Luca Bassani

Luca Bassani is 30 and a glazierglazier A craftsman who cuts and fits glass for windows, display cases and frames., the son of a glazier, born in a mountain village in northern Italy where the windows of the houses were worth more than the furniture. He came to Paris at 24, chasing better pay, and got what he wanted: fine work, well paid, and a daily sense that the city tolerates him without wanting him. He speaks French well but never loses the accent, and thinks the accent is a debt collected with every sentence.

He lives in a boarding-house room above a bakery in the east of the city, and spends his mornings in a corner café, at the zinc counter, with a short coffee and the newspaper open. The waiter knows his face and the way he orders. In the afternoon he goes to the building sites, to the bars where his countrymen play cards, or back to the boarding house. He writes long letters to his mother, who cannot read and asks a neighbor to read them aloud.

He is a sun-browned man with short black hair combed back and a thick mustache that he smooths with his thumb when he talks about himself. His dark eyes are deep-set and alert. He wears a collared shirt without a tie and a brown vest worn thin from use, which he refuses to replace. He is proud and quiet, speaks of his trade with affection and of France with resentment, and takes offense when treated as a mere laborer.

About his work at the museum, his account is direct: he installed the glass display cases in half the rooms, work no Frenchman wanted to do, and the construction ended in March. Since then, he says, he has not set foot there. On Monday morning he woke late and went to the corner café to read the paper, and the waiter, he claims, can vouch for his face.

Luca speaks slowly when he feels cornered and even more slowly when he is sure of himself. It may be the wounded pride of an immigrant tired of being a suspect for being a foreigner. It may be the calm of someone who weighs every word. The detective will have to decide which.