Return to Umbria by David Wagner (best book series to read .txt) 📕

the curtains of the room’s only window and opened it to find a view of another building on the other side of a narrow alley. “Not much of a view,” she said, “but at least it shouldn’t be noisy at night.” She kicked off her shoes and flopped down on the bed. “I think I may rest my eyes a bit before going out to explore the town.”

Rick pulled his laptop from the bag, set it on the narrow desk, and plugged it in. “I’ll check my e-mail and be on my way.”

She bent her elbow and propped her head in her hand. “You’ll do fine, Rick. Your uncle would not have asked you to do this if he didn’t think you could convince Fabrizio.”

“My uncle is a realist in his police work, but that doesn’t always extend to his views about this nephew’s capabilities. I hope I don’t let him down.”

***

Uncle Piero’s directions were written at the bottom of a street map of Orvieto, with a yellow crayon line marking the route from the hotel to the palazzo. It was typical of his uncle’s thoroughness. Rick looked up at the street marker on the corner building and back down at the map, realizing that without it he would have had a devil of a time getting to where Fabrizio was staying. As in so many post-Roman Italian towns, the streets of Orvieto seemed to have been laid out by an evil madman, peppered with twists, narrow alleys, and dead ends. Stone houses, two- and three-storied, lined the cobblestones, their wood front doors right on the pavement. Who needed sidewalks when everyone walked anyway? Look around and you’re in the thirteenth century. He loved it.

He returned his thoughts to the “Fabrizio problem.” This would be a short initial contact with the kid, not a hard sell. I just happened to be in Orvieto with my girlfriend, heard you were here, thought I’d drop by—that sort of thing. Get the lay of the land, test the waters, give the situation the once-over, and any other clichéd phrase that might be applicable. Go easy on the lad. Save questions like “Are you out of your freakin’ mind?” for a subsequent encounter. Play the diplomat, Rick. Use those skills that must have rubbed off from your father. Certainly don’t do what your mother would do in this situation, which would likely be to throttle her nephew.

He consulted his street map again and decided his destination should be right around the next corner. A thin slice of nearly horizontal sunlight squeezed between two buildings, painting a stripe on the pavement. Rick hoped the late afternoon would be a good time to find Fabrizio at home. The kid wants to be a writer, so he should be writing at all hours of the day and night. Isn’t that what writers do? When the number appeared on a nondescript but neatly painted door, Rick stood back and assessed the building. It had two doors and was wider by half than the palazzi that abutted it. Rick reckoned the building was two apartments, one on each floor, and he also guessed that the simple exterior did not reflect the furnishings. It was the Italian way to hide luxury behind a bland facade to discourage interest from thieves or tax assessors, who were considered one in the same. Piero mentioned that the woman was not without funds, but his uncle’s litotes didn’t give him an idea of how wealthy Tullia Aragona—or her husband—really might be. Rick walked to the door and rang the rusting brass bell. He was about to ring again when a voice crackled out of the box above the bell.

“Who is it?”

It was a male voice, and a young one at that. Rick was in luck. “Fabrizio?”

“Si. Who is this?”

“It’s your Cousin Riccardo. I was here in—” Rick heard a loud click at the other end of the line. Dammit, he thought, he’s not going to let me in. Well, I didn’t come all this way for nothing. About to press the bell again, he heard a noise inside. Feet. Definitely feet. He waited. The door unlatched and swung open. Fabrizio was dressed in a loose-fitting sweatshirt and jeans. His hair was long and he wore a spotty beard. The last time I saw him he barely had peach fuzz, Rick mused, feeling old. He opened his arms for a cousinly hug, but Fabrizio’s head jerked back, he stepped into the street, closed the door, and took Rick’s arm.

“Why don’t we go for a walk?” He wheeled Rick around and down the street. “What a nice surprise, Cousin. It’s, uh, so good to see you.”

“Did I interrupt something?”

“No, no, not at all. So, how is Uncle Piero? I assume he sent you up here.”

The kid is sharper than I expected. “I guess you have to get up pretty early to outsmart my Cousin Fabrizio,” Rick said.

“Huh?”

“Forget it. That’s an English expression that doesn’t translate well into Italian.”

“So you learned that in your interpreting business? That’s still what you’re doing, isn’t it, Riccardo?”

“It is. And you’ve become a writer?” They reached an intersection, if the meeting of two narrow streets could be called that, and forged ahead.

“It takes a while to break into writing, but I’m working on it. In the meantime I’m getting experience in the real world.” For the first time Fabrizio turned to Rick and smiled. “So you’re supposed to talk me into going back home, right? Okay, give it your best shot.”

Rick took in a breath before responding. “I get the clear impression that you are enjoying the arrangement, so it may not be easy to talk some sense into you.”

“Enjoying the arrangement? Riccardo, you wouldn’t believe the things this woman—”

Rick held up a hand. “I don’t need any details, Fabrizio.” They walked several steps before he continued. “I can also see that you are mature enough to make decisions on your own, and that you understand what your behavior is doing