Yeah, well, it’s the only book I’ve got, right? So, good for old Antonio. He’s sad and he doesn’t know why. That’s a bit of a luxury, that kind of sadness, if you ask me—and even if you don’t. It has no cause. It’s just a kind of mood. Maybe he was a teenager. I doubt if his grandmother has died, his mother has managed to annihilate herself, his father has run off with a young one, he’s not allowed to see his little sister, and he’s in danger of getting a criminal record because of a kind of overambitious prank with a carrot, or possibly for murder. I’d give him sad, I would, if I met him. Oh, sweet Jesus, is it ever going to let up? I told Kate all that the next afternoon, when I saw her. She said, Yeah, you’re right, I never liked Antonio, bit of a moaner. Spoiled. I like her attitude. All the same. “What about that Paudge?” I said. “He’s trying to get you to winkle stuff out of me, isn’t he? That’s why you’re here.” “It is not,” she said. “Listen, Jonathan, I am on your side.
