“Would you still leave if you could—now, I mean?”
“Yes.”
“And your family, too?”
“It would be difficult to leave my children, but there are days when I think that I am ready to pay even that price.” She seemed to misunderstand his question, but her answer revealed more than he expected.
“What prevents you then?”
“The war all but wiped us out. We still have our land, but we have to keep working as hard as we can just to survive. We have to make a living.”
They sat together in silence. He wanted to help her. “Perhaps you would be interested in an investment in some gems. There is some risk involved, but given the probable payoff, I believe it’s a risk worth taking.”
5
Late that afternoon, Losine stood outside Monsignor Enrico’s study, gathering himself before he knocked on the heavy wooden door. “Come in.” He entered the silent cell with its cracked walls and stone floor. A small fire burned in the corner fireplace, and a teakettle steamed on the hotplate. What remained of the afternoon light entered from two small windows near the beamed ceiling. An overstuffed chair failed to contain Monsignor Enrico’s girth; his cassock erupted around him and flowed out in all directions like magma. Losine introduced himself.
Monsignor Enrico struggled to his feet, took Losine’s hands in his, then kissed him on both cheeks. “I always wondered what became of you.” He gestured for Losine to sit down. “How good of you to come.” Avoiding the hard, straight chair the priest had offered, Losine continued to stand. He felt his skin and hands grow warmer. He had not expected such hospitality from someone who had suffered so much on his account. He wondered at the warm welcome, and then became annoyed at his own suspicious nature.
“It took me a long time to discover your name. I wasn’t sure you would remember me,” he told Monsignor Enrico. “Forgive me.”
The priest gestured toward the chair, again. “Please, won’t you sit down?” Losine lowered himself into the chair opposite Monsignor Enrico’s. “I expected you yesterday.”
Losine was surprised. “I was told you were away.”
The priest smiled and gestured at his ample belly and chuckled. “I didn’t know I had become invisible—not yet, anyway.” The turned wooden spindles on the back of the chair dug into Losine’s spine, and the hard seat pressed against his thin frame and weak leg. “A misunderstanding, obviously. Tell me about yourself.”
“I find it difficult to think about what happened, much less talk about it,” Losine said.
“We were both in grave danger. It’s something all men try to forget and never do, I’m afraid.”
“Without you, they would have found me,” Losine said.
“You don’t know this, but we saved each other. Had I been alone, I feel sure I would have been questioned and my ties to the Resistance discovered right then.”
“I’m told that they tortured you because of me.”
“Yes, but by the time they discovered who I was and who you were, the information I had was useless. They beat me up a little, but they didn’t get much that was useful.” He winked at Losine and laughed. “I gave them only the names of the men I knew were already dead.”
“They’re still looking for me,” Losine said. He had never confessed this to anyone.
“You’re so important? To whom?”
“The truth is that alive or dead I know too much about too many. They’re afraid to arrest me or kill me for fear their records will come to light and they will be exposed themselves. But if they got the chance….
” “You don’t say.” Monsignor Enrico leaned forward. “Tell me. What did you do?”
Losine shrugged. “Let’s just say I specialized in porous borders. What I’m charged with is abetting war criminals by taking from the Germans what they stole from the Jews and keeping it safe for them. It’s true, but I exchanged my services for information about Jews who were missing or dead or in need of transport. It seems I’m wanted everywhere. The Italians, for example. The Partisans think I betrayed them. So do the Fascists. God only knows why. The French find my alleged crimes useful in deflecting attention from their own unsavory collaborations. The Allies? Who knows? Capturing someone for an alleged war crime is always a useful cover.”
Monsignor Enrico slapped his knee and chuckled. “You’re right about that!”
Losine felt a familiar despair rising within him. He told Monsignor Enrico of Greta and Paul, his solitude, his sense of loss. Everything.
“So much has been taken from so many.” Monsignor Enrico held his hands out to Losine. “We who are left must take care of one another.” He reached for a bottle of brandy and set it along with two glasses on the small table between them. “Shall we thank God for bringing us together?”
