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‘Sorry,’ I mumble when the tears have died down a bit. ‘Embarrassing.’
‘It isn’t. Tori, it really isn’t.’ He’s rubbing my back now in firm, slow, soothing circles. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘if you’re going to live in Italy, then you might – just might – have to get a little more comfortable with expressing emotion in front of other people. Nobody’s judging you. Nobody would.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘No, really. Okay, so we’re alone here. But even if we weren’t, do you think anyone would care for a single moment that you actually dared show your feelings? You’re in Italy, in a cemetery, standing at the graveside of this romantic figure who died this horrible, tragic death. To save the life of a child, if you need me to lay it on any thicker.Andyour grandmother loved this man, and lost him, and ended up having to marry some posh English guy and give birth to your mother who, frankly, seems like a terrible person. If you didn’t cry, I’d wonder if you even had a soul.’
‘Ha,’ I say. My eyes feel sticky, my hat has fallen off and I’m worried about the state of my nose. But Marco’s still hugging me and I can hear his heartbeat, strong and steady. I close my eyes and let it lull me.
‘Do you feel better for crying?’ he asks after a moment.
‘I suppose I feel cleansed, in a power-washer kind of way.’
‘Then that’s good. You must have needed it.’
‘Maybe,’ I admit.
‘Definitely,’ Marco says, and kisses my forehead. I think he’s going to let go of me, but he doesn’t and, oh God, I don’t want him to. I just want him to keep holding me. I could cry all over again from how good it feels.
‘We should probably get out of the sun,’ he murmurs.
‘Right.’ I step back, slipping out of his grasp, and retrieve my hat from the ground by my feet. My whole body feels alive, warm and expectant in a way that’s really, really inappropriate in a cemetery in the middle of the day. I smooth my hair and breathe in slowly, trying to calm my racing heart, and then I put my hand on the sunstruck marble of Achille’s grave.
‘Goodbye for now,’ I say. ‘I’ll be back soon.’
Something moves at the edge of my vision. I look up and see a woman, a tiny, desiccated sparrow of a woman standing a few feet away and staring at me. She has a huge canvas shopping bag over one arm and in the other is a bouquet of red roses.
18
I flinch first. I snatch my hand away and straighten up, feeling like I’ve been caught touching something that isn’t mine. ‘Mi scusi,’ I say.
The woman seems to wake up. She shakes her head. ‘No, no, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.’
‘It’s fine. Really, it’s fine. We should go.’
‘If you’re sure,’ the woman says. She’s watching me, studying my face with anxious eyes. ‘You’re very kind,’ she adds.
‘No problem,’ I say. ‘Buona giornata.’
‘Buona giornata.’ She lays the roses carefully on the ground and unzips her canvas bag. I turn and walk quickly to the gate, Marco following. When I look over my shoulder, she’s kneeling by the grave, apparently deadheading the plants. I want to run back, to ask her who she was to Achille; who he was to her. But she’s so absorbed in her work that I can’t bring myself to disturb her.
Marco puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘You’ll be back,’ he says quietly. ‘You’ll find out more then.’
I’m almost dying of curiosity, but I know he’s right. Someone in Romituzzo is bound to know something about the woman who tends Achille Infuriati’s grave. I can find a way to talk to her, I tell myself. A way that doesn’t involve breaking into her private ritual. ‘I know,’ I say, and I make myself look away.
In the small car park outside the cemetery, a paunchy man in a baseball cap is leaning against an elderly Fiat, smoking a cigarette and scrolling through something on his phone. He looks up as we pass and then he, too, stares at me.
‘Buongiorno,’ Marco says rather pointedly, and the man mumbles a vaguebuongiornoand looks quickly down at his phone. ‘Asshole,’ Marco mutters.
The only other car is a long, low, extravagant bright-red thing. Marco takes a set of keys out of his pocket and jingles them, grinning at me.
‘Wow,’ I say, ‘is that yours?’
He nods. ‘A 1964 Comacchi Scorpion. That’s what I had to pick up in Castelmedici.’
‘You’re a serious car nerd, aren’t you?’
‘What tipped you off?’ He unlocks the passenger door and holds it open. ‘Prego.’
