Chapter 2 - THE MAN WHO REMEMBERED MY GRANDFATHER
I didn't move.
That was the first mistake.
The second was looking at the exits.
Salvatore noticed.
Of course he did.
Men like him spent entire lives studying the difference between fear and flight.
"Come closer," he said.
Dante stepped between us.
"Father."
Salvatore didn't look at him.
"I asked the girl a question."
"No," Dante replied. "You gave an order."
The old man's eyes hardened.
"And you intend to interfere?"
"She's an employee, not a prisoner."
For a moment, I wondered whether I had misunderstood the entire evening.
Then Salvatore laughed.
"Still soft."
Dante ignored him.
He turned toward me.
"Miss Rossi, you can return to work."
I almost thanked him.
But Salvatore spoke again.
"Did Pietro teach you the proverb about the fig tree?"
I stopped.
My grandfather had used that proverb whenever I complained about the winters.
I answered carefully.
"He said a fig tree planted in the wrong soil spends its life remembering the sun."
Salvatore's expression changed.
His fingers tightened around the stem of his wineglass.
"And what did he say afterward?"
I swallowed.
"That remembering isn't the same as returning."
The old man closed his eyes.
For several seconds, he looked impossibly tired.
Then he opened them.
"How did Pietro die?"
I stared.
"Last October."
"Of what?"
"Heart failure. Complications after surgery."
Salvatore looked toward the tablecloth.
"And you cared for him?"
"Yes."
"Alone?"
"Mostly."
Dante watched us without speaking.
Salvatore finally nodded.
"You may go."
I left so quickly that I nearly collided with Vincent near the service station.
"What happened?" he whispered.
"Nothing."
He stared.
"Nora."
"Nothing I understand."
At eleven forty, after the last guests had left, Vincent told me the Gallos had requested my employee information.
I felt cold.
"What information?"
"Your full name. Employment dates. Address."
"You gave them my address?"
He looked ashamed.
"They already had it."
I walked home instead of taking the bus.
That was foolish.
I knew it.
But I wanted to be moving.
At my apartment, I checked the locks twice.
Then I took my grandfather's old shoebox from beneath the bed.
Inside were photographs, immigration papers, a broken watch, and a small envelope he'd told me never to throw away.
The envelope contained a black-and-white photograph.
Two young men stood beside a fishing boat.
One was Pietro.
The other looked remarkably like Salvatore Gallo.
May you like
On the back, in my grandfather's handwriting, were four words.
He owes me everything.
