by JJ Partridge
9
AT FOUR, MARCIE ENTERED my office and handed me a copy of a letter from Ravensford Capital to Palagi acknowledging that when it took over management of the trust account from Smith Barney, it inadvertently placed an investment “in your other account.”
“What other account?” Did Palagi’s estate hold an asset we knew nothing about?
“Let’s hope it wasn’t with Sugarman!” she replied, and as she turned to leave, she added, “His trust account never had a down month. Not one. Even during recessions. Shouldn’t someone have noticed?”
“Ya think?”
I thanked her for her efforts and reminded her I would be in Manhattan tomorrow. “I was curious about Professor Palagi,” she said, “so I Googled him. Had no idea of the impact of his thrillers in Italy. When you saw him hobbling around the campus, you’d never guess he wrote anything other than scholarly tracts with footnotes and bibliography.”
With my curiosity piqued, I went online and found a Wikipedia entry on Palagi’s thrillers. Decades ago, from Trieste to Palermo, an audience of enthusiastic readers, largely teenagers and young singles, devoured his books and adopted his hero Caesare Forza’s svelte, macho image or mimicked the style of his girlfriend, the sexy and sassy Allessandra Greco. Augmenting the buzz at the time was the author’s mysterious identification as L, a contrivance, according to the essayist, designed to protect Palagi’s academic status and reputation, and compatible with his publisher’s likely rationalization that the professor of the history of philosophy at Bologna was no dashing Ian Fleming. Such anonymity also provided the opportunity for the publisher to drop specious hints at one time or other that L was a cabinet minister, an eminent member of the Vatican’s curia, a scion of Roman aristocracy, a Milanese designer, the heir to the fortune of a Turino automobile manufacturer, and, for a while, Sophia Loren. “L,” I said aloud and remembered that Palagi once joked to me L stood for lira.
Like Marcie, I was also surprised by cultural controversies spawned by Palagi’s creations, that forzaissmo had been coined to describe a distinct, youthful swagger, that Caesare Forza had been denounced by the political left as a crypto-fascist and pro-Vatican dupe while extravagantly praised by the political right as a patriotic Italian hero. Clicking through various other sites, many in Italian, a language I absorbed during a year in Florence as an undergraduate and frequent Tuscan vacations, I discovered Forza comic books, stills from Forza movies and a television series, a limited edition supercharged Forza Fiat convertible, clothing lines, and board and electronic games.
I logged off. Italo Palagi’s visits to Temple House for espresso and Italian pastries helped my mother retain her fluent Italian. She found Palagi to be congenial and never quite understood my own antipathy toward her ‘Italian gentleman.’ That, Nadie, ever the psychologist, later explained to me, was because I had made a snap judgment of Palagi’s character, resulting in a “spontaneous trait reference.” Jargon free, that meant a single, powerful, impression coupled with the human tendency to generalize from a single perception, created a halo-effect that would be all positive or all negative.
Palagi’s halo came early in his directorship when I accompanied my mother to a welcoming reception at the Institute for a celebrated Italian film director, a Cannes prize winner for a scathing exposé of corrupt Italian politics. The event was lavish, catered with Italian delicacies, choice wines, peopled by Italian glitterati and New York’s filmmakers, the kind of event designed to give luster to the new Institute’s reputation. Palagi was a genial host, clad in an elegantly cut suit tailored to slim his plump body, coordinated with a pale yellow, mock turtleneck shirt; his dark brown eyes were luminous, his lips pink, as he used his walking stick for occasional emphasis in conversation. My mother, among the founding board members of the Institute, was given appropriate attention by our host, which initially pleased me.
The stark moment of negativity came after his welcoming speech. Palagi, in English, had been effusive in his praise of the director’s film, his courage, his sensibility, his art, and expressed a seeming solidarity with the director’s political views. Only a few minutes later, I overheard Palagi speaking to an apparent confidant in Italian, which he had no reason to know I understood. He criticized the film, describing the filmmaker as naïve, a dilettante, a “poseur,” and a “propagandist of the left.” With this shoddy duplicity, his small mouth became tight and mean, his smile pouty.
