“You have to grind them into a very fine powder,” said Bruno as he retrieved a clear plastic vial from a cardboard box. The vial was filled with a translucent, almost pearly powder, and on a small sticker affixed to the vial’s exterior, Bruno or maybe Luca had written the date the specimen had been collected and the location. “We want it to look like this when we’re done.”
Pummeling the mollusks into powder wasn’t as easy as I’d expected it to be. The dried tissue crumbled under the least amount of pressure, but it was impossible to get the bits and pieces half as small as Bruno’s sample. He watched me for a few minutes before he stepped in and took the pestle from me. “You’re better off if you press and rotate it,” he said as he demonstrated the technique, then handed the pestle back.
Once I had the hang of it, Luca showed me how to funnel the final product into the empty vials. Bruno insisted that Luca do the labeling because he was convinced I’d accidentally invert my months and days—Americans had so many things backward, I was learning—and screw up their whole system.
When the vials were neatly labeled, Bruno packed them away in the cardboard box.
“How long will it take for the box to arrive in Rome?” I asked.
“A week? Maybe two?”
“And how long will you wait for the lab in Rome to run the tests and read the results?”
He chuckled, then repeated the question in Italian for Luca’s benefit. Luca rolled his eyes.
“A month?” said Bruno, returning his attention to me. “Maybe a little longer?”
I did the math in my head. A week or so to dry, compound, and package the nacchere. Another week for transit. A month to process everything in Rome. “So, if a sub had a leak,” I said slowly, “is it possible it’d be six weeks before anyone knew?”
Bruno gave me a sad smile. “I think maybe you are beginning to understand the problem.”
84.
OVER THE NEXT WEEK,Teo found reasons to come by the house. Once to bring me cuttings from an aloe plant for my sunburn. Another time to ask if I could use an old bicycle that he’d found in the basement storage unit of his parents’ apartment building. That afternoon, we wound up biking to the cemetery and back.
“Shouldn’t you be working?” I asked him one morning when he stopped by with two cornetti in a paper bag.
“I’m Italian,” he said with a mischievous grin. “Everyone knows we don’t work in August.”
Miele must have smelled the food, because he leaped onto the porch and wrapped himself around Teo’s legs. “Nice cat,” he said as he bent down to stroke his head.
“I had to lure him out of hiding with a steak, but now we’re good friends.”
We sat on the porch steps and ate the pastries, which were delicious.
“This is a great place,” he said, nodding in the direction of the house, and I admitted that it was working out pretty well for us.
“I wish it were a little closer to town, but the garden is beautiful.”
“You’re practically next door to the Villa Webber.”
“I know. I want to see it at some point.”
“You haven’t yet?”
“I didn’t think I could,” I said, confused. “The gate’s always locked. And there’s that big No Trespassing sign.”
Teo laughed. “No kid on this island has ever let that stop him.”
“You just sneak in?”
“There’s a path from the Via Barrettini, but you can hop the wall just about anywhere.”
“Is it hard to find the house? Once you’re on the property?”
“Not if you’re with someone who knows where they’re going,” he said, then asked if I wanted to go.
Of course I wanted to go. So, we walked down the hill to a spot where the old stone wall surrounding the property had crumbled. “This is a good spot to get in,” said Teo.
