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A booming basso roar in response. ‘SINJORA!’
Robin jumps, tenses.
The chief lumbers to his feet and comes so close that their noses almost touch. Grappa, cigars, garlic. She’s interrupted his evening meal.
‘We’ve had complaints,’ he bellows, ‘about litter. Everywhere, these … papers … fixed to everything. Did you ask permission to vandalise our town like this? Did you? Who give you this permission?’
She pulls back. He doesn’t follow. Albert, she thinks Cosmo Albert, that’s his name. A ridiculous name for such a pompous little man.
‘No one,’ she says.
‘Alora! Bjen!’
‘I’m sorry,’ she says.
He does a strangely wet, chomping tut. ‘Is too late for sorry,’ he says. ‘If it was just the litter, the bad manners … but is not, is it? Our duqa was appalled at what you did last night. Appalled. You cannot disrupt the lives of strangers like this, sinjora. People come to La Kastellana for peace. For privacy. They don’t expect to be … assaulted on their own property.’
‘Assaulted?’ She reels.
‘A figure of speech, sinjora.’
‘O-kay … ’
The hand. ‘But, correctly, he says if you can do something like this, you cannot be trusted not to do more.’
‘I promise,’ says Robin. ‘I’ll write to him. Tonight. To apologise.’
‘Too late,’ he says. Pulls a comedy grin. ‘Sorreee!’ he says.
