Turn to Stone

by James W. Ziskin

  “Dai, Lucio, ridi,” he said, mocking him good-naturedly and urging him to laugh. “I was kidding.”

  I doubted anyone believed him.

  “Domani mattina . . .” Franco said, changing course. He paused to spear a bit of melon with his fork and used his knife to wrap a ribbon of prosciutto around it before gobbling up the neat package. He chewed thoroughly for several seconds and swallowed. Everyone waited for him to finish his thought.

  “Tomorrow morning?” I prompted, happy that the subject had moved on from cycling.

  “Tomorrow,” resumed Franco, “we begin at nine in the Sala dei Cinquecento in the Palazzo Vecchio with the tribute to your father, Eleonora. Then we will reconvene at the university at eleven, and the panelists will begin presenting their papers.”

  He went on to outline the entire schedule for the day. When he’d finally finished, he took another sip of wine and leaned in close to me.

  “How is it you’re not married, carissima Eleonora?” he asked in a low voice, all but whispering in my left ear.

  Not sure I wanted to answer, I told him, instead, that I preferred to go by Ellie. When that didn’t deter him from his question, I asked him how old he was instead. That shut him up for a spell. He turned back to Tato and discussed some not-so-urgent errands he wanted him to run before the symposium in the morning.

  By the time we’d polished off the antipasto of prosciutto and melon, it became clear to me that Franco and Lucio were both trying to lower my defenses with drink. Several toasts to my father’s memory, to me, to themselves, and to the Newark Yankees were obvious ploys to get me to drain my glass. And I obliged them. But of course they’d only just met me and knew nothing about my tolerance for alcohol. Over the years, many unscrupulous-but-hopeful men had made the same mistake, only to end up under the table instead of my sheets.

  Before our host, Franco, had noticed, we’d finished three bottles of wine collectively, and the first course hadn’t even been served. He said something curt to the boys about the early start in the morning, and they assured him they’d take it easy.

  “Eleonora—Ellie—is our guest,” he said. “No more wine, please, until the second course is served. Let’s maintain some dignity and sobriety, perbacco.”

  By Bacchus, indeed. In order to survive this torture of a dinner, I was going to enjoy my wine whether the host approved or not.

  His miserly hypocrisy was typical of selfish men. There was Franco, sopping it up like a thirsty sponge, but he begrudged the rest of us our share. Errol Flynn had once described this brand of hospitality best when he noted, wickedly, that the wine at Hearst’s castle in San Simeon, “flowed like glue.” Perhaps that was an exaggeration in our case—we’d squeezed the life out of three bottles after all—but the meanness felt the same. And, by the way, I kind of had a thing for Errol Flynn. Debonair, intemperate, and libidinous all at the same time. A shame he wasn’t at our table that night. A shame he was dead.

  For my first course, I enjoyed a delicious plateful of paccheri in a tartufo bianco sauce, while Franco and Lucio ordered a puttanesca and a light tomato-and-basil dish respectively. Veronica had a simple pastina in brodo, while Giuliana’s pappa al pomodoro sat uneaten, as she spent fifteen minutes in the telephone cabin speaking in animated tones to someone on the other end of the line.

  Franco and Lucio urged me to taste their dishes, and though I normally don’t like to share food, I couldn’t resist a bite of each. Once Veronica had finished her meager repast, she dabbed her lips and said she was heading back to her room at Bondinelli’s place.

  “Must you go?” asked Franco, though one could tell his heart wasn’t in it.

  “I’m feeling tired,” she said, and scratched the red patch on her neck.

  “Well, see you in the morning.”

  “Veronica, wait,” I said, rising from my seat. “Don’t go by yourself. I’ll take you home in a taxi.”

  Franco grabbed my arm and held tight. “No, don’t go. Your friend Bernard can accompany her.”

  He called to Bernie at the end of the table and indicated Veronica with a toss of his head. Bernie—reluctantly—dropped his fork and dragged his napkin across his mouth.

  “You’re coming right back, aren’t you?” I asked.

  He yawned and said he’d probably just turn in for the night, if I didn’t mind. I envied him. He stood, and the two of them slipped out of the restaurant into the street.