His halo had been set. And in our not infrequent encounters in at Temple House, despite effort to the contrary, I probably betrayed my attitude toward Palagi. Whenever we met in the course of the Institute’s legal matters, his body language toward me indicated he was similarly disaffected.
10
THE CITYSCAPE THROUGH THE twentieth-floor reception area windows of Champlin & Burrill’s downtown office was a stark, black-and-white topographic map, the winding Woonasquatucket River a gray snake with its tail ending in the Ellipse in front of the marble-domed State House on Capitol Hill.
I was a few minutes early for our meeting with Father Sacchi and used the time to text Nadie, telling her I would be home close to seven and that I would join her on an early train to New York City. The receptionist then allowed me the use a guest computer in a cubicle area, where I quickly located an image of Pietro Sacchi, OP on Providence College’s website. A white-robed, tonsured, distinguished-looking man with a narrow face, ears pressed to his head, he had a thin nose, trim academic beard, was maybe in his sixties. Born in Parma, he attended the University of Rome, entered the Dominican House of Studies in Florence, received his doctorate in philosophy at the University of St. Thomas, the Angelicum, in Rome, then to the University of Bologna for another doctorate. A long list of his publications in mostly European academic journals indicated a concentration in Greek philosophy and Thomistic thought. Since 1998, he had been a member of the college’s philosophy department and a lecturer in its Liberal Arts Honors Program, with terms as a visiting professor at Columbia, Georgetown, and St. Louis. Among his non-academic interests were the opera, Italian soccer, and chess.
His smile seemed both serious and kindly; maybe his eyes gave up a touch of whimsy.
Rather informally for him, Eustace Pine sat on the edge of his office desk to face me. The lawyer’s age showed in thinning hair combed over a summer’s tanned scalp, hollows in his cheeks, and the beginning of a turkey neck. A gold chain with a Phi Beta Kappa key flashed on the vest of his dark suit. I asked if the priest had arrived.
“In my conference room,” he answered and smacked his right hand into the palm of his left. “I can’t understand why neither Claudia Cioffi nor the priest will serve as Palagi’s executor. I need one to change his or her mind.
I informed Pine of the reference to ‘another account’ of Palagi’s in the letter from Ravensford Capital found by Marcie. Pine replied with a shake of his head, “Without appointment of an executor, we can’t gain access to his condominium or office or bank records or any of his accounts.” His eyes dropped to his watch. “Ready?”
Pine led me along a hallway. “By the way, our counsel in Rome has given me more insight to Italian inheritance law. The Italians don’t have a probate system like here. It’s all it is what it is and fight about it. Absurd, isn’t it?” he sniffed.
“What about the paternity claim?”
“Interesting.” He stopped to answer me. “Apparently, there is something called the uf-fi-cio ano-gra-fe. Go into this governmental agency, sign an acknowledgement of paternity before a notary, and the child is recognized. I don’t know as yet if that’s what happened in Palagi’s case or whether there was a judicial determination. Our counsel is investigating.” Then he added, “No need to upset the priest with this Ponzi-scheme business. I want him to accept the executorship.”
He opened the frosted-glass door to the conference room. Father Sacchi, in a black suit with a clerical collar, awaited us by a window. He appeared older than in his online likeness although his face evidenced the same benign int
elligence. His charmingly accented voice was cordial during my introduction by Pine. As we sat, he invited us to address him as Father Pietro. Pine winced at such intimacy but made an effort. “Father Pi-e-tro,” he said, “we are meeting at your request. Would you repeat to Mr. Temple what you told me as to your instructions from Signor Palagi.”
“Yes, most certainly. Italo directed me to deliver this envelope to Mr. Pine thirty days after his death. Today is the thirtieth day.” He touched a cream-colored envelope on the table.
“And the envelope has not been opened by you?”
“That is correct.”
“His will provides a bequest to you.”
“That will go to the Order. I have taken a vow of poverty.”
