Turn to Stone

by James W. Ziskin

  If nothing else, Massimiliano Locanda was smooth when he decided to make the effort. Without batting an eye, he turned the subject to John XXIII, who’d died in June. The late pope’s record of protecting Jews and refugees across much of Eastern Europe during the war met and exceeded Giuliana’s standards for approval. She praised John as a fine man of conscience, even if he was the leader of the richest religious sect in the world. She didn’t exactly utter the old familiar opium-of-the-masses line, but we all knew where she stood on that score. Still, I thought Locanda had won a small measure of appreciation from the dogmatic Giuliana simply by bringing up the pontiff’s name.

  After dinner, we repaired to the salone as we had the night before. This time, however, I neither visited Locanda’s study nor did I throw myself at my friend Bernie. Instead I stuck close to Mariangela who, at her uncle’s insistence, was not permitted the company of her beloved Teresa in social situations.

  Sitting together on one of the divans, we chatted at leisure. I watched Franco filling a king-size portion of brandy into a snifter across the room. Should I say something to him? To our host? Locanda was in his own world, languid in his chair, staring at nothing in particular.

  “Ellie,” said Mariangela, calling me back. “Tell me about your job at the newspaper.”

  I tried to make it sound more interesting than writing articles about spelling bee champions and the city’s pothole patrol. In fact, I’d investigated a few high-profile murders in the preceding three years in the small burgh of New Holland, New York. Unsure of how much detail to give to an impressionable girl of fourteen, I left out the gory details and salacious behavior of the people who committed such terrible crimes. We talked cameras instead. I told her again how I’d received my Leica M3 as a gift for my eighteenth birthday, omitting the crushing codicil my father had tacked on to the gesture, effectively spoiling what had started as a precious moment. I believe his exact words were, “My hope is that you’ll spend more time with this camera than you do with the bottle.”

  Once all takers had filled their glasses, Lucio pulled out his guitar, and the groans commenced straightaway. Mariangela asked if he knew any songs by the Beatles, but Lucio was as square as I was. So he began his usual picking and strumming that ended up dying on the vine before a true song could mature. Then, slurring his words as he did, Franco reminded us all that it was the storytelling hour. I thought back to the night before, trying to recall if Lucio had used any profanities that might offend the sensibilities of a young lady such as Mariangela. No dirty language per se, but he’d talked about fornication, and his story might be interpreted by some—perhaps most—as blasphemous. Still, following my conversation with Mariangela that afternoon, I figured she was mature enough to handle it. The decision, of course, was not mine to make.

  Locanda, in fact, took that moment to inform the girl that it was time for her to go to bed. There was no argument, no pleading for a stay of execution, no whining. She stood, bade goodnight to all, then bent down to kiss me on both cheeks.

  A domani, Ellie,” she said, speaking Italian to me for the first time. How I envied her perfect bilingualism.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “Whose turn is it tonight?” asked Franco.

  “Tocca a me,” announced Giuliana firmly. “My turn.”

  Vicky rolled her eyes and announced she was tired and turning in for the night. Bernie slipped into the seat next to me on the divan just as Tato sprang to his feet and offered to replenish everyone’s glasses. Giuliana shook her head in reproach.

  “I just want to help,” he said.

  “Help, yes. But don’t act like a servant.”

  Once everyone had a fresh drink, Giuliana settled into an armchair and smoothed her cotton skirt over her knees. She cleared her throat and drew a breath. Then Lucio interrupted, asking if she would mind if he accompanied her on the guitar.

  “Do what you want,” she said to dismiss him and began. “Inspired by Lucio’s clever tale last night, I’ve decided to follow his example. I will recount a story that hides some meaning—I trust—skillfully and in a most pleasant manner to afford you all enjoyment. So, to begin . . . In Paris there once lived a rich Jew.”

  Even if no one groaned, I sensed some irritation from Franco Sannino and possibly Locanda at her fixation for Jewish topics. I saw no signs of exasperation on the faces of the others.

  “Boccaccio again,” Bernie whispered in my ear. “This should be interesting.”

