Chapter Nineteen
Quinn pays the cabbie, who has stopped at the edge of town.
The older guy has a leather shoe for a face and doesn’t speak English, but Quinn figures out what he was trying to communicate: no cars allowed on the main route through the medieval village.
Quinn gets out of the cab and makes his way into town.
The sun is coming down and there’s no one on the stone road; none of the stores appear open. Maybe because it’s Sunday.
He spies a hotel, which is a pleasant surprise, since he hadn’t booked a place to stay tonight and doubts he’ll find a cab to get him back to the station in Ancona. But the door to the hotel is locked. There’s a sign he can’t read, though it’s clear the place is shuttered.
An elderly man and woman make their way up the hill. They seem nicer than the old couple on the train, so he decides to take a shot: “Mi scusi,” he says. This is far as he’ll go with the Italian, but it should be enough.
The man opens his eyes wide.
Quinn displays the envelope, points to the address, says, “I don’t speak Italian but hoped you could help me find this address.” He puts his finger on the envelope again, gestures around signaling that he’s looking for the address.
The man says something in Italian to the old woman, then motions for Quinn to follow them.
“Grazie,” Quinn says.
He’s in luck; they’re slower than he is with his bum leg. They round the corner and Quinn is surprised that the outdoor tables for cafes and bars are starting to fill. It’s like the entire town awoke at the same time.
As they stroll, the old man calls out to some other old men who sit on a bench. They laugh and say something back, probably about the dumb American who’s lost. At an intersection, the couple stops. The old man points to the two-story stone building with the red front door.
“Grazie,” Quinn says again. He walks to the door.
It has the number 18 on it, the number on the envelope.
He’s anxious, worried he’ll lose his nerve.
It’s been six months, and the Italian Army surely informed Giuseppe’s parents that he was killed in action.
But it will still be a shock for Quinn to show up unannounced bearing a letter from their son.
After a particularly scary day patrolling Afgoi, everyone in Quinn’s barracks had written “last letters” to loved ones.
Quinn takes in a deep breath, and he knocks.
A middle-aged woman with dark hair answers, a curious expression for the stranger at her front door. She says something in Italian. There’s no mistaking the resemblance, in the eyes, in her angular features, in her manner of speech. He’s come to the right place.
Quinn freezes for a moment. Rather than speak, he hands her the envelope, which he’s tried to keep pristine, but it’s wrinkled from its time tucked in his friend’s pocket as a precaution in case things went sideways.
He beats back the last memory of Giuseppe, who lay bloody in the ramshackle building, Quinn putting pressure on the chest wound.
Unable to speak, Giuseppe managed to reach inside his flak jacket and thrust the envelope in Quinn’s hand before his eyes went vacant.
The woman examines the envelope, the handwriting, and she falls to her knees. A burly man appears and he’s confused, takes a protective stance, unclear what’s going on.
Quinn turns and leaves. There’s nothing he can say that will bring back their son or remove their pain. He hopes something in the letter brings them peace. His leg aches as he walks quickly, trying not to hear the wailing behind him.
Quinn soon is back in the town square, which is now bustling with activity.
“Hey, you,” a voice calls out. He turns and sees a young woman charging after him, her long dark hair blowing in the wind. She stops in front of him. She’s not angry like he thought at first; it’s more like she was on a mission to find him.
“You knew my brother?” she says in accented English. “You knew Giuseppe?”
Quinn nods. Before he explains more, she says, “My mama would like you to join us for cena, if you would?” She raises her chin, defiant, like he has no choice but to join them for dinner.
Quinn tilts his head to the side, silently asking if that would be a good idea given the state of her mother when he’d left the house.
“We insist,” the young woman says.
On the walk back, she tells him her name is Alessia—Giuseppe’s older sister, though it must not be by much since she looks to be in her early twenties.
