by Jan Weiss
“Your Uncle Ricci sounds like a great guy.”
“He is. Natalia, listen to me—we can’t know the future. We can’t see it. There is only now. We are here today. That’s all there is.”
Pino drew her back into the apartment. He’d laid out a first aid kit. She sat while he tended to her wound. It wasn’t too bad, just bloody. It had clotted. He cleaned the wound, disinfected it, and applied a gauze pad, taping it in place. As he gathered up the swabs and debris, Natalia leaned forward and kissed him, first lightly, then with ardor.
“May I?” Pino asked, kissing her throat as he unbuttoned her blouse.
“Let me.” Natalia lifted her shirt over her head and dropped it to the floor. She unhooked her bra and slipped it off.
“Beautiful,” Pino whispered, openly staring at her nakedness. “Two roses.”
He kissed her breasts and her hard nipples. He took off his shirt. She ran her hands over his chest. She could feel his heart pounding. His skin was starkly darker than hers. He touched her cheek as they kissed again.
“Wait,” she said, “wait.”
“What?”
“I smell like a crime scene.”
“Yeah, erotic.”
She pushed him back and headed for the bathroom.
“There are towels in the cupboard behind the door. Cover your wound. Keep it dry. Look for plastic bags there, in a basket.”
Pino’s bathroom was ancient but immaculate. Figured. There was no tub, only a shower with a giant showerhead the size of a sunflower. Natalia laid out towels on the porcelain sink, crackled with age, and sat to pee. A mascara stick poked out of the hedge of toothbrushes upright in a cup. Tina’s, no doubt. Natalia flushed and the room practically shook with the rush of water into the bowl. She nearly laughed as she started the shower.
She wrapped her injured forearm in plastic and tucked the edges in. The water was quickly hot and she stepped in, reveling in the warmth that soothed her back muscles and arms as it cascaded along her body from head to foot.
Pino’s soap smelled lemony, like him. She lathered and washed, basking in the sensations, then reluctantly turned off the stream. Swaddled in a large towel, she returned to Pino.
“Your turn.”
Pino advanced into the steamy bathroom. Natalia dried her hair as she walked the living room, snooping. Aside from books and the basics, there wasn’t much. On the small table near the windows were some sheets of paper held down by a plain rock. She lifted it and read the unfinished poem beneath.
After the roses—rosehips (after the flesh, the bone)
Silver-lidded morning after sleep.
Rain, the worm in its sheath.
Beyond summer’s green.
A ruby-tinted leaf.
“White Fields,” he’d titled it. A policeman-poet. Her junior officer, her subordinate, about to be her lover. It can’t be a good idea. Good or not, it was too late. Pino was coming back, towel around his waist. She replaced the rock and looked at him.
Pino said, “I’ve wanted this for a long time.” He embraced her, slipping a hand under her breast—the other reached down to touch her. Natalia was already moist. Desire in charge.
He guided her into the bedroom, to the mattress on the floor. A small Buddha witnessed them. An offering of an orange and rose blossom occupied a small bowl next to it. Pino laid her down and nuzzled her.
“Shall I turn off the bedside light?” he asked.
“No. We are adults and this needs to be premeditated. If we’re to break the rules, we should do it with full knowledge.”
“Don’t go away,” he said, and went to a small chest of drawers, coming back with a foil packet. Kneeling next to her, he tore it open. She plucked it out and unrolled the sheath onto his penis.
In a moment, he was inside her. No preamble, no foreplay. Natalia wrapped her legs around him as he thrusted gently. Soon they were slowly rocking back and forth, staring into each other’s eyes, abandoning themselves to the pleasure, letting it take them. Mouths open, they kissed. She groaned as he kissed her collarbone, her shoulder. Soon the pulsing was unbearable and claimed them.
They made love until they were sore and their flesh oversensitive.
“Don’t touch me,” Natalia gasped, laughing, when Pino threatened her again. She turned away and he slid up behind her, an arm around her waist. Cupped together, they drifted toward sleep.
