Blood from a Stone

Начало книги

Weil ein Schwarzer hässlich ist.

Ist mir denn kein Herz gegeben?

Bin ich nicht von Fleisch und Blut?

Thus a Blackmoor is considered ugly.

Didn’t I receive a heart as well?

Aren’t I made of flesh and blood?

— Mozart, Die Zauberflöte

Two men passed under the wooden arch that led into Campo Santo Stefano, their bodies harlequined by the coloured Christmas lights suspended above them. Brighter light splashed from the stalls of the Christmas market, where vendors and producers from different regions of Italy tempted shoppers with their local specialities: dark-skinned cheeses and packages of paper-thin bread from Sardinia, olives in varying shape and colour from the entire length of the peninsula; oil and cheese from Tuscany; salami of all lengths, compositions, and diameters from Reggio Emilia. Occasionally one of the men behind the counters shouted out a brief hymn to the quality of his wares: ‘Signori, taste this cheese and taste heaven’; ‘It’s late and I want to go to dinner: only nine Euros a kilo until they’re gone’; ‘Taste this pecorino, signori, best in the world’.

Читать дальше →