“God wasn’t involved and doesn’t deserve our thanks,” Losine said. “I came to thank you.”
“You’re so certain?” Monsignor Enrico leaned back and looked at Losine. There was a wary curiosity underneath his smile.
“If you look at recent history—our own experience, for that matter— the evidence is clearly on my side.” Losine felt uncomfortable saying these things to a priest, even one as worldly as Monsignor Enrico. He tried to cross his bad leg over the good one, but the pain was too intense. He folded his arms instead. What does it matter? Monsignor Enrico is old enough to have met a nonbeliever before. He adjusted his position on the hard chair, but he was still uncomfortable.
“If life kept the promises we imagine it has made to us, faith would be unnecessary,” Monsignor Enrico said. “My parish is filled with holy sites. One sees the truth of faith everywhere.”
“We save ourselves with our own actions—or not. Either way, faith is an imaginary necessity—like truth,” Losine replied. Involuntarily, he reached for his cane and stood up. He wanted to leave.
“Why? Do you consider yourself an exception?” Monsignor Enrico leaned forward, his eyes holding Losine’s. “Please, sit down. You’ve only just come.”
Losine felt small, like a child in danger of a scolding. He resented his position, but he complied. “I’ve studied many sacred sites,” Losine said. “God wasn’t there.” He stood up again and paced.
Monsignor Enrico leaned back and put his hands behind his head. “Your view reminds me of a story a dying priest told us when I was a seminarian. We all marveled at his equanimity about his own mortality.” Father Enrico paused. “The story went like this: two men were assigned to a desert battalion that was responsible for defeating a cruel enemy, one they couldn’t see. In the featureless landscape the members of the battalion stood out like flags. As the battle progressed, heat overwhelmed many of the soldiers, so as many died of the heat as of the consequences of battle. Eventually, only the two soldiers remained, and they were quickly captured and imprisoned in a cave where barred cells had been constructed. As it happened, one was more docile, and he was left to move about in his cell. The other was a combative fellow—somewhat like you, I should imagine—and his angry guards bound his hands behind his back and also bound his feet.
“Each prisoner had a flat plate for food and a bowl into which the captors poured water if they remembered to do so. The first man died relatively soon, but the second resisted death just as he resisted his captors. At last, his captors moved on to the next battle, leaving the troublesome prisoner behind. Through a hole in the ceiling, rare drops of rain fell into his empty bowl. With his ebbing strength the prisoner managed to edge near his bowl so that he might put his face down into it and lick. Just as he was about to do so, he saw that a large and very poisonous scorpion had crawled into the bowl seeking the same moisture. The question the priest posed to us was: ‘In what may this man believe?’”
“Nothing when all of his choices result in the same end.” The story offended Losine even more than the fact that Monsignor Enrico made a point of telling it to him. Such stories made light of real losses as if they were susceptible to solace.
; The teakettle whistled on the hotplate. Monsignor Enrico put some loose tea into a small brown teapot and then poured the hot water from the teakettle into it. Losine glanced around to see if there was a strainer. He disliked leaves in his tea. “Yet, you must agree that he has at least two choices.”
“The parable is pointless because he dies either way.”
Monsignor Enrico set the teapot between them and handed Losine a cup. “Still, how he understands his choices is what matters, wouldn’t you agree?”
“What is there to understand?”
“That faith can give meaning to his suffering if he chooses.”
“In such a situation, neither faith nor suffering have meaning. The outcome is the same either way,” Losine said. “These problems may interest some, but they are irrelevant to me. They’re like mathematical proofs with their own internal logic and foregone conclusions.” Why are people so inclined to propose faith as an antidote for despair? Losine thought. How could it be so? Despair is our fundamental condition—he thought of Willa— relieved occasionally by the small, merciful connections we have with one another.
