We follow a few other semilost-looking people through the door, one of whom is a tall, lanky, blond guy in jeans, a blue polo shirt, and a Red Sox baseball cap. So I’m guessing he’s probably here for the orientation too. Abby grabs my elbow and tows me to a wide marble staircase directly in front of us, and we climb it to the second floor. There are a dozen or so other people waiting in the second-floor classroom that Abby leads me into, and Red Sox Cap Guy and another girl come through just behind us. A wiry man in a blazer, (despite the fact that it’s got to be ninety outside and there’s apparently no air-conditioning in here) with thick salt-and-pepper hair comes in a few minutes later and sits on the edge of the desk in the front of the room.
“Hello. My name is Professor Avery. Did everyone find us okay?”
We’re here, I want to say, so pretty much, yeah. But reality is, I’d probably still be wandering the narrow Roman streets, twisting my ankles on the cobbles, if Abby hadn’t saved my sorry butt.
After a few mumbled yeahs, he smiles, revealing stained teeth that could use an Invisalign intervention. “Well, we want to get you comfortable here before classes start next week. We’ll be taking you on the tour, so hopefully you’ll know where to go when the time comes. You also all have individual meetings with your curriculum advisors at either one or two, so check your orientation schedules.”
“Um … ?” Baseball Cap Guy says. “What orientation schedule?”
“It was e-mailed on the tenth,” Professor Avery says. “Did you not receive it, Mr… . ?”
“Higgins,” the guy says. “Grant Higgins.”
Professor Avery leans back and rifles through some papers on his desk, like it’s magically going to turn up there. “We’ll visit the computer lab and print you a copy,” he says when he comes up empty. “Anyone else without a schedule?”
We all shake our heads, and Grant grimaces.
“Excellent. So you’re all aware that John Cabot University is English-speaking. All your classes will be in English. We do, however, encourage you to interact with locals … explore the culture. Though learning is our primary objective, the greatest experiences you’ll take home with you are the ones from outside the classroom. We offer a plethora of services and resources to make this the best experience possible for each one of you, so I encourage you to take advantage.”
We spend the next few hours going over logistics, from the class schedules to the textbooks and fee schedules. We tour all the main buildings as well as the surrounding area. Abby elbows me as we’re leaving the resource center and points at Grant Higgins, who looks relieved now that he has his orientation and class schedules. “Dibs,” she says with a grin.
“I hate the Red Sox. He’s all yours.”
WHEN I SHOW up at St. Peter’s Square that evening, the Reverend Moretti is already there, leaning against the concrete barrier at the base of the obelisk with his ankles crossed and his arms folded over his chest. His eyes tick to his watch as I stroll up.
“You’re late.”
“You said six.” I glance at my phone. Six fifteen. “It’s six … more or less.” In all honesty, I know I’m late. I got distracted by the pretty pastries in the shop near my apartment. They had those same croissants, which I now know have currants in them. The way they melted in my mouth was so worth the wrath of the reverend.
He gives me the eye.
I give him the eye back. “It was a long walk. I had to stop for nourishment.”
He turns on his heel without another word, and I follow him across St. Peter’s Square to the right side of the Basilica. Watching him weave through the milling crowd, it hits me how fluid his motions are. Even just walking looks graceful when he does it. He stops at the bottom of a ramp and makes an “after you” gesture with a wave of his arm and a small bow. I start up the ramp, and he follows. We push through a door at the top into a foyer with a wide staircase off to the right. The reverend flashes a badge at a guard there and says something in Italian. The guard looks me over and nods to the reverend, who holds an arm out toward the stairs. I start up them, and he follows.
“Where are we going?”
“I told you, to the museums.”
He says it like he thinks I might be a little slow, and it pisses me off. I stop and look at him. “No. You said you had a project.”
He tips his head up the stairs and arches an eyebrow at me. “Which is in the museums.”
