“Luciano, do you think . . . ? Massimo always acted so strange when he talked about Giulia’s death.” Isotta’s thoughts darted back to the water’s edge. “Not just sad but . . . something else. Sometimes cold, sometimes angry, and sometimes . . . well . . . almost ashamed.” Isotta couldn’t believe she was even asking this, so she hurried forward to finish the thought. “Do you think? Could he have had anything to do with Giulia’s death?”
It is quite probable that you, like many in Santa Lucia, have been wondering the same.
He sighed, “Oh, dolcezza, my sweet. What a question. The thought occurred to me, I admit. I pored over the lab report that found nothing but a few elevated chemicals in her bloodstream. But I just can’t believe that of him. Even snakes have their limits. And I do think he loved her in his way. She certainly worked hard to never disappoint or anger him, it’s hard to imagine what would prompt him to violate his humanity.”
Perhaps this quells your curiosity, and perhaps not.
Isotta nodded. “Luciano? Can I stay here tonight? The last train to Florence has already left Girona, and anyway, I need time to figure out what to tell my parents. I don’t have a place to go.”
“Of course. Of course. As long as you like. Does Massimo know you’re here?”
“No. He doesn’t even know I know you, so he won’t come looking for me here. And I turned the ringer off my phone. I can’t think about him right now. He’ll figure out I left when he sees the mess of photographs all over the floor.”
They fell silent.
“All right then. But before you decide to stay, I’m afraid there is one little snag I must mention.” Luciano said carefully. “I should tell you that I don’t have electricity, so it will be a bit like camping, I’m afraid.”
“No power? But why? I have my mobile, I can call the power company for you. I don’t know the name because Massimo and Anna always kept me away from the mail, but you probably have the number on an old bill.”
“Thank you, cara. That’s very kind, but I’m afraid the loss of electricity is entirely my own doing. I . . . it’s not particularly flattering, but there was quite a period of time where I was unable, or at least, I didn’t make myself able, to pay my bills. Power, water, luckily the house has been in my family for generations, or I could have lost my home. I was able to negotiate getting the power back on last month for a bit, but understandably lost the grace of the power company when I failed to honor our agreement.”
Luciano turned his head away from Isotta’s puzzled expression. She rested a hand on his and said, “I love camping.”
“You do?”
“I do. Always have. My parents never took me, but I had aunts in the country that would go several times a year. I’ll tell you about it over dinner.”
Luciano’s smile spread across his face. “Va bene! One more thing, I don’t have any wine. I find it best not to keep it in the house. The only beverage I can offer you is water from the spigot in the alley.”
Isotta waved her hand carelessly, “It’s been a trying afternoon. I don’t even think I could handle wine. Maybe just some simple pasta?”
“That I can do. Not well, I’m afraid, but I can boil water. Unless you’d like to cook?”
Isotta grinned, “Yes, as a matter of fact. I would love to cook.”
“Well?” Carlo tossed his wallet and keys to the sideboard with a loud jangle. “I’m waiting.”
Elisa gasped like a fish, and looked from her mother to her father.
Concetta faltered, “Elisa was just telling us about one of her teachers. It’s not important. Good day, Carlo? What did your boss say about your taking next weekend off for the boys’ soccer game?”
Carlo unfastened the buttons on his cuffs and rolled his sleeves up to the elbows.
Elisa scooted backward and ducked her head against her brother.
Carlo’s voice was even as he asked, “Do I look like an idiot? What are you keeping from me?”
Concetta stood and smoothed down the skirt of her dress before gesturing Carlo to follow her into the kitchen. “Here, I’ll get you something to eat. Elisa, Guido, why don’t the two of you go to the alimentari for some pancetta? The butcher will be at the sagra, but Giovanni should be open a little longer—”
“No. They’ll stay here until I know what’s going on.”
Concetta came back from the kitchen and stood in front of her children. “It’s not really a big deal, I just was thrown off guard for a moment right when you walked in.”
“Tell me.” Carlo moved towards his family who winced in unison.
Elisa took a breath and then said, louder than she meant, “It’s my fault, Papà . . . I got a bad grade on my report card, but I’m getting better—”
Guido and Concetta rushed forward in unison, “She is!”
“—And I won’t fail now! I figured out how, you see—”
“Fail? You are in danger of failing? Even though you know what shame that will bring to our family?”
Silence.
“Where is this report card?”
Nobody answered, but Carlo caught his wife’s defensive glance at the TV. He strode forward and plucked the folded piece of paper to his wife’s sharp intake of breath.
“She did fail. She failed math. And her other subjects are awful.” He glared accusingly at Concetta, “You were going to keep this from me? So that I could become the laughingstock of the factory?”
“Carlo—”
“Quiet! I’m done with the embarrassment of this child.”
“Carlo, please, don’t, let’s go for a walk before—”
“I’ll do what I please, woman. You’ve had your way for far too long. If
