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by behind the curtains. So she hadn’t answered the buzzer—why? Maybe the buzzer was broken, that certainly wouldn’t be anything new. Damned modern technology: years ago it would have been simple enough just to ask the doorman a few questions, but these days, doormen, with what they cost—well, no one had them anymore.
    Behind the living room window, while the wind and the rain howled through the streets, driving the pedestrians into the shelter of the doorways, Donna Amalia narrowed her eyes: when a sign defied interpretion, then it didn’t fit into the system. And someone had to be informed.
    She called for the slut Irina, and told her to bring her the telephone.

VIII
    B efore going out for dinner at his usual place, Lojacono got the phone call from Marinella.
    These days he talked to his daughter every day, ever since they’d reconciled after months of painful silence. It was still too soon for an actual visit, but there had been unmistakable progress: from a refusal to speak, to one-syllable answers, and then on to the occasional chilly report on the life the girl was leading, the progress of their conversations had been slow and difficult.
    Lojacono loved his daughter dearly, and being apart from her had all but sent him over the edge; but in the aftermath of his trial and reassignment into exile, his wife hadn’t hesitated in turning against him, not so much because she actually thought Lojacono was guilty of the charges that had been brought, but because of the social penalities that had come with them. To feel like a pariah, to see doors slammed in her face, to know that her friends were avoiding her: she wore a scarlet letter, and that meant no verdict could diminish her pain.
    Even worse, Sonia and Marinella had been moved to Palermo as a precaution against any possible retaliation: Lojacono couldn’t imagine why anyone would take revenge against his family for something he hadn’t done, but everyone had to comply with the judge’s decisions.
    Marinella was fifteen years old, and along with the standard array of behavioral issues common to teenagers, she was an introvert, reluctant to try new things and meet new people; being uprooted from the life that was familiar to her, from a small city like Agrigento, where everyone had known everyone else for generations, had been like dropping an atomic bomb on a tropical atoll. Hearing her mother spew venom against her father and blame him for even the smallest of their new problems had done the rest, and Lojacono lost all contact with the girl.
    But when he was confronted with the innocent blood of the Crocodile’s victims, his daughter’s absence from his life had suddenly seemed intolerable; and so, violating the terms of the divorce and his own good sense, he had phoned her, expecting her not to pick up.
    Marinella had surprised him, not only taking his call but reestablishing regular phone conversations. Little by little, she had told him about the trouble she was having fitting into her new life, the challenges of getting along with her new classmates and teachers. Then Lojacono had listened as a few budding acquaintances blossomed into friendships: a girl her age who lived nearby and walked to school with her, another girl in their class who’d started walking with them. Now Marinella had a group of friends she went out with on a regular basis: to the movies, to get a pizza.
    To avoid getting her in trouble with her mother, who demanded the right to monitor their slightest interactions, he never called her; he waited for Marinella to reach out. He was afraid of snapping the slender thread that he’d worked so hard to retie, and he was well aware that he himself wasn’t much of a communicator. But even complete silence was a beautiful thing, if someone you dearly loved was on the other end of the line.
    This time, the girl’s voice was excited: “
Ciao
, Papi. What are you doing? Are you having