Coming of Age: Volume 2: Endless Conflict by Thomas T. Thomas Page B

too often—think of our physical selves as the whole package. A woman’s face and body are her persona, her projection. She’s proud of them. Antigone is an extremely proud woman. And now she’s a freak.”
    “We’ve got to call her back,” he said, “and convince her otherwise.”
    “Dad! Let her go. At least for the time being. Antigone is ashamed of what’s happened. You would shame her further if you tried to make light of it.”
    “But she can’t just go out in the cold like this.”
    “Antigone has resources. She’ll survive. And besides, as we left the doctor’s office, she muttered something about the nerves growing back—how the doctor said it might happen, but she didn’t believe it. So maybe she will heal in time, and then she’ll probably want to return. But for now, let her do what she needs to do.”
    “I can’t …” Praxis realized that with those words he was putting his needs first, which was not what a man was supposed to do. But then another thought occurred to him. “What about Alexander?”
    “We’ll work something out with the nanny,” his daughter said. “Something more structured. Full-time care for Alexander.”
    “But what about when he asks for his mother?”
    “I don’t know, Dad. One day at a time.”
    “We’ll bank her salary in her name.”
    “I doubt she’s worried about that.”
    “Well, no definite decisions—”
    “Not until we hear,” she said.
    “And keep a place for her.”
    “Sure. That’s the spirit.”
    * * *
    Dr. Alfredo Giusto had six people in intensive care with what looked like a new and virulent strain of influenza. The worst cases were Matteo di Rienzi and his son Carlo. The younger man, in the bed next to which the doctor stood, was gravely ill, almost unconscious, and complaining of searing pain throughout his body. Across the aisle, the older man lay near death, pale, barely breathing. Matteo was still writhing feebly under the sheet where just hours before he had been thrashing, bellowing, and had required restraints.
    But four others in another section of the ward were also gravely ill: the former mayor of Torino and his wife, as well as the city’s leading banker and his wife. As Dr. Giusto understood it, all of them had attended a party at the former shipping magnate’s villa across the river. Perhaps—no, likely—they were exposed to the disease there. Perhaps one of them was even the carrier.
    Carlo raised his head. “Help me, Doctor, please,” he said softly.
    “With an influenza like this, it is very difficult,” Dr. Giusto apologized. “You have a virus, you see, for which we have no antibiotics and few effective medications. We can treat symptoms only, not the underlying disease. So we can only watch and wait. Now if you had a bacterial infection—”
    “You must help me,” Carlo whispered again.
    Dr. Giusto had heard about this father and son before, of course. He had been hearing their names for twenty years and more—and not always in a good context, either. Sometimes they were connected with small crimes, corruption, and random acts of violence, sometimes with great swindles. And sometimes the newspaper editors connected them with the lawlessness that infected the southern parts of his country.
    It occurred to the doctor that six people attending a party and all coming down with the same illness was problematic. It had been a large party, he knew, an annual affair for the di Rienzis. But then, with such a virulent strain set loose in such a large crowd, one would expect to see more cases than this. Where were the others? Surely dozens of people should have reported to this hospital and the nearby clinics. But he had heard and seen nothing.
    Dr. Giusto tapped his index finger against the point of his chin.
    It might also be a poisoning of some kind. But even then, with something getting into the food or drinks, or filtering into the water, more people should have been affected. This narrowness of scope—the