by Julia Talbot
“Good.” Father Bertolli stood suddenly. “Now, since you missed church yesterday I would be happy to hear your confession. That way you can come to early Mass next week.”
Smiling a little wryly, Jacob consented. “Thank you, Father. Would you mind if I came to visit? Often?”
“Not at all. And if I am not here, I understand the churchyard is quite good for meditation on the nature of sin.”
“Oh? Perhaps I might have some use for that.”
He confessed, leaving nothing out, and feeling no self-consciousness in doing so. Once on the other side of the confessional, he knew Father Bertolli was impersonal, no longer giving advice, but giving penance, as a vessel for God. The courtyard was indeed good for meditation, and Jacob spent a quiet hour there, watching tourists and parishioners alike come and go and musing on the turns his life had taken in recent days. Much renewed, he made his way through his other appointments.
The library at the University yielded a fine book on the history of Italian family names and heraldry. He also picked up a few reference books from his tiny office there, and checked his messages. Nothing. His next appointment wasn't for another hour, so Jacob took the opportunity to wander around part of the city and look at some of the gorgeous statuary. It also served to clear his head a bit, and he tried to organize his thoughts for his meeting with Father Fermozzi, the prelate who had handled the sale of the Venetti to the Miggliozzis. Or rather the Rossis.
Father Fermozzi was a small, nervous looking man who wore wire-rimmed glasses and a traditional floor length cassock. He stuttered a bit when speaking English, so Jacob switched to Italian to put him at ease. It didn't work. Jacob couldn't imagine this man executing a business deal with the likes of Marco or Cecilia Miggliozzi. They sat down together in the father's wood paneled office, and Fermozzi pulled out an ashtray and a cigarette case. After offering one to Jacob, and being refused, he lit one with obvious relief. It must have steadied his nerves.
Waiting for the man to settle down, Jacob smiled pleasantly and relaxed into the most uncomfortable office chair he'd ever sat on. Father Fermozzi finally got around to asking what he could do for him after fifteen solid minutes of puffing his foul smelling smokes and making small talk about everything from the weather to the state of the Church bank. Jacob found, as an American, that he sometimes got impatient with these little rituals, but he'd been in Italy long enough now to expect them.
“It's about the Venetti painting, Father,” Jacob stated.
“Si. Si, si. Of course. The Venetti. You want to know what the status of it is? You needn't worry. You have permission to use it as long as you need to, along with the others in the collection. Such a fine collection.”
Interrupting, Jacob said, “Actually father, I wanted to know why the Church decided to sell it at all.”
A blank look was his reply for a long moment. Then Fermozzi smiled at him like he was a very small child. “The Church wants nothing to do with that man's paintings.”
It was said with absolute conviction and sincerity. Jacob was stumped. “So why am I still working on it then?”
“Because you are an art historian. And you have a legitimate thesis to discuss about Venetti's paintings. We cannot stop you from doing it. But we can decide not to harbor the works of an excommunicated heretic”
“Heretic. That's strong wording, isn't it? For a man who missed Easter confession?”
“Bah. He was a monster.”
Looking askance at Fermozzi, Jacob defended, “But how do you know that? There's little to no documentation as to why Venetti painted what he did, or why he killed himself. I have studied him for over a year, and I didn't even know he was excommunicated until just recently.”
“Perhaps you have not been looking in the right places.”
“Maybe not. Could you point me towards some source material?”
“I am certain the Miggliozzis can help you with that.”
“Fine.” Jacob knew his frustration was starting to show in his voice, but he couldn't help himself. “I did want to ask you one other thing, Father. You sold the painting to an Alessandro Rossi. That's Cecilia Miggliozzi's older brother, right?”
“Si.”
“Why?”
The priest looked confused. “Why?”
“Yes. If it's a Miggliozzi collection, why sell it to a Rossi?”
“Ah.” Fermozzi's expression cleared. “Because the collection is really on loan to the Miggliozzis, if you will. It was a wedding gift from the two oldest brothers to their sister. It's always belonged to the Rossis, you see.”
“I see.” He didn't, not really, but Father Fermozzi was tapping out his latest cigarette and shooting back his cuff to check his watch. Jacob had a feeling the interview was over. He thanked the man for his time, and left. He'd been given a lot to think about. Why would the Rossis buy up a collection of paintings and then hand them over to the Miggliozzis? A wedding gift made sense, he supposed, but Cecilia had said very plainly that Marco didn't even like Venetti's paintings, so he supposed they must have gone to her. He would be very interested in finding out why.
The only thing left on his list for the day was his meeting with Terri Bonnell. Well, that and finding Giovanni and apologizing, which he didn't really want to do, but knew was only polite. Jacob decided to take his life in his hands and take a cab back to the house, which proved to be about all of the excitement he could stand for one day. Gasping his thanks, he paid and tipped the driver, and staggered into the house as the footman held the door for him. Apparently, he was just in time for lunch.
