Kate Hegstroem said. She was sitting in her room in the Hôtel Lancaster. She had become thinner. The flesh under her skin appeared sunken, as if it had been hollowed out from inside with fine instruments. Her features stood out more sharply and her skin was like silk that would tear easily. “I thought you were still in Florence—or in Cannes—or America by now.” “I was in Florence the whole time. In Fiesole. Until I couldn’t stand it any more. Do you remember how I tried to persuade you to come with me? Books, a fireplace, evenings, peace? The books were there—the fireplace too—but the peace! Ravic, even the town of Francis of Assisi has become loud. Loud and disquieting like everything else there. Where he preached love to the birds, there are now files of men in uniform marching hither and yon, growing drunk on boasts, big words, and groundless hate.” “But it was always that way, Kate.” “Not this way. A few years ago my major-domo was still a friendly man in Manchester trousers and bast shoes.
