The Black Widow

“I have.”

“And?”

“He swears it was all Paul Rousseau’s idea.”

Chiara skeptically folded the butter and the cheese into the risotto mixture. Then she spooned the rice onto two plates and to each added a thick slice of the osso buco Milanese.

“More juice,” said Gabriel. “I like the juice.”

“It’s not stew, darling.”

Gabriel tore away a crust of bread and swirled it along the bottom of the casserole pot.

“Peasant,” sneered Chiara.

“I come from a long line of peasants.”

“You? You’re as bourgeois as they come.”

Chiara dimmed the overhead lights, and they sat down at a small candlelit table in the kitchen.

“Why candles?” asked Gabriel.

“It’s a special occasion.”

“My last restoration.”

“For a while, I suppose. But you can always restore paintings after you retire as chief.”

“I’ll be too old to hold a brush.”

Gabriel poked the tines of his fork into the veal, and it fell from the thick bone. He prepared his first bite carefully, an equal amount of meat and risotto drenched in the rich marrowy juice, and slipped it reverently into his mouth.

“How is it?”

“I’ll tell you after I regain consciousness.”

The candlelight was dancing in Chiara’s eyes. They were the color of caramel and flecked with honey, a combination that Gabriel had never been able to reproduce on canvas. He prepared another bite of the risotto and veal but was distracted by an image on the television. Rioting had erupted in several Parisian banlieues after the arrest of several men on terrorism-related charges, none in direct connection with the attack on the Weinberg Center.

“ISIS must be enjoying this,” said Gabriel.

“The rioting?”

“It doesn’t look like rioting to me. It looks like …”

“What, darling?”

“An intifada.”

Chiara switched off the television and turned up the volume on the baby monitor. Designed by the Office’s Technology department, it had a heavily encrypted signal so that Israel’s enemies could not eavesdrop on the domestic life of its spy chief. For the moment it emitted only a low electrical hum.

“So what are you going to do?” she asked.

“I’m going to eat every bite of this delicious food. And then I’m going to soak up every last drop of juice in that pot.”

“I was talking about Paris.”

“Obviously, we have two choices.”

“You have two choices, darling. I have two children.”

Gabriel laid down his fork and stared levelly at his beautiful young wife. “Either way,” he said after a conciliatory silence, “my paternity leave is over. I can assume my duties as chief, or I can work with the French.”

“And thus take possession of a van Gogh painting worth at least a hundred million dollars.”

“There is that,” said Gabriel, picking up his fork again.

“Why do you suppose she decided to leave it to you?”

“Because she knew I would never do anything foolish with it.”

“Like what?”

“Put it up for sale.”

Chiara made a face.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“One can dream, can’t one?”

“Only about osso buco and risotto.”

Rising, Gabriel went to the counter and helped himself to another portion. Then he doused both rice and meat in juice, until his plate was in jeopardy of brimming over. Behind his back, Chiara hissed in disapproval.

“There’s one more,” he said, gesturing toward the casserole.

“I still have five kilos to lose.”

“I like you the way you are.”

“Spoken like a true Italian husband.”

“I’m not Italian.”

“What language are you speaking to me right now?”

“It’s the food talking.”