Chapter 21

“The convent.” My words sounded squeezed-out.

Both Paul and Alex looked across the piazza to the convent. Alex continued to frown, as if still trying to understand, but Paul said, “Mon Dieu! Is that what you saw, Jordan? You saw someone fall from a window in the convent?”

I nodded. I still could not say Sophie’s window.

Comprehension washed across Alex’s face then, and concern, as he stared at the façade of the convent, whispering, “Oh no.” Alex’s distance vision, even with glasses, was not perfect, but I was sure he could see that on the second floor, in a couple of windows, people were leaning out, looking down. On the third floor, no windows were shuttered, but only one was open. I couldn’t be sure that Alex knew whose window it was. That wasn’t something I’d ever pointed out to him, and I didn’t say it now: Sophie’s window.

“We need to go to the convent,” I said, my words still raspy.

“We can try,” Paul said.

The next moments were frantic. Shrill whistles sounded, as police tried to maintain order. The ropes did not hold back people who headed across the piazza to see what had happened—and the square was already packed so there was much jostling for every inch of space. Indistinct strains of music began to die away as the musicians moved farther from the square. Drumbeats sounded from the other direction until police closed off the piazza, halting the parade. People were permitted to leave the square, it appeared, just not enter it, but not many were leaving. The screaming had stopped, but the noise level had risen to a roar, and then came the sound of sirens.

It seemed we might not get through at all, but eventually we did, with Paul in the lead, taking us not directly across the square, which was chaotic, but around the edge of the commotion. How long, in minutes, I couldn’t say. By the time we reached the other side, where police had already put up ropes to push the crowd back from the front of the convent, several squad cars had arrived. Officials in jackets with the words “Carabinieri” on the back blocked our view, but when they shifted to make room for an official entourage to come forward from a black SUV, I caught a glimpse of what I knew was a body, though it was covered. And then the gap closed, and I saw that Paul was speaking to a policeman, one who may have been on site all evening, judging from his short sleeves and white cap, just like the ones we’d seen from our café. Crowd control.

After a moment, Paul was back beside Alex and me, saying, “I told the gendarme that you were staying in the convent, but he simply said no one would be allowed inside for some time. Of course, that wasn’t what I wanted to know.”

“He didn’t say how this happened?” Alex asked. And who, I thought, but I didn’t say it, and neither did Alex.

“He would not give out that information. He does not know me,” Paul said. In Paris, it would be different, his gesture, an upturned palm, seemed to say.

I rubbed the gooseflesh of my arms. It was not a cool night, not temperature-wise. Low sixties, I would guess. But I was shivering. Paul said, “Are you all right, Jordan? Please, let me give you my jacket.”

“I have a sweater,” I said, and I dug in my tote bag. Paul helped me with it, and then he put his arm around my shoulders and drew me close to him. His warmth was comforting, but I couldn’t stop shivering.

“It is a terrible thing,” he said, and I realized Paul didn’t know what I feared—probably Alex didn’t, either. But as long as I didn’t say Sophie, maybe it wouldn’t be true.

“Perhaps we should go back to the restaurant and wait. Have a coffee or brandy,” Paul said.

I shook my head. “Let’s stay—for a while. Please. Maybe we can find out—more.” I wanted to know, and I didn’t.

A woman from the black SUV had joined the other officials, and it was clear she had authority. Her dark hair was short, worn in a kind of bouffant, a little old-fashioned, but along with her tailored suit, the hairdo seemed right. She bent down, and I lost sight of her as she apparently looked at the body. The next time I saw her, she was at the heavy door of the convent, pushing the buzzer. And then she went inside, accompanied by half a dozen men.

And then I saw Cristiano, from Vivre la Toscana!

He was moving through the crowd, going away from the convent. I touched Alex’s arm and made a motion toward Cristiano. “Wonder what he’s doing here,” I said.

“I can’t imagine,” Alex said.

We kept waiting. Time dragged on. After a while, Paul said, “Ah! There’s Eli. There is a man who will have information if anyone does. Excuse me.” A minute later, he returned with Eli Schubert. And Paul was right. Eli had information.

* * * * *

“I know a lieutenant in the carabinieri,” Eli explained. “He called me. I wasn’t far from here, at a little trattoria on the river.”