I plant my fists on my hips and stare him down. It’s not that I don’t want to see the museums. I do. More than anything. They’re the reason I’m in Rome. But I don’t like being left in the dark. “How do I know you’re not just jerking me around?”
His causal aloofness slips a little, and he looks momentarily surprised. “Are you suggesting my motives are less than pure?”
Oh, God. I’m a moron. “No,” I backpedal. “I just mean, why all the mystery?”
He starts climbing again, and I keep step with him. “There’s no mystery, really. The Church has several missions that target children. The purpose is twofold. We strive to educate them in their Italian culture in the hope that it will not only inspire them to better themselves in the eyes of God but also to protect their national heritage, of which the Church is a large part. With your interest in art history, you’re the perfect missionary for this part of the program,” he says with a wave of his arm at the double glass doors in front of us, just at the top of the stairs.
They swish open, and he presses his fingers into the small of my back and ushers me through into a long, wide hallway with enormous maps frescoed into the twelve-foot walls and the curve of the arched ceiling above. “Galleria delle Carte Geografiche,” he says with a wave of his arm. “The gallery of maps. There are forty frescoes here that were painted between 1572 and 1585 by the renowned geographer, Ignazio Danti. They represent the Italian regions and the papal properties at the time of Pope Gregory XIII.”
I move slowly up the hall, mesmerized by the details. It hits me fifteen minutes later, when I’m about halfway up the corridor, that this is the Vatican. There are more prized works of art here than anywhere else in the world. I feel suddenly dizzy with the overwhelming realization that I’m actually here.
I look back at the Reverend Moretti, and beyond him to the long stretch of empty hall. “Where is everyone? This is the Vatican Museum. It’s supposed to be a madhouse.”
“The museums close at six.”
“But they let you just”—I wave my arms at the frescoes—“wander around in here?”
The hint of a smile curves his lips, and something flashes in his eyes. “They trust me.”
“Perks of being an almost-priest, I guess,” I mutter, turning back to the frescoes. I work my way slowly through to the end. “This is amazing,” I say as the glass doors at the end of the corridor slide open.
One corner of his mouth curls, and he nods. “I thought you might like it.”
I move through the door into the next gallery.
“Galleria degli Arazzi. The gallery of tapestries,” he says.
I glance back at him as that kid-on-Christmas-morning zing of excitement ripples through me. “Brittany Simmons would so hate me right now.” She’s my class’s resident haughty bitch. Every group has one—the person who thinks they rein supreme over everyone else. She was livid when I scored the year-abroad scholarship she thought she deserved.
“I feel obligated to remind you this is your penance for previous sins. It doesn’t seem prudent to start racking up more so soon.”
I spin and see him fighting a smile. “What am I supposed to call you, anyway?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Reverend Moretti will suffice … for now.”
Something about this guy gets totally under my skin in that really annoying pebble-in-my-shoe way. I turn to the tapestry in front of me. “So, Reverend Moretti. This tapestry was fashioned from a Raphael original.”
“Keen eye,” he says, stepping up next to me and tucking his hands into his pockets, “but actu
ally, these tapestries were all realized in the 1520s and ’30s from drawings by Raphael’s students. None of them are based on his original work, but some of his students picked up his tendencies, so there are similarities.” He leads me halfway up the hall to a tapestry of Jesus and His disciples. “This one is especially interesting. It and many of the others are done in the Flemish tradition, which gives it a three-dimensional appearance. Walk past it slowly and watch Jesus’ eyes.”
I do, and not only do they follow me, but the long table at the end of which He’s sitting points at me no matter where I stand. “So … wow.”
He steps up next to me, his eyes following the lines of the artwork. “These hung in the Sistine Chapel for almost one hundred years.” He glances at me. “Are you taking notes?”
I tap my forehead and smirk. “Right here.”
He gives me the skeptic’s eye for a long heartbeat, then turns and moves farther up the hall. We go through several more galleries in the next few hours and end in the Cortile del Belvedere, in front of the white marble sculpture of Laocoön and His Sons.