She tells him that they never heard from Giuseppe once he left for the mission in Somalia, that their letters had all been returned unopened, that they never received any from Giuseppe the entire time he was gone.
That doesn’t surprise Quinn. Mail came only sporadically in Somalia.
Quinn wrote to George every week, but when he got a rare phone call stateside, Holly—George’s redheaded caregiver—said they’d received only two letters.
She’d read them to George, said she’d written back, but Quinn never got those replies.
The family’s house is modest. Tile floors and sparse furniture.
But it has warmth. Quinn notices a small shrine in the corner around a photo of his friend.
Giuseppe has a giant smile on his face. Quinn is in the throes of grief, sadness, but he needs to hold it together for tonight, for this family.
Giuseppe’s mother, her name is Carlotta, embraces him, says something he thinks is gratitude for delivering the letter.
The father, Paolo, gives his hand a firm shake.
They say something to their daughter and Alessia translates: “Please, take a seat.” Alessia gestures to a small wooden table in the dining room.
Candles light the room and the table is set for five.
Quinn wonders who else will be joining them, then realizes there’s an empty space for Giuseppe.
Carlotta fills his wineglass, gives him a soft smile, like caring for a young man is bringing back memories.
It’s quiet for a long while. Quinn devours the pasta, which he thinks is the best thing he’s ever eaten.
Between the field MREs and then the hospital food, he hasn’t consumed a lot of fine cuisine of late.
But it truly is the best meal of his life.
He looks at Giuseppe’s sister, and takes in how beautiful she is.
He smiles, thinking of Giuseppe bragging about how everything in his town is the best, the most beautiful.
To Alessia, Quinn says, “Giuseppe told us your mother makes the best pasta in all of the region.” He looks at Carlotta and smiles. “And I have to agree.”
Alessia speaks in Italian and her mother offers a sad smile, says something.
“She asks how you knew my brother.”
Quinn dabs his mouth with a napkin, inhales, then tells her, pausing periodically as Alessia translates.
He tells them about the mission, a multination effort to feed starving people.
About a country still ravaged from civil war and a humanitarian effort that had slipped into nation-building, as his XO called it.
About danger from many fronts: roadside bandits, warlords seeking to take over the fledgling government, citizens who didn’t take kindly to foreign occupation.
“We were on patrol and pinned down. Your son saved my life.”
He hopes they won’t ask for details. He’s not ready to give them.
Giuseppe’s dad says something, gestures to his own face, tracing a line that mirrors Quinn’s scar. Quinn doesn’t need the translation.
He simply answers, “Si.”
More long silence. Over another glass of wine, he tells them how everyone loved Giuseppe. He was not only the bravest man in the brigade, which makes Paolo sit up straighter with pride, but he made them all laugh, which evokes knowing smiles from Carlotta and Alessia.
They ask no more questions about how their son died. About how part of Quinn died.
“Where are you staying?” Alessia asks, as they finish the most delicious dessert—chocolate olive oil cake—Quinn has ever tasted. Giuseppe, you S.O.B., you weren’t lying. Everything in this town is the best.
“I’ll probably head back to Ancona for the night and catch the morning train.” He has no set plans, but it’s time to go home to Nebraska, he thinks. To see his brother. Figure out what he’s going to do with his life after his short-lived career as a soldier.
Carlotta says something to her daughter who translates: “You can stay here tonight?”
“Grazie,” he replies. “But I have somewhere else I need to go tonight, then I leave for home.”
Alessia says something in Italian and the women exchange a glance.
Carlotta then says something, and Alessia translates again: “My mother says, your parents must be proud and excited for you to be returning home.”
Quinn forces a smile.
After he says his goodbyes, Alessia escorts him out. Facing him just outside the front door, she says, “Thank you.” Her eyes well with tears, which she quickly wipes away with a hand. “But you’re not leaving until you tell me what really happened to my brother.”
Quinn nods and takes a deep breath. “Okay. But first you have to take me somewhere.”