Chapter 4

Our long Sunday-afternoon excursion through the Oltrarno district ended back at the Convento di Santa Francesco Firenze as the sun was sliding behind the building, leaving rosy streaks in the sky. Neither Alex nor I had the inclination to go back out later for a real dinner. We had picked up some tasty-looking figs and fat grapes at a little market along the way. The vending machine at the convent held a variety of drinks and snacks that would save us from starvation.

Which meant we were eager for breakfast, both of us standing at the double doors to the breakfast room before they opened at seven-thirty the next morning.

“Sleep well?” Alex asked.

“Not as well as I would have expected,” I said. “Old buildings are noisy. I was surprised to hear so much commotion in the halls. Everything had seemed so peaceful in the afternoon.”

“A bevy of French-speaking women checked in late last night,” Alex said.

“Bevy?”

He shrugged. “The word that comes to mind. Poor Ivonna. She was all alone, trying to get them situated, and they were behaving like irascible children. Maybe their flight had been delayed or something had gone wrong with their tour. I was buying a bottle of water, and they practically mobbed me, trying to get to the machine.”

“And then I suppose it took a while for all of them to finish in their bathrooms,” I said. “Pipes rattling. Locks clanging. Doors slamming in the hall.”

“About the private bath, Jordan.” Alex made a most earnest face. “I really thought we both had bathrooms en suite. That’s what I requested. You should have taken my room.”

I gave a wave of dismissal, just as an unsmiling woman of indeterminable age opened the doors and admitted us to the breakfast room. Maybe it was bad form to be so eager for breakfast. Or maybe she just expected tourists to ignore her. Her expression softened a bit when I greeted her with “Buon giorno.”

Hungry as I was, I had to stop and examine the charming space—vaulted ceiling, walls a soft, buttery color, a large window that opened onto the garden. Small tables with white tablecloths, each with two or four straight-backed chairs, except for one long table for eight. At each table were place cards with numbers printed on them.

“That’s ours,” Alex said, nodding at the table designated with numbers 4 and 17.

“Wonder why we can’t choose our own seating arrangements. Seems a little rigid,” I said, but I didn’t dwell on it. The aroma of coffee beckoned me.

The coffee, provided via machine, was a puzzler. Several options were offered: Caffe’ Latte, Espresso, Caffe Lungo, and some variations and combinations like Cappuccino Scuro and Latte Macchiato. I had no clue what might come closest to the good old American coffee I brewed in my kitchen, which is what I craved. The attendant was watching me. I motioned to her. “American coffee?” I said.

“Americano,” she said, pushing the Café Lungo button. I thanked her, and she responded with a kindly nod, if not a real smile.

By the time she’d stepped away, I had my coffee, about two fingers’ worth. About the same amount of wine in a glass. I punched the Café Lungo button again. Others had come into the breakfast room, and a couple of French-speaking women had made a queue behind me. It was probably a good thing I didn’t know exactly what they were saying, but I believed I had made another faux pas, this time by taking so much coffee when others were waiting.

I took my three-quarters-full cup to our table before I went to the food offerings on the sideboard. Alex was just finishing up. He had a roll, jam, and thin slices of cheese and ham. I wondered if he was thinking of Grace O’Toole’s scrumptious Irish breakfasts or the lavish breakfasts at our little hotel in Provence. But this was a convent. Frugality was the rule. I chose something that looked like dry oatmeal and poured milk on it. I passed over the only fruit option, which appeared to be canned peaches. A hard roll and a spoonful of jam rounded out my meal.

A minute later, I said, “This is actually quite tasty. I never thought about eating uncooked oatmeal—if that’s what this is—but it’s filling enough.”

“Maybe I’ll have some of that,” Alex said, as he had devoured his cheese and ham in a few bites. He picked up his empty coffee cup. He must have pushed the coffee button only once.

The room continued to fill. Next to us, a woman close to my height pushed a small man in a wheelchair up to the table. Their number was 11, which meant we were on the same floor. She was heavily made up, more appropriate for a night at the opera than a morning at the convent. The man had a thin mustache and wore black-rimmed spectacles. A blanket covered his legs, the toes of his shoes peeking out. She spoke to him in Italian and left him alone at the table.

I saw that their key—the key ring that looked like a barbell—had apparently slipped from the man’s lap to his footrest. I picked it up from between his shoes—his feet jerked a little—and laid it on their table. “Grazie,” he said in a whispery voice, but his frown made me wonder if I’d done something wrong.

