“Dead! From what, Quentin?”
“From the pin pricks you are giving me right square in the heart. You are about to remind me for the fifth time that the chocolate we make in the store is adulterated.... I know you are.”
“No, I’ve said nothing about it.”
“Then you are going to talk to me about the coffee which is mixed with chicory, and then, eventually, and in order to complete the offence, you will bring my step-father’s nickname before my eyes.”
“El Pende—that’s it, isn’t it?”
“Yes, my lady that is what they call him.”
“Well, to show you that I am more generous than you think me, I shall not mention it again. Henceforth you shall guard the secret of my olives, as I will guard the secret of your spices. Tell me: Is it true that you have a good voice?”
“For Heaven’s sake! What are you trying to do, my lady? Have pity and compassion on a poor little chap like me.”
“Go on, please sing.”
Quentin hummed the swaggering song from “Rigoletto”: