Aaron did not know where he was going. But in the Via Tournabuoni Lilly turned towards the Arno, and soon they were on the Ponte Santa Trinita.
“Who threw the bomb?” said Aaron.
“I suppose an anarchist.”
“It's all the same,” said Aaron.
The two men, as if unable to walk any further, leaned on the broad parapet of the bridge and looked at the water in the darkness of the still, deserted night. Aaron still had his flute section in his hand, his overcoat over his arm.
“Is that your flute?” asked Lilly.
“Bit of it. Smashed.”
“Let me look.”
He looked, and gave it back.
“No good,” he said.