Turn to Stone

by James W. Ziskin

  And more intimate memories of Elijah came to mind as well. He’d often declared himself in awe of my rather useless talent for naming classical music pieces at the drop of a phonograph needle. And he’d been my hero, comforting me—long past the time when I could use childhood as an excuse for the tears caused by my father’s harsh disappointment in me. Elijah knew well how deeply my father’s words cut me. And he realized, too, that I absorbed much of the attention that might have been aimed at him had I not been the failure I was. Elijah had his secrets as well. Secrets my parents never knew.

  Yes, Elijah called me El. Likewise, back in New Holland, my dearest friend in the world, Fadge, also used that name for me. And now if Bernie was going to lay claim to it as well, he was surely going to benefit from my forgiveness, especially over something as insignificant as an ill-considered remark about my career prospects with UPI. I liked Bernie. He was a good egg. I could be direct with him without fear of causing hard or hurt feelings. And vice versa. But he was a devotee of my father’s, and his loyalty and affection would always lie with him. I couldn’t begrudge him that. My strained relations with my dad had nothing to do with Bernie. That mess had been spilled long before he’d come onto the scene.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I wanted to do some more sightseeing before punching out for the day, while Bernie had some research to do in the Biblioteca Nazionale beyond Santa Croce. As Santa Croce was on my list, we made our way together, window-shopping on Via dei Calzaiuoli, then passing by the American Express office in Piazza dei Cimatori, where I cashed some Travelers Cheques. I spotted a yellow Kodak sign hanging outside a cartoleria across the tiny piazza and dropped off the film I’d shot that morning and the night before. The nice man in the shop told me the prints and slides would be ready Monday.

  Bernie and I weaved aimlessly through the narrow vie for half an hour before finally emerging into a large rectangular piazza. At the far end loomed a great white basilica, Santa Croce. We parted company there, in front of the bell tower, with promises to meet at the hotel at seven for drinks then dinner.

  I gazed up at the church, conflicting emotions roiling in my chest. I’d made my peace with my father’s death and our limping relationship, but that didn’t mean I welcomed reminders of its troubles. And Santa Croce, I recalled, was fraught with memories of him.

  There was much in- and outside of the basilica that awakened gentle and some not-so-gentle remembrances of the man whom I’d loved and hated, who may have loved me but certainly didn’t like me. The Pazzi Chapel just to the south of the church was my first stop. This was where my father had told me the story of the Pazzi Conspiracy, a failed coup against the Medicis in 1478. Dad had insisted the term “patsy” derived from the famous Florentine family name, though I do not recall his reasoning. Surely one of his many folk etymologies, whimsical imaginings about the origins of words and phrases.

  Inside the basilica, frescoes by Giotto, a relief by Donatello, and Cimabue’s thirteenth-century crucifix bore witness to the rich history and culture and religion of Florence. Then there were the tombs. Michelangelo, Galileo, Rossini, and Machiavelli were all interred on the right-hand side of the nave. Most significant to me personally was Dante’s cenotaph. My father’s life’s work was the study of the great poet, whose empty tomb stood steps from Michelango’s. I contemplated the marble sculpture, concentrating on Dante’s severe features. He sat frozen in stone, right hand raised to the side of his face as if answering a telephone, and stared down—seemingly—at whosoever was gazing up at him. In that very spot, seventeen years before, my father had held my hand and translated the inscription, “Onorate l’altissimopoeta.” “Honor the exalted poet.” He went on to explain that it was a quote from Dante’s greatest work, the Divine Comedy.

  “Dante was a poet?” I asked. “But he looks like a wrestler.”

  My father ushered me away, granting as we went that the statue was an idealized physical representation. “He wasn’t nearly so muscular in real life,” he said.