The dizzying array of food, and the company of the Rossi twins made him feel relaxed and happy. The wine didn't hurt either, and he felt perfectly able to seek Giovanni out before his late afternoon meeting with Teresa. He found the younger Miggliozzi brother in an office on the second floor, looking over a stack of incomprehensible business reports. It was an imposing space, all dark woods and heavy carvings, and Jacob spared a flippant thought for how much more impressive the elder brother's office must be.
Greeting him warmly and inviting him to sit, Giovanni put aside his work and waited with a pleasantly patient expression for Jacob to explain why he was there. Jacob was still a bit tipsy, but it was wearing off, and now that he was here, he was having a bit of trouble spitting out what had seemed so easy to say a few minutes ago when he rehearsed it in the hall.
“I'm sorry,” he blurted, and felt like an idiot. The faintly confused look on Giovanni's (or Vanni as he insisted Jacob call him) didn't help. “About yesterday. In the kitchen.”
Light dawned, and Vanni's teeth flashed in a bright grin. “Ah. About the thing with Cristina, yes?”
A sharp nod. “Yes.”
“I was not upset with you, Jacob. Cristina, well she might have had a few things to say if she had seen you.” Vanni rolled his eyes. “She always has something to say. The only way to get her to shut up is to fuck her.”
Shocked at the other man's crudeness, Jacob simply stared. Vanni shrugged. “I'm sorry. Did I upset you? I forget, sometimes that you are a priest. You are also a man, though, so I think you can understand. Besides, it's a chance you take when you do something like that in the pantry, hmm? Someone could walk in any time. Better you than her mother.”
Blushing, attempting not to stammer, Jacob asked, “So why do you do it there then? Doesn't privacy mean anything to you?”
Eyebrows waggling lewdly, Giovanni answered, “It adds spice. The fear of getting caught. And the idea of someone watching. I liked it.”
The blush was going to become permanent. Jacob could feel it from his hairline all the way to his toes. He decided to leave before it got any worse. “I just wanted to apologize,” he mumbled on his way to the door.
Laughter trailed out into the hall after him. “I think you liked it too, Father. If you'd just admit it.”
Jacob fled.
Chapter 4
Impossible. The whole family was impossible and rude and completely
unconcerned with things like consideration for other people's feelings. Jacob fumed about Giovanni most of the afternoon. He cancelled his appointment with Terri and went to his workshop and took out his frustrations on the delicate and damaged third of his Rossi lady. He could only call it coincidence for so long. The pendant was obviously a Rossi crest, even though he hadn't had time to check the book yet. He knew he would, and he knew too that they were fucking with him over it.
Layers of water deposits and grime came off under his careful ministrations. With each one he pondered the layers of subterfuge piled on him by the Miggliozzis. Why? Why all of the run around and resistance? Were they just amusing themselves at his expense? Maybe it made them laugh to think of the poor little priest stumbling around them and begging for scraps. Or maybe they had some other motive, something they wanted him to do for them. What he couldn't imagine. His imagination ran wild, and he knew he was probably being an idiot, but he was too pissed off to care.
Pondering the sinister intentions of his hosts finally wore thin about the same time the solvents started to make him light headed. Jacob staggered out of his workroom sometime late in the evening to find some fresh air. He tip-toed into the kitchen and made himself a fat sandwich out of prosciutto and tomatoes, then went out to the courtyard gardens to tell his tale of woe to the statues, who couldn't talk back. The night was full of city noises, yet they were removed enough that they simply provided a backdrop of sound to the closer tinkle of water in fountains and chirping crickets.
The twins pounced on him from behind a sober Roman senator with no arms and practically scared him into a heart attack. He repressed the shout of surprise by force of will alone, and made himself politely ask what the Hell they wanted. Or at least he thought he was polite. From the identical looks on their faces Jacob figured he must have snarled at them.
“Sorry. Did we scare you?” Gianni asked.
“We didn't mean to,” Damien continued. “But you weren't at dinner.”
“Again. So we came looking for you.”
It was difficult to stay angry with them. Especially since they were the only two in the whole house who had no interest in the Venetti, and had been nothing but kind to him. “I'm sorry. I'm just feeling out of sorts.” Jacob knew it was lame, but at least it was much more along the lines of how he wanted to sound.
The twins cocked their heads at him, one to the left, one to the right, like mirror images. Then they both smiled. Gianni once again spoke first. “You work too hard. You need to get out of here more.”
“Si. You should come out with us tomorrow. Away from here.” Damien whacked him on the shoulder teasingly. “You need to get out and see some of the city.”
Gianni nodded and reached out to stroke Jacob's priest's collar. “He has a point, Jacob. Even your God took a day off once in awhile, eh?”
Laughing, Jacob protested. “But I haven't really gotten any work done, thanks to your family. So I need to stay in tomorrow and research.”
“Our family? But that's normal. We do it to each other.”
