Chapter 11: The Piazza

My father didn't look at me.

He looked at the underboss.

It was a short look. Nobody else at the table caught it.

I did.

"How does an American find my gate," my father said, "two days after my daughter lands?"

Nobody answered.

"Tell him no," my father said to his man. "Tell him the house is closed. Tell him to take his flowers to the cemetery, where they'll do some good."

"Papà."

"You want to see him?"

"No."

"Then it's no."

The man went back through the house.

From the terrace I could just see the gate at the bottom of the drive.

Brent stood in front of it in a white linen shirt, sunburned already, holding a huge bouquet of red roses wrapped in cellophane.

The man spoke to him through the bars.

Brent argued. I could see his hands move.

The man turned and walked away.

Brent stood there with the roses for a long time.

Then he laid them on the ground in front of the gate and walked down the hill to his taxi.

The next morning I went to the market in town.

I wanted to see it again. The fish on ice, the spice sellers shouting, the old women who pinched every tomato.

Dario's driver followed just behind me.

I was buying blood oranges when I heard my name.

"Giulia!"

Brent was pushing through the crowd toward me.

He hadn't shaved. His linen shirt was wrinkled like he'd slept in it.

People turned to look at him. A tall sunburned American yelling in a Palermo market was a show.

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