The flower that had sat on the windowsill since before her death was now drooping and shriveled. I caught the usual reflection from Building A’s penthouse. From there Manfredi could keep an eye on everything and everyone. He could see without being seen, the ideal condition for him. He could see Elisa Sordi’s window. And in that moment, he could see me. I couldn’t resist the temptation. I lit a cigarette and, blowing smoke through my nose, waved good-bye to him.
I walked across the magnificent grounds, enjoying my cigarette and the singing of the birds. I was in Rome, but it felt like the countryside. I glanced at the swimming pool. A woman in a bathing suit was lying on the grass, tanning in the sun’s last rays. I’d already caught a glimpse of her while she was getting in the car with the count the previous Sunday. She could have been my age, although her physique was that of a twenty-year-old, lean and slender. I saw her face sideways on, extremely delicate features and tiny crows’ feet in the corners of her eyes. She turned to look at me, her eyes a greenish-blue.
“Strictly speaking, smoking isn’t permitted on the grounds,” she said politely. It was a warning more than anything else. I looked instinctively toward Building A’s terrace, but it was hidden by the trees.
I should have said that I had lit it on purpose to provoke that overbearing husband of hers and her nosy young son. In that way we could have spoken. Instead, I did something very unlike me, meaning I did the diplomatic thing. I mumbled a few words of apology, stubbed the cigarette out on the ground and then picked up the stub and put it in my pocket. I cursed myself; the count was making me feel uncomfortable in a way I never had. I’d met men who were just as powerful and dangerous, but the difference was that I appreciated some things about Count Tommaso dei Banchi di Aglieno. Or at least I would have appreciated those things at one time, in my bad years: uncompromising belief in an idea, whatever the cost. There were other things I detested in him, such as fidelity to a king who had rejected Fascism and favored a medieval aristocratic system that left power over land and people in the hands of a few.
Whatever it was, I’d had a bellyful of that unease and wanted to get away from there as soon as possible. I crossed the city in my Duetto with the top down in the first cool of sunset. Thanks to a special permit I was allowed to enter the historic center, which was closed to traffic. I parked nonchalantly next to a squad car below the Spanish Steps, showing my badge to the men in uniform. I bought a large cone of pistachio and chocolate ice cream and leaned against the Duetto looking around, shamelessly eyeing up the beautiful female tourists. And between the fountain and the steps there were plenty of them, some already looking curiously at the red Spider and the dark suntanned young man not giving a shit about the cops while peacefully enjoying his ice cream. A platinum blonde, suntanned and elegant in high heels, was coming out of Via Condotti with a Gucci shoulder bag and wearing a short Valentino dress. She was about ten years older than I was.
It took me only a moment to see the moped coming and the two kids without helmets. The one behind stretched out his arm to grab hold of the bag and wrench it from the blonde in one swift move. In an instant and with a loud slap, my pistachio and chocolate cone was plastered over the eyes of the one in front. The moped wobbled off course, hit the edge of the fountain, and overturned, taking the two kids with it as it fell.
The patrolmen ran over. I again showed my badge and recovered the lady’s Gucci bag, leaving my colleagues to deal with the two little would-be thieves.
“They’re juveniles, Captain. We’ll take their names and let them go if they don’t have records,” one of the officers said.
I shot a glance at the two kids. They were from the suburbs for sure. One was
I walked across the magnificent grounds, enjoying my cigarette and the singing of the birds. I was in Rome, but it felt like the countryside. I glanced at the swimming pool. A woman in a bathing suit was lying on the grass, tanning in the sun’s last rays. I’d already caught a glimpse of her while she was getting in the car with the count the previous Sunday. She could have been my age, although her physique was that of a twenty-year-old, lean and slender. I saw her face sideways on, extremely delicate features and tiny crows’ feet in the corners of her eyes. She turned to look at me, her eyes a greenish-blue.
“Strictly speaking, smoking isn’t permitted on the grounds,” she said politely. It was a warning more than anything else. I looked instinctively toward Building A’s terrace, but it was hidden by the trees.
I should have said that I had lit it on purpose to provoke that overbearing husband of hers and her nosy young son. In that way we could have spoken. Instead, I did something very unlike me, meaning I did the diplomatic thing. I mumbled a few words of apology, stubbed the cigarette out on the ground and then picked up the stub and put it in my pocket. I cursed myself; the count was making me feel uncomfortable in a way I never had. I’d met men who were just as powerful and dangerous, but the difference was that I appreciated some things about Count Tommaso dei Banchi di Aglieno. Or at least I would have appreciated those things at one time, in my bad years: uncompromising belief in an idea, whatever the cost. There were other things I detested in him, such as fidelity to a king who had rejected Fascism and favored a medieval aristocratic system that left power over land and people in the hands of a few.
Whatever it was, I’d had a bellyful of that unease and wanted to get away from there as soon as possible. I crossed the city in my Duetto with the top down in the first cool of sunset. Thanks to a special permit I was allowed to enter the historic center, which was closed to traffic. I parked nonchalantly next to a squad car below the Spanish Steps, showing my badge to the men in uniform. I bought a large cone of pistachio and chocolate ice cream and leaned against the Duetto looking around, shamelessly eyeing up the beautiful female tourists. And between the fountain and the steps there were plenty of them, some already looking curiously at the red Spider and the dark suntanned young man not giving a shit about the cops while peacefully enjoying his ice cream. A platinum blonde, suntanned and elegant in high heels, was coming out of Via Condotti with a Gucci shoulder bag and wearing a short Valentino dress. She was about ten years older than I was.
It took me only a moment to see the moped coming and the two kids without helmets. The one behind stretched out his arm to grab hold of the bag and wrench it from the blonde in one swift move. In an instant and with a loud slap, my pistachio and chocolate cone was plastered over the eyes of the one in front. The moped wobbled off course, hit the edge of the fountain, and overturned, taking the two kids with it as it fell.
The patrolmen ran over. I again showed my badge and recovered the lady’s Gucci bag, leaving my colleagues to deal with the two little would-be thieves.
“They’re juveniles, Captain. We’ll take their names and let them go if they don’t have records,” one of the officers said.
I shot a glance at the two kids. They were from the suburbs for sure. One was
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