Xmas Drabble II
by elfin
The square is busy. There was a snowfall last night and the white
dusting over the roofs and cobbles has drawn out the residents as well as
the tourists.
Christmas in Florence.
He takes the binoculars from the Italian policeman who met him at the airport
and brought him here, to this rented room.
Lifting them to his eyes, he follows to where the Pazzi's finger points.
He has to focus before he can see what he's flown out here to see.
To confirm.
As he turns the dial between his eyes, he brings one man into sharp focus.
He is sitting at a small, square table outside a cafe. He wears a
long black coat and a wide-brimmed hat. He is side-on to the square
and the window through which he's being watched.
In his hands, today's newspaper, turned to the business section now.
Every so often, he shakes the paper and lets go with one hand to pick up
his expresso and take a sip of the strong drink.
There is a woman with a child crossing the square. The child reaches
down to scrape up enough snow to make a ball. His mother slaps his
hand and pulls him along after her. He starts to cry - a long, high
wail of denial.
The man at the table turns slightly.
He's the one.
And the man with the binoculars stares to make sure.
It has been so long, and there are differences.
But he knows. He is certain.
He's about to turn to Pazzi and nod, when a second man approaches the table.
Tall, slim. Blond hair. Similar long, black coat. He
leans down and kisses the older man. But not twice on the cheeks as
is the Italian customary greeting between friends.
This is a long kiss, mouth to mouth. Such public displays of affection
are not taboo in Italy.
As the second man sits, the first calls over the waitress and orders something.
He folds his paper neatly and places it on the table. Then the newcomer
has his full attention.
The man with the binoculars breathes a single word.
"Will."
He glances away, and then back, as if trying to convince himself that he's
wrong.
But he knows that he isn't.
Lowering the glasses, he turns to Pazzi.
He shakes his head.
"It's not him."
As the depressed party leaves the rented room, Jack Crawford lingers.
He touches his fingers to the window. The two below are sitting close,
enjoying the winter morning.
"Merry Christmas, Will," he murmurs, before banishing Hannibal Lecter to
history.
fin
elfin
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