but one of the waiters knows him and gives him messages.”
“You didn’t actually talk to him?” Julie asked.
“Nope, left a message. Told him I’d be there, in the bar, at ten o’clock this morning. He could come, or he could not come, it’s up to him. If he shows up, fine. If he’s not interested enough to see me”—he shrugged—“then at least I know he hasn’t changed, he’s the same useless crud he always was.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s about a twentyfive-minute drive from here, so either way we should be there and back before noon. I don’t intend to make this very long.”
Gideon folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, tipping it onto its rear legs. “So without even talking to us, you just assumed I’d give in. You just assumed that, whatever plans we might have, we’d change them to suit you. You just assumed Julie would be glad to entertain herself for two hours so I could squander my valuable time propping you up so you’d have the nerve to face your poor, old, long-estranged old father.”
Phil grinned amiably at them. “Yup.”
GIGNESE was one of a scattering of out-of-the-way villages along a twisty, switch-back road up the slopes of Mount Mottarone. At an elevation of over a thousand feet, it commanded a spectacular view over Stresa, the Borromean Islands, and the vast blue expanse of Lake Maggiore, but Gignese itself was a distinctly modest, working-class hamlet with a paper-thin tourist veneer (two small family hotels) optimistically based on the drawing power of the Umbrella Museum. Indeed, the museum, a surprisingly large, good-looking structure of brick and concrete standing by itself at the entrance to the town, was the one modern building they saw. The rest of the village consisted of a one-block commercial center—a gas station, a church, the two hotels, a couple of bars, a grocery store—surrounded by a few concentric rings of aging houses and apartment buildings in various shades of yellow-brown, mostly running from mustard to ochre.
All in all, a depressing place after Stresa’s perfect, postcard prettiness, and Phil looked as if he was having second thoughts about getting out of the car when they pulled up across the street from the Bar Ricci.
“Up to you,” Gideon said. He had left the engine running. “If you want to forget about it, no problem. Don’t do anything on my account.” He was still squeamish about the idea of horning in on what was sure to be an emotion- fraught encounter between father and son.
“I know, I know.” Phil was raking the place with his eyes. The Bar Ricci was the kind of no-frills establishment found in every village in Italy, no matter how small; a bar-cafe, actually, with a newspaper rack and a single metal table and chairs outside on a tiny terrace. Inside they could see eight or nine men—no women—sitting in groups of two or three, reading newspapers or chatting over coffee or brandy. The door was open and it wasn’t yet 10 a.m., but already the room was blue with cigarette smoke.
“Is he in there?” Gideon asked.
“Who knows? All I remember are some pictures of him in a scrapbook, mostly from before, when he was a skier.”
Gideon looked at him. “He was a skier?”
“Are you kidding? He was the best downhiller in Italy, or at least the wildest. The Avalanche, they called him. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it sometime.” He jerked his head. “Jeez, Gideon, I wish you hadn’t told me they found him.”
“Well, hell, Phil—”
“I know. You did the right thing, it’s only that—” He started. “Oh, Jesus, there he is, that’s him. Sonofabitch, that’s my father!”
He was staring at a lean, sinewy man in his sixties, with lank, thinning, iron-gray hair, sitting at the lone outside table. Beside him was a hunched-over woman of about the same age, wrapped in a shawl despite the mild weather, and wearing a shabby, ink-black wig that wasn’t quite straight. They were facing slightly away from each other, not speaking. The man’s eyes were constantly on the move. The woman seemed to be talking to herself. There was nothing on the table in front of them.
“Are you sure?” Gideon asked. “You haven’t seen him since you were a little kid.”
“It’s him,” Phil repeated. “I remember. See the way he holds his head on the side, like he’s right on the verge of getting an idea? That’s from when he broke his neck or something. It ended his career. See the way his fists are kind of curled all the time, almost clenched? See the way he’s, like, always looking around and around, waiting for someone to insult him or challenge him to a duel, or something? See how—”
“Phil, I thought you didn’t remember him. I thought all you had were some old pictures in a scrapbook.”
“Yeah, well, I guess I was wrong, because a lot of things are coming back. Man,” he said wonderingly, “I’ve got neurons that haven’t fired in forty years popping away like mad. All kinds of memories and associations. He looks so
“I suppose so.”
“Yeah. Jesus, look at her. She looks like her brains are cooked, all right.” He clasped his hands on his head and pressed down, as if he were trying to keep the top from coming off. “Oh, God, what am I doing here?”
“Phil, if you don’t want to—”
“No, no, I want to. You know me, I like to whine. But he wasn’t supposed to bring anybody, so what’s that all about?”
“You weren’t supposed to bring anybody either.”
“Yeah, that’s true. Okay, what the hell.” He took a breath, reached for the door handle, and looked at Gideon. “Ready?”
“Let’s go,” Gideon said as they got out. “And Phil... good luck, pal.”
“Good luck what?”
Gideon looked at him over the roof of the car, not sure what he’d meant. “Whatever you want.”
TWENTY
