Chapter 17: The Mop

The roof of the port office had a low parapet, a rusted ladder and the best view of the bay in Naples.

I came up the iron stairs at eight, breathing hard from the climb.

Gaetano stood by the railing in his navy coat.

The lights of the ships lay behind him in long, uneven rows.

In one hand he held a bottle of wine.

In the other he held a mop.

It was a real one, a grey cotton mop with a wooden handle.

I stopped at the top of the stairs.

"You said," he told me, "next time."

I laughed.

It came out of me before I could stop it, loud and helpless, in the wind.

I put my hand over my mouth and it kept coming.

"It's from the cleaner's cupboard on the third floor," he said, with great dignity. "I signed it out."

"Gaetano."

"It's on the harbour's inventory."

He propped the mop against the parapet, very carefully.

He put the wine on the ledge.

Then he turned and looked at me, and he was not joking any more.

"I heard about the cemetery," he said. "Are you all right?"

"No." I walked to the railing and stood next to him. "I think I will be."

"Good."

We watched a ferry slide out of the bay with all its windows lit.

"I'm still a married woman," I said. "On paper. For five more months."

"I know."

"If anyone saw us, they'd say I had left Tommaso for you."

"Did you?"

"No. I left him at a dinner table, in front of fourteen men, and you weren't in the room."

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