The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [59]
Dee said: ″Good morning, sir. Can you tell me whether there is a family named Danielli in Poglio?″
The old man shook his head. Dee was not sure if he meant there was no such family, or simply that he did not know. Mike touched her elbow, then walked quickly around the comer in the direction of the bar.
Dee crouched beside the old man in the doorway and flashed a smile. ″You must have a long memory,″ she said.
He mellowed slightly, and nodded his head.
″Were you here in 1920?″
He gave a short laugh. ″Before then—well before.″
Mike came hurrying back with a glass in his hand. ʺThe barman says he drinks absinthe,″ he explained in English. He handed the glass to the old man, who took it and drained it in one swallow.
Dee also spoke in English. ″It′s a pretty crude form of persuasion,″ she said distastefully.
″Nuts. The barman says he′s been waiting here all morning for some of the tourists to buy him a drink. That′s the only reason he′s sitting there.″
Dee switched to Italian. ″Do you remember back to about 1920?″
″Yes,″ the old man said slowly.
″Was there a Danielli family here then?″ Mike asked impatiently.
ʺNo.ʺ
ʺDo you remember any strangers moving to the village around that time?″
″Quite a few. There was a war, you know.″
Mike looked at Dee in exasperation. He said: ″Are there any Jewish people in the village?″ His skimpy Italian was running out.
″Yes. They keep the bar on the west road out of the village. That′s where Danielli lived when he was alive.″
They looked at the old man in astonishment. Mike turned to Dee and said in English: ″Why in hell didn′t he tell us that at the start?″
″Because you didn′t ask me, you young cunt,″ the man said in English. He cackled merrily, pleased with his joke. He struggled to his feet and hobbled off down the road, still cackling, stopping now and then to bang his stick on the sidewalk and laugh even louder.
Mike′s face was comical, and Dee too burst out laughing. It was infectious, and Mike laughed at himself. ʺTalk about a sucker,″ he said.
″I suppose we′d better find the bar on the west road out of town,″ Dee suggested.
″It′s hot. Let′s have a drink first.″
″Twist my arm.″
They walked into the cool of the bar again. The young barman was waiting behind the bar. When he saw them his face split in a wide grin.
″You knew!″ Dee accused him.
″I confess it,″ he said. ″He wasn′t really waiting to be bought drinks. He was waiting to play that trick. We have tourists here only about once a year, and it′s the high spot of the year for him. Tonight he will be in here, telling the story to anyone who′ll listen.″
ʺTwo Camparis, please,″ Mike said.
III
THE PRIEST STOOPED ON the cobbled churchyard path to pick up a piece of litter: a stray candy bar wrapper. He crumpled it in his hand, and stood up slowly to placate the nagging rheumatism in his knee. The pain came from sleeping alone in an old house through many damp Italian winters, he knew: but priests ought to be poor. For how could a man be a priest if there was one man in the village who was poorer? The thought was a liturgy of his own invention, and by the time he had run through it in his mind, the pain had eased.
He left the yard to walk across the road to his house. In the middle of the street the rheumatism stabbed him again: a vicious, angry shaft of pain which made him stumble. He made it to the house and leaned on the wall, resting his weight on his good leg.
Looking down the road toward the center of the village he saw the youngsters whom he had spoken to earlier. They walked very slowly, their arms around each other; looking and smiling at each other. They seemed very much in love—more so than they had half an hour earlier. The understanding which the priest had gained through many years of listening to confessions told him that a change had been wrought