Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (49)

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Danielle.”

Of course it was, he thought. “Would you like an ice cream?”

The child sat down and pushed the blue slip of paper across the tabletop. “Aren’t you going to read it?”

“I don’t need to.”

“Why not?”

“I know what it says.”

“How?”

“I have powers, too.”

“Not like hers,” said the child.

No, agreed Gabriel. Not like hers.





32

Haute-Corse




The hand the old woman offered Gabriel in greeting was warm and weightless. He held it gently, as though it were a cage bird.

“You’ve been hiding from me,” she said.

“Not from you,” he answered. “From the maestral.”

“I’ve always liked the wind.” Confidingly she added, “It’s good for business.”

The old woman was a signadora. The Corsicans believed that she possessed the power to heal those infected by the occhju. Gabriel had once suspected that she was nothing more than a conjurer and a clever teller of fortunes, but that was no longer the case.

She placed her hand against his cheek. “You’re burning with fever.”

“You always say that.”

“That’s because you always feel as though you are on fire.” Her hand moved to his upper chest. The left side, slightly above his heart. “This is where the madwoman’s bullet entered you.”

“Did Christopher tell you that?”

“I haven’t spoken to Christopher since his return.” She lifted the front of Gabriel’s dress shirt and examined the scar. “You were dead for several minutes, were you not?”

“Two or three.”

She frowned. “Why do you bother trying to lie to me?”

“Because I prefer not to dwell on the fact that I was dead for ten minutes.” Gabriel held up the blue slip of paper. “Where did you find that child?”

“Danielle? Why do you ask?”

“She reminds me of someone.”

“Your daughter?”

“How is possible that you know what she looks like?”

“Perhaps you’re merely seeing what you want to see.”

“Don’t speak to me in riddles.”

“You named the child Irene after your mother. Every time she looks at you, you see your mother’s face and the numbers that were written on her arm in the camp named for the trees.”

“Someday you’re going to have to show me how you do that.”

“It is a gift from God.” She released the front of his shirt and contemplated him with her bottomless black eyes. The face in which they were set was as white as baker’s flour. “You are suffering from the occhju. It is as plain as day.”

“I must have contracted it from Don Casabianca’s goat.”

“He is a demon.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I’m not joking. The animal is possessed. Stay away from it.”

The signadora drew him into the parlor of her tiny home. On the small circular table was a candle, a shallow plate of water, and a vessel of olive oil. They were the tools of her trade. She lit the candle and sat down in her usual place. Gabriel, after a moment’s hesitation, joined her.

“There’s no such thing as the evil eye, you know. It’s just a superstition that was prevalent among the ancient people of the Mediterranean.”

“You are an ancient person of the Mediterranean as well.”

“As ancient as it gets,” he agreed.

“You were born in the Galilee, not far from the town where Jesus lived. Most of your ancestors were killed by the Romans during the siege of Jerusalem, but a few survived and made their way to Europe.” She nudged the vessel of olive oil across the tabletop. “Proceed.”

Gabriel returned the vessel to the woman’s side of the table. “You first.”

“You want me to prove that it’s not a trick?”

“Yes.”

The old woman dipped her forefinger into the oil. Then she held it over the plate and allowed three drops to fall into the water. They coalesced into a single gobbet.

“Now you.”

Gabriel performed the same ritual. This time the oil shattered into a thousand droplets, and soon there was no trace of it.

“Occhju,” whispered the old woman.

“Magic and misdirection,” said Gabriel in reply.

Smiling, she asked, “How’s your hand?”

“Which one?”

“The one you injured when you attacked the man who works for the one-eyed creature.”

“He shouldn’t have followed me.”

“Make your peace with him,” said the signadora. “He will help you find the woman.”

“What woman?”

“The Spanish woman.”

“I’m looking for a man.”

“The one who tried to kill you in the art gallery?”

“Yes.”

“Don Orsati hasn’t been able to find him. But don’t worry, the Spanish woman will lead you to the one you seek. Don Orsati knows of her.”