“This is where it all began,” he says, admiring the sculpture of an immense and very naked Laocoön and his two mature, equally naked but significantly smaller sons, one on either side of him, struggling against a serpent that is wound around all three and biting Laocoön’s hip. “Pope Julius II acquired this sculpture in 1506 when it was unearthed in a Roman vineyard near Santa Maria Maggiore. He sent a young Michelangelo and Giuliano—”
“—de Sangallo to check it out,” I interrupt. “They told him it was the real deal and said he should snap it up and bring it back to Vatican City for preservation. It was the first piece in the Vatican collection.” I fold my arms over my chest and stare him down. “Art History 101. What kind of amateur do you think I am?”
A smile ticks his mouth. “It’s good to know you were paying attention.” He turns back to Laocoön and smooths a hand over his perfect hair. “Tomorrow, we’ll tackle the Sistine Chapel and St. Peter’s Basilica.”
I look at him for a long minute in the waning light. “You know everything that’s in there. Why don’t you just do this thing with the kids? Why do you need me?”
He makes a slow loop around the front of Laocoön, inspecting the piece from all angles. “Because I’m boring. No twelve-year-old wants to hear a deacon drone on about things that were created hundreds of years before they were born.”
“So, why do you think they’re going to want to hear me drone on about things that were created hundreds of years before they were born?”
He turns and looks at me, grasping his hands behind his back. “Because your task is to find a way to make it interesting—bring it to life for them, make them want to know more. Part of what we’re hoping to instill in them is a hunger for knowledge that will carry through into adulthood.”
I think about the tattoo over my heart, the kanji symbol for knowledge—which makes me think about Trent’s matching tattoo, rippling on his pec while I made love to him—which reminds me why I’m here. I shake off the shudder and look at the reverend. “But I don’t speak Italian, so unless I’m expanding their cultural knowledge by ordering them a pizza, which is just about all I know how to say in Italian except, Va ’al diavolo, I don’t get how this is going to work.”
His eyes widen for a beat when I tell him to go to hell in Italian, but then he says, “I will be your mouth, when necessary.” For some reason, when he says the word mouth, it draws my attention to his. And now I’m staring at it. When I don’t say anything, he continues. “Children are extraordinarily perceptive. Only someone authentic, with a deep love of art, will radiate the enthusiasm needed to keep them engaged.” He lifts a hand and rubs his chin. “I hoped that person might be you, but if you’re not interested—”
“I didn’t say that,” I interrupt, because I am. How many people get to spend their free time hanging out at one of the most renowned museums in the world teaching kids to love art? This is an amazing opportunity. “How will this work with my schedule at school?”
“I’ll need you one afternoon every other week, but we have a degree of flexibility in our scheduling. This is just one segment in a three-day series of presentations. I have a historian who will take them through the Forum and Colosseum, and an architectural student who will walk them through the Pantheon for the other two days. Once I have all your schedules, we’ll coordinate them so your commitment with me will be consistent.”
“How many Hail Marys did they have to say?” I mutter.
He tilts his head at me but doesn’t answer.
I try to think of a downside, but I can’t find one. “You’ve got yourself a tour guide.”
A smile curves his lips. “Excellent.”
It’s not till I get home and look at my phone that I see that Trent responded to my text. I sit on the lounge on my patio, ignoring the bass vibration from the bar and the possibility that a boy might at this very minute be peeing in my doorway and open it.
Hope you said a Hail Mary for me. Heading back to school tomorrow. Same apartment, in case you feel like sending some Italian wine or anything.
So, that’s it. It’s over. We’re good. Things are back to normal.
I’ve got my best friend back. What happened isn’t going to ruin our family because it’s over and done. We’re archiving it into the dead files, where we’ll never talk about it or think about it or dream about it again.