“…and his will so provides,” Pine interrupted, self-satisfied that he foresaw such a possibility. “Since Ms. Cioffi refuses to act as executor, you are the nominated successor.”
Father Pietro lowered his eyes. “As I informed you, I cannot act in such a capacity. Among other reasons, I leave on Sunday for Rome for research in the Vatican Library for the better part of a year.”
Pine drew in his chin in disapproval. “Distance is not a problem, Father. You can appoint a local agent to act in your stead, although all important decisions would still be yours.”
“I am sorry if I disappoint you,” Father Pietro responded with calm determination. “It is in any event inappropriate for a priest.” Pine frowned off rejection, suggesting to me that the topic would be discussed again. “I have known Italo since our days as students,” the priest continued, directing his comments to me. “We renewed our friendship when chance brought us together in Providence. May I say, Mr. Temple, I know that he was pleased to have your family’s acquaintance.”
Given my disdain for his friend, I was evasive when I said, “He was often a visitor to my mother’s home.”
Pine picked up the envelope and let a dry throat clearing underscore his impatience to proceed.
The priest ignored Pine. “Do you know of his writings? Not those Forza books, although it is interesting that he could also write popular fiction. I am referring to his philosophical studies. His Essays on Pessimism, for instance, a seminal work tracing the concept of morbidity of spirit in the writings of Greek philosophers, the Fathers of the Church, the medievalists, the Renaissance writers. A brilliant if dour assessment of mankind’s search for the reasons for its communal bouts of pervasive spiritual darkness. Something which also afflicted him, I am sad to say. I particularly thought insightful his essay on Italian culture and society as portrayed in di Lampedusa’s The Leopard, a book he much admired. Surely, you know the novel?”
I was saved from confessing that I had not read the greatest Italian novel of the twentieth century, although I had enjoyed the Visconti film based on the book with Burt Lancaster as the Prince and Claudia Cardinale as the ambitious Angelica, when the priest asked, “You know of Italo’s son?”
“He never mentioned a son to anyone at the University,” I replied.
“Nor to me,” he shrugged, “until …”
“We should begin, Father,” Pine interrupted with ill-disguised annoyance at our continued conversation and slid the envelope toward the priest.
Father Pietro nodded but continued. “The weekend before he died, Italo asked me to meet him at Café Rossini, our favorite café on Federal Hill. We had not met recently, as he had been in Italy, so I was surprised at his appearance. He was disheveled, his hair uncombed, his beard untrimmed, his face drawn, jaundiced, his eyes rimmed in red as though he had not slept for days. He told me he had fallen ill while in Rome, had sought treatment for an illness he did not name. He then told me of his son and handed me this envelope, gave me instructions as to its delivery, said it was my duty to him, as a friend, to carry out his wishes. Although I recognized an overwhelming sadness in him, I refused, twice, but because my refusals pained him, I eventually accepted.” His hands rose, evocative of regret, then he opened the envelope and placed what appeared to be a handwritten letter on the table., He smoothed its crease, removed an eyeglasses case from inside his jacket pocket, and put on reading glasses. He read the letter to himself, his lips moving with his eyes, a growing guardedness in his face, as though he was rapidly assembling facts, contemplating duty. His dour expression led me to assume the letter might well be Palagi’s attempt at a will amendment, awarding the estate to his son; Pine’s face betrayed similar anxiety.
“The letter is in English. Handwritten. I shall read it aloud,” the priest said.
“Dear good friend Pietro,
Thank you for taking on this obligation. There is no one I trust more than you. The revelation of the existence of a son might be expected to change my ideas as to my estate. I have given it much thought.”
Father Pietro’s eyes moved to each of us in turn before he continued.
“I want to relieve any uncertainty. I hereby confirm my existing will and trust in all respects. I do not amend my will or my trust, and confirm in all respects the documents that I have executed and in Mr. Pine’s possession. He would have drafted this in a more professional manner, I am sure, but I cannot believe the laws of Rhode Island are meant to confound my wishes.
I’m sure Mr. Pine will follow through with the appropriate legal actions to effectuate my intent.
