The Monster of Florence

by Douglas Preston

Life was more about the process of living than reaching some end result.

When the count greeted my wife, he kissed her hand in a most peculiar way, which I later learned was an ancient gesture in which the nobleman takes the lady’s hand and with a rapid, elegant twist raises it to within six inches of his lips, while making a crisp half-bow—never, of course, allowing his lips to actually brush the skin. Only titled Florentines greet ladies in this manner. Everyone else shakes hands.

Many years ago, when Thomas Harris was researching the Monster of Florence case for his novel Hannibal, and attending Pacciani’s trial, he met Count Capponi and was invited to the palazzo. Much later Harris called the count and said he would like to make Hannibal Lecter curator of the Capponi archive—would that be all right? “We had a family meeting,” the count said. “I told him that we agreed, on one condition—that the family would not be the main course.”

The fare was quintessentially Florentine, simple dishes of meat and pasta accompanied by slabs of coarse bread, served at working-class prices, with tumblers of rough red wine.

Niccolò slowly shook his head. “To a Florentine, twenty years is the day before yesterday. And they are still investigating. Satanic sects, black masses, a villa of horrors… Italians take these things very seriously. Careers have been made—and ruined—over this case. Take care that you and Mario do not poke too vigorously with your sticks into that nest of vipers.”

We all have a Monster within; the difference is in degree, not in kind.”