She wasn’t thinking of warmer weather. Her thoughts were elsewhere.
“You’ve already done that one,” he interrupted when she pointed at a painting above the baptistery.
“I’m sorry. Am I boring you?”
He started to blurt out the truth, but instead said, “No, but I’ve seen enough.”
They left the sanctuary and sneaked around behind the church, to her secret pathway that led down a few steps to the best view of the city. The last snow was melting quickly on the red tiled roofs. It was the eighteenth of March.
She lit a cigarette and seemed content to loiter in silence and admire Bologna. “Do you like my city?” she asked, finally.
“Yes, very much.”
“What do you like about it?”
After six years in prison, any city would do. He thought for a moment, then said, “It’s a real city, with people living where they work. It’s safe and clean, timeless. Things haven’t changed much over the centuries. The people enjoy their history and they’re proud of their accomplishments.”
She nodded slightly, approving of his analysis. “I’m baffled by Americans,” she said. “When I guide them through Bologna they’re always in a hurry, always anxious to see one sight so they can cross it off the list and move on to the next. They’re always asking about tomorrow, and the next day. Why is this?”
“I’m the wrong person to ask.”
“Why?”
“I’m Canadian, remember?”
“You’re not Canadian.”
“No, I’m not. I’m from Washington.”
“I’ve been there. I’ve never seen so many people racing around, going nowhere. I don’t understand the desire for such a hectic life. Everything has to be so fast — work, food, sex.”
“I haven’t had sex in six years.”
She gave him a look that conveyed many questions. “I really don’t want to talk about that.”
“You brought it up.”
She puffed on the cigarette as the air cleared. “Why haven’t you had sex in six years?”
“Because I was in prison, in solitary confinement.”
She flinched slightly and her spine seemed to straighten. “Did you kill someone?”
“No, nothing like that. I’m pretty harmless.”
Another pause, another puff. “Why are you here?”
“I really don’t know.”
“How long will you stay?”
“Maybe Luigi can answer that.”
“Luigi,” she said as if she wanted to spit. She turned and began walking. He followed along because he was supposed to. “What are you hiding from?” she asked.
“It’s a very, very long story, and you really don’t want to know.”
“Are you in danger?”
“I think so. I’m not sure how much, but let’s just say that I’m afraid to use my real name and I’m afraid to go home.”
“Sounds like danger to me. Where does Luigi fit in?”
“He’s protecting me, I think.”
“For how long?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Why don’t you simply disappear?”
“That’s what I’m doing now. I’m in the middle of my disappearance. And from here, where would I go? I have no money, no passport, no identification. I don’t officially exist.”
“This is very confusing.”
“Yes. Why don’t we drop it.”
He glanced away for a second and did not see her fall. She was wearing black leather boots with low heels, and the left one twisted violently on a rock in the narrow pathway. She gasped and fell hard onto the walkway, bracing herself at the last second with both hands. Her purse flew forward. She shrieked something in Italian. Marco quickly knelt down to grab her.
“It’s my ankle,” she said, grimacing. Her eyes were already moist, her pretty face twisted in pain.
He gently lifted her from the wet pathway and carried her to a nearby bench, then retrieved her purse. “I must’ve tripped,” she kept saying. “I’m sorry.” She fought the tears but soon gave up.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Marco said, kneeling in front of her. “Can I touch it?”
She slowly lifted her left leg, but the pain was too great.
“Let’s leave the boot on,” Marco said, touching it with great care.
“I think it’s broken,” she said. She pulled a tissue from her purse and wiped her eyes. She was breathing heavy and gritting her teeth. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Marco looked around; they were very much alone. The bus up to San Luca had been virtually empty, and they had seen no one in the past ten minutes. “I’ll, uh, go inside and find help.”
“Yes, please.”
“Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” He patted her knee and she managed a smile. Then he hustled away, almost falling himself. He ran to the rear of the church and saw no one. Where, exactly, does one find an office in a cathedral? Where is the curator, administrator, head priest? Who’s in charge of this place? Outside, he circled San Luca twice before he saw a custodian emerge from a partially hidden door by the gardens.
“Mi può aiutare?” he called out. Can you help me?
The custodian stared and said nothing. Marco was certain he had spoken clearly. He walked closer and said, “La mia amica si é fatta male.” My lady friend is hurt.
“Dov’è?” the man grunted. Where?
Marco pointed and said, “Lì, dietro alla chiesa.” Over there, behind the church.
“Aspetti.” Wait. He turned and walked back to the door and opened it.
“Si sbrighi, per favore.” Please hurry.
A minute or two dragged by, with Marco waiting nervously, wanting to dash back and check on Francesca. If she’d broken a bone, then shock might set in quickly. A larger door below the baptistery opened, and a gentleman in a suit came rushing out with the custodian behind him.
“La mia amica è caduta,” Marco said. My friend fell.
“Where is she?” asked the gentleman in excellent English. They were cutting across a small brick patio, dodging unmelted snow.
“Around back, by the lower ledge. It’s her ankle; she thinks she broke it. We might need an ambulance.”
Over his shoulder the gentleman snapped something at the custodian, who disappeared.
Francesca was sitting on the edge of the bench with as much dignity as possible. She held the tissue at her mouth; the crying had stopped. The gentleman didn’t know her name, but he had obviously seen her before at San Luca. They chatted in Italian, and Marco missed most of it.
Her left boot was still on, and it was agreed that it should remain so, to prevent swelling. The gentleman, Mr. Coletta, seemed to know his first aid. He examined her knees and hands. They were scratched and sore, but there was no bleeding. “It’s just a bad sprain,” she said. “I really don’t think it’s broken.”
“An ambulance will take forever,” the gentleman said. “I’ll drive you to the hospital.”
A horn honked nearby. The custodian had fetched a car and pulled up as close as possible.
“I think I can walk,” Francesca said gamely, trying to stand.
“No, we’ll help you,” Marco said. Each grabbed an elbow and slowly raised her to her feet. She grimaced when she put pressure on the foot, but said, “It’s not broken. Just a sprain.” She insisted on walking. They half carried her toward the car.
Mr. Coletta took charge and arranged them in the backseat so that her feet were in Marco’s lap, elevated, and her back was resting against the left rear door. When his passengers were properly in place, he jumped behind the wheel and shifted gears. They crawled in reverse along a shrub-lined alley, then onto a narrow paved road. Soon, they were moving down the hill, headed for Bologna.