“Prego,” Signor Tonarelli responded. He was delighted to have been of service to this rich and powerful stranger. The man was from Rome, Signor Tonarelli had decided, given his accent. But he was much friendlier than the average Roman—a nasty, suspicious lot, as all mountain folk knew. What on earth the Roman was doing in his small osteria, picking up a bundle of old clothes, he didn’t know. Tonarelli knew they were just old clothes, because of course he and his wife had taken a careful look when the old Frenchman died, practically on their front door. He said—the Frenchman did—that someone would be along to pick up the package, and he was right. But neither Mario nor his wife, Luce, could figure out why on earth anyone would ever want to recover the old Frenchman’s clothes.

They buried him in the cemetery at the back of the little village, but Mario hung onto the package. Sure enough, along came a Roman only six months later, asking for it.

Mario’s eyes lit up. The Roman seemed to be counting out a little pile of gold lire. Who cares why he wanted those musty old rags?

“Grazie!” Tonarelli said, with true gratitude in his voice. He stood for a second in the door of his osteria, watching the Roman return to his carriage. He was a good-looking man, the Roman. Tall, with an arrogant, powerful walk that Mario much admired. He himself had grown rotund from eating too much of Luce’s mushroom pasta; but even so, he had never walked as this man naturally did. Like a wolf, Mario thought. His hand closed firmly on the pile of coins.

“Luce,” he bellowed, as Alex’s carriage began its long, winding way down the mountain. Mario’s sudden shout frightened the chickens who were pecking about the piazza, the square in the center of the village that was ringed by three stone houses, his bar, and the church.

“Is he gone?” His wife appeared breathlessly around the side of a building. She had been doing their washing in the stone bath behind the fountain, and her dress was splashed with water.

In answer Mario simply held out his hand, showing the coins.

“Grazie a Dio!” Luce said simply.

Mario smiled and walked over to her, a little of the stranger’s arrogant lope in his stride.

“I shall take some flowers to the grave today, to the old man,” Luce added.

Mario nodded. He deserved flowers, that Frenchman. He had made them rich by dying on their doorstep. Now they could not only buy a cow, but perhaps even spend some money to buy another mule. Their mule, Lia, was sixteen years old, and she staggered as she climbed up the mountain every couple of weeks, dragging a cart full of things to sell in the bar.