Sheila Connolly - Reunion with Death

by Sheila Connolly

The flashlight app on my phone got us up the hill without mishap. Even from a distance in the dark I could tell that Cynthia’s suitcase was another one that was smaller than mine. What was wrong with me? Why did I need to carry half my wardrobe around with me? I comforted myself by reminding myself that those people who had brought only shorts and T-shirts were going to freeze. Maybe I could rent out my extra long-sleeved shirts.

  I opened the door and turned on the light, then stood back to let Cynthia enter. She stepped in and surveyed our domain. “Just like our dorm room, right? I can’t tell you the last time I slept in a single bed.”

  “Bathroom’s down that way.” I pointed. “I can’t testify to the reliability of the hot water.” My statement was quickly followed by a god-awful thumping from the other side of the wall closest to my bed. “But I’m guessing that’s a water heater, so maybe we’ll be lucky.”

  “God, I hope so.” Cynthia dropped onto her bed so hard that it bounced. “Any extra blankets?”

  “I haven’t looked. Try that bench thingy over there.”

  She bounded up and pulled open the seat. “Bingo. Are you going to take a shower?”

  “I was thinking about it. I was also thinking about wrapping myself in five blankets and crawling into bed. I should have paid more attention to the weather report for this area.”

  “It’s usually wrong anyway,” Cynthia said, studying her cell phone. Then she pulled a second phone out of her bag and turned that on. “Lousy reception, thank goodness.”

  “You were planning to work? And now you’re glad you can’t?” I guessed.

  “Yes, and yes. Those idiots back home can’t seem to wipe their butts without my help. And they aren’t even kids anymore.”

  “Are you going to stick it out at this job until …” I realized I wasn’t sure when “until” was these days. Nobody in our cohort seemed to be retiring at all, much less at any fixed age.

  “Until it’s not fun anymore,” Cynthia said, grinning at me. “But this time in Italy is for me, and I intend to enjoy it. You know, kick back, catch up with old friends, et cetera. If the company sinks like a stone while I’m away, so be it. Damn, it’s good to see you. How long has it been?”

  “A year? Two? Too long.”

  “You still hard at work?”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I retired, not that I can afford it. I’m not the type to take up knitting or feng shui.”

  “Government pensions suck, right?”

  “Yes,” I agreed—then did a double-take. I couldn’t recall ever telling Cynthia what I did professionally, apart from crunching numbers. “Wait, who said anything about the government?”

  She grinned mischievously. “You didn’t have to, although I must say I was impressed by your artful description of your job that didn’t say much of anything. I deal in information technology, remember? I know a whole lot about a lot of people. The things I can tell you about our classmates …”

  I held up a hand. “Don’t, please! I’d rather find out the good old-fashioned way, by talking to them. And why did you feel compelled to do background workups on them?”

  “Curiosity. I’m looking forward to seeing who tells the truth about themselves and who gets creative about their own history. Don’t worry—I don’t have any malicious intent. I was having fun seeing if my early assessments of them had panned out forty years later.”

  Reluctantly I asked, “And had they?”

  “Pretty much. Although you might like to know that the quiet ones have done as well if not better than the ones who made a big splash right out of college. Like you, you dark horse.”

  “I just keep my head down and keep on truckin’.” I smiled at her again. It was a relief that I didn’t have to watch my words with Cynthia. With the others, none of whom I’d been particularly close to all those years ago, I could say something vague and turn the conversation to them and what they’d done with their lives. It almost always worked, and I ended up learning a lot more about them than they did about me. And to be fair, I was honestly curious about a couple of things, like why had this group of people opted to gather together now? Of course the location had a lot to do with it, but the group must have self-selected in some way. From what I could tell so far, a lot of these people had barely spoken to each other in college, much less after, so it wasn’t just a band of friends taking a fun holiday together. I was looking forward to finding out what the catalyst was.

  Or maybe there wasn’t one. Maybe everything was just as it seemed and forty women had jumped at the chance to hang out with like-minded women in the sunny north of Italy.

