White Shotgun

“The horse. My boyfriend’s name is Sterling.” She raised her eyebrows skeptically, and we both started laughing.

“Does this seem ridiculous?” I asked. “Like, if you’re American, of course you would date a cowboy?” “It might be fun to date a cowboy.” “Trust me.”

“Scusi.”

Her cell phone rang, and she answered with enthusiasm. A toddler ran in spirals in the middle of the Campo, trailing the white-and-black-striped flag of Istrice, the Porcupine. I found myself enthralled by the fountain, as if the sound had been turned up. The smell of damp stone took me back to winter rain outside my grandfather’s house, looking through the screen door and feeling oddly safe.

“I’m sorry,” said Cecilia, slipping the phone into her bag. “That was my husband’s business partner, Sofri.” “The scientist?”

“He’s more like the family adviser. The ‘secretary of state.’ I rely on him for everything. He’s very charming,” she confided. “A bachelor who loves the ladies. He’ll love you. Should we go?” “How are your feet?” I asked.

“Fine,” she sniffed. “There was never any problem.” Now, as I look through the binoculars, Sofri leans in close.

“Are you able to see Cecilia?” he asks.

“She’s right there. Near the tower.” “That tower has always reminded me of her,” he says thoughtfully.

“Why?”

“Do you think I am right? Does it resemble her?” I move the glasses along the graceful column of brick and examine the details of the white travertine belfry.

“It looks like a lily.”

He is delighted. “Your sister is a devoted Catholic. A believer to the core. I can see it, the white Easter lily,” he muses. “The resurrection. A wonderful analysis; she would like that.” “Why do you think it resembles Cecilia?” He takes a moment. “It stands alone,” he replies at last.

“It’s lonely?”

He shrugs. “Lonely, maybe, but look how it dominates the square.” “She’s not totally alone. Cecilia told me she depends on you.” “I love her like a daughter, but — you will see — it takes time to gain her trust.” “What do you think she wants from me?” I ask curiously.

“That’s a funny question. Wave!” he urges. “She knows we’re here.” I wave the Oca scarf, calling, “Cecilia! We’re up at Sofri’s. Look!” Even through the binoculars she is small and far away, the space between us large. She idly scans the buildings but doesn’t seem to pick us out in the mass of banners and faces in the windows. Eventually, she turns away.

FOURTEEN

Since the last time I saw Giovanni he looked like a corpse in a wax museum, it is a wonderful relief to find him sitting up in bed in the hospital. He is on painkillers, making him glassy-eyed and carefree.

“Did you hear?” he babbles. “I won the lotto!” “Yes, you were lucky. Do you know what happened to you?” He shrugs. “Boh.”

“You were jumped outside of Muriel Barrett’s apartment.” He tries to process this.

“And then you were taken to a tunnel off Via Salicotto.” “The police said that, but I don’t remember.” “What do you remember?” He gestures toward a glass of water, and when I give it to him, he drinks with gusto through a straw.

“Did you see who attacked you, Giovanni?” He lies back on the pillows and looks up at the fluorescent lights. Just drinking has exhausted him.

“Never mind. You rest.” He is quiet, and I think he might doze, but then a tear rolls down his cheek. I stroke his hair, thick and unwashed.

“What’s the matter, baby?” He tries to raise the broken arm, but he is too weak to lift the cast. “I kick their ass.” Tears are streaming now, but his eyes remain uplifted, as if by looking elsewhere he will not have to see something awful.

“My father all the time tells me, ‘If they hit you, you kick them in the nuts.’ No. You kick them first in the nuts — first.” “You’re a fighter like your dad.” “He comes into my room.” “Who? Your dad?” Giovanni rolls his head to one side, slowly. The tears hit the pillow.

I prompt him. “Who came in here? Was it a strange old guy without any hands?” His eyes go empty. I find a tissue and wipe his cheek. He is fading fast as winter light.

“Why did you go to Muriel Barrett’s apartment?” He does not respond.

“You drove outside the walls to see Muriel. You went for a reason.” “Non lo so,” he whispers. “The police already ask.” With the police guard outside the open door there is no privacy, so I sit on the bed and lean in close.

“Giovanni, listen. I have no agenda except to protect you and your family. You’ve been targeted by the mafias, and these people do not fool around. What’s going on? Are you involved with drugs? Stolen property? You can tell me. I have friends who will help.” “Sbagliato,” he answers heavily. An involuntary grin crosses his face — that sign of deception — but it probably doesn’t count if you’re high on Percodan. “Wrong. You are fucked up.” “Who’s fucked up?” I ask gently. “Who’s in the hospital because he was jumped by professional hit men?” “I don’t sell drugs.” His head relaxes back and he sighs. “Sono di merda.”

He falls silent.

I now have custody of Giovanni’s mailbox car, which gets me to the Walkabout Pub. Chris, the dour Englishman behind the bar, is wearing rainbow-colored suspenders over a black shirt, adding a note of frivolity to the dull red atmosphere.

“Enjoying the Palio?” I ask.

“The party has barely begun,” he replies ambiguously, putting a Foster’s under my nose.

“What happens tomorrow?” “I don’t keep up with it,” he says. “I just pour the beer.” “Why do you live here?” “I enjoy the expat community.” “And the Italian girls?” He blows through his lips. “I stay away from the Italian girls. I value my equipment, if you take my meaning.” Muriel comes in through the door, but instead of her usual oversized pop art tunics and wild tights, bare feet in splintering old Dr. Scholl’s, she is wearing city clothes: a long brown skirt and a beige crocheted jacket.

“You look nice,” I say. “Where are you off to?” She is edgy, and does not sit down. “London.” “For how long?” “I don’t know. Sheila’s taken ill again. The tumor’s back. They want her to do another round of chemo. We’ll just have to go from there.” “When are you leaving?” “The taxi is outside.” “Anything we can do?” “No worries. Madame Defarge”—meaning her demented landlady—“has everything in hand.” Chris puts up a rum e pera. “One for the road?” Muriel turns away, as if the sight makes her queasy. She looks as flushed and panicky as she did in the hospital corridor, when we learned Giovanni had gone into cardiac arrest.

“No, I couldn’t. I’m just too upset.” “Sorry, love,” he says, disappearing the drinks. “What’s that you’ve got? Going-away present for me?” She’s clutching a rectangular package about seventeen by twelve inches, tightly wrapped with brown paper and twine.

“No, dear; it’s a painting for Giovanni, to wish him a speedy recovery.” “Very cool. I’ll give it to him.” I take the package.

She seems rattled. “I was going to leave it with Chris.” “No worries,” I assure her.

“Well, all right. Give him my best. Ciao, everyone,” she calls, and turns away, wiggling her fingers good-bye over her shoulder as she pulls the door open. We watch the taxi maneuver down the street.

“Did she say when she’s coming back?” I wonder.

“In the meantime,” Chris says, “let’s not allow those shots to go to waste.” Chris places the untouched rum e pera back on the bar. He does one and I do the other. We do a couple more, until the alcohol makes the world a