Chapter 14: Ask Him What Saturday Is

For three days Adriano came to dinner at Riverdale, and he talked about everything except the card.

He talked about the Newark yard and the new routes.

He talked about Ettore's roses.

He asked how my first week at the hospital had gone.

He kept his left hand in his pocket at the table.

I watched it there and said nothing, because I had asked once and been answered.

On Thursday, at two in the afternoon, the clerk on my ward held out a cream envelope.

"A courier brought it up," she said. "He wouldn't wait for a signature."

The envelope had my name on it in a careful hand, and no stamp.

Inside was one photograph.

It showed a pier at night, with a table under a work lamp and two men sitting at it.

One of them was heavy, with silver hair combed straight back. He was pouring wine.

The other was Adriano.

He sat with his scarred hand flat on a sheet of paper, and he was listening.

The date was printed in the corner. It was last night.

I turned the picture over.

Under the same careful hand, someone had written: Ask him what Saturday is.

I stood in the corridor with a patient's chart in my other hand and read the line four times.

Saturday was the engagement dinner.

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