“You think it is contrabbandieri?” she whispered. He nodded.
“I have been one, signora.”
“You!”
“Yes, when I was a boy, in the winter. Once, when we were running for the shore, on a December night, the carabinieri fired on us and killed Gaetano Cremona.”
“Your companion?”
“Yes. He was sixteen and he died. The boat was full of his blood.”
She shuddered.
“Row in,” she said. “That boat must have gone.”
“Non, signora. It has not. It is close by and the oars are out of the water.”
He spoke with certainty, as if he saw the boat. Then, reluctantly, he dipped his oars in the lake, and rowed towards the house, keeping his head half turned and staring into the darkness with eyes that were still full of mystery and profound attention.