Matteo looked at me with the expression I had seen on the balcony this morning, the one that was not the composed face and was not the open face but was something between the two, something that was specifically for me, that had developed in the space between us over five days and did not have a name yet and did not need one.
"You continue to be," he said, and paused, and seemed to be looking for the right word with the focused attention of a man for whom words were professional tools and imprecision with them was not acceptable, "surprising."
"Good surprising or bad surprising," I said.
"There is only one kind," he said.
I looked at him.
"Good," he said. "Obviously good."
I felt the smile before I decided to let it happen, the real one, the one that was not composed or managed or co
