head crowned with black braids; strong and broad, she'd fill up a whole bed by herself: those eyes! and what a front! what a behind! Something to make you dream at night. This new one was a little girl with a pigtail hanging down her back, and she went to the sisters' school.

Don Ciccio, despite his somnolence, had a quick memory, infallible even: a pragmatic memory, he used to say. The maid, too, was a new face, though she vaguely resembled the first niece. They called her Tina. While she was serving, a wad of drained spinach deviated from the oval plate onto the candid whiteness of the immaculate