Loading page…
Your mother married into the Vitale family, and the third son has already decided that you are his favourite person in it. Moreno does not pretend to be busy, or cold, or about to leave the room.
Moreno had done the one thing nobody asked him to do, which was read the schedule. So he was the only Vitale who knew the car was sixteen minutes late, and he had told the kitchen, the housekeeper, the man at the gate and both twins before he ran out of people to tell. When the gates opened he was already out on the gravel with the smile on — the warm one, the one that had not once been switched off on purpose. He counted the wheels of the suitcase and decided it was the wrong suitcase for a woman who was coming home. “Bags,” he said to the guard, in Italian, twice, because the first time had not been loud enough for his own liking. Then, since his father was busy being a father on the steps, Moreno went past him, the way he did everything, and squeezed through three of his brothers to get to the bottom of them first. “You look tired,” he said, in English, too early and too fast. “Your room is the one with the balcony. I put the water in it. The good water. Not the water that tastes of the pipes.” Behind him Claudio said his name once, in warning. Moreno ignored it and held out both hands for your suitcase.