“Silver-lidded morning after sleep,” she said, kissing him.
“You’ve been reading my poetry. Spying.”
“That’s an unfortunate and imprecise term.”
“What would you call it, if not snooping?”
“Investigating.” She kissed him. “It’s my job.”
* * *
11
* * *
No matter how heavy the rain, people ventured out into the day, holding umbrellas or newspapers over their heads. Motorcycles and scooters splashed pedestrians and sped away.
Swallows took refuge under the eaves and in bell towers. Children in school were a bit more bored than usual, hypnotized by the water sheeting down the panes. The markets opened, with tarps and plastic roofs rigged over the goods. Sidewalk café tables leaned, folded-up and stacked, under opened awnings. Occasionally a waiter would come out to push with a broom at the bulge of water collecting overhead. Just before they went downstairs, the rain eased.
Outside, Natalia unlocked her Vespa motorbike. Cream and purple, not a speck of dirt on it.
“Want a ride?” she asked.
Pino shook his head, but she insisted. Natalia honked the horn as they accelerated and bumped off the slight curb, into traffic. At the office, she signed out the journal discovered by the forensics squad in the hollow of Teresa Steiner’s brass bedstead. The cover was a peacock-feather design. On the first page, written neatly in red ink below her name: PERSONAL. Natalia turned the page: Reality is a social construct.
Pure Lattanza.
“How a mountain is regarded is of no importance to the mountain.”—Kierkegaard. Interpreted by L: Nature is indifferent.
She must have been impressed with herself when her professor showed such interest. Innocence and hope. Lattanza preys on both. Once, Natalia had been as naïve as Teresa. She quotes him again:
If an immigrant is viewed as unwanted, dirty, poor by the society he or she enters, they will forever be affected by that view.
True, Natalia thought. If only Lattanza were as enlightened in his personal affairs as in his observations about the world. It was common knowledge around the University that he came on to at least one student every semester. But he’d never actually fallen for any of them before.
L. and I went to Procida. L. surprised me with a ferry ride. I didn’t know where we were going. There were tiny islands where goats came right down to the water to watch us pass. I stayed on deck the whole way. I felt so free, refreshed. L. arranged for us to stay at a pensione on the side of the island away from the dock. Less chance for someone to see us. It was run by a very religious woman. Kind of like a nun. L. got separate rooms, but I’m sure she knew what was going on. Jesus was everywhere. Over the beds. On the wall by the staircase. Outside the front door—the message being that when you enter here, you enter his realm, and when you leave, you are thrown back into the dangerous world.
“Paradise,” I told her, when she showed me my room on the roof. It had a view of lemon groves and the sea.
“Paradise is not here on earth,” she answered, angrily slapping some sheets on the bed. When L. and I were having coffee the first morning on a patio near these magnificent blue flowers, she watched us with suspicion. Pippo brought us fresh bread and honey. Lovely man. He doubles as the gardener. After breakfast he gave us a tour of the rose garden. We met his cat, Michou, a huge caramel girl. Then he took us to the shed in back where he slaughters rabbits.
“Gross!” I said. I couldn’t stop myself.
“Such a city girl,” L. said, smiling at Pippo. Men! And who is he to talk? He won
’t go to the beach because he doesn’t want sand on his feet. Won’t even swim in the sea, because of the salt. Our sojourn didn’t work out as planned. We had a fight. And I met someone.
Yes, Lattanza might well have fallen in love. Ironically, perhaps for the first time. Did she grow tired of him once he was captivated? Did his pedagogy begin to bore her? Did she find someone else? Gambini, Benito…?
