"Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - St Germain 2 - The Palace" - читать интересную книгу автора (Yarbro Chelsea Quinn)

know things."
Lodovico frowned and shifted in his chair. "Hen's eggs he gives us, and clay, and
special earth and special sand, which must be mixed in a certain order. Why?" He
stood up, almost upsetting the bench he shared with Gasparo.
"Here, now," the older builder objected as his seat teetered dangerously.
"Lodovico, stop it. Sit down and drink another cup, like a Christian."
For a moment Lodovico stiffened; then he forced his mouth to smile as he sank
back down onto the bench. "Va bene. Landlord! Another for both of us." He set his
face in a mask of good fellowship and leaned back.
As soon as their cups had been refilled and Gasparo had decided which of the
cups was his, Lodovico smiled guilelessly. "Ah, it is hard for a man alone, is it not?"
Gasparo nodded heavily. "It is, amico mio. Tonight I can hardly bear to go home.
You'd think," he said, drinking deeply, "that a man widowed as long as I've been
would get used to it. But no. This night, every night, I think of Rosaria. She was an
excellent woman—thrifty, pleasant, agreeable, devoted—a treasure among women."
He pulled his hands over his eyes and then picked up his cup again. "You're young,
you're young. You don't know what it is to be old and alone."
"You are not old, Gasparo."
But Gasparo shook his head and wagged a finger at Lodovico. "I'm thirty-eight.
Thirty-eight. Another ten years and I'll be a toothless old hulk. A lonely, toothless
old hulk." His sorrow at this thought overcame him and he finished off the rest of his
wine.
This was going better than Lodovico dared hope. "It's a pity that age is not
respected as it should be." He leaned closer to Gasparo and switched his full cup
for Gasparo's nearly empty one. "It's not enough that you should lose your family
and wife, but there's hardly enough money to keep you alive when you can no longer
work." This turned out to be a miscalculation. Gasparo pulled himself up straight
and said, almost without slurring, "My father was sixty-eight before he stopped
working. We Tucchios are strong folk. We work till we drop." His face sagged a
little. "My father was a good man. A good man. He helped raise the Duomo of Santa
Maria del Fiore…"
But Lodovico did not allow his companion to wander. "But think of that palazzo.
Think of the wealth of the Patron. With even a little of it a man could live well."
"Here, now." Gasparo slewed around on Lodovico, a belligerent light in his eye.
"Are you suggesting that we rob our Patron? We're builders, man, not thieves. We
do not steal from our Patron, from, any Patron."
 "But he's rich," Lodovico protested. "And he's foreign."
"All the more reason." With pompous care Gasparo dragged himself to his feet.
"We're Fiorenzeni, Lodovico. Well, I am, at least. We don't rob foreigners. You put
that out of your mind." He leaned forward. "I see what it is. You're drunk. You
shouldn't have had that last cup of wine." He swayed and steadied himself. "I'll
forget what you said, Lodovico. It was the wine talking."
Inwardly Lodovico cursed but he managed a fatuous smile. "You're right," he
agreed. "Too much wine."
With the tenacity of drunkenness, Gasparo persisted. "The thing is not to be
thought of. Now, you go home, you sleep this off. I'll forget you ever spoke to me
of this." He finished the last of his wine and put the cup down with exaggerated care.
"Thank you, Gaspar'," Lodovico said, making no attempt to disguise his sneer.
"Well," Gasparo said with a sudden change to the affable, "it's been pleasant.
Very pleasant. Good to talk. We don't talk enough, Lodovico. Too much work. We