“And he allowed you to enter the piazza,” Paul said. It was not a question, but he arched his eyebrows, an expression that seemed to ask Why? When no one else was allowed to enter?

Eli responded with a shrug. “I’ve been known to pass information on to him.”

All around us people carried on noisy, highly emotional conversations in Italian. It was not likely anyone was listening to us, but we arranged ourselves in a small circle, the four of us, making it easier to hear each other.

“Why is the carabinieri involved?” Alex asked. “Isn’t the carabinieri a branch of the Italian military?”

“True, but they’re charged with domestic law enforcement, too. It depends on the nature of the crime, how serious it is,” Eli said. “It’s not unusual for the locals—the municipal police—and the carabinieri to both rush to a crime scene, both trying to take charge. They’ve been known to fight—I mean push and shove and yell—over who can claim the crime. But sometimes it’s clear, one way or the other. I think the carabinieri will be backing off this one. It may not be a crime at all.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“This is a convent, for one thing. It’s probably an accident. Someone leaned too far out the window.” Eli ran his hand through his thinning hair. “I’m not saying it can’t be foul play—I know better, never say never—but that’s not the first thing that comes to mind.”

“Do you know who it is? The one who fell?” Paul asked.

Eli shook his head. “Nope. Do you know whose window that is?” This, he directed at me.

Sophie’s window.

But I didn’t have to say it.

Our attention turned to a white van, and Eli said, “Medical examiner.” The policemen shifted back to let the van pull into the closely-guarded area next to the building, moving the ropes back, pushing spectators back. Momentarily, the heavy door of the convent opened. The officious woman we’d seen go in now exited. Tall, shapely. Behind her came one of the officers wearing the windbreaker-jacket of the Carabinieri.

“That’s Chief Inspector Eleanora de Rosa,” Eli said. “She’s Polizia Municipale.”

“And the Carabinieri?” Paul asked.

“I don’t know him. But you can see, she’s taking charge,” Eli said.

Chief Inspector Eleanora de Rosa was doing the talking, all the gesturing, and then all the officials disappeared behind the medical examiner’s van. A few minutes more, and a gurney was lifted into the back of the van. A body bag.

The words spilled out in a hoarse whisper. “Please don’t let it be Sophie.”

Alex squeezed my arm. His silence said it all. He had feared all along that the window was Sophie’s.

Paul took a deep breath. “Ah, I understand,” he said. “Mon Dieu! The young artist you mentioned to me. Jordan—I pray there is some mistake.”

I looked at Eli, who had remained respectfully silent. “That’s Sophie’s window. Sophie Costa is her name.”

The white van began to roll forward. For many in the crowd, the spectacle was over. There was a general movement away from the convent.

“I’ll head to the questura, the police station. See what I can find out,” Eli said.

It felt late, the way nights feel when the party is dying down and the energy is waning, but it was not quite eleven. We returned to the café where our evening had begun. Apparently the bills Paul had pressed into our waiter’s hand when we had rushed from our table, our first course not yet served, had been a satisfactory amount—an impressive amount. We were welcomed with enthusiasm by the man who was ostensibly the owner, and the waiter could not do enough for us.

Paul ordered caffe corretto all around—coffee with brandy—and the waiter brought a plate of biscotti. Alex and Paul kept the conversation going, mostly about the Festa della Rifocolona. Paul said the parade would end in a party at the Piazza Santissima Annunziata. That piazza had been part of Alex’s hop-on, hop-off tour today, and he added something he’d learned from the tour guide about the tradition of children shooting spit wads at the paper lanterns. I appreciated that they were trying to distract me, but it didn’t work. I sipped my drink and began to feel warm at last, warm from the inside out. The convent was in plain sight now, not many revelers left in the square, and close to midnight, we saw the heavy front door open to admit people who had been waiting outside.

So we called it a night.

We did not linger at the door of the convent. Paul promised to call in the morning. “I expect I will hear from Eli. He is very good at getting information.”

Alex pushed the buzzer. Paul raised my hand to his lips. The heavy door opened.

Ivonna was at her appointed place when we went to get our keys. Her gaze met mine, and her face began to crumple like a child’s. She stood up and reached across the counter. I took her icy hands in mine, and she began to weep, murmuring something in Italian. I could make out just one word: “Sophie.”