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“Prettiest little girl in the piazza.”
    The Piazza Farnese was the central fact of Leah’s life. She was blissfully unaware that I was on the run from a past that had put too many hunters in the field against me. She did not remember the flight out of South Carolina to New York or the night flight on Alitalia that brought us to Rome.
    She squeezed my hand as we said good morning to the
portiere
and stepped out into the bright light.
    The waiting man turned his back and lit another cigarette. Then he pretended to read a historical marker placed just above the door of the
farmacia
.
    “You won’t fight him, will you, Daddy?” Leah asked.
    “You’ve got my word I won’t fight him. You think I’m stupid? After what happened last time.”
    “It scared me when you went to jail,” she said.
    “Not half as badly as it scared me. Rome ended your daddy’s boxing career.”
    “All the nuns know you were in prison at Regina Coeli,” she said, with great eight-year-old disapproval. “Even Suor Rosaria. It’s very embarrassing.”
    “It was a cultural misunderstanding,” I explained as we walked through the crowded piazza.
“Il Gigante
thought he had to kick ass. It was an error in judgment that any American could have made.”
    “You owe me a thousand lire,” Leah said.
    “I didn’t say a cuss word. I don’t owe you a dime.”
    “You said the ‘A’ word. That’s a thousand lire.”
    “Ass is not a cuss word. It means a small donkey and it comes from the Bible. Let’s see: ‘They rode Jesus through the city seated on a small ass.’ ”
    “That’s not how you used the word,” she said. “If you’re fair about it you’ll give me a thousand lire.”
    “I’m an adult,” I said. “It’s part of my job description to be totally unfair to every child I meet.”
    “I was in prison with you,” Leah said, primly. “Suor Rosaria thinks you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
    “I was victimized by a male-dominated society that didn’t understand me.”
    “You were a brute,” said Leah.
    Anytime I lost my temper, raised my voice, or found myself in a situation that contained the seeds of discord, Leah would remind me of my most contentious encounter with the habits and customs of Italy. It happened in our first months in Rome, when I was still acclimating myself to the myriad responsibilities a man encountered trying to raise a child single-handedly in a foreign city. Every day I found myself overwhelmed by the sheer variety of needs and wants manufactured by this simple child. Leah made me feel as though I required the skills of a city manager to move her through all the mazelike conundrums that Rome could throw up in our paths.Through an act of faith I had discovered the right pediatrician. To get a telephone installed required three trips to city hall, four to the telephone company, three bribes of hard cash, and a case of good wine to the
portiere
who knew the brother of a friend who lived next door to the mayor of Rome. The city prided itself on the extremism of its inefficiency. Its good-natured anarchy left me exhausted at the end of each day.
    But I had encountered no trouble in Rome until I relaxed my guard and found myself shopping near midday beneath the canopies that shaded those fabulous fruit and vegetable stands in the Campo dei Fiori. As I led my daughter through that squawking aviary of human commerce, I loved to study the vast tiers of fruit with the wasps sipping the nectar of plums and yellow jackets happy as puppies among the grapes and peaches. Pointing out the wasps to Leah, I admired out loud the accord that existed between the wasps and vendors as if they had signed a treaty of entente to underscore their partnership in the business of selling and eating fruit.
    The sheer theater of the street life in the Campo enthralled Leah from our first week in the neighborhood. Each day, we would drift from the north end where we bought bread to our last stop at Fratelli Ruggeri,