39

Jorge Ocampo was running like the wind. He shouldn’t, he knew. Anna said he must never let the Unchanged see the extent of his Noantri abilities. Their minds were small and they would get frightened; they would shun him, perhaps even attack him, if they felt him to be vastly different from themselves. She assured him they couldn’t harm him if they did attack: any pain would be transitory, and in the centuries since the Concordat the Unchanged had lost the understanding of the effects of fire. Still, she said, if Jorge were to arouse suspicion, he would become less valuable to her. That was an alarming thought, but still he sped around the corner at Vicolo del Piede until he reached his goal: the abandoned cinema. The startled gasps as he raced past (“Madonna! Did you see that guy?”) would reduce his value to Anna less, he was sure, than being identified as the man responsible for what had happened in Santa Maria della Scala.

The old theater sagged and creaked in the shade of the vines that colonized its flanks. That Vicolo del Piede was never busy was one of the reasons Jorge had chosen this place for his private hideaway. Even Anna didn’t know he came here. The street was empty now, as usual, no one to see him leap onto a sill and slip through a half-open window.

Immediately, as it always did, the still darkness of the derelict interior quieted Jorge’s heart. His Noantri eyes adjusted immediately to the low light that seeped through the few filthy, cracked windows, but even if they hadn’t that would have been all right; he knew every inch of this theater. No films had been shown at Il Pasquino for a decade, but as so often happened in Rome, though the building was now useless it had not been demolished. It had merely been abandoned, as those who’d loved it had moved on to something new.

Anna. He had to call Anna. What would he say? He had to tell her the truth, but he so dreaded her inevitable fury—Anna could detonate with an incendiary heat, just like an Argentinian girl—that though he forced himself to take out his cell phone, he couldn’t, for a moment, go further. He gripped the phone tightly and sat where he always did: third row, right side, on the aisle, the seat he’d taken every chance he’d had at any of the movie houses on Avenida Corrientes, back home. Before he’d gotten involved with his brothers of La Guerra Sucia, before he’d met Anna and become part of an even bigger revolutionary movement, Jorge’s happiest hours had been spent in the dark theaters of Buenos Aires. Even with the torn upholstery and the spiders and the musty smell, even with no film to watch on the ripped and mildewed screen, Jorge felt more at home in Il Pasquino than anywhere else in Rome.

Oh, how he wanted to go home. He yearned for the day when Anna’s plans were accomplished and they could fly off to Argentina, finally together, with only each other to think about. Anna would always be concerned with the welfare of the Noantri, of course, and he would always support her in her efforts on behalf of her people. Their people! How many times had she reprimanded him, reminded him that he was Noantri, too, now and forever? But once the last obstacle to Noantri rule had been removed, he and Anna would be free to change their priorities, to trade this necessary work of freedom fighting for the joy of each other’s arms.

And though he’d made a bad mistake today, Anna would know how to fix it. She’d give him new instructions, he’d carry them out faithfully, and her plans would not really be disrupted. They’d continue on their path to victory, and home.

Feeling much calmer now, he lifted his phone.