It started back in Philadelphia, in the months before Piero reappeared. During the nights I didn’t sleep, when I couldn’t reach Benedetta and Eleanora in my dreams, I searched Ty’s ‘accident’ on the internet, and read about others. Perhaps it made me feel less alone, or maybe I believed that reading details in black and white could somehow make something up to him. I couldn’t access what got published at the time here in Florence, which I never saw, thanks to being in hospital, so one of the first things I did after I arrived was go to the library and look up the newspaper articles from Monday, 26 May. I told myself I owed Ty that, and I was shocked to find an editorial by Pierangelo, which isn’t really fair, given that it is his job. Still, it was strange to see myself written about as part of a phenomenon, an example of the breakdown of Italian society, and to know that my lover’s hands had typed the words. At least he didn’t refer to it as ‘L’Assassinio della Luna Miele,’ the Honeymoon Killing, like most of the other papers did.
I think about this as I get down on my knees, pull the manila envelope from under the jeans in the bottom drawer of my dresser, and let the articles I’ve copied slither out onto the cold marble floor. The sheets rustle and whisper. I shuffle them around, put them in an order of my own, and think some day maybe I’ll look up the other two women Karel Indrizzio kissed, just to make my collection complete.
The idea has a certain appeal, but I do realize that, like picking scabs, this little fixation is not particularly socially acceptable. I’m not even sure, exactly, why I do it any more.
It’s a sort of crutch, I suppose, and I will give it up when I’m ready. In the meantime, however, I think it best to keep the manila envelope and its contents to myself. It’s private. My harmless little secret. Perhaps the only one about me that even Pierangelo doesn’t know.
Chapter Three
PIERANGELO CALLS EARLY the next morning to say he will be on the evening express from Rome. I offer to meet him and he laughs, but he doesn’t tell me not to. This is one of the things I love about Piero, he understands tiny extravagances. A glass of wine in bed. A single flower. Meetings at train stations.
He has been in Rome for the last week because, even though he is now an editor, he still likes to do the occasional story, and the paper’s upcoming feature on Florence’s own pet cardinal, Massimo D’Erreti, is too important to be handed over to anyone else. D’Erreti is rumoured to be close to the Pope, and although St Peter’s is hardly Pierangelo’s natural stomping ground—he is at best agnostic and definitely a liberal ‘small c’ Communist—he covers the cardinal himself because he likes the challenge. D’Erreti is right-wing enough to have acquired the nickname Savonarola, and I think fair and balanced coverage requires every ounce of Pierangelo’s professionalism. As a result, it’s anyone’s guess whether he’ll come back from Rome in a fit of depression at the state of the nation, a black temper at the state of the church, or on an exhausted and slightly euphoric high, the kind runners get when they’ve just completed a marathon.
The six o’clock bells are ringing as I come into the station. People swirl around me, and finally I spot Piero halfway down the platform. He pauses to let a young woman pushing a baby stroller pass. To everyone else he’s just one more tired businessman getting off the express from Rome, dark hair tousled, coat thrown over his shoulders, briefcase gripped in one hand and suit bag in the other. But not to me. To me he’s the only person in this crowd. Which is precisely why I love meeting him in stations, or airports, or as he walks across a piazza or down a sidewalk; because in those few unconscious seconds, I own him entirely and don’t have to share him with anyone, even himself.
On the way back to his apartment, we shop. Veal, vitello, already pounded wafer thin. Fresh asparagus. Tiny artichokes so young their outer leaves are soft and devoid of prickles so you eat them whole. A bottle of Brunello. But for all that, dinner has to wait. A week is a lifetime, and the dips and contours of another human body might somehow be forgotten. In time perhaps this desire to consume each other will wear down like a tired clock, but not now and lying on the faintly rough linen of his sheets I let Pierangelo read my scars. He walks his fingers across the angry red lines and pale risen welts. Sometimes he bends down to kiss one of the ridges, as if it’s a landmark on a map he loves.