  “Abraham was an honest merchant and a good and moral man of fine standing,” continued Giuliana. Lucio plucked an air that I instantly recognized as Mahler’s Titan Symphony, third movement, the Jewish-sounding theme. A jaunty bit that you can’t help but want to dance to. “He was respected throughout the city and counted as his closest friend a man named Giannotto, a trader who prided himself as a devout and righteous Christian.”

  I can’t fathom how he managed it, but Lucio produced a phrase from his guitar that called to mind a fugue or, perhaps, church organ. His guitar-playing talent took a backseat only to his zeal for guitar-tuning. If he ever succeeded in tightening the strings just right, he might set the world on its ear and play Carnegie Hall. Or perhaps be the Victor Borge of the guitar if only he could finish tuning the damn thing.

  Giuliana pressed on. “One fine day, Giannotto called Abraham to his home to confess a fear. The good Christian’s greatest worry was that Abraham, upstanding man though he was, would be damned to the eternal flames of hell if he did not accept Christ as his one and only God. Touched by his friend’s concern, the Jew nevertheless pointed out with alacrity that Christians believed their God was a trinity, incorporating the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Giannotto, while vexed by this correction—and from a Jew no less—indulged his friend and suggested that he maintain an open mind and investigate the merits of Christianity. Over the course of the ensuing months, Giannotto and Abraham debated the finer points of the world’s three great religions, always with the Christian extolling the virtues and truths of what he maintained was the one true faith. Finally, the Jew announced to his dear friend that he would consider converting to Christianity, but only once he’d completed a trip to Rome, where he intended to seek an audience with the pope himself. If, he told Giannotto, the pontiff could convince him of the superiority of the Christian faith, he—Abraham—would gladly accept Christ as his savior and embrace the Christian way.

  “Now this plan greatly worried Giannotto. He knew only too well of the wicked indulgences and sinful behavior of the pontiff and his cardinals, and realized his friend would never choose the Christian path if he were to base his decision on the behavior of the Vicar of Christ and his court in Rome. Indeed, Giannotto was convinced that were his friend already a Christian, he would most assuredly reject the faith and convert to barbaric idolatry—or worse, godlessness—after witnessing the depravity of the highest officials of the Church. Accordingly, Giannotto endeavored to discourage Abraham from ever embarking on such a pilgrimage. He reasoned that the journey was long and dangerous, with brigands and highwaymen lying in wait to rob and cut the throats of prosperous travelers such as he. Instead, he urged his friend to stay in Paris where he—Giannotto—would resolve all his doubts and demonstrate the superiority of the Christian religion.”

  Bernie whispered in my ear again. He pronounced himself impressed that Giuliana had so far stuck to the script Boccaccio had penned centuries before.

  “I was sure she’d turn this into an October Revolution, or something similar,” he said.

  Giuliana continued her tale. “But no matter Giannotto’s rhetorical skill, Abraham would not be swayed by his friend’s arguments. And so, in good time, he set off for Rome to seek out the pope and his prelates in order to find the true essence of Christianity and decide if it was deserving of his conversion.

  “Upon his arrival at the Vatican, however, Abraham observed behavior so sinful and vainglorious that he nearly abandoned his quest. Indeed, each act performed, every e
nterprise undertaken by the Vicar of Christ and his cardinals seemed to defy all the tenets and prescriptions of the Christian faith, at least as far as Abraham understood them. If there were seven deadly sins, these princes of the Church committed them all at least thrice daily. They practiced simony, engaged in fornication and sodomy, indulged their gluttonous appetites, and drained more wine barrels than the most dissolute drunkards Abraham had ever observed in the taverns of the darkest quarters of Paris.”

  “This is a pretty damning portrait of the Church,” I whispered into Bernie’s ear. “Is she still following Boccaccio’s story?”

  “To the letter,” he said. “I’m surprised. Looks as if she’s going to bring it home properly.”

  Giuliana geared up for the finish. She took a sip of her wine. Lucio strummed away.

