It was then that Carter made up his mind that, although he was not yet ready to go to Roccasale, it was time nonetheless for him to move on. His pace quickening, he resolved to pack his bags that night and leave the city the next day. He liked Rome very much and hoped one day to see more of it, but for now his heart was leading him elsewhere, and he needed to continue his journey. And so it was that Carter hurried back to his hotel room that night, stopping only once along the way to toss a coin into the Trevi Fountain.

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 29

While he waited for the pot of water on the stove to come to a boil, Giancarlo peeled a clove of garlic and began to chop it up on the cutting board with a knife. On the burner next to the pot warmed a frying pan lined with a heavy coat of olive oil and a pinch of crushed red pepper flakes.

It was early evening, the night before the first day of classes, and Giancarlo was preparing dinner. His movements almost mechanical from long experience cooking for himself, he stared absentmindedly at the garlic as the knife clopped against the board. Though his hungry stomach growled for attention, his mind was elsewhere. He had been troubled all that day by something he had dreamt the night before. In the dream, he had walked into the kitchen and found his father, Roberto, sitting at the table, the pocket watch dangling from his hand. In that strange way that can only happen in a dream, Giancarlo had watched himself become a little boy again. With a delighted smile, the boy rushed over to sit on his father’s knee and eagerly snatched the watch from his hand. He opened the cover and pressed the little button inside to make it play its song, but no matter how often he pressed it or tried to wind the watch, the music would not come. On the verge of tears, the child had looked to his father to make it work. Roberto simply smiled affectionately and shook his head before taking the watch and tucking it back in his pocket.Then the little boy had suddenly disappeared, and Roberto turned stern eyes to the older Giancarlo, who still stood there watching.

“Basta di pasta,” he had snapped in a sharp tone, like that which a parent might use to correct a wayward child.