After a silence, Monsignor Enrico smiled. “I’ll tell the Pythagoreans you said so,”
“I’m sorry,” Losine said. “I’m a poor guest.”
“Not at all. We’re merely two men speculating on our condition. Now, you must tell me about your visit to Orvieto.” He handed Losine a cup of tea. “I believe you’ve already met Signora Marcheschi.” Losine felt his cheeks warming against his will. He disliked surprises. Monsignor Enrico laughed. “We have few secrets here. Cream and sugar?”
Losine shook his head. “I’m certain you know much more than I do.” He kept his voice low and spoke easily, but the priest’s implication that his actions with Willa had been observed made him uneasy. He ought to defend her reputation, he decided. “Signora Marcheschi was kind enough to guide me to several sites that I wanted to photograph.” He took a sip of tea and tasted the bitterness of the leaves. He swallowed them.
“We have several expert guides. I would be happy to refer you,” said Monsignor Enrico. “Signora Marcheschi belongs with her family.”
Losine placed his teacup and saucer on Monsignor Enrico’s desk. “Are you saying that Signora Marcheschi is not permitted to offer her assistance if she chooses?”
Monsignor Enrico held up his hand. “Only that she sometimes offers her assistance too readily.”
Losine felt something being snatched away from him. Involuntarily, he raised his hands in an effort to catch it and then pretended that he merely needed to adjust the position of his leg. “I’ve already completed all of my work, except for the Duomo,” he said. He yawned to conceal this new anxiety. “But another time I would greatly welcome your recommendation.” He stood up. “I came to thank you for saving my life, and we’ve ended up talking about other things.” He took out his checkbook and pen and wrote a check for an amount far greater than he had planned. He handed the check to Father Enrico. “Perhaps you could use this to support a project that you otherwise couldn’t undertake.”
“Very generous,” said the priest. “Now it’s my turn to thank you.” He placed the check in his desk drawer. “Redemption is a most difficult mission,” he added with a chuckle. “I appreciate your commitment to our work. And the fact that you came to see me.”
Losine looked around for his hat. He was eager to leave. Monsignor Enrico pointed to the hat, which was sitting on his desk. At the door, he held Losine’s hands in his. “I sincerely meant what I said: thank you for coming. Please, forgive me for having to tell you about Signora Marcheschi. It is one of the less happy aspects of my work.”
Losine left Monsignor Enrico’s office feeling agitated and annoyed, especially with himself. Reliving those deeply troubling and frightening days had left him anxious and upset. He had said too much, more than was warranted or discreet. It was dangerous. He knew better. Why had he imagined that he was indebted to Monsignor Enrico? Their need had been mutual. He owed him nothing. People don’t save others’ lives. They do what they do for their own reasons. The balance sheet is almost always even. Still, the reality of their mutual need neither lessened the burden Losine felt nor mitigated his sense of obligation. He spat, an unaccustomed gesture.
He wanted to be near Willa, to touch her pale, warm skin and lie next to her again, feel the warmth of her body against his. What Willa and I do is our business, he told himself. What right does he have…to what?... monitor our activities? Tell us what we’re permitted to do? Losine walked into the Piazza del Duomo. Willa! She must be in the shop. He would go there again, say that he wanted to buy some wine to take back to Milano. He could leave his address and have it shipped. If Gabriele were there, he could discuss the purchase of the old Orvieto or perhaps the fresco. What did it matter as long as he saw her again, maintained their connection? As he walked across the Piazza, he imagined her coming to him in his hotel room that night. He felt the familiar numbness in his leg and concentrated on taking careful steps. When he neared the Marcheschi’s shop, he saw the sign immediately: “Apriamo lunedi.” Open Monday. Two days away. He would be back in Milano by then. Inside the shop, he noticed a bare light bulb was still burning. Perhaps Willa is there. Yes, she must be. It isn’t too late after all. He tried the door. It was locked. He knocked. She’ll come as soon as she hears my knock, he told himself. He knocked once, twice, a third time. His fists became an insistent staccato on the door. There was no response. A passerby stopped.
