use?”
“No, there isn’t,” said Blume.
“Only one bathroom?”
“Does that bother you?” asked Blume.
“No, no, it’s cool,” said Greg and disappeared again.
The kitchen table was still set for two. Kristin added a placemat, then went to the silverware drawer.
“We only need spoons and bowls. It’s chili con carne. The tacos burned.”
“I was wondering about the smell,” she said. “Can I close the window now?”
Blume shrugged. He blew out a red candle on the table. “That was supposed to get rid of the smell, but it didn’t,” he said. He filled a pitcher with tap water and put it in the middle of the table, and removed the silver candlestick.
Kristin sat down and Blume returned to the stove, turned off the flame under the chili, which was beginning to stick, and stirred it.
Greg returned, looked around the kitchen appreciatively, and took the chair opposite Kristin. “Alec, this is a really great little place you got yourself here. Hey, where are you going to sit? You want me to get you a chair? Just tell me where to go.”
Blume opened his mouth to do so, but Kristin stood up. “I’ll get Alec a chair from the living room.”
“Thanks,” said Blume. “I don’t usually have this many visitors.”
“I wonder why that might be,” said Kristin as she passed him.
“Kristin was telling me you don’t drink,” said Greg. “I admire that.”
Blume slapped the heavy serving spoon into the palm of his hand, enjoying its weight and potential. “It’s not all that admirable.”
“It says to me you know how to handle personal issues.” Greg poured some water into a glass.
“Is that what it says to you?” Blume brought the pot over to the table and ladled out three servings.
Greg raised his glass. “Can I get some ice and lemon slices with this?”
“I don’t know,” said Blume. “But you’re perfectly welcome to try.”
Greg smiled and looked around as if for an interpreter.
“There, in the refrigerator,” said Blume.
When Kristin came back with the chair, Greg had his head in the freezer and was saying, “How come you don’t have ice?”
Kristin put the chair at the head of the table, went over to Greg, ushered him back to the table.
“I’ve got a lemon in the refrigerator,” said Blume.
Kristin yanked at the refrigerator door until it opened with a reluctant sigh, and pulled out a wizened half lemon filled with blue mold, which she held aloft. “This the lemon?”
“Yup, that’s him,” said Blume.
The three of them sat down. Greg opposite Kristin, Blume at the head. Greg leaned over to pour some water into Kristin’s glass and said something as he did so.
“No. First we eat, then we talk,” said Kristin. “So what, we use spoons for this?”
“Seems the best way,” said Blume. “It’s a bit more watery than I usually make it.”
He took a spoonful, blew on it, put it into his mouth. Salt, it definitely needed a touch more salt. It didn’t need any more chili pepper, though. Definitely not. He could feel the back of his lips, the roof of his mouth reacting to the heat.
At first he loved the sensation of heat streaming down the back of his throat and from there into his sinuses. As he took a second spoonful, Blume realized that the intensity of the afterburn from the first was still sharpening. The inside of his lips began to numb, and the raw burning in his throat became acute. The sides of his tongue suddenly felt blistered and ragged, and his nose had begun to run freely. By now the trail of heat had wound its way down his esophagus and was attacking the top of his stomach. His intestines were already tightening and loosening and tightening again, trying at once to close off the incoming toxin and preparing to expel it as quickly as possible, explosively if necessary. His eyes were leaking and he started sucking in air in an effort to cool his mouth.
Blume reached for the water pitcher at exactly the same time as Greg, who was just a little quicker. With a reverse flick of his wrist, Blume slapped Greg’s hand out of the way. He poured a glass and downed it without relinquishing hold of the pitcher, which he held hostage in his other hand off the table. He refilled and drank. It seemed only to aerate and intensify the capsaicin. Kristin had put her hands over her ears, pressed her thumbs against her chin, and appeared to be weeping. He passed her the pitcher and she drank the rest of the water. Greg had already gone over to the kitchen sink and was gulping back glassfuls of water, suddenly unmindful of the absence of ice. Blume’s sinuses were streaming freely now, and a sweat had broken out all over his body. He got up from the table and walked quickly to his bedroom and the bathroom, where he splashed his face with water, wiped his nose, sat down on the toilet seat, and clutched his stomach.
Fifteen minutes later, he returned to the kitchen. Greg had his hand pressed against the side of his face like he had a toothache, and Kristin, whose face glistened, had untucked her blouse and opened another button.
“That was pretty intense, Alec,” said Kristin.
“Eating bread is supposed to help,” said Blume.
“So I’ve heard,” said Kristin, “but you seem to have filled your bread box with bread-shaped rocks.”
They left their plates abandoned on the kitchen table and went into the living room. Kristin took the sofa, Blume the armchair and Greg returned to the kitchen for the wooden chair. They sat there like three exhausted swimmers, dripping and breathing heavily for a while, until Kristin, straightening her back and doing up a blouse button, said, “Greg has been here three months. He’s a legat, too, like me. He’s attached to the cultural affairs section.”
“Does he speak Italian?” said Blume, looking at Greg as he asked the question.
“My Italian was graded excellent,” said Greg. “That’s why they sent me. I also speak Spanish and French.”
“As rare as a white fly, aren’t you?” said Blume.
“Whatever that means. Look, Alec, eighteen months ago you agreed, as an American citizen, to leverage your particular competencies to contribute to the knowledge base of the embassy, correct?”
Blume looked over at Kristin, but got no sympathy.
“Alec, I was talking to you?” said Greg.
Blume picked up the remote control and turned on the TV where the studio guests were shouting as they watched a slo-mo replay of a disputed offside by Zlatan Ibrahimovi c.
“Alec, turn off the TV,” said Kristin.
“No, wait a moment… I want to hear this. Jesus, Roma lost to Siena. Can you believe that? Siena!”
“Alec!” Kristin walked over and turned off the TV. “Come on, this isn’t helping.”
“Stop wasting my time, then,” said Blume. “Let’s talk about Colonel Farinelli. You’re interested in him, or you and your boy wonder wouldn’t be here.”
Kristin laughed. “Alec, grow up. Greg has something to tell you. It concerns events that happened before he was born, but he’s learned all the details.”
“OK, Alec,” said Greg. “I’m going to cut right to the chase if that’s OK with you: the embassy fears embarrassment.” He paused to see if this had any great effect on Blume, then continued: “It’s all ancient history, so it’s not that important, but it would be nice if Farinelli and this Treacy investigation did not mushroom, and open some old wounds.”
“It’s not the history that’s ancient, it’s you that’s young,” said Blume. “After Moro got killed, Cossiga took the reins of power, then handed over to Andreotti who shared with Craxi who passed it on to Berlusconi, and here we all are happy in the present again.”
“That’s pretty simplistic,” said Greg. “And you left out a lot of prime ministers.”
“Simplistic? I’ll tell you what’s simplistic…” began Blume, but Kristin intervened.
“OK, Greg, I’ll take it from here,” she said. “Alec, have you heard of Richard Gardner?”
“Wasn’t he the American ambassador back then? I remember my parents got invited to a few opening nights when he was in charge.”
“Right. He was ambassador from 1977 to 1981.”
“During the Carter administration,” said Greg.
