Return to Umbria David Wagner (english novels for students TXT) 📖

the stairway wall illuminated the route, but most of the light, such as it was, came from the skylight at the top of the well. The late afternoon light spread from the void in the center into the stairways through tall openings cut at intervals along the inner wall. Betta leaned over a steel railing at the first opening and looked up at the skylight, then at the pool of water almost two hundred feet below. The musty smell of ancient rock clung to the silent air.

“What a project this must have been,” she said. “How could they have been sure to get water? There must be some underground stream that comes out below the cliff outside. Perhaps your friend Morgante can tell us.”

Rick was now beside her, his hands on the metal bar, peering down at the water. “Let me go down to that opening and get a picture of you up here. It will give a good sense of the spiral design.” He pulled out his phone and continued down the steps while Betta watched him pass one opening, then several more, until he had made one and a half turns. He poked his head out, camera-phone in hand.

“I’m not sure if there is enough light from the flash. Let me take one and we’ll see.” He held up the phone and moved it until Betta’s head and shoulders were in the center of the small screen.

Rick was about to click the photo when the image blurred and he heard Betta scream.

He charged back up the stairs. It seemed to take him forever to reach her, and when he did she was huddled against the wall holding her hand to her head. Above her he saw someone dashing for the entrance and made the decision to pursue the attacker and tend to Betta later. She seemed to know what he was thinking and waved him up the stairs.

“I’m okay,” she called to him as he took steps two at a time.

As Rick stepped through the doorway into the half light he sensed someone standing just to his left. His intuition was enough to dodge a sucker punch that glanced off the side of his head. He whirled and caught the man square in the stomach with his fist, causing the assailant to double over in pain. Then Rick grabbed him by the collar of a leather jacket and slammed him against the brick of the building. The man’s eyes tightened shut with the force of the blow on the back of his head, and he was at the point of losing consciousness. Rick stared at the face in disbelief.

“Carlo—why you son of a bitch,” he said in English. He was pulling his fist back when Betta appeared at the doorway.

“Rick, don’t.”

“What’s he doing here?” Rick snapped.

The attacker slid to the ground holding the back of his head.

“He wanted to talk to me. I…I told him we had nothing to talk about.”

“You knew he was here? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know he was here in Orvieto, I swear it. I didn’t tell you because…” She rubbed her hands together and didn’t meet his eye. “I didn’t want to upset you.”

“He was stalking you, and you didn’t want to tell me because I would be upset? Betta, the man just attacked you.”

“I didn’t think…”

Rick noticed a tear running down her cheek, and then saw that a red bruise just below her black hair. “Are you all right?” He stepped toward her and put his hands on her arms.

Carlo took advantage of the opening to scramble to his feet and run up the path. Rick barely noticed the dark figure disappearing into shadows that now spread out under the trees; his attention was on Betta. He moved his hand to her forehead but stopped before touching it.

“Did he do that to you?” His head snapped toward the path but there was no sign of Carlo.

“When I fell, my head hit the side of the wall. I’ll be all right.”

As he took her in his arms he could feel his own heart beating fast. Exertion or anger? And if anger, was it more with Betta’s former fiancé or with Betta herself?

***

Fabrizio shuffled along the street, his arms weighted down by two plastic bags full of dinner. His mother would have been working all afternoon making sauces and simmering meats, but Tullia was content with ready-to-serve items from the salumaio. Well, that was fine with him, all he needed was minimal sustenance to keep mind and body together, and a bit of deprivation was good for a writer. Just bread and wine would be enough. Wasn’t that some quote he’d read somewhere? Something about a loaf of bread and a jug of wine? He tried to remember. Byron? Boccaccio? One of those.

He returned his thoughts to the latest chapter of his book, which was also the first chapter. Getting started had to be the hardest part of writing, especially if you don’t know what you want to write. He’d thought it would all flow smoothly from his soul, through the fingers, and onto the keyboard, but it didn’t seem to work that way. God knows he was getting enough life experiences, so when did the inspiration from it kick in? He’d been toiling over that first paragraph for days, knowing that it would be the most important one in the book. He’d read that somewhere. Maybe he should go back and read more books on writing; perhaps that one wasn’t enough. It didn’t have many pages, now that he thought about it. Tonight he would ask Tullia for some euros so he could go to the little bookstore near them. It should have some titles about the writing craft. If not, he could go online and see what he could find about the subject. Problem was, the best stuff there was in English, and his English wasn’t that good. Unlike his cousin Riccardo. Was Riccardo still in Orvieto?

He reached his building,