Chapter 118 Chapter 118 There is no choice for me to stay in Sicily...
In the spring of 1848, Sicily was in turmoil and everything was new.
Elio, holding the reins loosely, circled the winding mountain road back to the Vongola Manor. Normally, he wouldn't have had the patience to even ride up there, let alone stroll so slowly. So, when Giotto heard that he was already on his way back and that the sentries at the manor had spotted him but hadn't seen Elio in person, he waited at the door in astonishment.
As you can imagine, Elio was equally surprised when he saw Giotto waiting there in person. He slid off his horse, handed over the reins, and asked Giotto, who was meeting him, in confusion, "Why are you here?"
"Listen, I came out specially to greet him," Giotto said, turning to the stable boy who was leading the horse, "and he actually asked me why I was here!"
Elio rubbed his nose, knowing he was in the wrong, and remained silent. Giotto didn't pursue the matter further, but quickly got to the point. "I can smell your annoyance from a kilometer away."
"Is it that obvious?"
Giotto smiled. Elio, seeing his expression that said, "Don't I know you?", couldn't help but smile too.
They turned and walked towards the main house together, one in a gray striped suit (Giotto had recently been helping the temporary committee maintain order on the streets, and had to deal with officials frequently), and the other was taking off his coat and hanging it under his arm (Elio was still wearing a three-piece suit of shirt and vest); Giotto and Elio walked side by side along the long driveway, the tall evergreen cypress trees on both sides casting cool shadows on them, and only the rustling of gravel under their feet made a sound.
"You know where I'm coming from," Elio said. He'd been shuttling back and forth between the Brotherhood and the Vongola, a move both leaders had acknowledged and acknowledged. Elio had been doing a good job assassinating Bourbon spies and quelling the unrest in the streets.
"Virgil gave you another mission?" asked Giotto.
"The Provisional Committee is planning to send envoys to London and Paris," Elio nodded. "So is the Brotherhood. He asked me which country I'd prefer to visit."
"how do you say?"
"Of course I chose London," Elio wondered, "but he wanted me to reconsider. But seriously, wasn't there an option for me to stay in Sicily?"
Giotto was also a little puzzled when he heard this. "Let's not talk about staying here for now. Why did you choose London?"
"Why didn't I choose London?" Elio was even more puzzled. "I can't understand a word of French, but English is my native language!"
"What?"
Giotto was shocked. He couldn't help but look at Elio's curly hair (thick and black, even covering part of his forehead), then looked at his face that was obviously of French descent, and finally looked at the sword at his waist that was obviously of French style; although he remained polite and silent throughout the whole process, his hesitant expression and obvious gaze made Elio quickly understand what was going on.
But Elio really has no way to defend himself: although he may have some French ancestry, the closest he has ever been to French in his life was when he switched the language to French while playing "The Great Revolution" for an immersive experience.
"You think I'm French?" Elio asked helplessly.
"I don't know," Giotto said, clearly playing dumb again. But he added, "But I think anyone could have a reasonable guess."
"I was born in America," Elio told him, "but I have French ancestors."
"Oh," Giotto said thoughtfully. He spoke as if this wasn't the first time he'd learned his friend's nationality after almost a decade of acquaintance. "So English is your mother tongue. No wonder. Well, but obviously Virgil didn't know that, and perhaps he hoped you'd be useful in Paris. So what do you think?"
They walked down the driveway and into the garden, the Sicilian sun again falling on their faces and shoulders, the fountain tinkling.
"Honestly, I don't know," Elio admitted, "so you've caught on to my troubles. What suggestions do you have?"
Giotto smiled. He did not answer immediately, but paused for a moment, as if in thought or hesitation. When Elio looked at him, he found that Giotto was also looking at him, with a transparent and gentle expression.
"He shouldn't have let you go," Giotto said in his gentle voice, "but I can't blame him, because I know he probably doesn't have any better cards. You don't understand politics, Elio, and I've always tried to keep you away from it, but if I'm going to give you any proper advice now, I must explain it to you, and the terrible state of Sicily."
Elio was initially perplexed. He assumed the current chaos in Sicily was a transitional phase in rebuilding a new life, but Giotto clearly saw it differently. In the garden, he explained the current situation in Sicily to Elio as carefully as possible, the question of "what exactly is Sicily," a topic that the Provisional Committee had been debating, and highlighted the three distinct viewpoints on the matter. He also highlighted the significance of Sicily sending envoys to England and France.
But as he spoke, Giotto smiled and said, "You look like you have a headache."