  “So horrified was this Jew of Paris,” she began, “so convinced was he that these charlatans were undeserving of the title of holy men, be they Christian, Jew, or Mohammedan, that he instantly determined that all religion and all gods were false and instruments of oppression of the people.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Bernie. “Here it comes.”

  “So filled with righteous rage was Abraham that he drew his dagger and plunged it into the neck of the pope, whose blood spewed purple, gushing like a fountain of evil, depravity, and wickedness over the land.”

  “Oh, my!” I gasped.

  Bernie was white. Tato’s mouth hung open, and Franco looked to be in full apoplexy. Lucio stopped playing his guitar, and not because it needed tuning.

  “Abraham withdrew his weapon from the neck of the stuck pontiff,” continued Giuliana, her voice gaining volume and passion. “The bourgeois pig collapsed on the marble floor, vomiting blood and bile in plenty, while the Jew turned his wrath on the cardinals cowering nearby in horror and shame. He sawed their heads off one by one with his dagger, exhorting the masses to follow him into battle as his did. ‘Rise, brothers, and with your scythes slaughter your oppressors as you slaughter your swine! Unite, workers, and establish with me a new dictatorship of the proletariat, free from religion and its bloodsucking hypocrites!’

  “Word of Abraham’s heroic deeds spread quickly throughout Rome, Italy, and all of Europe. The Church, decapitated and exposed for its true villainy, died the death of a scurvy dog and the workers built their socialist paradise atop the ashes of St. Peter’s Basilica. The end.”

  Stunned silence said it all. The notices were sure to be bad, but Giuliana had achieved her goal. She beamed from her seat in the armchair, gauging the success of her tale by the shock on the faces of the audience. She seemed particularly interested in Locanda’s reaction, but his poker face revealed nothing. Perhaps because he didn’t actually care if class warfare arrived and blood flowed in the streets. As long as it wasn’t his blood, the revolution could proceed.

  Franco was the first to speak. He coughed and proclaimed that he hoped the next day’s story would be less violent. And less political.

  “Our host asked us to leave political arguments outside, after all,” he said, nodding cross-eyed toward Locanda.

  “I wasn’t arguing,” said Giuliana. “I was only telling a story. There’s plenty of violence in stories.”

  I thought how lucky it was that Mariangela had been sent to bed and missed Giuliana’s tale of blood and gore. Bernie might have anticipated it, but the rest of us had been taken by surprise.

  “Your tale was a provocation,” insisted Franco, who was holding his glass at a precarious angle that sloshed waves of amber liquid onto the floor at regular intervals. “You were deliberately trying to upset our host.”

  Locanda, who, I’d noticed, hadn’t been paying attention to any of our discussions, now lifted his head and claimed he wasn’t upset.

  “Tell whatever stories you like,” he said.

  Neither Giuliana nor Franco was happy with that answer, perhaps confirming the latter’s position that the former had been trying to provoke a reaction.

  “We all came here for a pleasant few days to enjoy a well-deserved thank-you for our contributions to the symposium,” said Franco. “And to remember our dear colleague and mentor, Alberto Bondinelli. But you chose to ruin our collegial mood with your slanderous lies about my church. Everyone’s church except yours.”

  “That’s not true,” she said in her defense. “Lucio and Tato are atheists like me, and Ellie is Jewish.”

  “To be absolutely accurate,” I broke in, “Bernie is also Jewish.”

  “You two did not insult my religion,” said Franco. “This girl did.” He pointed at Giuliana. “And I won’t stand for it. Don’t forget you still have your exams to pass.”

  “Calmatevi,” urged Lucio, putting down his guitar and rising to his feet in attempts to restore order. “Franco, you can’t threaten a student because you don’t like her politics. And in front of witnesses.”

  Franco’s scalp nearly blew off the top of his head. His eyes had turned blood red. He reeled to the left then to the right, looking for someone to back him up. “Didn’t any of you hear what she said about the Church? About the Holy Father? It’s untrue and a poorly constructed story besides. She should fail her exams for such a poor rhetorical performance.”