With the exception of doctors and nurses, whom I could not avoid, no one else has ever been permitted to even see the secret calligraphy embossed on my skin, much less touch it. Most of the time I wear turtlenecks, and when I don’t, I keep collars buttoned. Sometimes I wind scarves over and over around my neck. And on the very rare occasions when I slip up, or when I’m forced into a position where someone gets a glimpse, I mumble about an accident. I give the distinct impression of twisted metal and shattered glass.
‘You changed your hair.’ We are finally getting out of bed, driven by hunger of the more banal kind, and I watch in the bedroom mirror as he runs his hands through my tiger stripes. They’re bronze and copper, with one deep pink streak on the left side. Our eyes meet in the glass, mine an intermediate hazel, his the peculiar pale bluish-green one sees occasionally in this part of Italy, bits of luminous glass set in the severe, almost hawk-like cast of his features. ‘It looks great,’ he says. ‘I love it, Mrs Warren.’
‘Who’s she?’ I ask. ‘Your other lover?’
‘Yeah,’ Piero replies, ‘a lady I knew once. No one you need to worry about. You don’t even look like her.’
In the kitchen, I lean on the counter, rolling a lemon back and forth across the bright stainless-steel surface while Pierangelo pulls the cork on the Brunello and pours us each a glass. His apartment is almost directly across the river from Billy’s and mine, and although it’s also in an old palazzo, the similarities end there. From our leprous gilded mirrors to the silk counterpanes and massive beds it’s clear, to me at least, that Signora Bardino’s eye for design comes pretty much directly from The Garden of the Finzi-Continis and The Leopard. Pierangelo and, I assume, Monika, on the other hand, are distinctly ‘New Europe.’
The ceilings here are as high and the windows as symmetrical as those of the apartment Billy and I live in, but instead of marble, Piero’s floors are stripped pale wood. Natural-linen blinds hang in place of our armour-plated ones, and the lighting is so recessed it’s virtually invisible. Large Rothko-like canvases cover bright white walls whose plaster is smooth and silky. Even the lemon pots on the roof terrace are not the regulation terra-cotta, but cylinders of stainless steel. The trees themselves are studded with tiny lights that glitter in the leaves like Dante’s stars.
Pierangelo cooks to relax and his kitchen is outfitted with glass-fronted cabinets, magnetic racks of knives, and gadgets. Centre stage is a six-burner gas range I’ve seen him stroke as lovingly as other middle-aged men stroke sports cars. The results of his meticulous preparations are almost disturbingly perfect, which I tease him about. I’ve threatened to get a measuring tape and make sure his cubes of zucchini are exactly symmetrical, or, worse, to make dinner myself, which would almost certainly involve spilling things.
At the moment, he’s concentrating completely on slivering the tiniest carrots I have ever seen. The tip of his knife flashes up and down, and I know better than to interrupt. Instead, I occupy myself with a game I play called How many traces of Monika are left here? I’ve yet to find anything as concrete as a piece of clothing—an old bra at the back of a laundry basket, or a shoe. Not even a half-used lipstick. If I didn’t know better, I’d sometimes think she never existed. Now, I slide open the drawer that holds the phone books to see if there’s anything lurking, and hit gold dust almost right away. Underneath a set of manuals for the dishwasher and the dryer, there’s an old Catholic calendar, one of those gory ones with all the saints and martyrs and how they died. I give myself a ten for the find and another ten for speed, and roll the lemon absently as I read that today is the anniversary of three guys called Felix, Fortunas and Achilleus, who were scourged and broken on the wheel somewhere in an
cient Gaul. The names sound like brands of men’s cologne, and why people would want to remember things like this is beyond me. Pierangelo finishes with the carrots, heaping them on a plate and setting it aside, which means I can talk to him.
‘How was Savonarola?’ I put the calendar back, and slide the drawer closed, thinking D’Erreti would probably approve of some scourging and breaking himself.
‘It was OK.’ Piero grabs the lemon in mid-roll and replaces it with the glass of wine. ‘In fact,’ he adds, ‘I would say His Eminence is thriving. This Vatican suits him. All they need to do is bring back the Holy Inquisition and he’ll be in seventh heaven.’
