Chapter 20: The Birthday

"You're the one with the photographer," Konrad said.

It wasn't a question.

"Yes," Luca said.

"He came up these stairs in April and apologized to me. He was shaking. I thought he was going to be sick on my mat."

"I sent him."

"I know you sent him."

Konrad shifted the bag on his shoulder.

"He photographed my daughter in her swimsuit. You sent him to say sorry. You didn't come yourself."

The timer light buzzed.

Luca put the flowers and the wine down on my aunt's doormat.

Then he crossed the landing, three steps, and stood in front of Konrad.

"I'm sorry," he said. "He was there because I put him there. Every picture he took was mine."

Konrad didn't move.

"I should have said it to your face in April," Luca said. "I'm saying it now."

Konrad looked at him for a long moment.

He was a man who'd walked into burning buildings, and I watched him decide something.

"Okay," he said.

"That's all?"

"That's all I've got before a shift."

Konrad stepped past him onto the stairs.

Then he turned on the step below.

"If you hurt her, I won't throw anybody's keys down a drain. I'll just tell her aunt."

He went down.

Luca let out a breath.

My aunt opened the door behind me.

"Well?" she said. "Are you coming in or are you going to stand on my landing with supermarket wine?"

He came in.

She fed him three helpings and interrogated him for two hours in a mix of German and English, mostly about his mother.

When he left, she lit a cigarette and looked at me for a long time.

"Not a pig," she said. "A pig in recovery."

"Is that good?"

"It's better than most men in this city."

On Saturday the horse cake had eleven layers.

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