I do not deserve your gratitude.”
“Sorry? Selfishness?”
The breeze drops. The family at the table behind us has gone. The silence extends.
He speaks. “X, I saved you for myself . I rescued you because the idea of anything happening to you makes me ill. As you
must realize, you are the one I wanted all along.”
Now I have to ask.
“But you said Jessica—”
“It was a lie, to save you from me.”
His eyes are dark with anger, or sadness, or something else.
“I don’t understand. Marc?”
He sighs, and turns away, as if talking to himself. Contemplating the distant blue
Sorrentine coast.
“There is danger for you in this, Alexandra. And yet I find myself advancing, nonetheless
. . .”
Slowly, he turns back, and stares me straight in the eyes.
“I cannot help it. There is something in you, not just your beauty, something in you. I recognized it when you walked in the palazzo. Your bravery, your fearlessness.
That bright intelligence. I was drawn to it, irresistibly. Like a kind of gravity.”
He hesitates, then says, “What is that line in Dante? At the end of the Comedy . Like the love that moves the sun and other stars? Yes. L’amor che move il sole e l’altre stelle .”
He falls silent. I am silenced. What do I say? That I felt the same ? Something very similar?
To stifle my words I drink some of the wine, the Moscato Rosa. It is sublime; intensely
rich and yet delicately roseate. Sweetness within sweetness. This feels like the most
important moment of my life.
“I love Dante, too,” I say, slightly faltering. “One of the reasons I came here is
to learn Italian, so I can read it in the original.”
His eyes flicker over mine.
“Favorite passage?”
“In the Commedia ?” I consider, then answer. “I think the passage in the ��Paradiso.’ When the souls
are rising to God—”
He finishes my words for me, not hiding a delighted smile: “Like snowflakes ascending!
Yes! It is my favorite passage, too.” Our eyes meet again. He speaks the verse in
liquid Italian. “ In sù vid’ io così l’etera addorno, farsi e fioccar di vapor triunfanti . . .”
Silence returns. Marc sips at his wine.
Then he sets down the glass. His red lips are now moist with the sweet Moscato Rosa.
He gazes into my eyes. His hand reaches across the table and covers mine. He leans
nearer. His touch is electrocuting; every other part of me wants to be touching every
part of him. The world pivots around us.
“Marc . . .” I say. I am pinioned and choiceless. I want no more delay. Our mouths
are inches apart. The world is irrelevant, the universe is nothing, all there is is
this moment and this table in this sunny outdoor restaurant with me and Marc Roscarrick
as he tilts his handsome face to sink his wet sweet lips onto my waiting mouth.
“I can’t,” he says. “I cannot kiss you. It is too dangerous. For you .” His sigh is tense with grief. “I want you, X, I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted anything
or anyone as much.” A slow and horrible pause. “But it is impossible.”
C HAPTER S EVEN
“S TILL CAN’T FIGURE out why .”
“So we haven’t gotten very far.”
“Weird. Really weird. He buys you lunch and says he adores you and tells you that you are the most beautiful woman since Helen of Troy, if not
slightly prettier . . . and then he says, ‘Oh but I can’t because of some dark, terrible,
brooding mystery . . .’ And then he escorts you home and that’s it ?”
“He’s offered me a car and driver. So I can go see Naples without getting . . . into
trouble.”
Jessica nods.
I persist.
“Why would he do that, Jess? Why . . . ?”
“Let me think. I need nicotine to help me think.”
She grabs a cigarette and lights it, exhaling blue smoke over the crust of her pizza
margherita. Then she says, “Maybe he really is a very important Camorrista ? And he doesn’t want his terrible secret revealed? He does
“Sorry? Selfishness?”
The breeze drops. The family at the table behind us has gone. The silence extends.
He speaks. “X, I saved you for myself . I rescued you because the idea of anything happening to you makes me ill. As you
must realize, you are the one I wanted all along.”
Now I have to ask.
“But you said Jessica—”
“It was a lie, to save you from me.”
His eyes are dark with anger, or sadness, or something else.
“I don’t understand. Marc?”
He sighs, and turns away, as if talking to himself. Contemplating the distant blue
Sorrentine coast.
“There is danger for you in this, Alexandra. And yet I find myself advancing, nonetheless
. . .”
Slowly, he turns back, and stares me straight in the eyes.
“I cannot help it. There is something in you, not just your beauty, something in you. I recognized it when you walked in the palazzo. Your bravery, your fearlessness.
That bright intelligence. I was drawn to it, irresistibly. Like a kind of gravity.”
He hesitates, then says, “What is that line in Dante? At the end of the Comedy . Like the love that moves the sun and other stars? Yes. L’amor che move il sole e l’altre stelle .”
He falls silent. I am silenced. What do I say? That I felt the same ? Something very similar?
To stifle my words I drink some of the wine, the Moscato Rosa. It is sublime; intensely
rich and yet delicately roseate. Sweetness within sweetness. This feels like the most
important moment of my life.
“I love Dante, too,” I say, slightly faltering. “One of the reasons I came here is
to learn Italian, so I can read it in the original.”
His eyes flicker over mine.
“Favorite passage?”
“In the Commedia ?” I consider, then answer. “I think the passage in the ��Paradiso.’ When the souls
are rising to God—”
He finishes my words for me, not hiding a delighted smile: “Like snowflakes ascending!
Yes! It is my favorite passage, too.” Our eyes meet again. He speaks the verse in
liquid Italian. “ In sù vid’ io così l’etera addorno, farsi e fioccar di vapor triunfanti . . .”
Silence returns. Marc sips at his wine.
Then he sets down the glass. His red lips are now moist with the sweet Moscato Rosa.
He gazes into my eyes. His hand reaches across the table and covers mine. He leans
nearer. His touch is electrocuting; every other part of me wants to be touching every
part of him. The world pivots around us.
“Marc . . .” I say. I am pinioned and choiceless. I want no more delay. Our mouths
are inches apart. The world is irrelevant, the universe is nothing, all there is is
this moment and this table in this sunny outdoor restaurant with me and Marc Roscarrick
as he tilts his handsome face to sink his wet sweet lips onto my waiting mouth.
“I can’t,” he says. “I cannot kiss you. It is too dangerous. For you .” His sigh is tense with grief. “I want you, X, I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted anything
or anyone as much.” A slow and horrible pause. “But it is impossible.”
C HAPTER S EVEN
“S TILL CAN’T FIGURE out why .”
“So we haven’t gotten very far.”
“Weird. Really weird. He buys you lunch and says he adores you and tells you that you are the most beautiful woman since Helen of Troy, if not
slightly prettier . . . and then he says, ‘Oh but I can’t because of some dark, terrible,
brooding mystery . . .’ And then he escorts you home and that’s it ?”
“He’s offered me a car and driver. So I can go see Naples without getting . . . into
trouble.”
Jessica nods.
I persist.
“Why would he do that, Jess? Why . . . ?”
“Let me think. I need nicotine to help me think.”
She grabs a cigarette and lights it, exhaling blue smoke over the crust of her pizza
margherita. Then she says, “Maybe he really is a very important Camorrista ? And he doesn’t want his terrible secret revealed? He does
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