"I do have a slight headache," Elio said, looking embarrassed. "Maybe it's the sun."
"Maybe we should just go inside."
Elio followed Giotto, letting out a long breath. Giotto pretended not to hear. As they crossed the lawn, Elio pulled his coat over his head; perhaps because it was near noon, the sun was quite strong. Giotto's hair shone so golden that Elio thought he was blinded.
"If we put aside the political perspective," Elio brought up the previous topic after entering the room, "what do you think if I, an Assassin from Sicily, ask for support from the neighboring Brotherhood?"
But after seeing Giotto's hesitant expression, Elio knew his answer. He hung his head in frustration, and Giotto patted his shoulder. "That's secondary, Elio. You have to be prepared to be rejected outright."
"Why?" Elio wondered, "Lafayette went to support the American Revolutionary War."
"But during the French Revolution," said Giotto, "did you see any Americans take a stand?"
Elio was speechless. Giotto, perhaps sensing his deep distress, patted his shoulder comfortingly, then left his arm there and, arm in arm, walked towards the dining room. "I heard you were back, so I had the kitchen bake up some fresh sea bass and your favorite cassata cake. Do you smell the aroma?"
"The problem isn't solved yet," Elio muttered.
"Well, just think of it as a sponsored trip," Giotto shrugged. "Pick the one you like. If I had to say, I think Paris has a better chance of success. After all, they're under the Second Republic now."
"You just hinted to me," Elio said, clearly not buying it, "that national interests come first."
"I didn't say that," Giotto muttered. "After all, you did say that Lafayette went to America full of ideals and enthusiasm, and even changed into women's clothes to escape the British search!"
Now it was Elio's turn to cry out, "I didn't say that!"
But Giotto gave him a meaningful smile and released his grip. Elio felt a chill run down his spine, unsure of what Giotto was thinking; but he was certain it wasn't good. He'd had that same expression when he'd tricked Gatlin and Elio into helping him kidnap the kitten. However, before he could catch Giotto and question him further, they'd walked into the corridor outside the restaurant.
A burst of fragrance immediately grabbed Giotto, and Elio also heard the noisy noise.
"I'm starving!" Lan Bao complained.
"It's still early," Gatlin said, sounding as if to stop him. "Why are you hungry?"
But it sounded like his attempt to stop him had failed. When Giotto pushed the door open with a smile, Rambo was still mumbling about the financial matters he'd spent the morning with Elena. Gatlin, clearly unable to refill his stomach, glared at him helplessly. The others were away, each preoccupied with their own priorities, but the spacious, bright dining room always had a place for them; it never felt empty.
"I told you not to wait," Giotto said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. "Raby is in the growth phase now."
Rambo mumbled "You see," and Gatlin turned his disapproving gaze away. Only Elio couldn't help laughing and smiled at him reassuringly.
It was around this time that Elio suddenly realized what he was worried about. He wasn't worried about going to London or Paris, he was worried about leaving them. This was such a new and almost unheard-of experience for Elio that he didn't even notice it at first.
But after realizing this, as Elio absentmindedly picked at the pasta on his fork and listened to their chaotic conversation, he realized more deeply that if he didn't want to leave Sicily, he could choose to stay. But should he stay just because he was reluctant to leave?
If he could find a way to get support from the Brotherhood in a neighboring country, shouldn't he go?
"Elio." Giotto suddenly woke him up.
Elio, still lost in his own thoughts, turned away, a bit dazed. Giotto looked at him with a gentle gaze, as if he understood Elio's silence perfectly, and understood and sympathized with his struggle. But that gentle expression was fleeting, so quick that Elio almost thought it was just an illusion, his mind wandering.
"Why don't you touch that sea bass?" Giotto said with a smile. "Honestly, if you don't eat it now, Lambo will soon eat it until only lemon slices are left."
Elio stared at him intently. Just twice. Then, Elio laughed too, turning to look at Rambo, who was swiftly pulling his fork from the fish dish (a large, conspicuous piece of fish still entangled in it), "Leave me some juice for the bread, Rambo."
Rambo's face flushed red from choking, especially since Gatlin had mischievously pushed the bread basket toward Elio. Giotto burst into laughter, and Elio joined in. Amidst the rapidly rising wave of laughter, Giotto and Elio exchanged a silent glance, seemingly unnoticed.
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Author's Note: Giotto's mini-classroom is now open! (Not really)
Oreo actually understood. Giotto's explanation was simple, but it was still a headache. He felt it was even harder than calculus, which, after all, actually had a solution...
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