Thank you, my friend.”
Father Pietro re-read the letter in silence before he said, deliberately, “It is signed, Italo Palagi and dated August twenty-seventh of this year. It is also notarized.”
He handed the letter to me. The handwriting was crab-like, barely legible, written in ball pen and signed above a typed standard Rhode Island notary clause. The notary had signed her name, dated the document, and sealed her notarization with a circular embossment of authority. Likely, I thought, the notary had typed in the notarial clause upon presentation of the letter by Palagi at a convenient bank branch.
Pine, who should have been relieved at the letter’s confirmation of Palagi’s estate plan, nevertheless allowed fussiness to leak into his voice. “I don’t know why he didn’t see me to do this properly, thereby avoiding a potential challenge to authenticity.”
The priest protested, “I have kept the sealed envelope in my room at the Priory at the College until now. If you need my sworn statement to that effect, you certainly can have it.”
I handed the letter to Pine who examined it as though searching for an error in form or substance. Finding none, he said, more brusquely than necessary, “I need the envelope, too.” Father Pietro handed it to him. Pine put the letter back into the envelope. “I will put both in our office safe so we can trace custody from this moment on.”
I reacted to Pine’s brusqueness. “Clearly, the letter is strong evidence of Palagi’s intent to disown the son, and it is notarized.”
Pine glowered as though I had trod on his role as estate counsel. “Authenticity and custody of the letter will be issues since Father is a beneficiary, or rather the Order is a beneficiary, and where it was kept, in his room, at the College was…”
“I assure you it was kept in a safe place,” the priest said with sincerity.
Pine ignored the response. “Father, I assure you the son’s lawyers will challenge you on both. You will be subject to a deposition and giving evidence in the probate court. Perhaps you will now reconsider…”
“No.”
Pine shook his head with meaningful regret and rose to call his secretary to make copies of the letter for us. Father Pietro appeared crestfallen, so I stood and thanked him for his efforts on behalf of an old friend. He replied without rising. “Mr. Temple, would you spend a few more minutes with me?”
Pine, at the doorway, took a step back into the conference room. “If there is anything else I should know as attorney for the estate?”
“No, Mr. Pine. It is something personal.”
11
THE PRIEST APPEARED TO relax with the lawyer out of the room. As I regained my chair, he said, “I wi
ll conduct a private memorial service for Italo this Friday at two o’clock at the chapel at Swan Point Cemetery. Are you familiar with this place?” I was. “His body is to be cremated, according to his wishes, and his ashes will be secured there until a final depository is established. His son has assented, according to Signor Lucca, the Italian consul, who contacted me and will represent the son and the Republic.” He added, “Italo was not a believer but I think he would approve. I wanted you to know, to perhaps attend? And your mother, of course.”
My cell-phone calendar listed only my meeting with Lucca & Lucca at eleven on Friday morning so I agreed. “As for my mother, I’m sure she would attend, if possible.”
“I hesitate to ask this on our short acquaintance but would it be possible for you to provide me with a ride to the cemetery. My eyes are poor and so I must arrange assistance at the College for transportation. Not always convenient.”
I agreed to meet him at the Dominican Priory on the Providence College campus and thinking we were through, I was surprised when the priest reached inside his jacket and removed a metallic Sony mini-recorder, holding it gingerly as though it was hazardous. “When I agreed to accept Palagi’s envelope, I was also given this device and instructed to listen to its recording after the same time-span and before I delivered the envelope to Mr. Pine and you. But only if Italo’s death was not witnessed as it would be in a hospice or hospital. If it was so, I was to erase the recording without listening. Under the circumstances of his death, I listened to it this morning and discovered that I am to share it with you. He speaks in English. No doubt, you will recognize his voice.” He thumbed a switch, there was a click, then static, followed by the distinct voice of Italo Palagi.
Pietro …
Another twist? I raised a hand in protest and he stopped the recording. “Should Pine be here?” I asked.
The priest replied softly but firmly. “My instructions were to listen to it and then play it for you. Not lawyer Pine.”