  “Excuse me, Franco,” said Bernie. “That’s not true. Her story was taken from the Decameron. Would you fail Boccaccio?”

  Now Franco found himself backed even farther into a corner. He hadn’t recognized the tale as Boccaccio’s, which was a humiliation for a professor of literature. That realization, along with the effects of too much wine, fueled his rage. He lashed out in a different direction.

  “Then she should fail for plagiarism.”

  “This is a social situation,” said Lucio. “Not an exam. You can’t fail her for a story she told at a party.”

  I stood, crossed the room, and placed a hand on Franco’s shoulder. “Let’s all try to calm down,” I said, eyeing the others as I spoke. “Perhaps we’ve all had too much to drink . . .” (Like fun I had.) “Come, we’re all friends and colleagues here. Let’s not let a story and politics interfere with our enjoyment. And let’s also remember Professor Bondinelli. He would be sad indeed if he knew we were arguing this way.”

  “Me ne strafotto del Professor Bondinelli,” announced Giuliana, and everyone—every last person in the room—choked. Her language was so vulgar, so unexpected, that even her story seemed tame in comparison. “He was a terrible man. A usurper and a fascist killer.”

  Tato took her by the arm and yanked her toward the door. Her protests, punctuated by more, uglier oaths and accusations against the late professor, echoed from the corridor, growing ever fainter, as Tato put distance between her and us. Her outburst shocked everyone present, even Locanda, who raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips. The profanity had one positive side effect, however. It knocked Franco out of his funk. He was sobered, if not sober, and his anger evaporated. He shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs from his addled brain, and apologized to the group.

  “I’m very sorry,” he said, face white now. “Somehow I think this is partially my fault.”

  Bernie, Lucio, and I exchanged knowing glances. Locanda, too, seemed to agree with our assessment, if his roll of the eyes meant what I thought it did. Franco started hiccoughing.

  “You mustn’t drink so much,” I said. “It’s the wine that makes you aggressive.”

  He nodded sheepishly.

  “You’re a sweet man,” I continued. “Except when you drink.”

  “I’m ashamed,” he said, tears welling in his eyes.

  Here it came. The comical, overly dramatic Italian man weeping like a child. He draped himself over me, wailing and hiccoughing that he’d been wrong and would apologize to Giuliana the next morning. He mumbled incoherently about his mother, then about me. I wasn’t sure exactly what I had to do with anything, but he was stroking my hair and soaking my shoulder with his tears. Bernie recognized the direction the breakdown was headed. If he didn’t act promptly, Franco wo
uld have a whole different set of sins to atone for in the morning.

  “I’ll take him to his room,” said Bernie, pulling the pulpy mass of a man off my person.

  Lucio joined Bernie, and they each took an arm over their shoulder to bear Franco away. They only lost the handle on their cargo once, dropping him to the floor with a thud. Wrestling him to his feet again, they disappeared down the corridor.

  I found myself alone with Locanda. The room had gone eerily quiet, and I wanted to get out of there.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “Have another drink,” he said, rising and making his way to the tray nearby. It was an order, not an offer to refill my glass. “After that performance, I confess that I am ready for one.”

  “Whisky,” I said, handing him my glass. Whether he’d offered or ordered, I didn’t care. He was the host and the man.

  He took the glass and poured some Scotch into it. “I know very well what you drink, signorina.”

  The moment was supremely awkward. After our last conversation that morning, the ice was going to be difficult to break. I wished Bernie and Lucio would hurry up and dump Franco into his bed and come back to rescue me.

  We stood there, Locanda and I, staring at each other, not quite sure what to say or do. Finally, he motioned to a nearby chair, another order for me, or perhaps a just a suggestion. I took the seat, and he did the same in his usual armchair.

  “Interesting evening,” he croaked at length.

  “Is Alberto Bondinelli in any of those photographs of the CamicieNere?” I asked, ignoring his small talk.

  “Quali fotografie?”

  “The ones in your study. The ones your father hung and you never thought to take down.”