I breathe deep and am shocked that I finally can. It’s like the elephant that’s been sitting on my chest went looking for some other condemned soul to torture. All the tension in my muscles runs out, and suddenly I’m exhausted. I can barely keep my eyes open long enough to brush my teeth. God, I’m going to sleep well tonight.
I flop on the bed and call Julie before I’m totally out, and when I wake up in the morning, the phone is in my bed, and I don’t remember most of the conversation or hanging up, which means I probably didn’t.
All I remember for sure is I dreamed about Trent … in my bed.
I am so going to hell.
Chapter Seven
“PORTA SACTA,” THE Reverend Moretti tells me as we step through the entrance into the narthex of St. Peter’s Basilica, stopping in front of a huge double door on the right front of the immense façade. Today, we’re in the normal throng of visitors. No private tour, unfortunately. The reverend flashes his credentials and gets us past the long lines—more perks—but there’s still a bottleneck at the main entrance. “The Holy Door,” he continues. “It’s also called the Door of the Great Pardon because its sixteen panels depict the sins of man and his redemption through God’s mercy.”
I study the panels of the bronze door.
“His Holiness opens it only on holy years for the pilgrimage.”
“When is the next holy year?”
His gaze shifts from the door to me. “Not until 2025.”
I scrunch my face. “So what happens on unholy years?”
He blows a puff of air through his nose that could almost be a laugh. “It stays bricked over on the inside.” He leads me toward the main entrance, and we catch a slight lull in the crowd, so it only takes us a few minutes to get through the massive double doors into the central nave of the church.
“Holy crap,” I say when I walk in and look up. I knew it was big, but … “Holy—” His hand on my arm and his stern gaze stop my next word. “Sorry,” I whisper.
“Saint Peter’s Basilica is the largest church in the world,” he says, stepping deeper into the cavernous space. But he’s already lost me because, in the corner to the right, behind Plexiglas, I see the Pietà—one of Michelangelo’s greatest creations. One of the pinnacles of Renaissance sculpture.
I’m totally dumbstruck. I can’t move. I can’t even speak. I’m fairly certain I’m having my first truly religious experience, and it’s probably a very bad thing that it’s happening in a church, but it’s over a sculpture. Mental note: Add idol worship to your list for confessi
on.
It must take the Reverend Moretti a while to realize I’m not following him because it’s a full minute later when his gentle hand grasps my elbow, directing me toward the crowd surrounding the sculpture. We wait while the masses snap their shots and move on, and several minutes later, we’re standing at a black marble rail about eight feet from the Plexiglas. Five feet past that, on a high, oval pedestal, is the Pietà.
“I take it you recognize this?” he asks me, and I hear the smile in his voice.
I still can’t speak. All I can do is stare. The detail is truly exquisite—the folds of Mary’s robes; the way her fingers press into her crucified Son’s flesh as she cradles Him in her lap. Jesus’ ribs, the veins in His arms, His fingernails … every last detail is perfect.
“He was only twenty-three when he did this,” I finally say, but it’s a whisper, swept away in the noise of the crowd.
The reverend leans close to my ear. “I’m sure, then, that you’re aware the process took less than two years and was completed 1499, and that this is the only piece that—”
“—Michelangelo ever signed,” I interrupt without taking my eyes off the sculpture. “I also read that he regretted his moment of vanity later and swore never to sign another work by his hand.”
“I’ve heard that anecdote as well.”
“This is truly amazing,” I say, still staring at the Pietà. “How could someone carve something this intricate with hammers and chisels. I mean, now, with modern tools, sure, but …” I lean on the rail, as close as I can get. “Think of the talent … the devotion and the passion that had to go into creating this.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long minute, and when I finally glance in his direction, he’s leaning a hip on the marble rail, but he’s not looking at the Pietà. He’s looking at me. “Passion can sometimes bring out qualities in a person that they never knew they possessed.”
“What is your name?” I blurt. I don’t even know where it came from, but suddenly I really want to know. “I mean your real name. Your first name.”
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