The Count swallowed Amalia’s torrent of words sitting on the edge of their threadbare sofa, smoking and using his hand as an ashtray, until Dionisio returned with a chipped, gold-edged dessert dish which he apologetically handed to the smoker. But Dionisio’s actions went unnoticed by the Count, entranced by that chronicle of irrational loyalty. His emotions hadn’t, however, entirely stifled his critical powers: the automatic alarm developed by his time in the police was alerting him to the fact that it was only part of the story, perhaps the most pleasant or dramatic part, though for the time being he had to go along with what he’d heard.
“Well, if you’ve made your minds up… I’ll come back tomorrow…”
“Won’t you take any books now?” Amalia almost implored.
“I’m really not carrying enough money on me…”
Amalia looked at her brother and took the initiative: “Look, we can see you are a decent, honest fellow…”
“It’s years since I’ve heard that phrase,” the Count responded. “A decent, honest…”
“Yes, we can tell,” the translucent woman assured him. “Can you imagine the number of bandits we’ve had to deal with to sell the vases and other adornments? And how often they offered a pittance for things that were really valuable? Look, just make us an offer, take a few books and… pay us what you can. How about it? You can come back, draw up whatever inventory you want and take the books you then decide to buy…”