Contents (109)
- Contents
- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5
- 6
- 7
- 8
- 9
- 10
- 11
- 12
- 13
- 14
- 15
- 16
- 17
- 18
- 19
- 20
- 21
- 22
- 23
- 24
- 25
- 26
- 27
- 28
- 29
- 30
- 31
- 32
- 33
- 34
- 35
- 36
- 37
- 38
- 39
- 40
- 41
- 42
- 43
- 44
- 45
- 46
- 47
- 48
- 49
- 50
- 51
- 52
- 53
- 54
- 55
- 56
- 57
- 58
- 59
- 60
- 61
- 62
- 63
- 64
- 65
- 66
- 67
- 68
- 69
- 70
- 71
- 72
- 73
- 74
- 75
- 76
- 77
- 78
- 79
- 80
- 81
- 82
- 83
- 84
- 85
- 86
- 87
- 88
- 89
- 90
- 91
- 92
- 93
- 94
- 95
- 96
- 97
- 98
- 99
- The South of France
- Author’s Note
- Reading Group Guide
- A Conversation with the Author
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
“Sì, sì, I remember,” Bianchi said. “It was handwritten and in Italian!”
The man eased up, and Bianchi slid his hand out, backing away, practically bowing. “I am sorry…but…the journal… I have already sold it.”
“To who?”
“To an old man who collects such things, no one important.”
“His name?”
“I don’t re—”
The man grabbed Bianchi by the front of his jacket and lifted him off the floor. “The name. Now.”
Arms flapping, legs dangling a few inches above the floor, Bianchi gasped the name: “G-Guggliermo!”
The man let go, and Bianchi landed unsteadily, knocking over a tower of books.
“And where might I find this Guggliermo?”
“He…he is a”—Bianchi tried to catch his breath—“a professore, at the university—in Firenze—but, but I think he is retired.” He stole a glance at the window to see if there was anyone outside, a passerby he might call for help, but the man shifted his body to obscure his view.
“His address.”
“I–I am certain if you inquired at the university—”
The man gave him a dead-eyed stare, and Bianchi quickly thumbed through his Rolodex, fingers trembling. He found the card and began to read from it, but the man snatched it from his hand. “You did not read the journal, did you?”
“Me? No, no.” Bianchi shook his head back and forth.
“And yet you knew it was handwritten and in Italian.”
“Pelletier must have…told me…or…perhaps I glanced at a page, but that was all.”
“I see,” the man said, lips pulling back to reveal tobacco-stained teeth. He slipped the card into his pocket. “And you will not speak of my visit, not to this Guggliermo, not to anyone.”
“No, signore. No. Not even to Pelletier. I would never say a word.”
“Of course not,” the man said.
Bianchi was still trying to recover his breath and balance when the man thrust a fist into his chest. Bianchi stumbled back, arms flailing, knocking over another stack of books before he fell.
The man lifted him up, hands around his neck, tightening and squeezing.
Bianchi tried to speak, to plead, but managed only a few strangled squawks, the room going in and out of focus.
“No. Not a word,” the man said as he felt the bookseller’s larynx snap.
2
Two Months Later
The email had arrived less than two weeks ago, and here I was, unable to think of anything else, bolting from my life on a possibility, a whim.
I tried to tamp down my anxiety, stopped to stretch the kinks out of my body, then wheeled my suitcase through one long corridor after another, a mix of exhaustion and adrenaline after an eight-hour flight from New York where I’d been too keyed up to sleep.
Leonardo da Vinci airport was like most: impersonal, crowded, harsh lighting. The fact that it was named for Leonardo struck me as prophetic, though clearly, they hadn’t named it for me. I checked the time, 6:00 a.m. Then searched for the airport train and was proud of myself when I found it, slumped into a seat, and closed my eyes, a dozen thoughts buzzing in my brain like gnats.