He walked to a nearby café, where he watched soccer and drank cappuccinos and grappas with the old men until closing time. Only then, when the prospect of sleeping in the street seemed a reality, did he ask for suggestions on a good place to spend the night. The old men at the café told Ross of a small hotel and bar that was inexpensive and known for good food. Ross paid his bill then went off to find the hotel.

Hotel Fedora was only a few blocks from the train station, in the direction of Pisa’s famed leaning tower. Ross walked into the hotel and laid his pack on the tile floor near the front door. It was quiet inside, dim and dingy. The room was lit by electric wall sconces, and the paint on the wall behind them was peeling in places. A thirty-something woman sat at a check-in counter watching television. She glanced up at his entrance. The woman was voluptuous; dressed in all-black, formfitting clothing. Her blouse was tight with a plunging neckline. Her raven black hair was thick and curled, as untamed as a bramble. She had a naturally blushed look to her face, which made her cheeks glow as if she were inebriated. She had large eyes, dark and pretty and kind. She reminded Ross of a young Susan Sarandon translated into Italian.

“Hello, sir,” she said with a thick accent.

“Hello.”

“Would you need a room?”

“Yes, please.”

“For how, uh”—she paused to think—“very days?”

“I’m not certain. Two, three days. Maybe longer.”

“Three days?”

“Yes. Do you have a room available for that long?”

“Yes, I have. It is fifty thousands lire for day. That is . . . one hundreds and fifty thousands lire.”

Ross pulled two one-hundred-thousand-lire bills from his wallet. He set the money on the counter. She took the bills then counted back his change in English, setting the bills on the counter.

“Twenty, forty, sixty.”

“You gave me too much.”

Her brow furrowed. She didn’t understand.

“You gave me too much money back.”

“It is not too much money. It is reasonable rate.”

“You gave me too much change,” Ross said in Italian. “You only owed me fifty thousand.”

“Mamma mia, you speak Italian,” she said in relief, raising a hand to her breast. “Why didn’t you speak Italian to begin with?”

“You were doing fine in English,” he said.

“No, my English is awful.” She looked at her register. “I did give you too much.” She took back the bills then handed Ross a fifty-thousand-lire note. She reached behind her for a key. “Thank you for being honest. The owner is such a miser he probably would have fired me.”

“It’s nothing.”

She handed him a key. “Our best room is on the second floor. It is bigger than the others and quieter. It’s being used tonight, but if you come down after checkout time I will give it to you for the rest of the week at no extra charge.”