  I don’t know how long I lingered inside, but my blouse, soaked from the hot, muggy Florentine air when I’d entered, was dry, and I felt a chill as I stood in the darkened basilica. Though not a Catholic, or a believer of any stripe for that matter, I nevertheless purchased three votive candles, lit them in memory of my brother, my mother, and my father, and placed them on the bye-altar among a forest of offerings from other supplicants. The candles, some crooked and others burnt-out puddles of solid wax, stood at varying heights, depending on how long they’d been there. My three slender flames, which provided little in the way of comfort to me or—I’m sure—to my departed loved ones, instead stoked intense regret and sorrow at the losses. I fought the tugging in my throat and resisted the welling of tears in my eyes, determined not to weep for my family. Not there. I did my grieving in private, usually with a whisky chaser. And I’d become quite adept at standing stoic, impassive, and dry-eyed when mourning my losses. So, there, among the tourists inside Santa Croce, I stared at my three pathetic candles, lonely but sure of the fact that I loved my family dearly. Even my imperious father. Even when I hated him. And he me.

  My late father had been a professor of Italian and comparative literature. He spoke a few languages beautifully, Italian best of all. And I’d acquired a great deal of it by osmosis, listening to him converse with colleagues and friends, but also through opera, which he listened to every Saturday in his study. In preparation for my trip, I’d knuckled down and, determined to improve my rusty skills, embarked on a ten-month-long course of private Italian lessons with the elderly aunt of my landlady, Mrs. Giannetti.

  Sister Michael, née Severina Scognamiglio, had arrived in the United States from Naples in 1913 at the age of twenty-four and landed as a nurse at Saint Joseph’s Hospital on the West End of New Holland, New York, my adopted hometown. A few months later her younger brother, Nunzio, emigrated to be near her and began a long career as a weaver in the carpet mills on the Mohawk River. His third daughter, Concettina, grew up to be my snooping, judgmental landlady. Living below me in the duplex, she’d found a new zest for life after her husband’s passing by monitoring my consumption of whisky, based on the empty bottles in my trash. She also took a particular scandalized pleasure in tracking my male visitors in some kind of ledger of sin. Each time I entertained a gentleman in my apartment, I pictured her sliding a billiards scoring bead across a wire with a cue stick to mark another stain on my character. Or perhaps she used an abacus.

  “My aunt’s Italian is excellent, dear,” Mrs. Giannetti had told me. “She used to teach it at Saint Joseph’s Academy. You’ll learn all sorts of useful phrases. Like how to say no to men. Well, in Italian at least.”

  Seventy-five-year-old Sister Michael turned out to be a firecracker. A marvel. Not at all like her small-minded niece. She was cultured, energetic, sharp as a tack, and interested in learning about my Jewish background. And though she was disappointed to learn that I was not raised in the faith, thereby making me a less-than-ideal guide when it came to the finer points of Talmudic instruction, she proved to be a better teacher than my father had ever been. Though she’d been born in Naples and had lived fifty years in America, she’d learned standard Italian well and retained the grammar and “proper” pronunciation through the years. And she never did teach me how to say no to Italian men. The subject never came up.

  I pushed through the Bardi lobby door at five thirty. Though it had been barely a half-day of sightseeing, I was flagging. A caffè had revived me after my lunch with Bernie. At this hour, however, I was looking forward to something stronger. And that was when I spotted Professor Sannino chatting with the clerk at the reception desk.

  “Signorina Eleonora,” he called to me, gesturing toward himself with his right hand in a quick raking motion. Italians beckon that way, with the fingers pointing down, not up as Americans do. “Venga. Venga.”

  I was headed that way in any case; I needed to retrieve my room key. Still, he seemed pleased tha
t I’d agreed to join him.

  “Did you see the city today?” he asked. “Quite hot out there.”

  “Not inside the churches,” I said.

  “Will you join us for dinner this evening? I want to introduce you to some of the scholars from the symposium. The students who helped us organize everything.”

  I explained that I already had a date with Bernie.

  “Professor Sanger?” he asked. “Invite him too. I want to meet him.”

  “Are you sure it’s appropriate? After Professor Bondinelli’s death, I mean.”

  Franco assumed a suitably doleful expression but insisted that one had to eat. “Life goes on,” he said with a sigh.

  Bernie and I got roped into joining Franco Sannino and four others for dinner, but not before I’d had a chance to freshen up and put on a new face. And down a quick couple of fingers of the Scotch I’d been provident enough to pack in my suitcase. With a healthy belt under my belt, I did my best to tame my unruly curls and dressed for dinner.

