I almost answer that I was, too, before catching the ridiculous words. Instead, I smile and nod, like,Yes, I did know, because my mother told me that, and told me plenty of otherthings about the villa excavations and that time in our lives, and not because I stole her old diary and memorized every detail like the biggest mystery of my life hangs in the balance.
“It is amazing,” I agree. “Which is actually why I’ve come to speak with you today. They’re throwing a little celebration at Villa Russo a few weeks from now to honor the twentieth anniversary with everyone here for the summer. Mom knows it’s happening”—she’s the one who mentioned it to me while helping create my packing list, unknowingly inspiring the perfect cover story and starting place for my secret search—“but I’ve been thinking about something extra I could do to surprise her and make the occasion even more special. I want to invite some additional colleagues and friends from her time here, starting with you, of course, and since you worked so closely with her back then, I was hoping you could help add to the list. Any names of people I could look into, to see if they’re still in the area and interested in attending.”
Dr. Constantini leans back, the chair squeaking under his shift in weight, and laces his fingers together over his middle. The pose is veryand what would you like for Christmas, young Cammie?Whenever he’s done with this curator gig, heneedsto take his talents to the Mall Santa industry.
He hums to himself, gaze veering toward the ceiling as he raises one hand to stroke his beard. “That is a wonderful idea, this party, and I hope I can be of help with your guest list. Let me see. That was, hmm, my third summer as the program director for the…Sì, sì…” He trails off—then rolls off, whirling around in his office chair to approach a massive cabinet in the same deep brown, solid wood as his desk.
He continues mumbling to himself in Italian as he digs a small key out of a trouser pocket and uses it to unlock each heavy door in turn, then open them wide. Scooting to the side, he looks back to West and me with a smile, sweeping a hand over what he’s revealed: shelves upon shelves full to bursting with binders, folders, and notebooks.
“My computer before computers!” Dr. Constantini jokes. “For most of my career, the only way to ‘save’ information was to put it on paper. Then the tough part—do not forget where you have put the paper.”
“Wow,” I say, for lack of a better response. As Dr. Constantini begins to peruse his archives, my hopes of getting anything useful from this visit dwindle. That cabinet is like one of those old I Spy books come to life, all its contents running together, nothing labeled or organized in any way I can decipher. I can’t imagine he—
“Aha! Here we are,” he declares, and in my periphery, West’s head rears back with the same surprise I feel. Constantini rolls back to his desk and sets his find on the surface with a thud. It’s an overstuffed, faded green binder, papers already spilling out on all sides. The only thing even resembling a label that I spot is a scribble of black marker that could be a messily written “dB,” but could also be one of those inkblot tests.
I shudder to think what this man’s computer files look like.
“This is all from the time I was working on the villa project,” he begins, gently pulling back the cover to lay it flat. “Let us see what is relevant to us here…”
Dr. Constantini’s mumbling resumes as he flips through the pages that are bound by the metal rings, and the many moreloose papers tucked in between. Some he sets aside immediately or skips over completely, while others get more study. Every few pages, he pauses, picks up his silver fountain pen from its holder, and writes something on a notepad off to one side of the desk.
I hope his notes are more legible than his binder labels. My palms itch, my legs cross and uncross, the urge to reach out and take every piece of potential evidence so strong that I can’t get comfortable. I’m so close to just asking if I can take the whole file when the woman from the front desk calls out the professor’s name.
With a staying hand and an unhurried, “Scusi, un momento,” Dr. Constantini strolls out of the office. I wait for his footsteps to fade before I jump into action.
“What are you doing?” West snaps in an accusatory whisper as I round the desk and pull my phone from my shorts pocket.
“Shh, it’s fine,” I whisper back, knowing this is neither an answer to his question nor anything he’ll believe. But I need to hurry and do what I set out to before Constantini comes back, instead of standing here explaining myself. I grab a pen from a cup filled with the non-fancy, non-fountain variety and use it to bookmark the page the man left open, then flip back the stack of pages he’s already reviewed to the very beginning.
One by one, I take pictures of every single scrap of anything in this file, not even checking to see if it looks useful before going to the next page. This is better than trying to find a not-suspicious way to ask for the whole file, even on the verylow chance he’d actually let me have it. Because with all due respect to the generations who got through life without modern technology—and we all know my respect is real—I can’t keep a big-ass binder in my shorts pocket. Nor can I review its contents till my eyes dry out, under the guise of watching old episodes ofWild Adventures, if my mom asks what I’m up to.
“Cammie, you can’t…He’s going to come back and…” West sputters, his agitation clear despite his hushed voice.
“If you want to prevent whatever you think that nice old man would do to me, why don’t you act as lookout,” I say without looking away from my task.
It’s not a real suggestion. I half expect him to walk out there and turn me in himself. So it’s a confusing but not unpleasant surprise when I glance up and find West standing by the open doorway, pretending to browse the titles on the bookshelf against the wall while also giving himself a view down the hallway.
I look down again immediately, ensuring he won’t see the grin that tugs at my lips. For a second, it’s like our friendship never missed a beat. Like we’ve traveled back ten years and a couple continents away, to the time West kept watch at the door to our families’ on-site cabin in Peru, while I short-sheeted all the grown-ups’ beds. But then I remember all the ways life has changed since then, and the pang of sadness that lands in my chest is so heavy, it nearly steals my breath. That’s all the reason I need to shove memories and nostalgia back into the locked closet where they usually stay and focus on the here and now.
I’ll have to send Front Desk Lady a grazie card at a later date, because whatever she needed from Dr. Constantini keeps him busy forjuuustlong enough that I finish photographing everything in the binder. I return all items on the desk to where their owner left them and launch myself back toward my chair right as West shouts, “Cam, heads up!”
I freeze, mid-sit, my gaze darting to his frantic expression.
“I mean, er, check out this book I found.” He pulls a random volume off the shelf and holds it up toward me while I plop gracelessly into the chair. At my look ofwhat the hell was that?, he shrugs and his eyes widen, allI’m doing my best, okay?
“Ach so!” Dr. Constantini bellows on his way back into the office, rosy-cheeked and smiley and oblivious to anything amiss. “Sprechen Sie deutsch, Herr Jacobs?”
He nods to the book West grabbed, which I only then register is a German-language copy ofManifest der Kommunistischen Partei. My palm covers my eyes before I can stop it, so I try to play it off like I’m scratching an itch.
“Oh…oh, no,” West stammers. “Or, uh…nyet?”
“Point made, since that’s Russian,” I say.
“But I’m interested in learning it. German, I mean, not Communism.” He’s wincing before the abysmal attempt at a lie is even out. Fortunately, Constantini is distracted with moving back to his side of the desk and beginning to tidy it.
“I do not suggest you start with Marx and Engels—maybe instead one of the phone applications? I hear they are quite good, from my young friends who study languages.” He tears the top sheet off his notepad and looks up at us once more ashe holds it out. “But please, take the book for when you are ready for it—I have many other copies. And for you, Signorina Lovett, the names of some old friends of your mamma. I am sorry to have to cut our time short, but other business has demanded my attention this morning. I hope these are still of some help.”
“Oh, you’ve been a huge help,” I assure him as I take the list, mentally adding,More than you know. “Thank you so much again for your time, and hopefully we’ll see you at the party, right? I’ll send you the details, if you want to give me your email address.”
