Page 139 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“It kind of was, though, right?” Harold said. “Don’t get all prim and proper now. Your dark sense of humor is one of your most appealing qualities.”

“That right?”

“And now I know where you get it from. Married to the English mob. Is it called the Mob in England? Or Mafia? Or is that only Italian?” He leaned closer. “You have to tell me more. I mean, don’t tell me your name. Or his name. Unless you want to.”

“I can’t. You’d have a proper shock reading about it. We were all over the place back in . . . Well, anyway. And no, I wouldn’t call it the Mafia, but it’s similar. How about organized crime?”

“Look at you, the wife of a—”

“Ex-wife.”

“Ex-wife of an organized crime boss. A librarian, no less, who took down an entire organization? Sent men to prison. And here I am, departing after a few months playing a digital nomad on a stage without an audience. A residency, if you like, and now I’m heading back to my mom’s basement, where we will watch Bob Ross and eat microwave dinners. I don’t even have a right to sit next to you.”

“That’s not true,” she said quietly, their exhilarating conversation shrouded in secrecy. “Will you stop it? Didn’t you learn anything from Bianca yesterday?”

“I did. And I get it. No more Aroldo if that’s what you mean. Still, in the competition for most interesting at this table, you’re lengths ahead. I’m dying to know what your real name is. Can we play the name game? Because I think a person’s name typically captures them well. You might be a Ruth? Or a Dolly? No, something more British? Jane or Elizabeth? If I were a British librarian, I might be a . . . Francis? Or a Sarah?”

Smirking, she pushed the plate with the pigeon away and set her fork down. “I don’t think you want to know.”

“I kind of do if we’re going to be friends forever. Am I supposed to keep calling you Moira? Who came up with Moira, anyway? Your handler?”

“She’s not a handler; she’s a case manager.”

“Not as glamorous. But I do like that she’s a she.” A conversation they’d had earlier in the summer came back to him. “Sidebar,” he said. “Remember that night when we were at the wine bar. You’d said you were from Bristol, but then all of a sudden you were from Dorset.”

A flash of knowing came over her. “You were onto something.”

“Ah, I should have been paying more attention.” He leaned in closer. “Don’t worry, I am taking this seriously. I won’t ever utter a word to anyone.”

Interrupting, the collection of servers brought them each a plate with a small square on it, something that looked like dessert.

“This is a towel to clean your hands; please don’t eat it,” the lead server said, then lifted up a kettle and poured hot water over Harold’s square. It expanded like one of those bath toy sponges that grow into dinosaurs.

Moira sat back so the server could transform her square into a towel next. “You know what? When you’re being yourself, you’re curious, incredibly funny, and handsome too. I love how your brain works, the way you’re onto one thing, and then onto another before you finish. You’re such a bright guy, Harold. And I think whatever it is you do, you’ll be great at it.”

“You have me confused with someone else,” Harold said, reaching for the warm towel and unraveling it.

“Stop it.” Moira gestured across the dining room at Alice, who was stabbing at something on her plate. “Trust me, one day, after their divorce, she’ll be craving someone who actually loved her.”

Harold cleaned his hands and then patted his lips with the towel. “I don’t know if I loved her. I really don’t. I look over there now, and I see a stranger. It doesn’t matter what she thinks, anyway. I’ve moved on.”

Moira took her towel off the plate. “Just like that?”

“Believe me, I have no feelings at all toward her. Nada.”

“That’s Spanish. Try niente.”

“Niente,” Harold said, perhaps too loudly. Everyone at their table, and the surrounding tables glanced over.

Brave and drunk Harold said again, “Niente!” Then he pointed at Renzo, sitting there guzzling wine, and repeated, “Niente!”

As if only to draw a reaction from Harold, Renzo reached for Alice’s hand and started to pet it. The large diamond shone under the light. Then he looked back at Harold and winked.

A fucking wink.

Next thing Harold saw was a piece of focaccia crossing in a grand arc over three tables, spinning like a ninja star and striking Renzo in the side of the head. It then tumbled onto the table.

Renzo whipped around, his forehead so tight the skin might tear.