"He's not here right now," she said.
"Can you tell me when he'll be back?"
"Soon," she said, but I wasn't sure she was telling the truth for some reason, a certain look about her eyes. It occurred to me she was alone and possibly a little nervous about strangers appearing at the door.
"I'm a friend of Antonio Balducci's," I said.
"Oh," she said, opening the door. "Come in. Isn't that the most awful thing? I can't believe Antonio would do that. Oh," she said, bringing her hand up to her mouth. "You do know that he's dead, don't you? I hope I'm not giving you a terrible shock."
"I heard," I said. "So you're . . ."
"Silvia," she said. "Mario's my dad."
"Of course!" I said. I could see the resemblance now that she'd told me. "I've heard about you. I'm Lara. I'm just in Rome for a few days, and I saw the newspaper story about Antonio," I said. Silvia gestured toward the sofa, and I sat down. The newspaper article I'd just referred to was faceup on the coffee table.
"Is there going to be a funeral?"
"It's today," she said, glancing at her watch. "I'm terribly sorry, but you've missed it. You could never get there in time. Antonio lived in Rome, of course, but his family wants him buried in his village down south. That's where my dad is now. It's going to start in about an hour."
"I'm sorry," I said. "I would have liked to have gone." That was true, actually. "I didn't see anything in the paper about the funeral."
"No," she said. "It took a long time for the carabinieri to release the body so Antonio could have a proper funeral. But given what happened, the suicide and everything, it's just family and really close friends. I can't believe he did that, can you? I wouldn't have thought suicide is something Antonio would even think about. Do you think it had something to do with Teresa? He was so afraid she'd take up with someone else."
"Yes, he was," I said. "He told me about Teresa and how all the other men were like bees around a lovely flower."
She smiled a little. "That sounds like Antonio. I was, still am, a little bit in love with him. You won't tell my dad, will you? I've had a crush on Antonio for at least three years. I've just been sitting here having a bit of a cry about it. Dad wouldn't take me along, unfortunately, because he's going somewhere else directly after. Look, I'm being terribly inhospitable here," she said. "I haven't even asked you if you'd like a drink or something."
"I'm fine, thanks. But tell me how your dad is doing."
"He's okay," she said. "I suppose you heard he and my mother have split."
"No," I said.
"Well, they have. I'm supposed to be at my mother's right now, so please don't tell my dad if you happen to run into him. I like staying here better." She waved her hand about the room. I could see why she'd like the place. It was a cozy apartment by North American standards, but probably sizable enough for Rome. The walls were covered in art and framed posters, a couple of them for exhibits of Etruscan art, and one whole wall was devoted to bookshelves. The furniture was large and comfortable, and the place had a nice, casual feel to it.
"Dad's taken a few months off to get his life back together again. But his agency called a few minutes ago with something for him, so maybe he'll get back to it. He's with the Corelli Ponte agency. They're huge," she said. "The people wanted to see him today or tomorrow, though, so maybe it will be too late when he gets back."
"Is your dad coming back tomorrow, after the funeral?" I said. "I'm only here for a day or two, so I'd like to get in touch with him if I could."
"I'm afraid not," she said. "He's taking a holiday weekend in the country. He won't be back until Monday. I'm glad for him. I hope it means he's getting over the split with Mum. I'd like him to find a new girlfriend. Hey!" she said, brightening. "You're about the right age. Are you available?"
"No," I said, laughing. "I'm spoken for. But thanks for asking."
"Too bad," she said. "He really needs something or someone to cheer him up. The business with him and my mother was bad enough, and now he's just devastated over what happened to Antonio. They were like brothers. Dad even called Antonio his little brother. He was always trying to help Antonio find work. He kept telling Antonio he'd make it. Antonio had the looks for it, that's for sure."
"He did," I said. "And he was also really kind."
"Yes," she said, and a tear rolled down her cheek. "And funny."
I gave her hand a rather awkward pat.
"When did you see him last?" she said. I told her, omitting several details, of course, about how he'd saved me from the Gypsies, and how we'd shared a bottle of French wine on the Left Bank in Paris, and Antonio had practiced his English. It wasn't the last time I'd seen him, of course, but it was the time I wanted to remember forever. We both snuffled a little.
"I can't figure out how he would have even managed it," she said. "I know the papers said it was a mob hit or something, but Antonio never had anything to do with the mob. Dad says Antonio killed himself. But how would he get himself up there in the first place? My dad says the carabinieri claim he got into the house somehow—there was one window that wasn't properly fastened—attached the rope lower down, went upstairs, and threw it over the metal pole on the peak of the roof from a second-floor window, put the noose around his neck, and then jumped out of the same window. It seems like such a lot of trouble to go to. I don't know ..."
In my mind I heard again the banging of the upstairs shutters that had made me look up. It was possible, I supposed, when I thought about it, but she was right. It was a whole lot of trouble to go to.
"You have to wonder why he'd even know about that farmhouse, let alone use it," I said.
"Dad knows the owner, Gino Mauro."
"He does?"
"Yes," she said. "I'm not sure how, but he does. He talked to him when it happened. Mauro lives in New York but is coming over in the next day or two. Dad is expecting to get together with him at some point."
"Look," I said after a few more minutes of conversation. "I'd better be going. I have work to do. It was really nice to meet you."
"I'll tell Dad you were here," she said. "If he calls. He won't, of course, because he thinks I'm at Mum's, and he doesn't like to call there unless he's sure I'll be the one to answer the phone. But I'll tell him you were here."
I gave her my card and wrote my hotel number on the back. "I know you opened the door for me," I said. "But really, you shouldn't have. Don't answer it unless it's someone you know and you're expecting them." I was suddenly frightened for this sweet young woman and also for her dad. Antonio was involved in the same hoax Mario was, and Antonio was dead. "Promise me you won't open the door," I said. "In fact, I'd be a lot happier if you went to stay with your mother."
"Okay," she said. "I will, as soon as I pull myself together. You'd be perfect for Dad. You're both fusspots."
"Thank you," I said. She actually gave me a hug. I felt like a jerk. I waited outside the door until I heard the bolt click.
I went downstairs and walked along the street, looking for a taxi. As it turned out, I didn't need one. I'd gone only a few yards when a limousine pulled up beside me. I ignored it at first. It couldn't have anything to do with me. But after a cyclist went by and rounded the corner, and I was the only one on the street, a very large man got out and grabbed me. I tried kicking and scratching, but I was no match for him. I was pushed into the backseat of the car. The last thing I saw, through the rear window, was the little girl from the first floor in the doorway, watching, as we pulled away.