The thought of Zé was unexpectedly smooth in Kennet’s mind as he walked back to the house. Xandro was asleep on his shoulder by the time he reached the attic stairs. He emerged into the new, renovated space. Painted fresh and white and fitted with a blue carpet and pale green curtains at the window seat. Astrid had procured another easy chair and lamp at an estate sale. They were tucked in a corner beneath the sloping eaves, next to a bookshelf stacked with every Fiskare’s favorite stories.

Kennet put Xandro down in his crib and went to the window to pull the curtains shut. He paused, squinting over the roof of the hotel and beyond to the marina, where he could just make out the Jacques’ Trap at the dock. O’Hara was already in the boat, holding her steady, a hand on Minor’s back as he came down the ladder. Holding him steady.

Kennet peeked in the bedroom. Astrid lay against a stack of pillows, asleep with Kennet’s journal face down on her chest, her hands crossed on the spine.

He moved to the other side of the bed. Xandro’s old side. He sat on the floor, back against the mattress, on an eye level with the photograph of Zé Davis-Reyes.

Zé was in uniform: wool fatigues bunched around boots, combat shirt and an officer’s overcoat. A light scarf around his neck. One hand in a pocket, the other holding a cigarette. A handsome fellow, dark hair parted on the side and combed back. A cleft chin. He looked at the camera, smiling, squinting a little, as if the sun were in his eyes.

Kennet leaned to one side, then the other.

Zé’s gaze followed.

I wonder if you met Nalle, Kennet thought. I hope you did. I hope it was one of those weird, wonderful, serendipitous moments when the war catches its breath and you and a stranger realize you have something in common.

Someone in common.

Like you and me.

So, about Xandro.

He’s a swell little kid and I wonder if you’d mind if I taught him how to say “fuck Hitler.”

He imagined the photograph coming to life. Zé throwing back his head and laughing. Taking a drag on the cigarette while the other hand came out of his pocket and playfully socked Kennet’s shoulder.

I’ll make sure he knows your story, Kennet thought, wrapping his arms around his kneecaps. I’ll find out everything I can about the Brazilian Expeditionary Force. We’ll put pins in the map of Italy. I’ll tell Xandro his father and my brother fought together. I know it might not be true, but every fish tale is embellished in some way.