In honor of our dear friend I have named the Lombardy garrison the Anzani garrison. Lombardy was Anzani’s home. Do you remember when he told us that? It feels like so long ago that we met him on the banks of the river. I think I will always remember him that way, overly friendly and looking for an adventure. He dreamed of returning to the fatherland, and though I don’t believe this was the way that he had wanted, he is more advantageous than some of us who were banished.

How I long to be with you and the children. I wish I could explore Genoa with you, sharing with you the places of my youth. Have Paolo take you to Il Rifugio Café. That was where I spent most of my time planning the future of this country with my mentor and comrades. I am sure that Paolo can share a number of stories of that time, though I will admit they will not be the most flattering of tales. Stroll through the piazza at sunset. It is a romantic place, which will be made all the more beautiful by the setting sun casting its elegant rays over the cathedrals. I know I will be picturing you there. I dream of the day when you and I sip our morning tea under the great olive trees as our children play. A peaceful life in my home country. Tesoro mio, is this too much to ask for?

Alas, what is the point of dreaming when there is so much work to be done? While I am in Turin and pulling our great country together I need you to be my eyes and ears. Tell me all that you know. I leave you with Paolo Antonini as your guide. Trust in his wisdom.

Until I return to you,

José

Later that morning, after being poked and violated by the seamstress, I met Paolo in his study. The dark wood furniture trimmed in leather and walls encased in books gave the room a dark, warm feeling. One window let in the bright golden light that tumbled over the high-backed red armchairs. Paolo sat with his legs crossed, reading a newspaper, ignoring the fact that I had entered the room. He delicately sipped from a tiny mug as he read. I gently cleared my throat and he looked up at me and smiled.

“Ciao, senhora!” He set his little mug down on the table next to him. “How do you find your stay here?” He folded his newspaper in his lap.

“Lovely, thank you, senhor.” I sat in the matching high-backed chair across from my host as a servant poured coffee into an equally tiny mug intended for me.

“Good, very good.” He tilted his head and studied me. “Though the regiment has left us behind, you and I have work of our own to do.”

“And what work is that?” I asked, taking a sip of coffee. The bitterness caught me off guard. “No wonder you drink your coffee in such tiny mugs!”