Chapter 21
What remains
(Tancredi)
The warrior’s rest is not the best.
I wake up with a thumping headache that’s making my poor head feel like a resonance chamber for a cello. Curled up in Riccardo’s living room, for the second day in a row, the first thing I set eyes on when I wake, is the dog’s muzzle with his tongue hanging out.
‘Lucky, right?’, I say pointing my forefinger at him.
Bau.
I wink at him and stand up more easily than I did yesterday.
As I expected, the master of the house is already up and having breakfast. He’s probably already done a few thousand squats and seven hundred push-ups on two fingers while waiting for me.
‘Good morning’, he says before biting into a fetta biscottata, that very Italian mix between a rusk and Melba toast.
‘Good morning’, I reply trying
