“Jenkins.”
“Right.”
“He says I’m coming in at the right time. That with all the unrest on the island, the environmental monitoring RADCON is doing is more important than ever.”
“That’s where you test for radioactive stuff? Like in the water?”
“Yeah, they’re just quarterly tests. Usually, the reports are of no interest to anyone, but ours apparently wind up on John Volpe’s desk.”
“Who’s John Volpe?”
“The American ambassador to Italy.”
“No kidding.”
“Jenkins says Volpe’s keeping a real close eye on La Maddalena. That he sends Kissinger regular updates.”
“Kissinger’s interested in La Maddalena?”
“Because of all the protests.”
“Do you think this is done?” I asked, holding the pan out for him to inspect.
He tossed a piece of lamb into his mouth and chewed. “Yeah, it’s fine.”
“Just fine?”
“It’s great,” said Paul, then kept talking. “I guess there’s a judge in Rome who’s a real environmentalist. He wrote an op-ed in some big Italian newspaper last month, saying how our safety protocols are crap, and it’s stirred everyone up.”
“You can fix the protocols, though, right?”
“If they even need fixing,” said Paul. “It sounds like these guys are just being difficult.”
I got out two plates, served the fettuccini, then spooned some of the lamb and artichoke mixture on top. Finally, I grated the Parmesan cheese and handed one of the plates to Paul with a dramatic “Voilà!”
“What are you doing speaking French in Italy?” he teased.
“I don’t know the Italian version,” I said as we climbed into bed with our plates.
“It’s ecco qua.”
“Ecco qua,” I repeated, but he didn’t love my pronunciation.
“Ecco qua,” he said a second time, and I rolled my eyes at him, then tried again.
We sat across from each other on the bed, our legs crossed. “Smells good,” said Paul appreciatively as I took my first bite. The lamb wasdefinitely undercooked, and the artichoke was so tough and pulpy that when I swallowed, it scratched my throat on the way down. I looked at Paul, who was chewing very, very slowly.
“I think I did something wrong,” I said, when he hadn’t said anything for several long seconds.
“It’s…”
“Not very good,” I offered.
He leaned forward, took my plate from me, and placed it on the bedside table beside his own. “I was going to say inedible, but sure—not very good is fine, too.”
I covered my eyes with my hands, trying not to think of the time I’d spent shopping, chopping, and sautéing. “What was I thinking?” I uttered aloud.
Paul removed my hands from my face, then lowered me onto the mattress. “You were thinking you wanted to do something nice for me.”
