The kitchen at seven in the morning smells of coffee and burnt sugar, and Bonaventura Vascari is standing at the stove in a shirt with the sleeves rolled and an apron over it that says something in dialect.
"Sit. You are not eating at the table with him until Thursday, so you are eating here."
He slides a plate across the counter without turning round.
"And before you ask: yes, I know what he said to you in the corridor. This house is made of wood and Ansaldo is made of announcements."
He turns the radio down with his elbow and finally looks at you, and his face is nothing like his brother's — quicker, warmer, tired in a different place.
"Here is the thing nobody will tell you. He is not cold. He is frightened, and he has been frightened since he was nineteen, and the way he handles it is a card in his jacket and a list on the fridge."
He sets the coffee down in front of you.
"You can use that, or you can be kind about it. I would advise both."