Gabriela went back to the window and pointed up the highway. "The road branches off about two kilometers to the south. The right fork will take you to Mount Titano."
I paid my bill, left Gabriela a few hundred lire, and returned to my car.
There were two guards at the border. One of them stepped out into the middle of the road as I approached. He couldn't have been more than twenty, but the scattergun he held made him seem older. The other one stayed back, watching me through cold, mud-colored eyes. He was tall, swarthy, and looked decidedly unfriendly. I doubted that he'd ever directed traffic.
The boyish one came around to my side of the car and cleared his throat.
"I'm sorry, sir," he said in passable English. "The border is closed."
"I didn't think that ever happened in San Marino."
"There is sickness on the mountain." He dropped his eyes as he said it. "Very bad. We have closed ourselves off to protect others."
"I understand it's only catching if you're a telephone."
He gave me a sharp look, filled with warning.
"I've had all my shots. I'd like to take my chances."
"I'm sorry, sir. Perhaps in a few days."
I backed my car around and drove back down the hill. I parked it at a service station at the foot of the mountain and gave the attendant some money to watch it for a few days. From what I'd seen, San Marino wasn't exactly impregnable; it was time to test its new border fortifications. I found a convenient vineyard and ducked off the road into it.
I took the vineyard route three-quarters of the way up the mountain, past the guards, then turned left and walked until I hit the main highway. That was all it took to get into San Marino. Staying there might prove more difficult, but I'd worry about that when the time came.
I found myself on the outskirts of a town that I recognized from the Italian's description as the country's capital, also named San Marino. The central thoroughfare was a narrow, cobblestone street lined on both sides with souvenir shops. There were also a number of restaurants and hotels, not to mention the famous three castles, each about a half kilometer from where I was standing.
There was no sign of any circus.
I went up the street and stopped in front of one of the souvenir shops. Its windows were filled with the same things the windows of all the other shops were filled with, plastic junk with a medieval theme: plastic helmets, swords and shields, all undoubtedly made in Japan. There were three revolving stands displaying glassine envelopes filled with San Marinese stamps. All of the usual postcards were already stamped, and there was a large wooden mailbox conveniently nailed to the side of each shop.
Benches on each side of the entrance were loaded with glass jugs containing San Marinese cognac.
The San Marinese didn't miss a trick.
On the other hand, it didn't take much of an experienced eye to see that much of San Marino was authentically medieval. There was a church visible down a side street that had to be at least eight hundred years old, probably of great interest to historians. But the San Marinese had learned their lesson early and well; history doesn't make money, plastic souvenirs do.
A woman emerged from behind the tinted glass and stood on the stoop watching me as though I might be a souvenir that had somehow escaped from her shop. She had been beautiful once, before she'd put away too many San Marinese delicacies. Her green eyes were perfectly complemented by almond-colored skin and dark hair.
Finally she smiled and said, "American?" It was as perfect as English can be when laced with a Brooklyn accent.
I extended my hand. "My name is Robert Frederickson."
"I'm Molly Marinello," the woman said, taking my hand in a firm grip. Her eyes glittered with pleasure. "Please wait here a moment, Mr. Frederickson. My husband will want to meet you."
She went back into the shop, and reappeared a few moments later with her husband in tow. He was a big, handsome man with the ruddy complexion and granite presence of a man who has spent most of his life out-of-doors, working with his hands.
"I'm John Marinello," he said, pumping my hand. "Always glad to meet another American."
"Brooklyn?"
"Yeah. Can't say enough about the United States."
"Too much violence," his wife said gently. "Nobody's safe on the streets."
John Marinello shook his head. I felt as if I'd stumbled into an argument that had been going on for years. It was a ritual, and they knew their lines by heart.
"I earned good money there. I was a construction worker. Stonemason. I'd still be there if it wasn't for Molly. Great place, the United States."
"Too much violence," Molly repeated. "Nobody's safe on the streets. Much better here."
Her husband started to shake his head again.
I cut in. "I take it that things are pretty quiet here."
John Marinello's eyes grew big in mock wonder. "Quiet?! Let me tell you-"
"Peaceful," Molly said quietly. "Nobody fights here. People here live like human beings."
The man's head was starting to go again.
"I guess we used to be neighbors," I said quickly. "I teach at the university in downtown Manhattan."
Both of them looked surprised. "We thought you were from the circus," Molly said. She paused and flushed. "I'm sorry," she added quickly. "I just took it for granted."
"It's all right. As a matter of fact, I used to work for the circus. The one that's here now. By the way, do you know where they're camped?"
John pointed up the street. "There's a large field up there around the bend, to your right. It's down in a valley." He paused and studied me. "I'm surprised you haven't seen it."
"I just got here."
"I understood we were quarantined. How did you get up here?"
"Do you believe the story about the epidemic?"
John and Molly Marinello exchanged glances. They both seemed incredulous.
"Believe?" John said. "Why shouldn't we believe it? The order came directly from Alberto Vaicona, one of the Regents."
"He's the head of your government?"
"One of the heads. There are two Regents."
"Why are all the phones out of order?"
"It is nothing," Molly assured me. "These things happen. Whatever is wrong will be repaired soon."
"Uh-huh. Are they giving out shots or anything for this epidemic?"
"We've been told it isn't necessary for now," John said. Flecks of light that might have been suspicion suddenly appeared in his eyes. "Why do you ask these questions?"
I swallowed hard, trying to think positive. "There's a rumor that a man from the circus was hurt the other day, maybe killed." "It's more than a rumor," Molly said. "It's a fact. It was one of the freaks, a giant. Killed by a knife in the throat."
My mouth went dry. Molly's eyebrows went up as though yanked by strings.
"Isn't that terrible? But that was an outsider killed by another outsider. The man was murdered by somebody from the circus."
"Who?"
"A knife thrower called Jandor. They already have him locked up in the jail."
"They have any witnesses?"
"No, but it was Jandor's knife that killed the giant."
I said nothing, but I was sure Jandor hadn't killed anybody. Like most men who earn their living with the tools of violence, he was personally a gentle man, even tender. And he wasn't mentally defective; if Jandor was going to kill somebody, he wasn't likely to walk away and leave his trademark sticking out of his victim's neck.
"Can't say enough about the United States," John said.
"Too much violence," Molly said.
I bought a souvenir, thanked them and left.