Robbie Lewis inhaled a lungful that he wished could have no ending. The air was scented with rosemary, lemon flowers, a touch of garlic, and – as a backdrop to all of it – the fresh breath of the sea. He circled his arms around his love, Laura Hobson, and together they gazed out over the darkening vista to the east. Above them, the blazing red sunset that backlit their hotel still ignited a few wispy clouds, but the eastern sky was already sprinkled with a few stars.

"Ready to go, then, Luv?" he said softly in her ear. "Battisti will expect us to be prompt."

She, too, took a deep breath before answering with a nod.

"Y'know . . ." he gathered his thoughts and then continued, "I thought it would smell like port cities in England – petrol and old fish and decaying seaweed. But it doesn't. How do they do that here?"

Laura grinned. "It's Italy, Robbie. It's supposed to be enchanting."

He gave her one of those looks that meant he knew she was pulling his leg, but he had to concede the point. They were at last enjoying their 'fortnight in Rimini', and it was indeed enchanting. He was aware that one very likely explanation was that he was here with her, and that made it special by default. Yet there was no denying the fact that the air here was different from home. It not only smelled heavenly, but it also bore the light of day in a way that was totally unexpected by him. Light here was a presence. It could enter buildings as confidently as any human might enter a building – strong and irrefutable and not to be ignored. It changed everything it touched: either softening, with muted tones and gentle shadings, or making something brilliant and sharp with its unavoidable brightness. Light in England was not like this. Here, there were no watery sunrises, no damp, grey sunsets. Sunlight was either obviously present or obviously absent. And Italian moods, he had found, could swing just as wide and were as good an indicator as any of the state of the sun and the weather.

And he was experiencing these phenomena here with the second love of his life. He knew she saw it pretty much as he did. But they each noticed different things, and would often point them out for the other to share. One of his favorite moments was their daily afternoon cone of gelato, when they would compare their impressions and the images that had stuck with each of them during the day.

He knew it would be over all too soon, and they would be heading back to Oxford and back to the horrors their work often involved. But for now, he would simply enjoy immersing himself in the delights of Italy.

0 - 0 - 0

Detective Inspector James Hathaway gazed out at the foaming wake that receded endlessly from the stern of the ship. The water was still an almost phosphorescent aqua, even as the light was beginning to fade into evening. He had never expected to find himself on a cruise ship – not even a small one like the Song of the Adriatic – but he couldn't say no to Paolo Ferrara, who had asked James to accompany him on this one last indulgence. Ferrara had been James's go-to guy in seminary. Older than James by half, but with a heart that seemed decades younger, he had understood the serious Englishman, despite being a native of Naples. Ferrara always knew what to say – and when not to say anything – around James. They were a team, of sorts, battling against the other students, the professors, the hierarchy, whatever seemed to oppose them. They both regretted their parting of the ways when it came, but managed to keep in touch without losing a single degree of closeness over the years. James knew he had let Paolo down when he quit the seminary and went civilian. And since then, he felt he had to make it up.

Not too long ago, Paolo had reluctantly revealed to James that he had very little time left to spend in the earthly world. He'd been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and he had perhaps only a handful of months to live. He wanted, more than anything, to tour Italy as he had never done before – Florence, Pisa, Rome, Venice – and especially to follow the footsteps of Dante Alighieri, whom he admired more than almost any other human being. Hathaway had at first resisted, not caring at all for prepackaged tours and tagging along with groups of people of varying (and generally disappointing) levels of intelligence. But Ferrara was adamant, and James was incapable of denying his dear friend this last favor. And so he was seeing the best of Italy with his old friend at his side, in part via motorcoach and in part via small cruise ship.

And, Hathaway had to admit, he was enjoying it immensely. Thinking back on the high points, he knew the pinnacle was the moment in Florence when he was in the presence of The David. He could barely believe that a large slab of Carrera marble would have such an effect on him. But . . . it had a presence, an irrefutable presence. It required the viewer to sign up for service – Yes, yes, I will help you fight this Goliath! He remained in the Accademia for six hours, unwilling to remove himself from this presence. He suspected that Accademia security had been alerted, and that had he taken any action they considered unfavorable, he would have been immediately ejected. But all he could do was to stand and stare. He knew that in some subtle way, he would never be the same.

The fact that Florence also retained the very tangible presence of Dante – who had lived almost all his life within its walls before his exile from the city that broke his heart - had been for James completely subsidiary to Michelangelo's David. Hathaway found that when he talked to the other passengers in their tour group, if they had seen the David in person, they understood. Those who had not seen it did not understand.

At last, Paolo had touched James on the arm and with no more than a gentle, understanding smile, conveyed the idea that it was time to let David go; there was nothing more the statue could teach him. James acquiesced, sensing that Paolo somehow knew instinctively what was important on this voyage.

And now, days later, James sought out the spirit of David to help himself overcome his own present obstacles. He lit a cigarette and thought about Paolo, thought about Oxford and his career there, thought even about Robbie Lewis and their personal and professional connections. His brow was deeply furrowed when his concentration was shattered by a shout from the outside world.

"Oi! Jamesy! Ceniamo!"

Hathaway turned, and his grin was automatic at the shout of 'Let's go to dinner!' in Italian.

"We're signed up for the next dinner shift, eh? Dai! Andiamo!" Ferrara grabbed James by the arm and pulled him toward the ship's stairway.

Hathaway's conversational Italian wasn't great, but he understood his friend, and he knew enough that they had better show up for the next seating for dinner. He put a hand on Paolo's shoulder, and they walked side by side to the next deck down. They would dine al fresco, overlooking the ship's wake and the seas the ship had just passed over. The spread put out by the kitchen of the Song of the Adriatic wasn't as extensive or as extravagant as those produced by the mega-cruise-ship kitchens. In general, the food was simple, almost peasant fare. But it was excellent – fresh, and produced not by the thousands of plates but with much more individual attention. James had been told that although the ship was flagged with the Union Jack, her kitchen staff was Mediterranean – Italian and Greek for the most part – and the cuisine adhered to the finest culinary principles and flavors of those native cuisines. And that was just fine with James Hathaway.