Page 95

Miss you.

21

Primavera

I take off theprotective plastic helmet and hang it on the board outside Mauro LaFortezza’s quarry. I pull a baseball cap out of my backpack and put it on my head. The March sun burns hot on the mountain, but the breeze is cool. I remove my jacket and am tying it around my waist when Farah joins me outside the mine. Her students board the van to go back down the mountain. She hangs her safety helmet on the board.

“Mauro invited us to his mother’s place for lunch,” Farah says. “You don’t want to miss this. The woman can cook.”

Mauro waves to us from the road below. “Come to my office.”

I spent the first three months of the year drafting new projects for Mauro. I’ll take any excuse to come up the mountain to the quarry. The clean, white walls of stone and the surrounding grounds of the quarry, covered in rock dust, are a blank slate and therefore a good place to think. High on this mountain, I breathe deeply and feel close to my purpose.

I was in Bergamo a week ago working on a restoration when Angelo returned to Carrara for the first time since the new year, tovisit his mother. Signora Strazza let me know her son had been home when I returned. Signora Strazza is like Babe Bilancia. She would like me to get involved with her son—Signora Strazza doesn’t push, but she keeps me in the loop on his whereabouts and what he’s doing. But it doesn’t matter what Signora Strazza thinks; it’s clear Angelo Strazza is no longer interested in me.

My texts to Angelo have gone unanswered. I sent him random articles about museum curations, nothing personal. I miss our conversations. It turns out I’m a miner too; I prefer to dig deeply but I don’t expect any man to go into the excavating business with me. It’s obvious that romance is not meant for me at this point in my life. I have plenty of work to do. And I still have to settle my family business. An email from Detective Campovilla says I should have their final report on the Elegant Gangster soon.

I follow Mauro and Farah up the ramp to the trailer markedofficio. Inside the trailer is a command center for the operation of the quarry. A smart board with the excavation teams is illuminated on a screen behind Mauro’s desk. File cabinets overflow with paperwork, books are stacked on the floor, and a small table is cluttered with photographs. Farah and I sit at the conference table.

“I need to check in with the foreman before we go. I will be back to take you to lunch.” Mauro goes.

“Mauro needs an assistant,” I joke when I stand and move through the stacks of stuff on the floor of the trailer. “Look at those photographs. It’s a history of the quarry.” I sift through them. There are pictures of young Mauro at work on the mountain. There’s another, more recent, where he receives an award. In another, he’s a boy sitting on a barge at the dock in Avenza. There’s a group of photos with his wife and children on holiday on Lake Garda. A few older photographs are pushed to the back. I pick up a small silverframe with a black-and-white photograph and study it. My heart begins to beat fast.

“Are you okay?” Farah gets up and joins me.

I hand her the framed photograph. “I know him,” I tell her.

Farah takes the framed photograph from me and studies it. “I can barely make out a face.”

“It’s my uncle Louie,” I tell her.

Farah hands it back to me. “Mauro is family to you?”

“No. But why would he have a picture of my uncle in his office?” The picture in the frame is similar to the collection of photographs I took from Uncle Louie’s office after he died.

“You have to ask him,” Farah says. “I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

“Maybe it’s not my uncle?” I unhinge the back of the photograph. I carefully remove the velvet stand, slipping it out from under the grips. I lift out the small square of cardboard holding the photo in place. The back of the photograph bears the stamp4 Aprile 1971. I begin to sweat.

“Take a photo of it,” Farah suggests.

I scramble for my phone. Suddenly, I can’t remember where I put it. I’m completely flummoxed.

“Here, let me put this back together.” Farah takes the photo and frame from me.

Mauro pushes through the door. He sees Farah struggling to put the photo back into the frame.

“Signora, what are you doing?” He takes the photograph and frame from her.

“I was interested in the date of the photograph, for one of my presentations.”

“Be careful, Farah,” he says, putting the photo under glass.

“Who is the gentleman in the photograph?” Farah asks.

“My father,” Mauro says.

Farah gets inthe front seat of Mauro’s SUV as I climb into the back. They chat on the ride up the mountain, while I feel sick in the back seat.