  At eight thirty, seven of us were seated around a long table at Trattoria Cammillo on Borgo San Jacopo. A lively eatery with a long history on the Oltrarno, Cammillo was well known to locals and tourists alike. And for good reason. The friendly staff and traditional Tuscan menu kept the place busy, even on a Wednesday evening in late September.

  While not actually setting out physical place cards, Sannino nevertheless dictated our seating arrangements. He blocked me into the chair on his right with the gentle encouragement of an all-American pulling guard. A curly-haired student of about thirty, Lucio Bevilacqua, was assigned the seat on my other side, while Bernie, looking tired and suffering from the time difference, landed at the opposite end of the table next to a very pretty young thing named Giuliana. A cold, aloof beauty. Her eyes met mine for a moment, then she turned away, looking bored and aggrieved. Rounding out our group were Veronica Leonetti, the shy girl from Prato who was living in Bondinelli’s house, two places beyond Sannino; and a bright-faced young man of about twenty-five, Tato, in between. He had one of those smiles that, like the song “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” rendered ill humor an impossibility. Open and sincere, Tato Lombardi welcomed you. But there was a naiveté, as well, and I sensed that he was subject to hectoring, or at least ribbing, from more aggressive males. Perhaps even from women.

  Once introductions had been made, we made do with small talk for a few minutes until the waiter had poured a glass of wine for everyone. Well, not quite everyone. Veronica begged off and declared herself content to drink acqua minerale. And flat, not even bubbly. Sannino cleared his throat and shushed us all.

  “Cari amici,” he began, “we have suffered a terrible loss. Our dear friend and mentor, Alberto, left us yesterday. A tragic accident that saddens everyone who ever knew him. The symposium he’s organized will go ahead as planned. I know I can count on all of you to ensure a successful conference tomorrow.” He reached for his glass of wine and raised it in a toast to his defunct colleague. “Ad Alberto,” he said and took a sip. “Che riposi in pace”

  There was a general consensus of regret among those present, though Giuliana seemed less downcast than the others. Some offered dry anecdotes about the man, none rising to the level of an affectionate roast. Nor did I detect much fondness. Rather the reminiscences struck me as polite and respectful. If the tributes were to be believed, Bondinelli suffered no vices. No one joked that he chased women, was known to tell a ribald story, or liked his wine. In fact, just the opposite. Lucio, the curly-haired student next to me, explained in broken English that Franco’s toast might never have happened had Bondinelli been present, as he was wont to stare down his long nose in disapproval at drinking.

  “You know, I’ve never seen a photograph of him,” I said. “Is it true that he was tall?”

  “Centonovantasette” said Lucio.

  I did a quick calculation in my head. A meter ninety-seven. Nearly six feet five inches. “Did he play basketball?” I asked in an ill-timed attempt at humor. Lucio didn’t know the word in English, and I didn’t know it in Italian.

  “Pallacanestro,” offered Bernie from the far end of the table.

  Then Sannino butted into our conversation. “I have a picture of him. Here,” he said, producing a small black-and-white ID photo from his briefcase under the table.

  “You carry his photograph?” I asked, taking it from him.

  “Just for the symposium tomorrow. Part of the documentation.”

  I turned my attention to Bondinelli’s picture. A Leninine beard grew from his chin. He’d dyed it black. You can always tell when a man colors his hair. It’s not so much the dye job itself—though there’s that, too—as the mismatch with the skin tone and general age of the face. Human eyes are quite skilled at detecting deviations from the norm, anomalies, and incongruities. Even idiosyncrasies such as gait and gestures.

  But back to Bondinelli. He was staring at the camera, eyebrows arched high on his forehead as if startled, though I believed he’d been aiming for intensely intellectual. His skin appeared pasty white, like Death’s, and I wondered where he’d found parking for his pale horse in Florence’s crowded streets. His upper lip, thick and partially obscured by a mustache, bulged ever so slightly, hinting that a set of honking-big choppers lurked inside the large mouth. His long nose called to mind Dante’s. Perhaps the great poet was on my mind after my visit to Santa Croce, but the comparison was not an unfair one.

