a farm one kilometer down the road,” Ivano lied. “It’s hard work, but I don’t mind.”
Silvio nodded, and the two men continued to walk and make conversation until the road came to a group of buildings built in the style of farmhouses. Noticing a sign that read Osteria del Gallo Nero (Black Rooster Tavern), Ivano invited Silvio to have a glass of wine. Silvio accepted.
The tavern was small, with only three dusty tables and a counter. Glasses in hand, four men were chitchatting and smoking. A fifth man, the owner, stood behind the counter uncorking bottles of wine. Silvio waved at him, and he waved back. Ivano and Silvio sat at a free table, and Silvio hung his jacket over the back of his chair. They spent an hour drinking and talking about their lives. The gardener spoke about his youth spent farming in his father’s fields and his gardening job at the convent, and Ivano told Silvio he had been born in Genoa to a family of bakers and had moved north, to Mirabello, after his parents’ death to be with an old aunt who needed assistance with an illness that had left her bedridden for years. The aunt had recently died, he said, and he was now living on his own and in the process of reorganizing his life. Silvio was impressed with the young man’s altruism and dedication.
After the fourth round of red wine, Ivano asked Silvio about the nuns, in particular how they spent their time in that isolated, solitary place.
Silvio shrugged. “I’ve been the nuns’ gardener for fifteen years,” he said, “and never caught a glimpse of any of them. I never even set foot inside the building where they live. As for how they spend their time, only God knows, because, to the best of my knowledge, no layman, or laywoman for that matter, has ever been admitted into their home.”
Ivano refilled Silvio’s glass for the fifth time. “What else do you know?” he asked. “The life of confinement of these nuns intrigues me.”
“All I know is that the nuns leave their quarters early in the morning, at six, to gather in a chapel at the very back of their garden where they sing and pray. On Sundays a priest comes to officiate Mass.” He chuckled. “He must be their treat.”
Ivano chuckled along.
Silvio brought a finger to his temple. “You could go batty in that place, all alone without talking. That’s what happened to my predecessor. He was brought to the asylum because he talked to himself incessantly, day and night.”
Ivano noticed Silvio’s speech becoming slurred. He said, “We should go home. I’m starting to feel tired.”
The two men stood up, and Silvio made an attempt to put on his jacket. He swayed a couple of times; his hands couldn’t find the right holes.
“Let me help you,” Ivano said, taking the jacket and holding it in position.
As Silvio eased his arms into the sleeves, Ivano let go of the jacket and dipped a hand into the left pocket, grabbing the key. He winced as his fingers made contact the cold iron. He extracted the key in slow motion, careful not to touch the pocket lining, all the while telling Silvio how good the local wine was. In his dizziness, Silvio never noticed. He thanked Ivano for his help, and the two men walked out of the tavern.
“It was very nice meeting you,” Silvio said, his words more and more slurred by the alcohol and the weariness that comes at the end of a working day.
“Are you sure you can get home safe?” Ivano inquired, slightly worried about Silvio’s state.
“No problem,” Silvio reassured him. “My home is only one minute away.”
Back in Mirabello, Ivano returned to his raggedy bed inside the construction site and immediately took out of his pocket the stolen convent key. “Thank you, Silvio,” he said aloud, resolving to return the loot before leaving Mirabello. Staring at the rusty, iron instrument, Ivano realized the magnitude of what lay ahead of him. He had a way into the convent now, but once inside what should he do to find Caterina? And what if Caterina wasn’t there? What if Viola had overheard the wrong information? He felt exhausted—from the trip, the months with no sleep, and the emotion of being close to Caterina. He fidgeted with the key, pacing the building back and forth for hours. At three in the morning, after much thinking and brooding, he finally came up with a plan.
At four