“You know of Saint Dismas, the good thief? Another saint with a bad past. He was crucified beside Jesus.”

“You mind if I hope for a better ending?”

The monk laughed. “You are funny, Signore Perrone. I am certain your life will turn out well. Continua così. Avanti così.”

“Stay on course?”

“Sì. My teacher, an older, wiser brother, always say that.”

“Stay on course,” I repeated and was about to say goodbye to Brother Francesco, when he stopped me.

“Ha un amico a Firenze?”

“Do I have a friend in Florence? You mean Alexandra, the America girl?”

“No. A man. He comes here, ogni giorno.”

“Every day? What do you mean?”

“Lui aspetta.”

“He waits?”

“Sì. I thought he waits for you.”

“Why?”

“Because he is here when you arrive and gone when you leave.”

“Where?”

The monk guided me out of the alley and pointed to a spot along the east wall of the square that led to the entrance.

“There,” he said, indicating a low set of stone stairs leading to an old wooden doorway. “That is the entrance to—how you say—the dormitory, where the monks live. Where I live. But we do not use that entry. We go in through the cloister.”

“What does he look like, this man who waits?”

“Tall,” he said and made a move to show the guy was also weighty or muscled. But he could not describe his face because he “wears un cappello, a hat, and sunglasses—and he is always fumando.” He mimed a smoker dragging on a cigarette.

I asked him to let me know if the guy showed up, and he said maybe it was a “coincidenza.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But please let me know if you see him. I just want to meet him—see if I know him.”

“I will, as you Americans say, keep an out eye,” he said.

“An eye out,” I said and had to smile.

32

The idea of a stranger watching had gotten to me. I knew I would not be able to sit still or read. I checked out the stairs Brother Francesco had indicated, did a three-sixty and scanned the piazza—people milling about, some tourists taking pictures, a few monks heading toward the cloister. I stayed there a few minutes, checking out men in hats—too many—anyone smoking a cigarette—even more. Then I gave up. But now, everything that had been bothering me was buzzing in my brain—the idea of stealing the journal, Alexandra’s advance and retreat, Quattrocchi’s odd disappearance. I had left him several messages and texts; now I tried his cell again, but it went immediately to voicemail. This time, I didn’t bother to leave a message. Instead, I headed to the university.

Signora Moretti was in Quattrocchi’s outer office.

“Professore Quattrocchi, is he in? I need to speak with him.”

“No,” she said and went back to her typing.

“No what? He’s not in or I can’t speak to him?”

She glanced up, then down, and started typing again.