“We are getting there,” she said, with a half smile that, despite himself, he found beguiling.
Following the guard, they entered the long and elegant hall that was the library’s main reading room. Bay windows, framed by marble pilasters, lined one wall, throwing a bright but diffused light onto the red and white terra-cotta tiles—demonstrating the fundamental principles of geometry—embedded in the floor. Wooden desks lined both sides of the room under a high, beamed ceiling. An old woman, studying some ancient text with a magnifying glass, glanced up as they passed, then quickly buried herself again in her work.
At the end of the hall, the guard turned into a side corridor and rapped her knuckles on a frosted-glass panel. She opened the door, announced them, and before David could even see Dr. Valetta, he heard the director say, “No, that woman is not allowed on the premises!”
“She’s working for Signor Franco,” the guard tried to explain.
David neatly stepped around her, where he saw the director, in a crisp tan suit with a pocket square, standing behind a desk. When David extended his hand, Dr. Valetta accepted it, all the while keeping a close eye on Olivia, who loitered near the door.
“Greetings, Mr. Franco. We’ve been expecting you. But how is it that you know Signorina Levi?”
“She’s volunteered to help me with my research,” David improvised. “She tells me she’s quite familiar with the Laurenziana’s collections.”
Dr. Valetta snorted. “That much is true. But I wouldn’t believe anything else she tells you. The signorina has her own ‘theories,’ and no amount of fact can ever dissuade her.”
“What?” Olivia broke in, unable to contain herself. “I have plenty of facts, and I’d have more if people like you weren’t forever standing in my way!”
David turned to her and said, “Basta.” What had he gotten himself into?
Subsiding, she said, “I will wait for you in the reading room,” and stalked out.
“Sorry about that,” David said to the director.
Valetta looked like he was still wondering what to do, then said, “You will have to be responsible for her, you know?”
“I will.”
Determinedly regaining his composure and pinching the crease of his trousers before resuming his own seat, Dr. Valetta invited him to sit down.
David took the chair opposite the desk, resting his valise against his leg. The walls of the office were lined with shelves of books, all perfectly arranged and aligned. More, David thought, for show than for use.
“And you are comfortable if we continue to speak in Italian?”
David nodded and said he preferred it.
“Good. I believe that you have done some research in our collections before?”
“I have. But it was some years ago.”
“Then permit me to remind you of our procedures.”
David listened attentively, in part to make up for Olivia’s transgressions, as the director explained that any manuscript or text that was requested had to be brought to the borrower’s assigned desk by a library attendant, and no more than three at any time. Any manuscript being returned also had to be given back to one of the attendants. Any portfolio or briefcase leaving the library had to be inspected by a security guard—assisted by a librarian—at the checkout station. No photographs were allowed, except by special permission. And, to avoid any ink spillage, no pens—only pencils—were allowed for note-taking.
“We have set aside an alcove for your exclusive use,” Dr. Valetta said, “for as long as you need it.”
“That’s very kind of you,” David said.
“And I have instructed the staff to be accommodating, if, say, you need more than the usual number of texts at a time.”
“Thank you again.”
Dr. Valetta lifted his hands and said, “Mrs. Van Owen has been very generous to us. We are only too happy to repay her in any way we can.”
Mrs. Van Owen. Was there anywhere, David thought, her reach did not extend? Any move he made that she did not anticipate? For a moment, he wondered if Olivia wasn’t one of her plants, sent to keep tabs on his progress.
After a few more minutes of chitchat, during which Valetta seemed to be probing into the focus of David’s research—a probing that he did his best to fend off—David stood up to excuse himself.
“I’m on the clock,” he said, wondering if the expression would make any sense in Italian. “I’d better get started.”
“Of course,” the director said, and ushered him out.