“Males have two brains. One up top, the other down below! And more often than not, the second one has more control than the first.” He inserted the electronic key into its slot next to the steering wheel. The minute that the various lights and gauges lit up on the control panel, he had the distinct sensation that dozens of little lights had flicked on in his brain as well. He’d realized: The book by Anatole France on Chiara’s bed! The fairy tale. Abeille, which means “bee.” A doubt surfaced. He grabbed his cell phone and called Italo. “Do you speak Provençal?”

“No. I speak patois. It’s a little different, but still, more or less, yes . . . why?”

“You need to tell me how to say ‘bee’ in Provençal.”

Italo said nothing. Then: “I’ll ask my aunt. She’s from Castagnole Piemonte, you know?”

“Who the hell cares where she’s from. Just get busy!”

He ended the call. He didn’t have to wait a full minute. A chime announced the arrival of a text message. It was from Italo. “Bee is abelha. That’s what my aunt remembers.”

Bee. Abela. The surname of the young guard at Varallo prison. “A.A.” written on the young woman’s doorbell. “Amelia Abela?” Maybe the picture finally had a frame.

“OUT!” SHOUTED THE CHAIR UMPIRE. HUNDREDS OF MOTHS were fluttering around the halogen spotlights illuminating the tennis court.

“What do you mean, out!” protested Vittorio Abrugiati, who had clearly seen that the volley was inside the line.

“Papà, if it’s out, it’s out,” his son replied from his perch on the chair.

“Vittò, don’t even try. It was out,” said Dario Cantalini, who’d outpaced Vittorio in the first set with a clear lead of 6 to 1 and was leading in the second set 2 to 0, his serve. Vittorio delivered a kick to his bag, which flew through the air, spitting out three yellow tennis balls and a towel. “Fuck, though, it was in by a yard!”

His son, who was refereeing the game with the help of two friends, and who understood tennis better than his father, since he was currently leading the Abruzzo regional series, rolled his eyes. “Come on, Papà, it was out!”

Dario Cantalini rubbed his hands. “Forty–love, and I have three balls for the third game, my friend! And don’t forget, you’re going to have to wash my car inside and out, eh?”

“Not necessarily!” Vittorio protested. “Though if I even have the chair umpire against me, maybe so!”

“Papà, cut it out, or I’ll give you a warning!” shouted his son Carlo.

Vittorio got ready to receive the serve. Dario blasted a ball that skidded on the line, and Vittorio didn’t even try to hit.

“Ace! Dario’s game, three to zero, changeover!” called Carlo.