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“How is it you came here?”
“Well, I was lucky to be born into privilege, and I studied music, law, and archaeology. My late son, Antonio, was an excellent musician,but when he passed away about ten years ago, I became deeply melancholy.” Baron Pisani met Dante’s eye. “I discovered that the way to move through my melancholy was to help others, and I became interested in treating melancholy and other mental illness. I’m not a physician, but I developed a theory and instructions on moral therapy that can help patients find joy... Oh, wait, here he is. Look.”
Baron Pisani stopped talking when a man in a frock coat entered the yard with some papers and sat down at the piano. He began to play, and the music delighted Dante.
“That’s beautiful!”
“It is, isn’t it? This is part of my therapy. Music speaks to us all, to our soul.”
Dante listened to the notes going up and down, sparking a vague memory. “I think I’ve heard music like this before.”
“Maybe you did, when you were little.” Baron Pisani put a hand on his shoulder. “Try and remember.”
Dante found himself closing his eyes, and in the next minute, he could almost see himself sitting next to his father, watching another man play piano. “My father took me to see a man play.”
“A concert. Our pianist is playing Schubert. He’s one of my favorites.”
“I don’t know that name. I don’t even know my father’s name.”
“Stay with the music. Listen to the notes. See if it brings back any thoughts at all.”
Dante listened to the music, and in time he felt as if he were resting his hand on his father’s arm again, feeling the scratchy wool of his sleeve while a piano was playing on a stage.
“Listen,” his father whispered, an index finger to his lips.
Dante listened. His father tapped his foot.
“Sir, stop tapping,” hissed a man in front of them, turning around.
“Sorry,” his father whispered, winking at Dante. Then, that quickly, the memory vanished, and Dante felt as if he had been in some lovely trance, only to find himself in the backyard of a run-down madhouse.
“Baron Pisani, why am I here? Is it the delusions?”
Baron Pisani’s face fell into grave lines. “Dante, I want to discuss this when you’re able to, in my office.”
“But Lucia’s real, right? You saw her.”
“Yes, she’s real.” Baron Pisani patted his shoulder. “We’ll discuss this soon, I promise you.”
Dante sat by the breakin the wall all day long, listening to the music. He kept his distance from the others, and they kept their distance from him. Baron Pisani and the guards watched them, and in time they began bringing the others in. The sun dipped behind the wall, and the piano player stopped playing, gathered his papers, and left.
Baron Pisani appeared at his side. “Dante, it’s time for dinner. You can come outside again tomorrow. Every day, if you like.”
“I have one last thing to do before I go in.”
“What’s that?”
“Stand aside, please.”
Baron Pisani complied, and Dante summoned all the breath in his body, cupped his mouth, and let his heart speak for him:
“Lucia!” he called out, yearning.
But she didn’t return that night.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
It was a busy morning in Palermo, and people stopped to watch as Franco trotted into the Piazza della Vittoria next to Roberto, followed by Sebastiano, Ezio, and four of Roberto’s men. Heads turned, conversations stopped, and mouths dropped open. Men looked at them with a combination of admiration and fear, and women gathered children against their skirts. The Fiorvanti family was notorious, and Franco and Roberto easily identifiable.