“Vino Marcheschi is closed, Signore. Do you see that it’s dark inside? The Marcheschis aren’t there.” It felt like drowning.
6
FIRENZE, FALL 1948
From a distance, Losine watched the passengers disembark from the train. Against his better judgment and after putting it off for a time, he had begun a correspondence with Willa, formal and businesslike at first, but increasingly personal as time went on. Meanwhile, in the months since their first meeting, Gabriele had, after protracted negotiation, agreed to sell the fresco to him, but under the table and at top price, without permits, insurance, stamps, bribes, or proof of ownership. Losine would take care of all of those himself, and at last, the fresco would finally be his. That is, as soon as Willa delivered it.
Still, there hung in the air the obvious and troubling complications arising from his having become more deeply involved with a married woman. It was true that he had written first and also true that he had continued the correspondence using a false address in another town. He had done so when he was inexplicably upset. No, lonely. She had responded quickly, before she should have, before he was ready to take responsibility for their relationship. Yes, he had to admit that he had kept up their correspondence as a shipwrecked man hangs onto a life raft in a dark sea. Nevertheless, if she hadn’t responded... No, he could not deny his culpability or hers. He had acted consciously. Clearly an affair with her was impossible. When they concluded their business, he would simply tell her, politely of course, kindly, respectfully, that their relationship must not continue. The matter would be finished. Furthermore, he could use this time in Firenze to contact potential clients on the Ponte Vecchio. The gemstones would be delivered soon, and the Florentine goldsmiths were eager to return to their pre-war levels of production. With Willa’s share of the gemstones invested and as a supplier to the goldsmiths, he would certainly profit and so would she. The risks had been worth it, and he would leave investors better off than when they started. No fault, no penalty, he told himself.
Then, he saw her. She stepped down from the train and sought an open spot on the crowded platform. Her breath left small white clouds in front of her. She set her two valises down next to her with great care. The significance of the valises showed in her constant attention to their whereabouts, her protection of them. Excellent, he thought, she has brought the fresco with her. He was surprised that he had forgotten how she looked. She was smaller than he remembered, pale and freckled, her auburn hair a penumbra of fire un
der her dark green hat, which lodged to one side of her head, its iridescent feathers curling around her brow. Would she notice him in the crowd? It had been nearly a year since they had seen one another. He watched her movements, curious to see her reaction when she recognized him. She glanced around, then picked up the bulging bags, and, despite their obvious weight, strode toward the station. Her walk was easy, efficient, and rhythmic. Her bias-cut skirt of dark green gabardine swayed against her full hips, emphasizing her curves. She had a narrow waist, and, when her jacket opened, he could see the creamy silk of her blouse falling liquidly over her breasts. Voluptuous, he thought. Not like Greta.
Her hair caught the brief appearance of the winter sun. In that moment, he saw that she was, in fact, beautiful, much more beautiful than he had realized. He reminded himself again that he must not become more deeply involved with her. The wind dislodged her hat. She set the suitcases down on the platform and pinned her hat back on, then picked up her suitcases, and continued walking. She caught sight of him, smiled, and came toward him.
“There you are, Michel.” She speaks more loudly than necessary, he thought. Did anyone hear her? He felt visible and uncomfortable. He regretted being seen with her in public, revealing something so private about himself. She put down her luggage and embraced him lavishly, kissed him hungrily. “I was afraid you had forgotten.” Her laugh traced a musical scale. “I should have known better, shouldn’t I? After all, this was your idea!” She didn’t wait for his reply. “I’ve brought the fresco with me and also the Orvietos and the box.”
Her enthusiasm made him feel conspicuous. “Shhhh. You never know who’s listening.”
“Very well,” she said in a stage whisper. “Where can we go to be in private?” She buttoned up her coat and took her brown kid gloves out of her purse and put them on. “It’s so cold here.”
The Train to Orvieto Page 20