The voice came from behind the piano.
"You must be Silvio."
I opened my eyes.
A man was standing beside the instrument as though he had been there the entire time, waiting patiently for the music to finish its work.
"I have been expecting you."
The first thing that came to my mind was not suspicion.
It was admiration.
"Where did you learn to play like that?"
He tilted his head slightly, amused.
"No, signor," he said softly. "One does not learn the piano."
He closed the lid of the instrument with gentle care.
"One either plays… or one does not. Tell me, where did Mozart learn? The boy was writing music before he could properly write his own name."
He studied the room for a moment as if listening to something invisible.
"Music simply happens."
I remained standing near the doorway.
The stranger continued speaking in the same calm tone.
"There is an old story," he said. "When God created Adam, the angels tried many times to place the spirit inside the clay. Each attempt failed."
I waited.
"So God taught them a music," he continued. "A strange music no human ear has ever heard."
"And what happened?" I asked.
"The spirit entered."
He smiled faintly.
"The clay began to breathe."
For a moment neither of us spoke.
"So we are made of music?" I said.
The stranger did not answer directly.
"The body remembers everything," he said instead. "The information carried inside it goes back to the moment the spirit entered the clay."
He lifted his hands and looked at his fingers.
"These fingers could play the same notes Mozart once played. Perhaps yours could as well. The body remembers. The mind only pretends to."
I considered this for a moment before asking the obvious question.
"And who exactly are you?"
"And how do you know my name?"
He looked at me as though the answer were the most natural thing in the world.
"I am the man who sent you the painting."
A pause.
"And the letter."
The room became very still.
"The letter?" I said. "The one from Matteo?"
"Yes."
"You sent it?"
"That is correct."
The sentence landed heavily.
"I don't understand," I said. "Why would you kill Pedro?"
The stranger laughed quietly.
"No, signor. I did not write the letter. I merely delivered it."
He walked slowly toward the window.
"Your cousin asked me to send it one month after your eighteenth birthday."
"And you agreed?"
"I gave him my word."
He turned back toward me.
"He also asked me not to open it."
"But you did."
"Yes."
"Why?"
He shrugged.
"When he disappeared, I became concerned. I thought the letter might explain something."
"And did it?"
"That," he said, "is not for me to decide."
I watched him carefully.
"Then what are you doing here?"
"The same thing you are doing."
"And what is that?"
"Saying goodbye to an old friend."
I leaned against the wall.
"Well," I said, "I came looking for answers. But if the letter was simply a suicide note, then there are no mysteries left."
He studied me with quiet curiosity.
"I also wanted to see you."
"To see me?"
"Yes."
"To see if you were the man Matteo believed you to be."
I shrugged.
"Am I?"
He examined my face for a long moment.
"More or less," he said.
"Though I imagined you slightly darker."
I laughed.
"And I imagined you slightly older."
"People in this region are obsessed with the sun," he said. "They think a man's colour determines his courage."
He stepped closer.
"But if Matteo truly intended to disappear, signor, you will never find him."
"That sounds like him."
"He valued privacy more than most men value life."
"That he did."
I crossed my arms.
"Then why search for his remains?"
"To say farewell."
He spoke the words simply.
"He was my friend."
My suspicion returned.
"That's strange."
"Why?"
"He never mentioned you."
"What is your name?"
"Joseph."
"Joseph what?"
He hesitated only slightly before answering.
"Joseph Vanni DeSantino."
For a moment I simply stared.
"You're joking."
"No."
"You're that Joseph Vanni DeSantino?"
He nodded.
"You're the son of Don Giovanni DeSantino?"
"Yes."
The name had travelled through half the country in whispers.
"Good God," I said.
He raised an eyebrow.
"Mi scusi?"
"I mean— forgive me," I corrected quickly. "I did not recognise you."
He waved the apology away.
"Very few people would."
"You're being modest."
"No," he said calmly. "Merely accurate."
He walked toward a small cabinet beside the wall.
"Please do not call me Don anything."
"Joseph will do."
I nodded.
"Very well… Joseph."
I paused.
"So how exactly did you and Matteo meet?"
He opened the cabinet and removed a small wooden box.
"That is a long story."
"I have time."
"I suspected you might not wish to hear it."
"Right now," I said, "there is nowhere I would rather be."
Joseph studied me for a moment.
Then he opened the box.
Inside lay several cigars.
"Before we begin," he said, "would you care for one?"
My eyes widened.
"Is that…?"
"Yes."
"La Flor del Punto."
I almost laughed.
"You're kidding."
"I never joke about cigars."
He handed one to me.
"This cannot be real," I said. "These disappeared years ago."
Joseph smiled.
"Some things disappear only for those who lack patience."
I examined the band.
"La selección 303."
"You have a good eye," he said.
"And excellent taste," I replied.
He poured two glasses of cognac.
"So," I said, raising mine.
"To what shall we drink?"
"To power," Joseph said quietly.
We touched glasses.
"To power."
I inhaled the aroma before drinking.
Leather.
Tobacco.
Dried fruit.
Walnut perhaps.
"You smell it?" he asked.
"Yes."
"And coffee," I added. "Spice. Something woody."
"Good."
"Now taste it."
I did.
The warmth spread immediately.
"Le Voyage de Delamain," I said.
Joseph smiled.
"So you have met it before."
"Once."
"Love at first encounter?"
"Something like that."
He leaned back in his chair.
"Well then," he said.
"You asked how I met Matteo."
"Yes."
"How did you?"
Joseph took a slow draw from the cigar.
The smoke curled toward the ceiling.
"That," he said,
"is a rather unusual story."