  “That girl is an idiot,” said Lucio as he watched them disappear into the night. “Doesn’t understand irony or humor.”

  “That’s not a nice thing to say,” I told him.

  “No, not nice, but true,” said Franco. “I don’t know why Alberto let her continue her studies. She’s not bright. He was just too kind.”

  “She’s simple. Naïve,” added Lucio.

  Not two minutes after Bernie and Veronica had decamped, Giuliana returned from the phone booth and announced that she, too, was leaving. Tato sprang to his feet and volunteered to escort her home. She insisted it wasn’t necessary, that she had her motorino and could find her way on her own. But Tato’s ardor won out. I thought she looked annoyed, but she was a brooding sort in general. They wished us all buonanotte, and stepped outside onto Borgo San Jacopo. Through the window, I saw her climb aboard a little motorbike, kick-start the thing, and invite Tato to hurry up. He straddled the seat behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and held on as the bike lurched from its standstill off the curb. The engine whined high-pitched and shrill as Giuliana sped off.

  Now, with just the three of us left at the table—Franco, Lucio, and me—our host loosened up in earnest. The battle for the female of the species was on. But while the flirting from Lucio was fun and entertaining, Franco remained serious and severe, as if seducing me were a dour enterprise requiring heavy lifting and perspiration. As we waited for our second courses to be served, the wrestling match nearly turned violent. In a manner of speaking. No blows were traded or threatened, but they jousted for my attentions all the same, first—literally—with grissini, then— figuratively—with their wits and attempts at humor. The breadstick fight did not win them any points with me. They looked more like zeroes than Zorros, but they seemed pleased with themselves.

  In fact, despite the childish behavior, my escorts were growing on me. At least Lucio was. His open smile did lots to compensate for his lack of any conventional beauty. In his late twenties, of average height and weight, with a bushy head of curly black hair, he was delightfully flirtatious and funny in both Italian and in his thickly accented English. He gazed into my eyes with a purposely goofy charm as he told me I was the girl of his heart. “La ragazza del mio cuore sei.” I giggled. Franco, stewing over Lucio’s little victory, informed me that Lucio was only quoting a popular song from the radio. I didn’t mind. He was adorable.

  I’d ordered the delicate tagliata di manzo with arugula. Throughout the main course, the spectacle continued until the wine began to hit its mark, and its first casualty was Lucio. He grew quiet, then he started to yawn and cross his eyes. Like a big-hearted palooka on the ropes, he rallied gamely once or twice, but in the end, it was a technical knockout. He threw in the towel and said he was going home. He advised Franco and me to do the same.

  In fairness, he probably sensed that he was not going to bag his trophy that night anyway. He bowed to kiss my hand and clicked his heels in theatrical fashion. Then he slurred a buonanotte in my general direction, turned to the door, and weaved his way out of the trattoria.

  And so I was left alone with Franco, a hungry-looking man of forty or so, who, once inebriated, had no shame when it came to suffering repeated rejections. Proper and well-behaved enough when sober, now he had one thing on his mind, viz. how to separate me from my virtue or, more precisely, from my skirt and blouse.

  With no warning, and apropos of nothing, he covered my hand with his, as if to prevent my escape. He leaned closer to me and bore his stare into my eyes like some kind of Svengali tr
ying to mesmerize a young lovely. I tugged a couple of times, attempting to reclaim my hand, but he held on fast.

  ‘“Quanto sei bella, Eleonora,” he cooed in a soft baritone.

  I gave another yank. Stuck like glue. “Ellie, please.”

  At length, satisfied that his spell had been cast and I was in his thrall, he released me from his grip and sat back in his chair. Then he smiled, baring a line of bright-white teeth. To be sure, Franco had some five-o’clock-shadow charm, but he wasn’t winning me over. His unwelcome courting, ever intensifying with the effect of wine, struck me as somehow robotic, like a male pigeon bobbing and dancing around an indifferent female. I cursed myself again for the earlier touch of his arm. When would I learn that subtlety was far too subtle for most men to grasp? At least where women and sex were concerned.

