It rose steeply and soon he was winding his way through forests, the air rapidly cooling. By the hairpins there was a faint light falling from above the trees, as if from a partially obscured moon, and by it he could see steep banks of ferns rising from the road and the shafts of ancient pines. The road rose until it reached the monastery, a somber complex built in a clearing next to what must have been a glacially cold river.
He parked behind the main building and saw that all the lights were off before he silenced the engine and decided to stay the night. Listening for the sound of any approaching car, he waited for some minutes before feeling satisfied that he was truly alone. He then walked behind the monastery, where a path ran along an old wall with vegetable gardens in the wide ditch behind the dormitories.
On the far side he found the river whose sound he had heard straightaway, a bridge, the white gleam of the water far below. There was a path that rose up the side of the mountain and disappeared out of view. He went up it with one of the pistols in his pocket, taking his steps slowly and making sure that he made no sound. He came to a saint’s shrine built into the mountainside, and from there he could look down at the curving road along which he had just passed. He was safe for the night, and as soon as he knew it he went back down to the river and leaned on the wall of the bridge to gather his wits. He had one piece of bread left and some sliced cheese, and by morning he would be up against the very different wall of hunger.
He wondered if the monks gave alms or took pity on people who turned up at their doors. But there was also the risk of his being reported by them. The plan was to sleep in the car and leave before first light.
But the night was hot and windless and the forest was cooler and more comfortable than the car. He lay in the ferns next to the river and slept for four or five hours. His father came to him in his dream. The old man was in one of his Parisian suits, but also a keffiyeh. He was eating an orange with a knife, and he stood under the pines asking his son how many nights he had left on earth. One, two—maybe not even that.
“Look at you,” he said. “You are not even a vagrant. You have not come far at all. You are a disgrace and you know it.”
When he woke the stars were still out and shining with indifferent splendor, but lights had come on in the monastery. The monks were chanting as he walked back to the car. One of them had come out to see whose car had parked among them during the night, and the face was mild and unsuspecting. “Are you lost?” he called out in Italian, but, not understanding, Faoud waved and smiled back and got into the car. It was almost six and the morning promised a pure, torrid summer day.
He drove slowly down a different road from the one he had used the night before. There was a Banca Monte dei Paschi, but it would not be open for hours. A cafe was open and he had enough for an espresso. He felt the eyes upon him, the mild surprise at his odd appearance—the nice clothes spoiled by too much wear—and the glances down at his unwashed hands. Driving a Peugeot 506. He had enough for one last blood-orange spremuta, and he drank that too, his hands shaking and his throat so dry that it contracted. He could feel that things were winding down and that he had no way to escape the net that was drawing in around him. When he went back onto the single street running through Tosi, the sun was almost up and the land beyond the village had suddenly appeared as a soft green carpet of gardens and vines and hazed ridges. He took the downward-spiraling road into the sun and rows of cypresses against the road cast long shadows into the grass. Along this high road, with its views to the right across the valley toward a distant freeway, the villages offered random targets—pharmacies, stores, small restaurants—which might have tempted him had they been open.
The next little town was called Pian di Sco. As luck would have it, there was a fancy bakery with a window filled with what looked like wedding cakes. Two women inside. It was as good as any other target. He parked opposite it, took one of the polished shotguns from the backseat, and calmly crossed the street to enter the shop.
The sun was in their eyes, and they squinted to see who had come in. He was very polite. In English he asked them to give him the contents of the cash register, and then he leveled the barrel at the woman standing by the till and waited for her to open it and empty it. It took a few seconds; they said nothing whatsoever. It was about three hundred euros, a good enough haul. She slid it across the counter, and he took the notes with a quiet “thank you.” Then he handed back a twenty-euro note and asked for a handful of cakes. They were bagged for him with the same silent efficiency, and he thanked the women a second time and told them to keep the change. Then he lowered the shotgun, walked out of the shop, and without undue haste got back into the car and drove on.
The road ran over a high ridge with vineyards sloping down to the right, wineries posted at the road, agriturismi and cellars and a thousand olive trees basking in a still-refreshing sun. It was not yet nine o’clock.
At Castelfranco, the road pitched down and swung around and rose again. A road without shade or overbearing trees, raised above the world and bright with the promise of wine, that feared and despised temptation. He drove quite fast, eating the cakes from the bag until he was no longer starving. It was impossible not to be in a better mood, to feel slightly uplifted.
At the turn-off for an ancient church he found a line of cars waiting for no apparent reason. At first he assumed it was a red light, but when he darted out of the car to investigate the matter he saw that it was not. It was an accident. Two cars had collided and swerved to either side of the narrow road. The occupants were unharmed, and they sat also on either side of the road, smartly dressed as if on their way to a wedding party. He sauntered up to the scene and saw the glass shattered all over the tarmac, and two young girls, sitting on folding chairs in their satin skirts and dresses, with expressions of disbelief and sly mischief. They seemed to find the whole thing a lark.
On the far side of the accident another line of cars stretched up the hill. The police had not yet arrived, and he thought of their inevitable and imminent appearance and realized that he was trapped.