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stepped into one of the confessionals. He heard her muttered litany. From under the curtain the priest's black shoe tapped a beat.
    He thought,
It's not supposed to be like this;
he thought,
My mother's tragedy is not my tragedy.
After all, he had taken a lifesaving course once, and therefore knew that the greatest risk in trying to save someone is that that person will climb atop your shoulders and drown you too.
    Still, he could not help remembering how in the taxi, when the driver had overcharged them, she'd said, "It's okay, Paul. One of the only pleasures I have left is wasting your father's money."
    Once the rain had eased, Paul left the church and, following the signs, walked toward Piazza Navona. Soon the smell of coffee drew him into a shop with a sign that said
torrefazione.
There were no other customers. The handsome barman, redheaded and hairy-armed, was taking advantage of the lull to polish his instrument with a white cloth.
    "
Prego,
" he said.
    "
Un cappuccino,
" Paul said, for the first time putting into practice the Italian he had been studying in his room for weeks.
    "
Va bene,
" the barman said, and slapped a saucer down onto the marble counter. His machine was an impressive piece of engineering, part plumbing and part cookware. Mosque-shaped, formed from beaten brass and steel, it had two little balconies hanging off its sides, on one of which the cup was placed to receive the coffee's slow drip. The milk he foamed with a limblike extension, from which hot blasts of steam issued.
    "
Un bel cappuccino caldo,
" he repeated, depositing the cup on the saucer.
    "
Grazie.
"
    "
Tedesco, lei?
"
    "
Americano.
"
    "Where are you from?"
    "California."
    "Ah, California. Beautiful girls, eh?" He made a gesture in front of his chest to indicate large breasts.
    Paul's face flushed in the warmth. He drank. The barman was telling him the story of his life, which was elaborate. He was from Cefalu, he said, in Sicily. In Rome he lived with his girlfriend. But now they were thinking of moving to America because she had relatives who owned a restaurant in Cincinnati. He said he liked the name of that city because it included the toast
cin-cin.
Would he like a grappa? the barman asked, and Paul said yes.
    "
Sono Paolo,
" he said. They shook hands. The barman did not offer his own name. Instead he picked up a bottle shaped like a pear and poured out a tiny glassful of clear emulsion, which he handed to Paul. "Thank you," Paul said. "
Cin-cin.
" He toasted the air. The barman smiled. A thin thread of gold disappeared into his collar, Paul noticed: and what hung at the end of it? A cross, probably. Or a
corno
to ward off the evil eye.
    The grappa was stronger than anything he had ever tasted. It made him purse his lips. Could the barman get into trouble for giving alcohol to someone who was underage? In America, certainly. And yet it was becoming every moment more evident that he was in another land.
    After a few sips of the grappa Pauls chest felt warm, as if someone had been rubbing it with Ben-Gay.
    The barman kept talking. He told a long story about a child who had fallen from a tower, but because the child's mother had had the good sense to invoke the name of San Francesco di Paola, instead of crashing down, the child had wafted gently to the earth like a leaf. Then he put his elbow on the bar, rested his cheek in his palm, and said, "
Insomma.
" In sum, Paul translated mentally. "
Insomma, poi, niente.
" He drew circles on the marble with his forefinger. No language has more ways of saying nothing than Italian.
    After a while Paul announced that he had to go to the bathroom. He was shivering a little. And why? Nothing had happened. And what was he expecting anyway? That the barman would follow him into the bathroom, that they would pee side by side? (The thought excited and shamed him.) But instead he just stood there and drew circles, and said, "
Insomma.
" As far as Paul could tell his friendliness had neither conditions