  I checked my watch and found I’d forgotten to reset the time. There was a five—no, six-hour time difference, which made it just past ten o’clock where I now stood. Tomorrow would be a busy day, and despite my internal clock telling me it was still early, I thought I should at least try to get some sleep.

  “I’m going to brave the shower,” I announced to Cynthia.

  “You go, girl. If you’re not out in half an hour, I’ll send in the rescue team.”

  I snorted and padded down the chilly tiled hallway to the bathroom. I took a moment to study the plumbing, but at least everything looked familiar—hot, cold, a couple of levers to divert the water. I took another minute to chase a couple of long-legged centipedes down the drain (I couldn’t bring myself to squish them, but I didn’t mind washing them away), then turned on the water, which obligingly became nice and hot. I took a fast shower, toweled off quickly with scratchy air-dried towels, brushed my teeth, and hurried back to the bedroom, where I wrapped myself in a blanket.

  Cynthia looked up from whatever she was reading. “Everything works?”

  “It does,” I said, briskly toweling my hair. “Have you looked at the schedule for tomorrow?”

  “I did, and I get tired just thinking about it. One monastery, three villas, and then a home-grown play at dinner. I wonder if our brains will still be working by that time?”

  “Maybe that’s the point—we couldn’t possibly be too critical of whatever they come up with if we’re all exhausted,” I commented.

  “There is that. Wonder what the monastery will make of forty women poking around? I for one can’t believe there are still monks in this day and age,” Cynthia said.

  “What, you can’t believe men would actually choose to live without women?”

  “I’m trying. I’ll admit there are days when a nunnery sounds good—peace and quiet, plenty of simple rules. Think I could find one?”

  “It would have to have wireless for you.”

  “True. But at least that’s silent.” She stood up quickly. “I’ll grab a shower.”

  “Say hi to the centipedes!” I called out after her retreating back. I burrowed under the covers, pulling a third blanket up to my neck, and tried to read, but I was asleep before Cynthia returned from her shower.

  • • •

  Of course I woke way too early the next day, although I’d slept like the proverbial dead. Maybe all I needed to do to sleep well back home was drag a fifty-pound suitcase after me all day across a couple of continents. I opened one eye to assure myself that, yes, that was daylight filtering through from the adjoining room. I rolled over to check my clock—whoops, I’d forgotten to reset that too, and the math of adding six hours to whatever it read was almost too much to handle. It was nearly seven, local time, I decided. Too early for breakfast, and I hadn’t noticed anything so modern as a coffeemaker in our room. I lay cocooned in my many blankets, listening to Cynthia’s quiet breathing, and contemplated what the day and the week would hold.

  We were in Italy: check. We had all arrived, apparently without mishap, and were now sequestered in this sprawling estate high in the Tuscan hills: check. Florence was a half hour away in some direction. I listened for a moment for any outside noises but all I could hear was a rather simple-minded wood dove or something like it that kept repeating the same two notes over and over and over … I doze
d.

  The next time I woke up it was half an hour later, and I figured I could justify getting up. I inventoried what I’d brought and decided on three layers of shirts and my jeans. If it warmed up later in the day—one could hope!—I could start peeling off T-shirts. No doubt that would thrill the monks at the monastery.

  I took a deep breath and slid my feet out from under the blankets. Luckily I’d slept in my socks, so the cold tile floor wasn’t too much of a shock. I tiptoed over to the door and wrestled for a couple of minutes with the heavy iron latch, a task complicated by trying to keep quiet so as not to disturb Cynthia. Finally it yielded and I stuck my nose cautiously into the outside world. Yup, still cold—definitely layers weather. There were signs of stirring at the hay barn slash dining hall down below, which was a good sign.

  A muffled voice emerged from the covers. “What time is it?”

  I shut the door. “Seven thirty. I think. My body clock has other ideas.”

  “Where’s the coffee?” Cynthia’s head emerged from under the covers and she scrabbled to push her hair off her face.

  “Down the hill.”

  “What’s the weather?”

  “Nippy. Bundle up, dearie.”

