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away. Today she wore brown suede boots, no doubt for the support. The boots
had low heels. Flat shoes would We been more comfortable, but then she was
Italian and fashion always took priority. The light brown skirt stopped at her
knees. She was wearing a tight wool sweater, bright red in color, and it was
the first time he'd seen her when she wasn't bundled up for cold weather. No
overcoat to hide her really nice figure. She was walking cautiously and
limping slightly, but with a determination that gave him heart. It was just
coffee at
Nino's, for an hour or two of Italian. And it was all for him! And the money.
For a moment he thought about her money. Whatever the dire situation with her
poor husband, and her seasonal work as a tour guide, she managed to dress
stylishly and live in a beautifully decorated apartment. Giovanni had been a
professor. Perhaps he'd saved carefully over the years, and now his illness
was straining their budget. Whatever. Marco had his own problems. He'd just
lost
$400 in cash and his only lifeline to the outside world. People who weren't
sup posed to know his whereabouts now knew his exact address. Nine hours
earlier he'd heard his real name used on Via Fondazza. He slowed and allowed
her to enter Nino's, where she was again greeted like a beloved member of the
family by Nino's boys. Then he circled the block to give them time to get her
situated, to fuss over her, bring her coffee, chat for a moment and catch up
on the neighborhood gossip. Ten minutes after she arrived, he walked through
the door and got bear-hugged by Nino's youngest son. A friend of Francesca's
was a friend for life. Her moods changed so much that Marco did not know what
to expect. He was still touched by the warmth of yesterday, but he knew that
the indifference could return today. When she smiled and grabbed his hand and
started all the cheek pecking he knew instantly the lesson would be the
highlight of a rotten day. When they were finally alone he asked about her
husband.
Things had not changed. "It's only a matter of days," she said with stiff lip,
as if she'd already accepted death and was ready for the grieving. He asked
about her mother, Signora Altonelli, and got a full report. She was baking a
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pear torta, one of Giovanni's favorites, just in case he got a whiff of it
from the kitchen. "And how was your day?" she asked. It would be impossible to
fictionalize a worse set of occurrences. From the shock of hearing his real
name barked through the darkness, to being the victim of a carefully staged
theft, he couldn't imagine a worse day. 'A little excitement during lunch," he
said. "Tell me about it." He described his hike up to San Luca, to the spot
where she fell, her bench, the views, the canceled session with Ermanno, lunch
with Luigi, the fire but not the loss of his bag. She had not noticed the
absence of it until he told the story.
"There's so little crime in Bologna," she said, half apologetic. "I know Caffe
Atene. It's not a place for thieves." These were probably not Italians, he
wanted to say, but managed to nod gravely as if to say: Yes, yes, what's the
world coming to? When the small talk was over, she switched gears like a stern
professor and said she was in the mood to tackle some verbs. He said he was
not, but his moods were unimportant. She drilled him on the future tense of
abitare (to live) and vedere (to see). Then she made him weave both verbs in
all tenses into a hundred random sentences. Far from being distracted, she
pounced on any wayward accent. A grammatical mistake prompted a quick
reprimand, as if he'd just insulted the entire country. She had spent the day
penned up in her apartment, with a dying husband and a busy mother. The lesson
was her only chance to release some energy. Marco, however, was exhausted. The
stress of the day was taking its toll, but Francesca's high-octane demands
took his mind off his fatigue and confusion. One hour passed quickly. They
recharged with more coffee, and she launched into the murky and difficult
world of the subjunctive-present, imperfect, and past perfect. Finally, he
began to founder.
She tried to prop him up with reassurances that the subjunctive sinks a lot of
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