We drove through brightly lit streets beside an ultramodern tram that had also left from the airport. Marco pointed to the right. “Look over there. You will see the Duomo.”
“What’s the Duomo?” I asked.
“The Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore. The dome is lit up. Do you see?”
Sitting forward, I identified the historic cityscape in the distance. “Oh yes, there it is. It’s beautiful. I’ll have to google it. Maybe I’ll get a chance to visit while I’m here.”
“You can climb up the tower,” he said, “but the lineups ... very long. Book in advance.”
“Thank you for the tip. I meangrazie,” I said with a smile.
Before long, we merged onto a freeway, and Marco accelerated to a fast clip. I rested my forehead against the window, hoping to finally drift off, when Marco spoke softly. “I see resemblance.”
Again, our eyes met in the small space of the rearview mirror. “I beg your pardon?”
“You look like him,” Marco said with a touch of melancholy. “Like your father.”
I sat up a little straighter. “You knew him?” I’d assumed Marco was just an anonymous airport limo driver.
“Sì. I was Mr.Clark’s driver for six years.”
I froze for a second or two, my ears still ringing from all the noisy takeoffs and landings. Or maybe it was something else, a sudden awareness that the father who was a stranger to me—a man I thought of in the way one might think about a stone statue—had lived a full life with close friends who knew him intimately. People who worked for him, people who cared for him.
Of course, rationally, I knew that he must have had friends. Thanks to Ms.Moretti’s email, I knew for a fact that he was survived by a wife and two children. It was surprising how quickly I devoured the information in her email, even though I had never wanted to know anything about him before. All my life, I had preferred to think of my biological father as not quite human. A one-dimensional villain, if you will. Not a person I would ever wish to know or care about.
Perhaps the reason I didn’t want to know anything was because I feared it might lead to a desire to meet him. Then I would have to travel a great distance to satisfy my curiosity, and I couldn’t do that to Dad. It would have felt terribly disloyal.
“Did you enjoy working for him?” I asked Marco, finally removing the chains from my curiosity. I was in Italy for one week only. I might as well surrender to it.
Marco laughed. “I don’t think anyone enjoyed working for your father. He was ... how do you say in English?Oppressore? Tiranno?”
“A tyrant?” I offered.
“Sì!Tyrant!”
I sat back, feeling strangely relieved to hear that. If he was, in fact, a horrible person, that might soften my regrets in the future. I might be grateful I’d never met him. “Really.”
Marco laughed again. “But we loved him. We would have done anything for him. I don’t know why.”
I inclined my head. “Who’s ‘we’?”
Marco shrugged. “Everyone. He had a certain ... how do you say?” Marco gestured with a hand. “Power. A way to charm anyone into doing anything.”
I gazed out the window again and wondered what would have happened if I’d traveled here when Anton was still alive. It might have been interesting to witness his alleged charisma for myself. He had, after all, seduced my mother into cheating on a husband she deeply loved. If that’s what happened. I wasn’t actually certain thatseductionwas the right word. It might have been something far less romantic, a situation she couldn’t control, based on the anguish on her face when she told me.
Feeling a little sick at the thought, I tapped my finger on my knee and realized that the curiosity I had managed to bury for the past twelve years was waking up like a sleeping dragon. I was eager to reach Montepulciano.
Marco was a confident driver, but he liked to speed.
“You must know these roads pretty well,” I said, waking from a nap and running my fingers through my hair as I took in our surroundings. We seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, careening through dark and twisty country roads.
“Sì.I’ve lived here all my life.”
I wished I could see more than the leafy foliage closing in on us from either side of the narrow road.
“It’s foggy,” I mentioned, being tossed suddenly to the left as Marco maneuvered around a hairpin turn at a breakneck speed.
“Fog is common in Tuscany,” he replied. “Lots of hills and valleys where it likes to worm its way in. Almost there. Not far now.”