  “Yes, Mother, and I’ll take a clean hankie too.” Cynthia grinned. Funny how quickly we fell back into our old roles. I’d been the manager, making sure the rent was paid on time and there was food in the apartment; Cynthia had been the gadfly, always on her way somewhere, doing things that sounded exciting. Now and then she had brought home some really interesting men; sometimes I’d found them at the breakfast table the next morning. We had reached a good balance and it had lasted four years, an eternity by postgrad standards. I wondered how we’d work it out now.

  I dressed in record time to avoid standing around in the cold. “I’m going down the hill.”

  “I’ll meet you there,” came the muffled reply.

  I checked to make sure I had my camera in the pocket of my windbreaker. After all, the sun had shifted overnight and the view might have changed infinitesimally. Even though it wasn’t yet eight, women were drifting toward the building below in clumps of two and three. I joined them outside the door. It was clear there was a logjam in the lower vestibule, and I made an educated guess that that was where the coffee had been set up. Two people, including the darkly handsome bartender from last night, were busy filling carafes with yet more coffee and passing them over the counter to eager waiting hands.

  I smiled at the person next to me, struggling to identify her without looking at her name badge—and then a lightbulb went on. Asian, short, slender and dressed in high fashion (which stood out amid the jeans and running shoes most of us were wearing). “You’re Xianling Han—you were an art history major, right?” I mentally patted myself on my back: when we’d first met it had taken me a while to reconcile the spelling of her name with the way it sounded, “Shan ling.”

  “I was. It’s good to see you, Laura. I gather you left the art world.”

  “A long time ago. You stuck with it?”

  “I did. I’m vice president of an auction house now, still dealing in art. You?”

  “I’m a quantitative analyst for a large government agency. Not what I expected to be doing.” That was where I usually cut the description short. Time to change the subject. “Doesn’t this remind you of our dorms?” I asked brightly. “Except I don’t think we were so desperate for caffeine back then.”

  Xianling smiled back. “I know what you mean. It takes a real kick to get me moving most mornings. Good thing Italians like their coffee strong.” We inched forward in the coffee queue, only minimally distracted by the announcement that there were hot croissants waiting on the other side. One must have priorities. “Have you been here before?” Xianling asked.

  “Here where? Tuscany? Or Italy?” I responded.

  “Both. Either.”

  “The last time I visited Italy was the year we graduated.” And we were off, exchanging chitchat until we reached the head of the line and could pour ourselves coffee. It seemed only polite to move out of the way, since the line was still long behind us. We climbed the stairs. “You want to sit over there?” I nodded toward one of the smaller tables.

  “Sure. You hold the table and I’ll get us some of those yummy croissants.”

  “Deal.” We set our cups down, and then I plunked myself in a chair from which I could watch other people coming in. The cold clear light of morning was not too unkind: most people looked reasonably alert and fit. No makeup among them (myself included), but I wouldn’t swear that all the hair colors were entirely natural—but then, neither was mine. Clothing ran to fleece for those who had brought any, or sweaters and/or windbreakers. Sensible shoes all around, if sensible meant high-end running shoes.

  Xianling returned with a full plate and two more people. “You know Valerie and Patricia, don’t you?”

  “Val,” “Pat,” they said quickly.

  I made another quick scan of name tags. “Sure—weren’t you in Art 100?”

  The other women sat. “Not until sophomore year,” Val said, “but I took some other art courses later.”

  “What was your major?”

  “Biology, but not premed.”

  I laughed. “That was a real distinction back in the day. I started out in biology but jumped ship to art history pretty quickly. Those premed majors scared me, they were so intense.”

  “They had to be since med schools were taking so few women. Things sure have changed, haven’t they?”

  We all prattled on as the room filled and the noise level rose. In addition to the marvelous croissants, there were healthy offerings like fruit and granola, which I ignored. If I have a vice, it’s an addiction to carbohydrates, especially first thing in the morning. We all refilled our coffee cups at least once. I noticed Cynthia come in—she waggled her fingers at me, then went to join a group at another table.