We both laugh, but the truth is that, despite his posing, or probably because of it, Florence’s cardinal is popular. Very. He did some time in Africa and the U.S., where he apparently picked up some tricks from Evangelists, and when he’s in town D’Erreti’s appearances at the Duomo are as packed as rock concerts. I haven’t actually heard him preach, but I gather that on occasion he’s borrowed a page from his namesake’s book and even evoked a black cross hanging over Florence. Personally, I never was too into fire and brimstone, even back in the days when I went to Mass. But I realize I’m in the minority.
‘The odd thing about D’Erreti,’ Pierangelo says, picking up his glass and shaking his head, ‘is that despite the fact I disagree with him about basically everything, I know why people admire him. I even feel myself doing it sometimes. Whatever else he may be, he’s not a hypocrite. And then there’s the whole power trip. And the history.’
Pierangelo told me once that he was an altar boy. It just slipped out, and it surprised me at the time, both because of how he feels now, and because his parents were university professors, one a mathematician, the other a historian. He doesn’t talk about them much, or about his brother, who lives in Milan and is some kind of big shot at Fiat, but as far as I know, they weren’t particularly religious. As he puts his glass down and turns back to the cutting board, I realize that while I know what drove me away from the church, I’ve never asked him what made him change his mind, or drew him in the first place, for that matter. And now I wonder if it’s some residual love, or revulsion, or a combination of the two that draws him to D’Erreti.
‘What’s this piece on, I mean, exactly?’
‘Our fiftieth birthday.’ Pierangelo glances over his shoulder at me as he says this and bursts out laughing. ‘You should see your face,’ he says. ‘Don’t panic, cara, Savonarola is not my long-lost twin. The paper’s just doing a profile in honour of his half-century.’ He shakes his head, grinning, and checks the contents of a bright copper pan. A spout of steam erupts like a mini-Vesuvius. ‘You know the kind of thing,’ he adds, ‘modern man—goes to the gym—rides a motorcycle—but radical reformer—and beloved of the people—Is This the New Future of Mother Church?’
‘And is it?’
‘Well, maybe. But I certainly hope not.’ Pierangelo begins dropping the baby artichokes one by one into the boiling water. ‘For a start,’ he says, ‘D’Erreti would probably like to do things like have all homosexuals forced to publicly recant. Or, if they refuse, have them rounded up and shipped to God knows where. Some island somewhere, along with all the other undesirables. You know, women who want to be priests, men who think women should be priests, women who need abortions, doctors who perform abortions, NGO workers who don’t believe starvation offers a neat opportunity for conversion. Oh yeah, and anybody who believes that condoms might actually stop people from dying of AIDS and that you aren’t necessarily criminal if you want a divorce or use birth control.’ He stops and looks at me. ‘But the fact is,’ he says, ‘a lot of people think that’s just what the church needs. To stand like a rock. Be firm hand on the tiller in this sea of moral relativism. And provide an apartment for every child molester in Vatican City.’
‘It won’t work,’ I point out. ‘It will only alienate more people. Besides, it’s mean.’
‘Right,’ Pierangelo agrees. ‘But I am not in the college of cardinals, and neither are you. So, when it comes to one of the most powerful institutions on earth, we don’t get a vote. Instead it’s in the safe hands of the men in red, the little gremlins the Pope appoints in the first place.’ I’m surprised by the anger in his voice.
‘So, you think this is real?’ I ask. ‘You really think D’Erreti’s in some vanguard, that this is where it’s going?’
Pierangelo shrugs. ‘I think it would be a tragedy, but I don’t see why not.’ He sweeps a pile of chopped parsley onto a saucer and reaches for his glass again. ‘D’Erreti’s backed by Opus Dei, for what that tells you. They think he’s great.’
The Opus, the Work, as they call themselves, was founded in the 1930s by a Spaniard, a big admirer of Franco’s who’s since been canonized, some think with unseemly haste. It operates like a free radical in the body of the Catholic Church, unanswerable to most of the usual channels, and awash in money, how much, nobody really knows. Rumour says a justice of the Supreme Court, at least one United States senator, a British cabinet minister, and God knows how many other political movers and shakers are members. In point of fact, God may not even know. The Opus like to call themselves discreet, but most people would probably use the word ‘secretive’. Some mutter ‘sect.’