“You’re welcome,” I said. I made a mental note, for what it was worth: Peculiar couple.

And then I noticed the girl we’d met yesterday. She was giving the room a once-over. I waved to her, and she came to my table.

“What are these numbers?” she asked, pointing to the place cards.

“Our room numbers,” I said. “What’s yours?”

“Twelve.” Also down the hall from mine. She looked around and spotted her number at the long table. “So am I supposed to sit with the old women because I am traveling alone?”

“Why don’t you sit with us?” I raised my finger, signaling for her to wait. Trying to be an inconspicuous as possible, I crossed the room and removed the chair and the place card with number 12 from the long table. My smile and cheery “Buon giorno” seemed to satisfy the three elderly women who were seated at the table. I pretended not to notice the attendant’s scowl as she watched me relocate the chair.

“You are kind,” the girl said with a little laugh. We introduced ourselves, and I finally learned her name—Sophia Costa. She said we could call her Sophie.

She brought back some of everything from the sideboard. Nothing wrong with her appetite. Like Alex and me, she had gone out Sunday afternoon and had something to eat but hadn’t eaten since, she told us. “I went to sleep so early,” she said, between bites. “I did not sleep the night before because I was in the train station in Rome, and there is no sleep there.”

I had learned with my own children—five of them, all grown up now—that you had to show a willingness to listen without showing too much interest in what they’re telling you. Especially true of teenagers. Once she’d started talking to us, no prompting was necessary. Though Alex didn’t comment, if Sophie had checked his expression more closely, she would have noticed the wrinkle between his brows that appeared when she’d said she spent the night in the train station, and how that wrinkle grew more pronounced as she continued.

“My friend goes to università. She wanted me to meet her friends, so we went with them to hear music, and when it was close to the time of the last train to Firenze, she took me in her car to the stazione. But a terrible accident had shut down the streets.” Sophie bit into a hard roll and chewed vigorously for another minute. “We sat in traffic for a long time—an hour, I think! I believed I could still make the last train. I hurried to purchase my ticket, but I had not imagined how confusing it would be in the stazione.” She hunched her shoulders. “I missed the train by a few minutes. You know the trains in Italy are always on schedule, never late.”

She had planned on the night train, she explained, thinking she could sleep between Rome and Florence and check into the convent early on Sunday. “To save money,” she said.

“Wouldn’t your friend have come back to the station for you?” Alex asked. “You could have stayed the night with her.”

Sophie made an incredulous face. “I could not ask her to do that! She had met my train in the afternoon and had brought me back that night. No, I told myself I would wait for the early train to Florence, and that is what I did. A few hours, not so long.” She turned up her palms. “But I did not sleep. I did not know that it would be such a long time before I could get my room.”

Her phone rang, and she pulled it from a small purse hanging from her shoulder. I couldn’t understand the exchange—in Italian, of course—but I heard her annoyed “Mamma!” several times, and I recognized her tone—that universal tone teenagers use with parents.

She finished the conversation, darted a sheepish look between Alex and me, and said, “Mamma worries so much.”

“A daughter your age, alone in Florence—I can see why your mother might be concerned,” I said.

“I am eighteen,” Sophie said with a bold little twitch of the shoulders, “and the convent is safe.” Then her lips curled. “Mamma does not know I am in Florence. Or Papa.”

I had to clamp my teeth to make myself remain quiet as she went on. “They think I am in Rome with my friend at università. Still they worry. And why is that, when they say I myself should go to università? Papa more than Mamma. He calls me il mio piccolo gattino. Little kitten.” She was trying hard to look annoyed, but the warmth in her voice betrayed her.

So tempting to say there was probably a good reason for her parents to worry, given that Sophie was lying to them, but that would likely end our conversation.

She scooted her chair back. “I am still hungry,” she said, and she headed for the sideboard again.

Alex gave me a stern look. “Not your problem, Jordan.”

“I know,” I said. “I know.”

* * * * *

The door was open when I returned to my room. My unease lasted only a minute, though. A wiry little man with a shock of gray hair and a jet-black mustache was working under my sink.

“Buon giorno,” he said—and something else that may have been I’m fixing the leak.

“Buon giorno,” I said—and added, “Grazie,” for good measure.

He was tightening a coupling nut. He’d probably replaced a gasket, a job I could’ve accomplished with a proper wrench. Sitting on my bed, I waited for another minute while he finished. We smiled and nodded our goodbyes. I saw a bandage on one side of his head.

I had met Luigi.