“What’d you tell him?” I asked her as calmly as I could.
“Nothing,” she whispered. “He spoke with Professore Corta in his office. Corta’s been anxious ever since. Warned me not to speak with anyone regarding the notes. Has been trying to reach . . .”
“Who? The person who saw the notes? Did Professore Corta see them?”
“No. He never saw the notes. Only . . .”
“Who?” I prompted a little too strongly. She covered her quivering lips.
“You know where I can find him?”
She nodded almost imperceptibly. “Her. She is my friend. She is nervous since the fire. She feels in great danger and has . . . uh . . . taken a leave.”
“Is she at her house? Or apartment?”
“No.”
“But you can get a message to her?”
Frustrating silence.
“Signora Rossi, you said your friend thinks she’s in danger? Believe me, if the man with the snake tattoo is here, your friend
“I know what
A moment passed.
“Noon,” I repeated.
She nodded.
“Thank you, Signora Rossi.” I offered her my hand.
“Francesca,” she corrected, taking it.
As I turned to leave, a man ran right into me. He let out a loud “oof” and fell backward, dropping his newspaper and losing his hat.
“Oh, jeez, I’m sorry,” I said, helping him up.
He grabbed my lapels as I pulled him to his feet. He was short, maybe five-eight, and wore an expensive raincoat over a rail-thin body. As we both reached for his paper and hat, we clunked heads and I caught a whiff of Old Spice. He grunted as he picked up the paper, puffing out his sunken cheeks. His hat was a Borsalino, gray like his coat. He snatched it from my hand, scowling.
Out on the street again, I pressed the side of my head where it hurt. A little punishment for being clumsy, out of my element. But I’d succeeded in getting Signora Rossi to confide in me. I was closer.
I looked down at my Beatle boots. The soles had touched the same floor Nolo Tecci had tread on. I felt the heat of anger spread through my feet, up my calves, thighs, and chest, into my throat and out to my fingertips. I’d never felt this way before.
I squinted up at the sky. “Is there more than bone and gristle, God?” I whispered.
I walked back to the hotel scraping my shoes on the cobblestone streets, urging myself into an easier groove.
Maybe the doge sat in this very spot, digesting pheasant and pasta, some fruit. Perhaps he was writing something himself, a poem about an apostle or the curve of a slice of crenshaw melon, a quill pen in his steady hand, ink stains on his noble fingers.
I looked at my own fingers. They hadn’t written much poetry. Instead, they’d hung on to airplane wings and motorcycle grips, steering wheels, window ledges, rock walls, and elevator cables. Punched calculator keys, doing the physics of falls and crashes. Signed contracts and checks, even the odd autograph.
There was a knock at the door. I peeped through the brass fisheye: the maid—about four and a half feet tall, middle-aged, closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair, white gloves, light blue uniform. I let her in. She slid past me, eyes down, and hastily dusted the furniture with a real feather duster. I moved out of her way and stood at the window.
The splashing sun and aquatic activity drew me back to my daydreams, where I rummaged amid the spare parts of thought and fancy,unable to overturn anything resembling real cognition. The click of the door as the maid left brought me back from that intangible place.
I remained at the large window for a while, contemplating why Francesca’s friend from the Accademia would be hiding out, when my phone rang.
A throaty voice, a little deeper than the average female’s, spoke into the receiver: “Francesca Rossi gave me this number. With whom am I speaking?”
“My name is Reb,” I answered.