  I looked up from my study of poor Bondinelli. Sannino had turned to his left and was deep in conversation with the young Tato. I found myself in one of those awkward social moments where everyone present has paired off with a partner, and you’re left alone. To tell the truth, Veronica had also been orphaned by the others, but she was so far from me that we would have had to stand and holler at each other to be heard. I didn’t mind the respite and took a moment to assess my fellow diners.

  Unlike their waxen mentor, Bondinelli, the young people at the table glowed with the healthy blush of a fresh tan. I was sure they’d all recently returned from their August beach holidays, again with the exception of Veronica, whose complexion, much like Bondinelli’s, called to mind chalk. They all seemed to be coping with their recent loss, which—it hadn’t escaped my notice—Franco Sannino had pronounced an accident. I wondered if he’d spoken to Inspector Peruzzi or was he in possession of a crystal ball?

  Lucio tapped my forearm. “Eleonora, how are you?” he asked, showing off his English. But he somehow managed to amputate the -h- from the word how and transplant it onto the -a- of are. The result was “Ow har you?”

  Despite his awful English, he was adorable. I told him I was fine, thank you, and he explained that he was a student of medieval and Renaissance poetry, specializing in Petrarch.

  “I love the poetry,” he announced as if apologizing for his academic specialty. “And the song. I like sing and play the chitarra.”

  I corrected him as politely as I knew how that we said “guitar” in English, and, angry with himself, he loosed a stream of Italian profanities as if from a fire hose. The invective was aimed at—I can only assume— the English language and its maddening vagaries. As dry as Petrarch seemed—and despite the liberal dosage of salt in his language—Lucio positively sparkled with personality. He was not what one would call handsome in any traditional way, but his eyes and smile compensated almost poetically for nature’s capricious allocation of beauty.

  “Scusami per le parolacce,” he said, apologizing for his language. “But I love the bad words. They are beautiful, no?”

  To my left, Franco Sannino had rotated 180 degrees to fix me with a persistent stare from beneath his overhanging brow. With a glass of wine in the bank, he seemed to have loosened up and was grinning an unnerving smile in my direction. I swear he was flashing what he assumed were bedroom eyes at me. I’d have to stay on my toes or he’d have a hand under my blouse in no time. I inched closer to Lucio, seated to my right.

  The conversation jumped nat
urally between Italian and English. Everyone at the table managed in both languages, with the exception of Franco and Lucio. They seemed to follow the English well enough but couldn’t untie their tongues to pronounce a word that any of us could decipher without having to ask once or twice for them to repeat themselves. As for my Italian, I felt more comfortable with each glass of wine consumed, and probably caught eighty percent of what was being said. Sannino complimented me on my pronunciation, though he noted it bore faint traces of a Neapolitan accent.

  He downed another glass of wine and was morphing before my eyes. More aggressive and displaying confidence in spades, he was at turns jocular then petulant, aggrieved that his audience was not suitably deferential. He was, after all, the heir to Bondinelli’s position of power, at least in this group of students. What began as an amicable debate with Lucio over who was the greater Italian cyclist, Gino Bartali or Franco Coppi, soon devolved into an argument with raised voices. In fairness, raised voice would be a more accurate description, given that all the volume came from Sannino’s side. Lucio was in mid-sentence, counting the titles and records of Bartali’s illustrious career on his fingers when Sannino declared the discussion closed. I could sense an ugly scene brewing, so I took action.

  “Franco, you’re so funny,” I said, opting for his first name. “Isn’t he funny?” I asked the others. “Che buffo!”

  Then I hazarded a friendly shove and faked my best phony laugh. I even sacrificed a measure of my dignity, hoping to diffuse the situation, and placed my hand on his forearm as platonically as I could manage. The last thing I wanted to do was give him ideas. There was a moment’s hesitation before the boor to my left got on board. But then he produced a caricature of a smile that blazed two times brighter than the occasion or my humor called for.