I watched Lindsey, Rose, and Zeno emerge from behind the boulder-strewn hillock. The women walked side by side, relaxed and conversing, the dog between them, with a muscular glide to his stride.
“Zeno has accepted Lindsey into his family!” said Bruno, clapping his hands. “He is very intelligent. He has always loved the women.”
I watched Zeno charge off after a rabbit, which easily out-legged him into a patch of prickly pear cactus. The dog stood at the edge of the cactus patch, tail wagging, nose lowered.
“Rose will give Lindsey the list of commands,” said Bruno. “They are Italiano, of course, and they explain themselves. Zeno has been trained to follow them instantly and fully. Even in the face of death he will follow his commands. Here, I brought a list for you, too.”
From his rear trouser pocket Bruno handed me a smudged and wrinkled sheet of paper. I unfolded it and looked down the menu of Italian commands and their English translations.
The two women and their proud protector came toward us on the bumpy dirt road. Zeno’s prodigious head, sharply cropped ears, and heavy brow gave him a wise and monstrous bearing. His legs were trunklike, I saw, much thicker than the legs of the Labrador retrievers I had had as a boy. His feet were enormous and he splashed as casually through the puddles as Bruno had done. His light formantino coat with the dark gray brindles caught the crisp December sunlight as his muscles bunched and stretched beneath. The bright white blaze on his chest seemed jaunty. I heard the women’s voices as they approached. Rose said something ending in a rise of pitch, and Lindsey laughed.
“Lindsey is expecting genuine trouble?” he asked.
“Pretty damned genuine.”
“Zeno increases her advantage dramatically.”
I nodded.
“A man experienced in killing with a knife is Zeno’s most dangerous enemy,” said Bruno. “Such men are old-fashioned. Rare in this technological country. I brought his body armor. It protects against a knife and bullets. He enjoys wearing it. He knows that he is going into battle.”
Later, as Bruno and Rose walked toward their truck, Zeno took up his usual position on Rose’s left, timing his stride to hers with all his power and grace.
At the door, Rose lifted a finger and Zeno sat and looked up at her. Of course, he was ready for her to open the back door and let him jump in. But instead, Rose knelt and threw her arms around the dog, laid her head against his. She looked past him at me, tears streaking her face. Then she stood, turned her right palm to face the ground, and Zeno lay down. Bruno opened the door and his wife swung into the cab, drawing her heavy rubber boots in last. Zeno issued a gigantic sigh with a sorrowful yelp tucked inside it. Bruno pet him once on the head and walked to the driver’s side of the truck. He climbed in and Rose’s window went down.
“Call him to come and tell him to sit,” she said to Lindsey. “Firmly.”
Lindsey held her sheet of commands out and ready in one hand, shading her eyes with the other. “Vieni,” she ordered. Zeno swung his massive head to regard Lindsey, then turned back to his true master. Didn’t budge.
“Vieni!” called Lindsey, with more force.
Zeno came.
“Siediti.”
Zeno sat before her but still looked at Rose.
I saw the dog in profile, his slightly upturned muzzle, which Bruno had told me lay at a breed-perfect one-hundred-and-five-degree angle from the upright plane of his forehead. Moreover, I saw his eye, the beautiful pale gray eye that matched the brindles of his coat. And in that eye? It’s easy to humanize a dog, but they have strong emotions and no interest in hiding them. In this case: heartache and resolve.
“Bravo regazzo,” said Lindsey, gently. “Good boy.”
He sat very still and never took his eyes off Rose as she rolled up the window and Bruno backed up the truck and drove away.
18
Late that blustery afternoon, I sat in my truck across the street and a few doors down from Hector Padilla’s home. I had a hunch and time to bet on it.
It was Friday and this El Cajon hood had a bustling, home-from-work feel. Christmas lights were up and some already turned on. A minivan pulled into the driveway next door to Hector’s. The garage door went up. A woman unleashed two young children, who spilled past her through the sliding door. All three gathered at the rear of the vehicle. The lift gate opened and they wrestled out a tightly wrapped noble fir, which they lugged into the garage. The girl had on pink rubber boots and a pink fur-lined coat, and the boy wore floppy black board shoes and a silver quilted parka. I pay attention to children because Justine did. We wanted one. For starters. We had happily set ourselves to the task of creating one, just hours before she took off in Hall Pass that final day.
My slick, fold-out invitation to opening night of the “Treasures of Araby” exhibition and sale — a gift from Padilla to Imam Hadi Yousef, then from Yousef to me — lay on the passenger seat.
The opening-night party, to which the bearer of this invitation was welcome, was set to begin in two hours, at six p.m. in Solana Beach.
I took my time reading the invite copy and looking at the pictures again. I braced it on the steering wheel so I could read and still see activity at Hector’s house. The booklet opened into four panels on each side, for a total of eight pages. Two panels were dedicated to each of four exhibits:
The pictured carpets for “Of Carpets & Magic” made me think of the collection of Persian rugs that had come with the house I live in. The carpets had been collected over the years by the various Timmerman family occupants of Rancho de los Robles, many of whom took their carpets seriously. Some of the invitation pictures looked very much like the rugs I unmagically traipsed over daily.
The pictured tiles were intricate and beautiful, most of them Arabesque variations of flowers, plants, and animals. The elegant calligraphic script reminded me of Caliphornia’s handwritten correspondence.