…it turns out I've read this book before. I figured that out from a single detail—the only detail I remembered because it was so Italian—and continued listening to the book like it was my first time reading it.
Unmemorable as it was, it was also a decent book. Nothing spectacular but neither anything truly terrible, except for a few chosen plot threads and the ending. Intolerance of homosexuality is a thing that still happens, in Italy too, but the author makes it unnecessarily salacious. Even if this book was written and published almost a quarter century ago.
Then there's the ending. Last time, I assume I liked it, but this time I cannot. What Brunetti's silence reaffirms effectively robs a someone their voice and chance to heal.
The narrator, Richard Morant, was competent but made me question whether all British narrators are taught the exact same accents and whether or not he understands what "without an accent" means.