Smiling, Walker said, ‘If I remember rightly, there’s a painting by Cézanne called something like that.’ He listened to Marek laughing into the phone.
‘It’s Gauguin actually.’
‘Gauguin. OK. Anyway, how you doing?’
‘Fine, but what about you? Where are you going?’
‘Home. My train leaves in half an hour. I was calling to say goodbye — and good luck with the film.’
‘What happened, though? You found Malory?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Well. . Like I said, it means I’m heading home,’ he said, glad of the chance to say the word again.
There was a pause and then Marek said, ‘Hey, listen, we found some more film. Super 8.’
Walker looked back across the bridge: people flowing over it, carrying bags of shopping, holding hands, wearing sunglasses and hats, tourists with their cameras.
‘Walker? You still there?’
‘Yes. What does it show?’
‘You don’t want to see it?’
‘No.’
‘You want me to tell you what’s on it?’
‘No. Yes.’
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes. Sorry. Go on.’
‘I think it must have been taken the day after, or sometime later anyway.’
Out of the corner of his eye Walker saw a bird swoop down and glide low over the river.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘It shows him on Via Dante, near the river. He walks over the bridge and stops in the middle. On the other side he. .’
Walker opened his hand and let the receiver drop. It jerked and dangled, moving slightly in the breeze.
Walker limped away but for a few steps he could hear Marek’s voice, growing fainter by the word, explaining how he had walked from the phone and across Via San Marco, leaving the river behind. Glancing back just once before disappearing into the crowds on Via San Lorenzo.