The English Girl: A Novel

was located in the drawer of a pretty French antique writing desk, directly beneath the Cézanne. “But be careful,” the don cautioned. “Christopher sets his trigger pressure very light. He’s a sensitive soul.”
    Gabriel slipped the weapon into the waistband of his jeans and set out along the narrow track, toward the three ancient olive trees. Thankfully, the goat had yet to return to its sentry post, which meant Gabriel was able to proceed into the village unmolested. It was the uncertain hour between late afternoon and evening. The houses were shuttered and the streets had been abandoned to cats and children. They watched Gabriel with great interest as he made his way to the main square. On three sides there were shops and cafés, and on the fourth was the church. Gabriel purchased a scarf for Chiara in one of the shops and then took a table at the least forbidding-looking of the cafés. He drank strong coffee to counter the effects of the Sancerre; then, as the sky darkened softly and the breeze turned chill, he drank rough Corsican red wine to counter the effects of the coffee. The doors of the church hung ajar. From inside came the murmur of prayer.
    Gradually, the square began to fill with townspeople. Teenage boys sat astride their mopeds outside the ice cream parlor; a group of men started up a hard-fought game of boules in the center of the dusty esplanade. Shortly after six, about twenty people, old women mainly, came filing down the steps of the church. Among them was the signadora . Her gaze settled briefly on Gabriel, the unbeliever; then she disappeared through the doorway of her crooked little house. Soon after, two women came calling on her—an old widow dressed head to toe in black and a distraught-looking girl in her mid-twenties who, doubtless, was suffering the ill effects of the occhju .
    A half hour later the two women reappeared, along with a boy, about ten years old, with long curly hair. The women made for the ice cream parlor, but the boy, after pausing a moment to watch the game of boules , came over to the café where Gabriel was sitting. In his hand was a slip of paper, pale blue and folded in quarters. He placed it on the table before Gabriel and then scurried off as though he feared he might catch something. Gabriel unfolded the slip of paper and in the fading light read the single line that had been written there:
    I must see you at once .
    Gabriel inserted the note into his coat pocket and sat there for several minutes debating what to do. Then he left a few coins on the table and headed across the square.
    W hen he knocked on her door, a reedy voice invited him to enter. She was seated sleepily in a faded wing chair, her head lolling to one side, as though she were still suffering from the exertion of absorbing the evil that infected her previous visitors. Despite Gabriel’s protests, she insisted on rising to greet him. This time there was no hostility in her expression, only concern. She touched Gabriel’s cheek without speaking and stared directly into his eyes.
    “Your eyes are so very green. You have your mother’s eyes, yes?”
    “Yes,” said Gabriel.
    “She suffered during the war, did she not?”
    “Did Keller tell you that?”
    “I’ve never spoken to Christopher about your mother.”
    “Yes,” said Gabriel after a moment, “terrible things happened to my mother during the war.”
    “In Poland?”
    “Yes, in Poland.”
    The signadora took one of Gabriel’s hands in hers. “You’re warm to the touch. Do you have fever?”
    “No,” said Gabriel.
    She closed her eyes. “Your mother was a painter like you?”
    “Yes.”
    “She was in the camps? The one that was named for the trees?”
    “Yes, that’s the one.”
    “I see a road, snow, a long line of women in gray clothing, a man with a gun.”
    Gabriel withdrew his hand quickly. The old woman’s eyes opened with a start.
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
    “Why did you want to see me?”
    “I know why you came back here.”
    “And?”
    “I want to help you.”
    “Why?”
    “Because it is important that nothing happens to you in the days to come. The old man needs you. So does your wife.”
    “I’m not married,” Gabriel lied.
    “Her name is Clara, is it not?”
    “No,” said Gabriel, smiling. “Her name is Chiara.”
    “She is an Italian?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then I will keep you in my prayers.” She nodded toward her table where a plate of water and a vessel of