From above, finally, Florence looked like he had imagined it: a city of church domes and towers, red-tile roofs, gardens, and piazze, surrounded by steep green hills covered with fairy-tale castles. There was the Ponte Vecchio and the Pitti Palace; the Boboli Gardens; the dome of San Frediano in Cestello; and, beyond, the hill of Bellosguardo. It was a moment before he could shift his attention back to the room itself.
It was large and open, filled with rows of old mahogany desks. The floor, polished by five hundred years of feet, was inlaid in a striking array of colored marbles, and on the stuccoed walls hung giant paintings of old men in armor. There was a tense air in the room, and a number of men in suits at the desks were glancing nervously in their direction. The killing—and its bizarre particulars especially—were clearly on everyone’s mind.
“Welcome to the Nucleo Investigativo, the elite unit of the carabinieri of which I am in charge. We investigate the major crimes.” Esposito looked at D’Agosta sideways. “Is this your first visit to Italy, Sergeant D’Agosta?”
“It is.”
“And how do you find it?”
“It’s . . . not quite what I expected.”
He could see a faint look of amusement in the man’s eyes. Esposito’s hand swept over the skyline. “Beautiful, no?”
“From up here.”
“The Florentines . . .” He rolled his eyes. “They live in the past. They believe they created everything beautiful in the world—art, science, music, literature—and that is enough. Why do anything more? They’ve been resting on their laurels for four hundred years. Where I grew up we have a saying: Nun cagnà ‘a via vecchia p’a nova, ca saie chello che lasse, nun saie chello ca trouve.”
“Don’t live in the past—you will know what you’ve lost but not what you’ve found?” D’Agosta asked.
Esposito went still. Then he smiled. “Your family is originally from Naples?”
D’Agosta nodded.
“This is remarkable. And you actually speak Neapolitan?”
“I thought I grew up speaking Italian.”
Esposito laughed. “This is not the first time I have heard of this happening. You are fortunate, Sergeant, to speak a beautiful and ancient language no longer taught in any school. Anyone can learn Italian, but only a real man can speak napolitano. I myself am from Naples. Impossible to work there, of course, but a marvelous place to live.”
“Si suonne Napele viato a tte,” D’Agosta said.
Esposito looked even more astonished. “‘Blessed be you if you dream of Naples.’ What a lovely saying. I’ve never heard it before.”
“When I was a little boy, my grandmother used to whisper that in my ear every time she kissed me good night.”
“And did you ever dream of Naples?”
“I sometimes dreamed of a city that I thought was Naples, but I’m sure it was all my imagination. I’ve never been there.”
“Then don’t go. Live in your dreams: they are always so much better.” He turned to Pendergast. “And now—as you Americans say—to business.”
He led them to a small sitting area in a far corner of the room, couches and chairs positioned around an old stone table. Esposito waved his hand. “Caffè per noi, per favore.”
In moments, a woman appeared with a tray of tiny cups of espresso. Esposito took one, tossed it back, then drank a second just as quickly. He slipped out a pack of cigarettes, offered them around.
“Ah, you Americans never smoke.” He took one himself, lit it, exhaled. “This morning, between seven and eight, I received sixteen telephone calls—one from the American Embassy in Rome, five from the American Consulate on the Lungarno, one from the U.S. State Department, two from the New York Times, one from the Washington Post, one from the Chinese Embassy in Rome, and five from various unpleasant people in Mr. Bullard’s company.” He looked up, eyes twinkling. “Given that, and what you told me just now in the café, it’s clear this Bullard was an important man.”
“You didn’t know him?” Pendergast asked.
“By reputation only.” Inhale, exhale. “My colleagues at the polizia have a file on him already, which naturally they will not share with us.”
“I could supply you with far more on Bullard, but it would do you no good. The information will only distract you, as it did me.”
Esposito turned to the two carabinieri who were whispering together behind him. “Basta’ cù stì fessarie! Mettiteve à faticà! Marònna meja, chist’ so propri’ sciem’!”
D’Agosta suppressed a laugh. “I understood that.”
“I didn’t,” said Pendergast.
“He was just telling those men in, ah, Neapolitan, ‘Cut the bullshit and get back to work.’”
“My men are foolish and superstitious. Half of them believe this to be the work of the devil. The other half think it the work of some secret society. As you know, Florentine nobility is rife with them.” Inhale, exhale. “It appears to me, Mr. Pendergast, that we have a joker on our hands.”
“On the contrary, our killer could not be more serious.”
“But all this—chest è ‘nà scena rò diavulo? Come, now. All this may scare my men half to death, but you?”