  A half hour after Franco had scraped the last smudges of budino from the dessert dish, and long since he’d slurped the dregs of his caffè ristretto from its cup, the world-weary waiter appeared above us and tapped his wristwatch, indicating he’d rather we continue our mating rituals elsewhere so he could retire for the night. Franco settled the bill with a wad of lire he’d surely appropriated from the symposium budget, then lit a cigarette and held the door for me. Outside in the street, I thanked him for the dinner. Big spender that he was, he insisted it was nothing. Then he invited me back to my own hotel room “per un drink.”

  I declined, citing the early hour of the next morning’s seminar. As we strolled back to Albergo Bardi, Franco kept up the pressure anyway. He begged as only Italian men can do, with an insistent smile and imploring hands clasped together as if praying for divine intervention, “Dai, Ellie. Un piccolo drink.” He dragged out the pronunciation of the double Ls of my name in typical Italian fashion. The overwhelming impression was that of being propositioned by a spoiled child who’d throw himself on the ground, kicking and screaming if he didn’t get his way.

  We arrived at the Bardi, and I held out a hand for shaking purposes. But Franco lunged for my lips instead. I recoiled, lost my footing, and we tumbled as one to the paving stones with my posterior cushioning the fall for both of us.

  “Accidenti!” he exclaimed as I shoved him off my person. He rolled into the gutter and, groaning, examined the skinned palms of his hands. “Porca miseria . . . Mi sono fatto male”

  I propped myself up on my elbows and rubbed my smarting backside. He’d hurt himself? What about me? I struggled to my feet and stood over him. He looked up at me with pathetic cow eyes and begged me to take pity on him and invite him up to my room. I sensed the path of least resistance was to give in to his charms. I’d led him on, after all. So it only seemed fair to let him have what he wanted.

  “Wait here for five minutes,” I said, bending to whisper in his ear. “Then come up to room twenty-five.”

  He smiled and—I swear—would have rubbed his hands together in wicked delight if he hadn’t just scraped them raw on the pavement. I straightened my skirt, stepped over him, and pushed through the door into the hotel.

  I escaped to my room, number forty-one, and wondered how Big Bob Stueben of Lebanon, Kansas, would react to an amorous, and quite inebriated, Franco Sannino rapping at his door after midnight.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 26, 1963

  The Sala dei Cinquecento was an enormous hall on the primo piano of the Palazzo Vecchio, what we in America would call the second floor. A magnificent, if dimly lit, echo chamber, the Sala gave off the odor of cold marble and pietra serena. The room was often used, I was told, for important cultural events such as the one organized by Bondinelli.

  The proceedings commenced as scheduled at nine with a lukewarm welcome from the preside di facoltà, or department chairman—Bondinelli’s’ boss, as it were—of the Istituto di Filologia Moderna at the university. I gathered he was standing in for the Magnifico Rettore, who was unavoidably detained in Rome. The preside wasted little time in handing over the speaking duties to an old priest, who mumbled a heartfelt, often emotional, invocation into a squawking microphone. Padre Fabrizio addressed the tragic loss of his longtime friend with tears and true grief, explaining that he had served as confessor to Bondinelli for the past twenty-five years, since before the war.

  “Alberto was a kind, pious man,” he said in a shaky voice. He stood stooped, bent at the waist, causing the large metal crucifix hanging from his neck to pendulate and tap against the microphone each time he drew a breath or raised an arm. The resulting feedback added aural discomfort to the already mournful kickoff of the proceedings.

  Padre Fabrizio wiped his brow with a handkerchief then cleared his throat. He went on to describe Bondinelli as a scholar of scripture as well as literature. He’d lived the last twenty-five years of his life dedicated to good deeds and charity unto his fellow man. In addition to tithing to the Church, he served as a board member on numerous Catholic charities, including the Figlie della Carità di San Vincenzo de’ Paoli and another that sponsored transportation of crippled and ailing pilgrims to Lourdes and Fátima. And, many years before, a charity that provided education for orphans of the Spanish Civil War. For twelve years, he’d edited the Madonna della Tosse’s weekly bulletin, La Buona Notizia, usually writing three-quarters of, if not all, the content, which included parish news, birth and death announcements, and the latest from the Vatican and the Holy See. He also curated the rectory’s library, all at no charge.

