‘Why’s he always have to be late?’ Chiara complained as she reached for the radicchio.

‘He’s not always late,’ a literal-minded Paola answered.

‘It seems that way,’ Chiara said, selecting two long stalks and lifting them on to her plate, then carefully spooning melted cheese on top.

‘He said he’d be here as soon as he could.’

‘It’s not like it’s so important or anything, is it? That he has to be so late?’ Chiara asked.

Paola had explained the reason for their father’s absence, and so she found Chiara’s remark not a little strange.

‘I thought I told you someone was killed,’ she said mildly.

‘Yes, but it was only a vu cumprà,’ Chiara said as she picked up her knife.

It was at this remark that Paola’s mouth fell open. She picked up her glass of wine, pretended to take a sip, moved the platter of radicchio towards Raffi, who appeared not to have heard his sister, and asked, ‘What do you mean by, “only”, Chiara?’ Her voice, she was glad to note, was entirely conversational.

‘Just what I said, that it wasn’t one of us,’ her daughter answered.

Paola tried to identify sarcasm or some attempt to provoke her in Chiara’s response, but there was no hint of either. Chiara’s tone, in fact, seemed to echo her own in terms of calm dispassion.

‘By “us”, do you mean Italians or all white people, Chiara?’ she asked.

‘No,’ Chiara said. ‘Europeans.’

‘Ah, of course,’ Paola answered, picking up her glass and toying with the stem for a moment before setting it down, untasted. ‘And where are the borders of Europe?’ she finally asked.

‘What, Mamma?’ asked Chiara, who had been answering a question put to her by Raffi. ‘I didn’t hear you.’