I sucked in a breath and cadged a look at the front desk: Chiara going through papers, Beatrice sorting index cards; then at the two men, both with open books, both typing on their laptops.

I placed the carton’s lid on one of the wooden book holders the library provided, using it as a kind of shield, around that a few stacks of folders to create a little fort though I took pains to make it look unintentional. Then, I took the notebook out of the carton and untied the string. The cover looked worn, and I raised it carefully. The paper was unlined, slightly yellowed.

At the bottom of the first page, a signature, in pencil, small and neat: Vincenzo Peruggia.

I reached for my backpack to retrieve the sample I had xeroxed from the back of the mug shot and brought with me.

I held it beside the journal page and compared the writing. It was identical.

Below Peruggia’s signature in the same tiny script was one line: La mia storia.

5

21 dicembre 1914

Murate Prison, Firenze, Italia

Non ho dormito in molte notti…

I have not slept in many nights.

The mattress is thin. With every turn I feel the stone floor below. The cell is freezing. The plaster walls damp. The prison unheated. My blanket is threadbare and scratchy. I pace to keep warm. I count my steps. One foot in front of the other. Six steps one way. Nine the other.

There is no sink. No toilet. Once a week we are permitted a cold shower. There is one barred window. But not really a window at all. It looks into a narrow corridor where the guards spy on us. The only relief is our daily exercise in the courtyard. A place the sun dares not shine.

I think of my trial and feel shame. I argued with the judge and prosecutor and my own lawyer. I played the madman. The victim. The so-called patriot. But I am no patriot.

My sentence was fair. One year and three months. I deserved worse.

Every day I receive gifts. Cigarettes. Wine. Food. Letters from women who say they love me! But the only gift of value is the notepad and pencils given to me by a guard who took pity on me. If Simone could see me now would she think me a fool? In prison while those two scoundrels go free. I think of them day and night. Of getting what I am owed. Of getting even.

I try not to shiver as I write. To hold the pencil firm.

I close my eyes and imagine our apartment on rue Ramponneau. I see myself walking up the old wooden stairs and opening the front door. Simone greets me. I feel such sadness and such longing my eyes fill with tears.

But I need to think how to begin. How to explain how everything in my life went wrong.

I would say it began with good news.