The valet made no move toward the table, saying instead, "Where shall I put it?" in English. D'Agosta glanced at Pendergast and saw a twinkle of amusement in his eye.
"O' tavule," he answered more brusquely.
The man stood there with the fruit in his hand, looking from the table to the desk, finally placing it on the desk. D'Agosta felt a surge of irritation at his willful incomprehension-hadn't he given the man a big enough tip? Words he had so often heard from his father flowed unbidden off his lips. "Allòra qual'è ò problema', sì surdo? Nun mi capisc'i? Ma che è parl' ò francèse'? Mannaggi' 'a miseria'."
The man backed out of the room in confusion. D'Agosta turned to Pendergast, to find the agent making a rare and unsuccessful attempt to suppress an effervescence of mirth.
"What's so funny?" D'Agosta said.
Pendergast managed to compose his features. "Vincent, I didn't know you had such a flair for languages."
"Italian was my first language."
"Italian? Do you speak Italian, too?"
"What do you mean, too ? What the hell do you think I was speaking?"
"It sounded remarkably to me like Neapolitan, which is often called a dialect of Italian but is actually a separate language. A fascinating language, too, but, of course, incomprehensible to a Florentine."
D'Agosta froze. Neapolitan dialect ? The thought had never occurred to him. Sure, there were families that spoke the Sicilian dialect where he grew up in New York, but he'd just assumed his own language was real Italian. Neapolitan? No way. He spoke Italian .
Pendergast, noticing the look on D'Agosta's face, continued. "When Italy was united in 1871, there were six hundred dialects. A debate began to rage as to what language the new country should speak. The Romans thought their dialect was the best, because, after all, they were Rome . The Perugians thought theirs was the purest, because that's where the oldest university in Europe was. The Florentines felt theirs was correct, because theirs was the language of Dante." He smiled again. "Dante won."
"I never knew that."
"But people continued to speak their dialects. Even when your parents emigrated, only a small portion of the citizenry spoke official Italian. It wasn't until the arrival of television that Italians began abandoning their dialects and speaking the same language. What you consider 'Italian' is actually the dialect of Naples, a rich but sadly dying language, with hints of Spanish and French."
D'Agosta was stunned.
"Who knows? Perhaps our researches will take us south, where you can shine. But for now, seeing as how it is getting on toward dinnertime, shall we head out for a bite to eat? I know a wonderful little osteria in Piazza Santo Spirito, where there is also a curious fountain I believe might be of interest to our investigation."
Five minutes later they were walking through the crooked medieval streets of Florence, which led them to a broad, spacious piazza, shaded by horse chestnut trees and shut in on three sides by lovely Renaissance buildings stuccoed in hues of ivory, yellow, and ocher. Dominating the end closest to the river was the plain facade of the Chiesa di Santo Spirito, severe in its simplicity. An old marble fountain splashed merrily in the center of the piazza. Students with backpacks clustered around it, smoking cigarettes and chatting.
Pendergast casually removed Beckmann's photograph from his pocket, held it up toward the fountain, and then slowly circled the piazza until the background matched. He stared for a long moment. Then he put the photo away.
"That's where the four of them stood, Vincent," he said, pointing. "And there, behind, is the Palazzo Guadagni, now managed as a student pensione . We shall inquire there tomorrow to see if they remember any of our friends, although I do not hold out much hope. But let us dine. I find myself in the mood for linguini with white truffles."
"I could really do with a cheeseburger and fries."
Pendergast turned to him, a stricken look on his face. D'Agosta smiled back crookedly. "Just kidding."
They strolled across the piazza toward a small restaurant, the Osteria Santo Spirito. Tables had been set up outside, and people were eating and drinking wine, their lively conversation floating into the piazza.
Pendergast waited until they were shown to a table, then gestured for D'Agosta to sit. "I must say, Vincent, you are looking fitter these days."
"Been working out. And after that jaunt in Riverside Park, I've also been brushing up at the shooting range."
"Your firearm skills are the stuff of legend. That just might come in handy for the little adventure we'll be having tomorrow night."
"Adventure?" D'Agosta was tired, but jet lag only seemed to energize Pendergast.
"We are going to Signa to visit Bullard's secret laboratory. While you were unwinding in your hotel room this afternoon, I was speaking with various Florentine officials, trying to procure the files on Bullard and BAI's doings here. But even Fosco's influence got me nowhere. It seems Bullard is well connected with the right people-or at least knows where to spend his money. All I was able to procure was a long-outdated map of his plant site. In any case, it's clear we're not going to get anywhere through regular channels."
"I take it he doesn't know we're coming."
"Our visit will be in the manner of an insertion. We can get the gear we need tomorrow morning."
D'Agosta nodded slowly. "Could be exciting."
"Let us hope not too exciting. As I get older, Vincent, I have come to prefer a quiet evening at home to a bracing exchange of gunfire in the dark."
{ 51 }
Bryce Harriman walked north along Fifth Avenue, threading his way through the crowds with practiced ease, his mind on the devil killings. Ritts was right: the Von Menck piece had really touched a nerve in the city. He'd been flooded with calls. Mostly from cranks, of course-this was the Post , after all-but still he couldn't recall a bigger reaction to a story. The whole business of the golden ratio and the way everything fitted so neatly with the historic dates, the aura of mathematics-for an ignorant person, it had all the ring of hard scientific fact. And, Harriman had to admit, it was a bit uncanny how the dates just happened to fall in line like that.
He passed the Metropolitan Club, glimpsing the marvels of old New York money within. That was his world in there, or rather, the world of his grandparents. Although he was approaching the age where he could start expecting the first of several prestigious club invitations (arranged by his father), he worried that his current position at the Post would be an impediment. He needed to get back to the Times , and fast.
This was the story that could do it.
Ritts loved him-at least as much as that reptile could love anyone. But a good story was like a fire. It needed to be fed. And this one was already guttering. He sensed Ritts's good favor could fade as quickly as it came, leaving him and his big new raise uncomfortably exposed. He needed a development, even if it was manufactured. That was what he hoped this return visit to Cutforth's building might provide. His earlier pieces had already swelled the ranks of the Bible-thumpers, devil worshipers, Goths, freaks, satanists, and New Agers who now gathered daily along the fringes of Central Park opposite the building. There had already been a couple of fistfights, some name-calling, a few visits by New York's finest to break things up. But it was all disorganized. All reactions needed a catalyst and this was no exception.