Day of the Dead by Maurizio de Giovanni, Antony Shugaar Page B

master, is perfectly aware of who you are and where you live. I doubt that you failed to notice that every night after dinner, for I don’t know how many months, if not years, he stands at the window in his bedroom, which is right through that door over there, and watches you do your needlepoint. And if you’re here today it’s certainly because you know it, and you don’t mind at all if he watches you. Am I right?”
    Enrica felt like a little girl caught with her hands in the marmalade jar. She wished she could jump to her feet and run, and keep going until she reached the water’s edge, or even beyond. But a second later she realized that he had been just as incapable of concealing his interest in her from his
tata
, and she found this fact to be quite encouraging.
    She smiled uncertainly and sighed. Then she looked up, squared her shoulders, pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, and said:
    â€œYes, Signora. That’s right. And I don’t even really know why I’m here. Maybe it’s because I need help. I need
your
help.”
    Rosa settled into her armchair, satisfied. The girl wasn’t a striking beauty: in fact at first glance, she seemed rather mousy and insignificant. But now that she was getting a closer look at her, she could detect an attractive figure, with long legs and a nice bust, and regular features; her eyes, too, shone with the light of intelligence and wit, behind her myopic glasses.
    â€œHe wrote you a letter. I don’t know if he ever gave it to you, but I do know he wrote you a letter. I’m positive of it.”
    â€œYes, he wrote me. I received the letter the day before yesterday. It’s not exactly . . . Well, I’d have to say he’s not a man who makes bold declarations. He simply asks whether I would object to his greeting me if he sees me, that’s all. I was happy, but now I’m not sure what I should do.”
    Rosa ran a finger under her chin pensively.
    â€œSignori’, I’ve never been married. There was someone, when I was young, not a worn-out old lady like I am now, and he made it clear that he might be interested in me, but I sent him away, and I wasn’t very nice about it, either. Because all I wanted was to care for my
signorino
, his
mamma
had entrusted him to me; she died young. And I’ve dedicated my whole life to him. I ought to tell you that he is, by nature, just a little closed off, as they say . . . a little reserved, a little shy. In other words, he’s not the type to put himself forward. If you ask me, he’s afraid of rejection. But I’ll tell you one thing: in all these years, I’ve never seen him the way he is about you. This business with the window, and the letter: it’s very significant.”
    Enrica felt as if she were in a dream; here she was, in the place where he lived, pouring out her heart to a complete stranger, an old woman who spoke with an accent from a distant province, talking about something she wouldn’t have revealed to her own parents even if she were being tortured. And yet she said:
    â€œI know, I understand him. Because I’m the same way, not the kind of brazen woman who lets a man know that she likes him. Instead, I wait, hoping that he might, I don’t know, ask my father for permission to take me out. So for the past year I’ve been sitting there doing my needlepoint, and he watches me, and nothing happens. And in the spring, I was summoned to police headquarters because of some investigation or other, and I found myself face-to-face with him. I don’t know, it seemed wrong to me. So I lost my temper, I was harsh with him, and then I didn’t want to see him at all, not even through a window.”
    Rosa nodded seriously.
    â€œEh, I remember that period. He was in terrible shape, he thought I didn’t notice but I could see it, of course I could see it. So then what happened?”
    Enrica smiled at the