  “What is it we’re doing today?” one of my tablemates asked.

  “A Medici monastery and many Medici manors,” I said, admiring my own alliterative phrase.

  “Wasn’t everything Medici back in the day?” Pat said wryly. “Seems like they owned most of Italy, one way or another. I wish I’d paid more attention to Italian history, but I never thought I’d need it, and then of course I didn’t have time to bone up before this trip.”

  “Where does the monastery fit?” I asked.

  “Wait!” Val said. “I brought the cheat sheet.” She fished something out of her roomy bag.

  “Just the high points, please,” Pat said.

  “Okay, okay.” Val scanned the sheet quickly. “Hmm … was once a convent, renovated by Michelozzo for the Medicis—that would be Cosimo’s dad, Giovanni. They slapped their coat of arms all over the place. Wooden crucifix that may or may not have been made by Donatello. Fancy altarpiece by Fra Angelico that got moved to Florence, so we’ll see that tomorrow. And there’s still a small group of monks in residence there.”

  I didn’t volunteer any information and let the names wash over me. Once I had been on close terms with the greats—Donatello, Fra Angelico, Giotto, Cimabue—but that was long ago, and I had to admit I hadn’t given them much thought in years. Save for those few lucky ones among us who had managed to snag jobs teaching art history or working in museums, life had carried us away from art and music and the world of ideas for the most part. I tried to remember the last time I’d crossed the threshold of a museum—and failed. Years, anyway. But if the ambitious schedule we’d been given was to be believed, we’d be making up for lost time tomorrow in Florence, with at least three museum stops planned and a couple of optional ones. Was there such a thing as an art overdose?

  Again there came the rapping of a knife on a glass, and we looked up to see Jean and Jane standing at the end of the room. “The vans will be leaving from the top of the hill at nine sharp,” Jean said brightly, “so please finish up your breakfast and start making your way up there. We’ve got a busy day a
head!”

  That sounded like an understatement.

  Chapter 4

  The day proved to be as long as I had expected, but far more interesting. The visit to the monastery surprised me, and by the end of the day I was still trying to figure out why it was also disturbing.

  When the name Medici came up, as it did so often in this part of the country, I had expected grandeur and opulence, but the monastic establishment itself was surprisingly small and modest. Of course, in the past its wealthy patrons had embellished it with works from the best possible artists available at the time—for the patrons’ private pleasure—but that didn’t quite compensate for the small size, and the “good stuff” looked incongruous inside such a plain and simple space. At least they had survived the changes of the centuries, including the ultimate decline of the Medici. I told myself to stop being so critical; it was peaceful and charming and unspoiled.

  The most surprising part of the visit was the tour guide: a young monk in full habit, who talked knowledgeably and comfortably about the artworks and artifacts we were looking at. It was only after a few minutes, in response to Jane’s direct question (in Italian—he spoke no English) that he told us that he was only seventeen. That hushed a lot of us. I found it hard to imagine many seventeen-year-olds who were so self-possessed, especially when faced with a crowd of ladies old enough to be his grandmother in some cases, and few speaking Italian. But what was more startling was his assurance—and his commitment. He had chosen his path, he told us through Jane, before he entered his teens, and had stuck to it. He’d even convinced the rest of his family to rejoin the Church. Would it, could it last for him? Or at some point would he yearn for a wider world? After all, he had seen so little of life. I had no answer. I just knew that I wouldn’t have trusted any path I had chosen at his age to be permanent—and I would have been right, about myself at least.

  But the most unsettling part of the discussion came last, translated for us by Jane, whose Italian sounded fluent and authentic to my ears. If Jane had it right—and from the look on her face I wasn’t sure if she believed her own translation—the young monk was describing the “discipline” that he imposed upon himself, which appeared to consist of daily flagellation, and maybe worse. In the twenty-first century? From the expressions of the others who were listening, and their sudden silence, it seemed that everyone was having trouble grasping the idea. And the boy—seventeen!—seemed so sure … We moved quickly to the cloister and began to take pictures of the ancient well in the center and the cat sleeping in the sun.