He rests one hand on the ledger nearest him. “Some patterns repeat because men refuse to learn from them.”
The air changes. “Is that what happened here?”
“In this house?”
“In this family.”
He looks toward the shelves. For a moment, he appears older. “This family has survived because Alessandro understands structure.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“No.”
“Will you answer it?”
“No.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “Everyone in this house is very committed to saying no dramatically.”
“You should try listening to it occasionally.”
“I have. It doesn’t improve with repetition.”
He looks back at me. “You’re not the first woman to mistake access for safety here.”
The words settle cold in the space between us.
Isabelle.
I don’t say her name. Neither does he. The room doesn’t need us to.
“What happened to her?” I ask.
His expression closes. “There are stories that don’t belong to me.”
“That’s convenient,” I retort.
“It’s true.”
“Truth and convenience often dress alike.”
“Yes,” he says. “That’s the difficulty.”
“What did Alessandro correct?” I ask.
Salvatore is silent for long enough that I know the question has landed where it should. Then he stands. “I came for poetry.”
“Of course,” I say. “Nothing says leisure like strategic retreat.”
He takes one of the books from the table, leaves the other. I glance at it. A slim volume. Italian. Worn spine.
He places his hand on top of it briefly. “For your boredom.”
Then he leaves. No goodbye. Men in this house would rather stage an elaborate symbolic transfer than answer a direct question. It must be exhausting, being this committed to ambiguity.
I wait until his footsteps fade. Then I pull the book toward me. Inside the front cover, written in a hand I don’t recognize:
I.M.V.