There was a widow across the road. Every night she came out at dusk to tend her lemon trees. Such a peaceful life. The donna is still a young woman, attractive in a way. But such a sad face. Regal posture, and lustrous hair, but she keeps it in check in a tight bun. She lives alone there with two elderly aunts. One is sprightly and manages the kitchen. The other is an invalid. In the mornings the donna took her around the perimeter of the garden. They moved slowly, the aunt with her metal walker, the donna guiding her. Such devotion. Such a pious life. But deadly boring.
Natalia turned the page. There was no more about the trip. Then this:
Roman Myth—note to self—There is a shrine to Isis in Naples! In 19 CE, Tiberius crucified the priestess of Isis and exiled her followers to Sardinia.
(about P.—what can I say? The fruits of transgression. Sin. Pure thrill. Maybe another article? I’ll have to use a fake name.)
A thrill? Natalia thought. Sleeping with another woman’s man? Whatever happened to feminism? Sisterhood? Or does the “P” refer to Benito? The thrill of sleeping with a clergyman. Every Catholic girl’s secret fantasy. She read on:
Magical thinking in Naples increased after the cholera epidemic in 1884. Disease came from the Far East, through Provence, and back to Naples with infected migrant workers. Conditions were ripe for an epidemic. Polluted drinking water. No regulation. Fields crisscrossed with waterways where animal feces were dumped. Produce rinsed in the same water and brought to market. Tens of thousands died in a matter of weeks. The Church suggested the illness was retribution for sin. The desperate chipped away the plaster from the street shrines that had been covered over since unification to make Italy appear more modern and dignified. People offered up votive candles, flowers, whatever coins they could, desperate for salvation. They pleaded for their saints to intercede.
When I showed my notes to L., he laughed. Said, “Save your pretty head for better things.” But he doesn’t know what I know. He invited me to a conference in Paris. He’s talking about leaving his wife. What a fool.
So Lattanza had lied when he said his relationship with Teresa Steiner was over. Natalia closed the journal and swapped it for the dead girl’s bulging file. She dug out xeroxes of primary source material on the Egyptian goddess Isis. An ancient text: Athanasius Kircher. “Collegio Romano” was superimposed on the page at a corner.
Corporal Giulio came in, bringing her the name of an urban archeologist at the University she had requested. He also announced a phone call for her.
“Hello,” she said into the receiver.
“Good morning, Captain.”
“Who is this?”
“Benito.”
“Benito Gambini, you are a suspect in a murder case. We need to speak with you.”
“What about?”
“We found the knife that was missing from the monastery kitchen. We believe it was used to kill Teresa.”
“You should talk to her Professor Lattanza. He threatened her. After she split with him.”
“Tell me again about the night Teresa was killed. The truth.”
“I was sleeping. I heard someone screaming. I got up and ran out to the alley in my pajamas. Others came. They said there was blood on the ground. A lot of blood. Gina Falcone came by. She told me to go back to the monastery, which I did. Later, I heard who it was who’d been murdered. I haven’t been able to sleep a night through since.”
“Does anyone have a grudge against you?”
“Against me? No.”
“Were you and Teresa lovers?”
“She was my friend.”
Meaning yes, but he was unable to say it. Hesitant. Aggressive in a muted way. Dependent on others’ protection in a world he didn’t really want to deal with. Teresa’s friendship must have meant a lot to him. A brash shield. Had he fallen in love with her? If she ended it, had it made him desperate enough to commit murder?
“I’m not coming in to be questioned or detained,” Benito said. There was a long empty pause. “I loved her,” he announced and hung up.
“I know,” Natalia said into the dead phone.
Teresa Steiner and the little monachello. Had they gotten involved with drugs? Had they gotten greedy and taken more than their agreed-upon commission from the donation-box collections? Had she gotten too nosy about Camorra business? Had Brother Benito stabbed her as he held her, and taken her life?
“Damn.”
A note was slid under the door. Creamy white envelope. Creamy white stationery, gold-bordered. Looked like a fancy invitation. Natalia sat on the edge of her desk and read it.
N.
It’s been a while. Lunch soon, okay?
Do watch your back.
That German girl is trouble.