There’s a school of thought that says they’re deeply sinister, but I have to admit I find them kind of silly. Fanatics, especially when they think they’re being subtle, tend to overdo it like cops in old movies. I discovered after I’d known him for a while that Rinaldo was Opus, and once, back when we were bosom buddies, he introduced me to some members of a prayer group he led up at San Miniato. The whole episode was like a bad satire on religious cults. Rinaldo primed me by talking about how ‘we’re all alone in the world and need real friends’ and when I met them his disciples murmured and fluttered around me with such extreme godliness that it was positively cloying. Even if I hadn’t already been seeing Pierangelo, they would have been enough to send me straight out into the streets to do some serious sinning.
As it was, Piero and I laughed about it in bed the next afternoon, and he still teases that if he hadn’t bought me a Martini one rainy day maybe I’d be sleeping on a board in an Opus Dei house right now. Doing the Work. Turning my pay cheque over to Rinaldo for His Bank Account’s Sake, and greeting every morning by kissing the floor and wrapping barbed wire around my thighs for fun.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask Pierangelo if he’s come across the good father lately, but I don’t. It’s bad enough that suddenly I swear I can feel the soft pressure of Rinaldo’s hand on my shoulder. The puff of his breath in my ear. Any minute now, I’ll hear him whispering his recipe for salvation. I reach for one of the olives on the counter and bite into the bitter green flesh.
The veal is perfect, tender enough to cut with a fork and crispy on the outside. Asparagus was a serious treat when I was growing up, something we ate only at Easter, and I can still remember my aunt scolding me one year for cutting all the tips off and leaving a large serving plate of nothing but stalks. The idea of repeating the trick is tempting, but I content myself instead with slicing my artichokes and pairing them off with what’s left of my veal while I listen to Pierangelo talking about his daughters.
Angelina is at Bologna and wants to be a lawyer, although that’s probably just because she’s dating one, while Graziella, on the other hand, takes after her mother, and is mainly interested in shopping. Frankly, Piero says, he might just as well have handed her a credit card, sent her to Milan, and forgotten about the university altogether.
I have never met either of the twins, but I have seen their pictures in his study. Unidentical, they are still obviously a pair, as lean and fragile as gazelles, with wide eyes, their father’s height and their mother’s golden hair. Both of them were still living here when I first met Pierangelo—Monika waited to leave until they had gone off to college—but now their rooms are like empty boxes.
Pierangelo gets up, takes my plat
e, and ruffles my hair. ‘I bought you strawberries,’ he says, ‘from Sicily. The first ones. They were in the market at Campo dei Fiori, but I forgot the bag on the train. Senility setting in. How about I take you for gelato instead?’
‘Only if I get a double.’ As he pretends to consider this, the intercom buzzes.
Piero’s building doesn’t have anything as vulgar as keys. Instead, all of the doors are controlled by security numbers that you punch into little pads. I stand up and take the dishes from him as he goes to the door. A moment later I hear another urgent buzz.
‘Pronto.’ Pierangelo releases the locks, and just for a second I am absolutely convinced it’s Monika, that she’s standing down in the street, has come to tell him she’s changed her mind, grown tried of her toy boy, and still loves him. Wants him back. But I’m wrong. I didn’t hear what was said through the intercom, but I know from the sound of his voice, which has become flat and quick, that whatever this is, it has to do with work.
Our visitor turns out to be a motorcycle courier. As I come into the room, he’s already on his way back into the open elevator in the vestibule.
‘Important?’
Pierangelo shrugs, studying the envelope he’s just been handed. ‘Stuff on a story they want me to check before tomorrow.’
‘I’ll get my jacket.’
He nods, OK, but he’s concentrating on the envelope, not me, and as I walk past he spills the contents out onto the dining-room table. Piero runs his hand across the pages. On top is a blow-up of the photo I studied last night, a grainy eight-by-ten of the girl they found by the river.
The Faces of Angels Page 4