The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova Page B

okay?‖
    ―Okay,‖ I agreed, liking the sound of that and hoping it would be safely near my father‘s and would have a view of the surrounding valley from which we‘d climbed so precipitously.
    After dinner in the flagstoned dining room, all the grown-ups leaned back and sighed.
    ―Giulia,‖ my father said, ―you become a greater cook every year. One of the great cooks of Italy.‖
    ―Nonsense, Paolo.‖ Her English breathed Oxford and Cambridge. ―You always talk nonsense.‖
    ―Maybe it‘s the Chianti. Let me look at that bottle.‖
    ―Let me fill your glass again,‖ Massimo interjected. ―And what are you studying, lovely daughter?‖
    ―We study all subjects at my school,‖ I said primly.
    ―She likes history, I think,‖ my father told them. ―She‘s a good sightseer, too.‖
    ―History?‖ Massimo filled Giulia‘s glass again, and then his own, with wine the color of garnets, or dark blood. ―Like you and me, Paolo. We gave your father this name,‖ he explained to me, aside, ―because I can‘t stand those boring Anglo names you all have.
    Sorry, I just can‘t. Paolo, my friend, you know I could have dropped dead when they told me you gave up your life in the academy to parley-vous all over the world. So he likes to talk more than he likes to read, I said to myself. A great scholar lost to the world, that‘s your father.‖ He gave me half a glass of wine without asking my father and poured some water into it from the jug on the table. I felt fond of him now.
    ―Now you‘re talking nonsense,‖ my father said contentedly. ―I like to travel, that‘s what I like.‖
    ―Ah.‖ Massimo shook his head. ―And you, Signor Professor, once said you‘d be the greatest of them all. Not that your foundation isn‘t a wonderful success, I know.‖
    ―We need peace and diplomatic enlightenment, not more research on tiny questions no one else cares about,‖ my father countered, smiling. Giulia lit a lantern on the sideboard, turning off the electric light. She brought the lantern to the table and began to cut up atorta I‘d been trying not to stare at earlier. Its surface gleamed like obsidian under the knife.
    ―In history, there are no tiny questions.‖ Massimo winked at me. ―Besides, even the great Rossi said you were his best student. And the rest of us could hardly please the fellow.‖

    ―Rossi!‖
    It was out of my mouth before I could stop myself. My father glanced uneasily at me over his cake.
    ―So you know the legends of your father‘s academic successes, young lady?‖ Massimo filled his mouth hugely with chocolate.
    My father gave me another glance. ―I‘ve told her a few stories about those days,‖ he said.
    I didn‘t miss the undercurrent of warning in his voice. A moment later, however, I thought it might have been directed at Massimo, not me, since Massimo‘s next comment shot a chill through me before my father quashed it with a quick shift to politics.
    ―Poor Rossi,‖ Massimo said. ―Tragic, wonderful man. Strange to think anyone one has known personally can just—poof—disappear.‖
    The next morning we sat on the sun-washed piazza at the town‘s summit, jackets firmly buttoned and brochures in hand, watching two boys who should, like me, have been at school. They shrieked and punted their soccer ball back and forth in front of the church, and I waited patiently. I had been waiting all morning, through the tour of dark little chapels ―with elements of Brunelleschi,‖ according to the vague and bored guide, and the Palazzo Pubblico, with its reception chamber that had served for centuries as a town granary. My father sighed and gave me one of two Oranginas in dainty bottles. ―You‘re going to ask me something,‖ he said a little glumly.
    ―No, I just want to know about Professor Rossi.‖ I put my straw into the neck of the bottle.
    ―I thought so. Massimo was tactless to bring that up.‖
    I dreaded the answer, but I had to ask. ―Did Professor