“Ah. Actually, I do know where the apartment is. Stefan invited me for dinner the first night. I think I can find it again. It’s not far from the palace, and it’s got a balcony with a view of the palace and cathedral. If we stand at the front of the cathedral, I bet I can spot his balcony, and then we can figure out how to get to his building.”
Fueled by fear, we hurried back to the main plaza and scurried up the staircase to the cathedral, positioning ourselves directly in front of an immense crucifix. Shading her eyes against the late-morning sun, Miranda scanned the skyline. “I wish I hadn’t had that third glass of wine that night,” she said. “The view of the palace and the cathedral was great. I remember that much, but not much more than that.” She frowned, shaking her head. “Damn it. Why didn’t I pay more attention?”
I couldn’t resist the opening. “Hmm, maybe because you were delirious from appendicitis?” Her elbow caught me just beneath the ribs. “Youch! Now it’s my appendix that’s exploding. Come on, you know you deserved that.”
“Yeah, I know. Sorry—I’m taking out my guilt on you. It’s less painful that way.” She gave me another token jab. “See? I feel better already.”
“So, the night of the winefest, you went out on the balcony. Were you standing? Perching on stools? Sitting on a stone balustrade?” She shrugged. “Doing handstands on a metal railing?”
“Yes!” she suddenly shouted, grabbing my arm. “That’s it—a metal railing. A cheap-ass, flimsy metal railing. One of the damn welds broke when I leaned on it. I almost fell off, from five stories up. Dogs would’ve been licking my brains off the sidewalk. Only thing that kept me from falling was a windsock I managed to grab.” She shook her head. “That’s why I didn’t go to bed with Stefan that night, even though I was looped and he was trying to put the moves on me. I thought, You bastard, you let me lean on this cheap-ass, flimsy railing that could’ve killed me. You’re still the same thoughtless, selfish sonofabitch you were last time I saw you. It’s true, Dr. B—plus ?a change, plus c’est la même chose.”
“Huh?”
“Old French saying. ‘The more things change, the more they stay the same.’”
“I prefer Eckhart’s warning about the price of inaction,” I said. “Come on, let’s look for a fifth-story balcony with a cheap-ass, flimsy metal railing.” Together we studied the buildings that overlooked the plaza, the palace, and the cathedral.
“It was a block or two away,” she said. “Maybe three. I remember rooftops between Stefan’s place and the palace.” Suddenly she smacked herself in the forehead. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what a dumb-ass. I took a picture from the balcony with my iPhone.” She fished out the phone and whisked her finger across the screen, scrolling through her photos. “Here it is!” She performed a magician-like maneuver with her fingertips, and the view zoomed in, enlarging the details at the center of the photo. The image was small—not even the size of a postcard—but it was crisp enough to show three sets of tiled rooftops, a cluster of chimneys, and a thicket of television aerials between the lens and the spot where we were standing. I studied the photo, looking for distinctive features that would help me lock in on the balcony. “Got it,” she said, squeezing my arm again, then pointing. “The modern building? The one with the ugly TV antennas on top?”
“I see it.”
“One floor from the top, slightly left of center. See that red and blue and yellow thing? That’s the wind sock that saved my life.”
“Let’s go,” I said.
She didn’t answer. She was already halfway down the stairs.
WE TOOK TWO WRONG TURNS IN THE MAZE OF STREETS to the west of the palace, but within twenty minutes we were standing before the glass-doored entrance to Stefan’s building. The doors were locked—not surprising—but I’d given no thought to what we’d do once we found the place.
“Now what?” I said.
She scanned the sidewalks on either side of the street, then pointed to a shoe store that was two doors down. “Come on. Have you got some money?”
“This is your idea of a plan? To buy shoes?”
“Watch and learn.”
Five minutes and ten euros later, we walked out of the shoe store, laden with shopping bags filled with shoe boxes. Empty shoe boxes. The clerk had stared at us as if we were crazy, but buying a dozen boxes was a lot cheaper than buying a dozen pairs of shoes. Our hands conspicuously full, we loitered in front of a women’s clothing boutique next to the apartment entrance, pretending to window-shop. A saleswoman smiled and beckoned to us from inside—our bags marked us as big spenders—but Miranda fended her off with a slight shake of the head. The woman’s smile faded, and her expression shifted to disappointment, then suspicion. Suddenly Miranda hissed, “Now!”