In the morning by the fountain they talk tentatively. 

 

“Now you are in Italy you should find out more about Verdi.” Caravaggio said.

“What?” She looks up from the bedding that she is washing out in the fountain. 

 

He reminds her. “You told me once you were in love with him.” 

 

Hana bows her head, embarrassed. 

 

Caravaggio walks around, looking at the building for the first time, peering down from the loggia into the garden. 

 

“Yes, you used to love him. You used to drive us all mad with your new information about Giuseppe. What a man! The best in every way, you’d say. We all had to agree with you, the cocky sixteen-year-old.” 

 

“I wonder what happened to her.” She spreads the washed sheet over the rim of the fountain. “You were someone with a dangerous will.” She leans over the balustrade.“I think I did come here, I have to admit, something at the back of my mind made me, for Verdi. And then of course you had left and my dad had left for the war.... Look at the hawks. They are here every morning. Everything else is damaged and in pieces here. The only running water in this whole villa is in this fountain. The Allies dismantled water pipes when they left. They thought that would make me leave.” 

 

“You should have. They still have to clear this region. There are unexploded bombs all over the place.” 

 

She comes up to him and puts her fingers on his mouth. 

 

“I’m glad to see you, Caravaggio. No one else. Don’t say you have come here to try and persuade me to leave.” 

 

“I want to find a small bar with a Wurlitzer and drink without a fucking bomb going off. Listen to Frank Sinatra singing. We have to get some music,” he says. “Good for your patient.” 

 

“He’s still in Africa.”