His cell phone buzzes. He sees the number but does not answer. He will deal with his employers later. He continues to peer through the glass, has to fight the compulsion to walk into the café and insinuate himself between the couple, get a hand on the blond’s thigh and one around the American’s throat, though it is not part of the plan—not yet. His face pounds with blood.

The blond gets up and he watches her, eyes on her legs, the way she walks, like a racehorse or one of those runway models. He considers following her, mind rife with pornographic images so that he has missed the American paying the bill and has to do a quick about-face when the American comes out, just a foot away from him.

He waits a moment, then follows, stops when he sees the American head into the cloister, knows he is going into the library, then takes up his spot outside the alleyway on a convenient set of stone steps where he can be anonymous, where he can sit and smoke and savor the thoughts of what will come next.

17

È iniziato come qualsiasi altro giorno al museo.

It started like any other day at the museum.

I was busy building new frames and repairing old ones. I kept moving the painting from one end of my worktable to the other. I was trying to avoid the relentless gaze of Leonardo’s lady. She seemed to be watching me. I finally covered her with a cloth and worked as fast as I could. I needed to be home early. Needed to buy honey for Simone’s tea. Needed to relight the fire in our cold flat.

I had only a few francs left. Barely enough to get through the week. I knew Simone would not let me touch the money we had set aside for the baby. I swallowed my pride. I asked my boss for a small advance on my pay. He refused. I wanted to shout in his face. Wanted to strangle him. But I controlled myself for I needed the job. Now more than ever.

At lunchtime I went outside. It was cold but I needed the air. I ate the slice of bread and jam Simone had packed for me. But my stomach still felt empty.

It was then I noticed him. A man I had seen the day before. A flamboyant creature in cape and hat. An uomo effeminate.

I turned my back on him. Kept my head down. But could hear him coming closer. His silver cane tapping on the path. Until his shadow fell across me.

I looked up and scowled. Closed my smaller eye. A look I used to keep people away and it usually worked. But not this time.

He stopped in front of me. But I did not acknowledge him. He extended a hand with long spidery fingers. I ignored it.

He started to speak. I thought I detected an accent. Something cultivated and smooth like velvet. I had an ear for such things as I had worked hard to eliminate my own Italian accent. He said he was from Uruguay. In South America. Smiled exposing long yellowed teeth. His gums receding.