  But more moving than Padre Fabrizio’s recitation of Bondinelli’s charities was his own heartbreak at the loss of his friend. There were sobs and the vigorous blowing of noses all around me. Then the priest sketched out his friend’s early years.

  Alberto Bondinelli was born a breech baby in Lucca in 1907, exactly one hour before his mother died of complications from the delivery. The second child of a failed classics professor stationed in Eritrea to teach Italian to the natives, Alberto was raised in Florence by his maternal grandmother, a widow. The boy had an elder sister, Cecilia, to whom he was devoted. She entered the convent at the age of thirteen, following a path set by two maternal aunts a generation before. Training as a nurse, Cecilia tended to wounded soldiers in a recovery hospital in Udine, and, as the war was drawing to a close, she died in the influenza pandemic of 1918.

  Speaking in a quavering voice, Padre Fabrizio described the crisis of faith young Alberto had experienced after the loss of his beloved sister. Convinced the Lord had forsaken her, his family, and him, he turned his back on God after Cecilia’s death. At an age when he should have been enjoying the pleasures of an eleven-year-old boy—shooting biglie (marbles) in the piazza with his friends, enjoying brutti ma buoni cookies at holiday time, or stealing a special caramella from the tin box his grandmother kept not so hidden in a drawer with her napery—he brooded alone, dark and angry. Fractious, irritable, and impossible to control, Albi, as he was known to his grandmother, rebelled against all authority, most of all against the Church. And he used his large size to best advantage when delivering beatings to his classmates, innocent children of God all.

  His grandmother prayed for his soul and nearly wore her rosary down to dust asking for a miracle. According to Padre Fabrizio, the poor woman sought guidance from her parish priest, who advised stern measures. He maintained that any boy who would strike his friends would do the same to his mother. Or, indeed, to his grandmother. He proposed a religious education for the boy, with an eye on the priesthood if all went well and the brothers managed to salvage his soul.

  About the time his father died in Eritrea, Albi was sent off to the monastery. There he received a complete Catholic education, even as he continued to resist his tutors. Not even the personal attention and care from his parish priest could convince young Alberto of God’s design. It would take many years before he finally recovered his faith.

  “He never told me the story of how he rediscovered the Lord,” said the priest, bringing the eulogy of his friend to a close. “He insisted that it should remain between him and Go
d. I reminded him that he was a Catholic, not a Lutheran, and it was only proper that he should share the story with his confessor.”

  The crowd managed a low chuckle despite their tears. I, too, felt a tightness in my throat and had to dab my eyes. Padre Fabrizio folded the paper he’d been consulting and mopped his brow again. Then he recited a prayer in Latin and offered encouraging parting words for the success of the symposium.

  “May God bless this endeavor that Alberto has organized. In nomine patris et filii et spiritus sancti, amen.”

  Though I was looking down, the rustling of sleeves against jackets and blouses told me that I was one of only a handful present in the Sala not performing the sign of the cross. Another abstainer was Bernie, who was seated in the row behind me to my right.

  Now with God safely on our side, Professor Franco Sannino—he of scraped palms and bruised ego—stepped onto the dais and took the microphone from the priest. He clipped it back into its mount, and tapped its grille three times, loosing another wave of feedback through the hall. Satisfied the mic was working, he unfolded a sheet of paper, smoothed it on the lectern before him, and donned a pair of half-lunette eyeglasses. A longish silence ensued as he scanned the document before him. I, in turn, studied him as he read. This day he was dressed in a suit and tie, and his eyes looked puffy and shot red, but he’d answered the bell. I wondered how his encounter with Big Bob Stueben had gone.

  Speaking in Italian—of course—Franco introduced himself with the barest of details, assuming, I can only imagine, that everyone in the place knew who he was. Then he explained that he was saddened to have to fill in for his friend and colleague, but he was sure Bondinelli would have wanted the show to go on.

  “I have here the introduction Alberto prepared, and I will read it exactly as he wrote it.”