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important that I catch the plane.”
    â€œOf course. Oh, I forgot—you like cappuccino?”
    â€œEr—yes.”
    â€œGood.” He motioned to a brown paper bag sitting on the seat behind her. “You have sugar?”
    â€œYes—but . . .”
    When she didn’t take it, he lifted one hand off the wheel and reached back to get it himself, then handed it to her. “Please.” He seemed slightly flustered, as if she was somehow not reading his behavior signals correctly. “It’s still hot, I think. I got it for my friend to take on the train, but he didn’t want it. It’s a shame to waste it, no?”
    As he said this it struck her that he might be gay. That would explain the spotless car, the classy clothes, and the almost exaggerated politeness. Anna thought about Paul and the way he had embraced her child-filled chaos. Maybe there was something about her that attracted gay men. No doubt a lack of predatory sexuality, she thought, almost ruefully.
    â€œPlease?”
    He was proffering the drink, and it was clear that he might in some way be put out if she refused. In the hollow between the driver and passenger seats there was a shelf with cup holders. She dug out the polystyrene containers with their generous share of napkins, took the lid off the one without the letter “z” scratched on it, and slipped it into the hole for him. Then she opened the other and started to drink. She made a small face.
    â€œYou don’t like it?” he said anxiously. “It has too much sugar?”
    â€œI don’t know. There’s a funny taste. What is it?”
    â€œAh. The almond flavoring maybe. It is a syrup they use sometimes. Very popular now. Always we have America pushing at our feet. It is good, I think, no?”
    â€œYes,” she said. In fact the flavor was a little strong for her, but in the stale heat of the car she was in need of the lift of caffeine. She drank it quickly.
    â€œSo.” He had pulled up at a set of traffic lights. A phalanx of people surged across the road, office rush hour and the opening of the shops after siesta. Florence at its craziest. He smiled at her. “Now you can relax.” He sounded like a host at a dinner party. “I will get you there in good time.”
    â€œIt’s very kind of you.”
    â€œNot kind. It is—how do you say?—the littlest I can do.”
    â€œThe least.”
    â€œLeast? Yes, yes of course. The least I can do,” he said, pleased with himself, the word stretching out like a long smile.
    They fell silent. After a while the congested medieval streets of the center gave way to wider, more relaxed boulevards, then to sprawling industrial outskirts. Italy was as new as it was old, as ugly as it was beautiful. Anna had always liked that about it, had found it reassuring. She tucked the empty container carefully back into the bag, observing the house rules of tidiness. He was still drinking, lifting the cup from the holder and taking a series of small sips, as if the liquid was still too hot to drink comfortably.
    She glanced across at him. In the shop the face had seemed too broad to be that interesting, but in profile it took on more definition, the features etched rather than drawn, as if someone had dripped acid onto soft stone, the hand hesitating over certain key contours. Where she had first thought forties, now she was not so sure. He might be older; it was hard to tell. There was a quality of containment about him that made it difficult to determine what lay behind the politeness.
    Maybe he wasn’t gay after all. She thought of his life trailing out behind him, like smoke from a plane exhaust. She saw them intersecting, two silver trails in an empty sky. Merging, then passing. Except, wasn’t it ships that passed in the night? She tried to re-form the image but realized that she had lost it. She felt suddenly rather weary, worn out by travel and