Page 7 of Bloodlines and Birthright

We walked side by side along Park Street. The sky had cleared and the sun shone brightly overhead. It didn’t take long before I felt uncomfortably hot, but I resisted the urge to dab at my forehead with a handkerchief. I needed to get used to the heat. It would be warmer in Italy. I was contemplating whether I should pack neckerchiefs to protect my shirt collar from sweat, when Oscar stopped at the intersection.

“I’m going this way,” he said, pointing to our left. “I’ve got some errands to run.”

“Then I’ll see you in the morning.” We’d already planned for him to take a cab to my place then collect me and my luggage before heading to the station.

Oscar didn’t nod. He didn’t give any indication he’d heard me. “Gavin, are you sure you still want to go?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Matt’s right. It’s not too late to back out. I can go alone.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“You seemed unsure earlier.”

I squared up to him and waited until his gaze met mine before responding. “It’s true that I’m unsure about this trip. I’m concerned about anarchists, the heat, the lengthy travel, and the language barrier, among other things. I am also unsure about how many ties to pack, and whether I should eat a small meal or large one tonight. It’s natural for me to worry. In the past, those worries stopped me from doing things. But you heard Miss Glass. She said to seize the day. So I am.”

Most people would suggest I shouldn’t take advice from an elderly woman losing her mind, but not Oscar. He simply clapped me on the shoulder and said, “Good for you. We’re going to have a molto grande Italian adventure together.”

Chapter 3

I hadn’t expected Milan to be so modern. When one thinks of Italy, the mind conjures up archaeological digs uncovering ancient ruins, not electric trams and the latest fashions worn by a significant number of the population. I was glad we’d allowed ourselves a day for sightseeing before leaving for the Abbazia di San Vittore at Lake Como, although there was so much to see we could have stayed longer.

As the narrow street we’d been walking down ended, we finally got our first sight of the entire duomo, although we’d seen the rooftop spires at various points on the walk from our hotel.

“Magnificent,” I murmured on a breath. “It’s so light and bright.” A pink hue tinging the pale marble gave the flamboyant façade a warmth that beckoned the traveler to step inside. I wasn’t a devout man, but I couldn’t wait to see the interior after reading about it in our Baedeker guidebook.

“The entire city feels bright,” Oscar said. “The sun must be stronger here than in England.”

“The air is certainly cleaner than London which must help everything seem brighter.” I pressed a hand to my hat and tipped my head back to squint up at the many spires shooting from the top of the duomo like fireworks. “My Baedeker says there are over two thousand statues.”

“Are you going to stand there and count them all or are we going in?”

Not only did we go in, but we purchased a ticket to the roof terrace where we were afforded a spectacular view of the city. The ochre-colored terracotta roofs of Milan’s buildings spread out below us, and in the distance, the slate-gray ridges of the Alps looked like the back of a slumbering dragon against the clear blue sky. The piazza bustled with tourists and hawkers pushing barrows and carts, selling souvenirs and ices, but their voices didn’t reach us. Despite the awe-inspiring views, we didn’t stay up long. The heat was unbearable.

After a few more hours visiting galleries and museums, Oscar insisted we find a coffee house rather than return to the hotel. I wasn’t convinced it was a good idea since an establishment frequented by the locals was unlikely to have any English tea.

“We’re not drinking tea,” he told me. “We’re in Italy. We’ll have coffee.”

“In the middle of the afternoon?”

Apparently, there was no conventional hour for coffee consumption in Italy. The café and restaurant near La Scala opera house was as lively as the Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese on Fleet Street on Friday evenings. In some ways, it felt similar to my favorite tavern back home, with mostly middle- and upper-class men in earnest conversation or reading in a corner booth, but with more coffee and less ale. It looked different, too. The Cheshire was cozy with its dark wood paneling and dim lighting, whereas the café was bathed in light streaming through the large windows. Gilt-framed mirrors reflected the light back into the room, and once the sun went down, large chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings would take over.

Using a few words of Italian that he’d picked up on the journey and universally recognizable hand gestures, Oscar managed to order two coffees and something to eat. He looked pleased with himself as he stretched out his legs and surveyed the other patrons.

“I think many are discussing politics,” he said with a nod at a nearby table where four well-dressed men poured over a leaflet.

“I expected more discussion around artistic endeavors since we’re so close to La Scala Opera House,” I said.

While Oscar quite openly studied our neighbors and surroundings, I tried to be subtle about it, not wanting to annoy the locals. A large number of them seemed fired up, speaking in raised voices accompanied by expressive hand gestures, yet presumably they sat with friends. I wouldn’t want to see how they treated nosey strangers.

I turned to the view outside, across the street to Piazza della Scala with its striking statue of Leonardo da Vinci. I breathed deeply, drawing the strong, bitter smell of coffee into my lungs, and relaxing for the first time since arriving in Milan. Where earlier our tourists’ view of the city was like the one from the top of the Duomo—far away and affording an overview only—now that we’d slowed down, I could see the detail. Wide-eyed visitors clutching guidebooks took in their awe-inspiring surroundings. A black and white dog trotted behind a man wheeling a barrow. It must contain something smelly because the child holding his mother’s hand as he passed the barrow pinched his nose in disgust. A flash of sunlight glinted off a silver shoe buckle of a gentleman leaning against a lamp post.

Our coffees arrived in small cups along with slices of a cake with a nutty smell. The waiter had just set them down when an explosion rattled the windows.

Oscar shot to his feet. “What the devil!”

Several patrons ran out of the café and across to the piazza. As the smoke cleared, a man was seen running from the Palazzo Marino holding his arm and limping across the piazza. I thought he was a victim until he was captured and wrestled to the ground. Four men dressed in the distinctive dark blue tunic with red piping and white bandolier of the Carabinieri Reali descended on the group and cleared the area, motioning with their batons. The elegant Palazzo seemed undamaged, and I couldn’t see other injured parties, thankfully. With the bomber caught, hopefully it was all over.