Be in touch.
L.
Pino arrived but avoided eye contact, as if somehow that would reveal to everyone what they had experienced last night. Natalia smiled to herself and went back to her reading. At noon she slipped out for some air, too sated to eat, too distracted to talk to anyone.
“Natalia Monte!”
A rattan awning shaded the outdoor tables at the café on the corner. Where it was torn, the sun oozed through onto Professor Marco Lattanza. Still handsome, but now he looked ratty around the edges. Unshaved. Wearing a shirt that clashed with his pants. Knowing that he was going to be picked up on suspicion of murder and questioned further, Natalia felt a surge of power.
Lattanza stood up. “What luck. Will you join me?” he asked, smiling. But his lips quivered. Desperate, alone, contriving this “chance” meeting. She almost felt sorry for him.
“If not lunch, a drink then?” he persisted.
“No, thank you,” Natalia said. “I’m really not supposed to talk to you, given my history with you. We wouldn’t want to bias the ongoing investigation of your role in Miss Steiner’s death.”
“Please.” He snapped his fingers for the waiter to bring another chair. “I’m delighted at this coincidence. I wanted to talk to you anyway. I was going to ring you up at home. I thought we might behave like two adults and renew our friendship. We were that once—friends and colleagues—weren’t we?” His voice was unnaturally soft, pleading.
When she didn’t answer, he took out a letter from his inside pocket. “I thought you might be amused by this,” he said, voice full of bravado and resentment. He passed it to her like an amusement, a self-abasement she was party to. His hands were shaking. “I received this yesterday.”
She recognized the address logo. It was from the Academy of Sociology in Rome. Natalia unfolded it all the way open. They were still using the thin elegant parchment they’d used when she was a student. We are sorry we must rescind our offer for presentation of your latest work at our spring conference.… Regretfully.… She couldn’t make out the scrawled signature of the director.
“That’s too bad,” she said, handing the letter back that had been presented to her like evidence of pain exacted and paid. Debts fulfilled.
“That’s all you have to say? What are you all trying to do to me? I’m not going to have my best work ruined by this situation, understand?”
“What are you going to do—kill me? Like Teresa Steiner?”
“Natalia, I’m pleading with you.”
“Your wife came in and signed a statement yesterday. She says you weren’t home the night Teresa Steiner was murdered.”
He brushed his hand through his hair. “We should be friends. Christ, Natalia, when are you going to get over it?”
“You haven’t changed. You seduced Teresa. Then she turned you down.”
“Wrong.”
“You had your customary tryst but she got to you. Then she turned away and you found yourself conquered and cast off instead of in command of her affections and career. Speaking of which, we’ve asked around. Your own career is stalled—seriously. Enough to jeopardize your position at the University. They are considering early retirement for you.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Last month you presented a paper at the art historians’ convention in Lyons: Feminist Iconography—Shrines and the Rebel Church. Not unlike Teresa Steiner’s thesis. If you recall, I wanted to do a similar project. You told me it was ridiculous, but feminist theory is more the rage now, yes? Do you borrow from your students regularly?”
“I could bring suit against you for slander. I’m not joking about suing if you people force me to. But I don’t wish to do battle with you, Natalia.”
“You bedded Teresa Steiner. Then you tried to steal her work. But she didn’t go away quietly like I did. She fought back. Broke up with you. Confronted you and threatened to expose you.”
“Look, I made a mistake with you and I’ve regretted it deeply all these years. I’m sorry, and I would like to make it up to you. Can’t you forgive? You were lovely as a young student. I succumbed. I desired you and you wouldn’t respond. I wasn’t used to being spurned. Natalia, you’re still so lovely.”
“And you’re still a prick.”
“Why are you so hostile? Are you jealous of my relationship with Teresa? Haven’t you ever been in love?”
Natalia’s beeper went off.
He raked his hair again. “Look, Natalia.” He gestured toward his table. “I just—”