"Dibdin, Michael - Aurelio Zen 02 - Vendetta UC - part 09" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dibdin Michael)

Reto Gurtner looked suitably horrified by this example
of Mediterranean barbarism.
'But why?'
The young man sighed.
'Now, you understand, this village is just like anywhere
else. Televisions, pop music, motorbikes.'
He waved at the teenagers in the corner.
'The young people stay out till all hours, even the girls.
They do what they like. Twenty years ago it was different.
People say that Elia was seeing a man from a nearby farm.
Perhaps she stayed out too late one summer night,
and...'
He broke off as the door banged open and three men
walked in. The beggar woman sprang to her feet, staring
at them like a wild animal about to pounce or fiee. One of
the men spat a few words of dialect at her. She flinched as
though he had struck her, then ran out. The rain had
stopped as suddenly as it had begun.
The three newcomers were wearing the local heavy-
weight gear, durable, anonymous and mass-produced,
but there was nothing faceless or conventional about their
behaviour. They took over the pizzeria as though it were
the venue for a party being given in their honour. The
leader, who had obviously had quite a lot to drink already,
threw his weight around in a way that seemed almost
offensively familiar, going behind the counter and sam-
pling the various plates of toppings, talking continuously
in a loud raucous voice. Zen could understand nothing of
what was being said, but although the owner kept smiling
and responded in the required jocular fashion, it seemed
an effort, and Zen thought he would have been happier if
the men had gone away.
Having done the rounds, chaffed the owner and his wife
and grabbed a plate of olives and salami and a litre of
wine, the trio seated themselves at the table next to Zen's.
Once their initial high spirits had subsided, their mood
rapidly turned sombre, as though all three had immense
grievances which could never be redressed. The leader in
particular not only looked fiercely malcontent, but was
scowling at Zen as though he was the origin of all his
troubles. His bristly jet-black beard, curly hair and enor-
mous hook nose gave him a Middle Eastern appearance,
like a throwback to the island's Phoenician past. He
reminded Zen of someone he had seen earlier, although
he couldn't think who. From time to time, between gulped
half glassfuls of wine, the man muttered in dialect to his
companions, bitter interjections which received no reply.
Zen began to feel alarmed. The man was clearly drunk,
his mood explosive and unpredictable, and he was staring
at him more and more directly, as though beating up this