For a while, Smith meandered along the boulevard, worrying about Perrone. Had he really put his trust in a former alcoholic and juvenile delinquent? The guy may have grown up, but did anyone ever really change? He wondered if Perrone was telling him the whole truth and doubted it. Of course he was not telling the whole truth either.

66

I’d managed three, maybe four hours of sleep, then caught a flight from Paris to Florence. Now I waited in the café where Alex and I had had our first coffee, rehearsing what I’d say when she walked in, cheeks pink from the cold.

“Your eye—” she said. “What happened?”

“Just a clumsy accident.”

“But you’re okay?” She gave me a strange look, then pecked my cheek and unbuttoned her coat. Her cream-colored sweater made her skin appear ivory. I told her she looked beautiful, and she told me I looked terrible.

“I thought you were staying in Paris for a few days.”

“I am,” I said. “I mean, I was. My friend got called away, but I’m going back.”

“Oh. When?”

“Soon. But I wanted to see you first.” I reached for her hand.

“Your knuckles!”

“Part of the same clumsiness. It’s embarrassing. I tripped over a sidewalk grating.”

“Seriously?”

“I swear I’d had nothing to drink.”

“I never thought that for a minute. How’s your friend? In better shape than you, I hope.”

“He’s”—Étienne Chaudron’s battered face flared in his mind—“fine.”

She asked if he was an old art-school friend, and I couldn’t remember what I’d said before, except that he was French. I fought the urge to tell her what was really going on, wanted to tell the truth so she would understand, but knew I couldn’t. We were both quiet a moment, light through the café blinds painting us with stripes, like prisoners.

“Something is wrong,” Alex said. “I can see it. Are you sure you aren’t hurt?”

I told her I was fine, asked what she’d been up to, anything to delay what I had to say.

She thought a minute, then said she had finished reading the plague book and was reading The Decameron, in Italian. I told her I was impressed, surprised too. “I didn’t think you spoke Italian.”

“Oh, I can’t speak it, not really. But I can read a little—and it’s a way to learn.” She touched my hand again, said it looked like I had punched someone.

“Oh, sure,” I said, forced a laugh, then took a deep breath. It was time. I had to tell her. Couldn’t put it off any longer. “Listen, I’m going to be busy for a while and—”

“Busy?”

“I mean away.”

“Which is it, busy or away?” Her expression shifted from concern to wary.

“Both,” I said, just as the waitress delivered our coffees. We both waited for her to leave. “I wanted to let you know so you wouldn’t think there something was wrong if I wasn’t able to get in touch with you.”