“So you shouldn't take it personally.”
“You make my neck hurt,” Jacob said. “Going back and forth like that.” But he had to grin back at them, they were so earnest and apologetic. He finally agreed to go sightseeing with them the next day, just to get them to leave him alone. They did, with a promise to meet him mid-morning for the grand tour of Rome. Somehow those two always managed to put him in a better mood, which when he really thought about it, probably made them the most dangerous members of the family he'd met to date. He finally gave up, throwing up his mental hands and going to bed. He'd dwell on it all in the morning.
Sleep came with surprising ease, and was dreamless for a change. The day looked better than he'd thought it would. Jacob decided that after breakfast he'd storm the gates and talk to Cecilia or Marco, or both. As it turned out, he got the chance to do it at breakfast instead, and he drew himself up and put on his best stern priest face for the confrontation.
“Good morning,” he started, and the entire family greeted him with enthusiasm. He filled a plate and took a seat, then cleared his throat. “Excuse me, signore and signora.”
Marco looked up from his reports, and Cecilia from her letters. Once he knew he had their attention, he continued.
“I hate to complain, because your hospitality has been generous. But I feel I must, so you are aware of a few things.”
“Certainly, Jacob,” Cecilia nodded. “What is wrong?”
“I haven't seen the collection yet. I have been waiting for research materials for two weeks. I rarely get a straight answer to a question, and I'm beginning to feel like you don't really want me here. I feel like you're just humoring me to make the Vatican happy, since they were willing to sell the painting to you. I'm just asking for a bit of cooperation.”
It was Marco who came to his aid, strangely enough. He directed a cool look at Terri and asked, “Is that true?”
Swallowing a sip of coffee, Terri nodded. “Yes. At least in that he hasn't seen the collection yet. I gave him the insurance photos, and have been waiting for him to tell me which ones he wants to see.”
“I see. And the research materials?”
“I was unable to get my hands on them immediately. Signore Alba, the solicitor had them.”
“Maybe next time you could keep Jacob informed of these things?” Marco's tone was heavy with sarcasm, and Terri's answering smile was more a baring of teeth.
“Of course”
“Bene. As for humoring you, Father, I'm sorry you feel that way.” Marco smiled at him, and Jacob had the fleeting impression of a shark swimming in deep waters. “I hope that, in the future if you have problems you will come to me immediately. I will do my best to help you. It is my house after all.” The last was said with a sweeping, contemptuous glance at the others in the breakfast room.
“Thank you, signore.”
“Non e niente.” Marco turned his attention back to his papers.
Hesitantly, Jacob cleared his throat again. “I hate to ask, because it's not my place to pry into personal matters.” Here he couldn't help but look at Vanni, who flashed him and insolent smirk. “But, signore, why is the Venetti collection considered a Miggliozzi collection if it actually belongs to your wife's family?”
Vanni, Terri and the twins suddenly excused themselves, their mass exodus making it clear that Jacob had pushed onto unsafe territory. As the dust of their departure settled, Cecilia and Marco exchanged a long look. Finally, Marco took the lead and spoke up.
“My family once owned great collections of art, Jacob. I mean beyond the regular household items you see. Collections like the Venettis, or say, Canalettos. Some time back in the early nineteen hundreds, we went broke.”
Blushing, Jacob backtracked. “I'm sorry, I had no idea, I mean, it's none of my...”
Interrupting, Cecilia put him at ease. “It's not a state secret Jacob. If you did a little research, you would find out for yourself.”
“At any rate,” Marco continued, “when Cecilia and I married, I found out that the Rossi family had acquired a great many of the works of art that were once in my family's homes.”
“And after our wedding, my brothers gave them to us. However, they are still in the Rossi name legally because Alessandro felt they were better protected that way, insurance-wise.” Cecilia shrugged. “Does that make sense?”
Nodding vigorously, Jacob replied, “Yes. Yes of course. I didn't mean to pry.”
“Not at all. Just so you know it's nothing dark and mysterious.” She smiled at him, and he felt his face heat again. What an effect that woman could have on him when she chose! Jacob spared a glance for Marco and found the man watching his wife with a sort of smug pride.
A flash of something, blurred in the corner of his eye, made him dizzy for a moment. An older man sat at the table, looking at his young bride with pride, exclaiming over her beauty. The woman was his lady of the painting, superimposed on Cecilia, e
yes modestly downcast, but a curve to her lips that bespoke mischief. It took him a full minute to shake it off, and when he did, both Cecilia and Marco stared at him in concern.
“Well, I should get some work done.” Jacob got up and headed for the door. “I'm going sightseeing with Damien and Gianni today.”
He heard an indelicate snort of laughter from Cecilia. “Be careful. They might show you things you aren't ready to see.”
Shaking his head at that he made a break for his workroom and locked himself in. Jacob made some notes about what he wanted to research later in the day before he did anything else. He was a scholar, but lately his carefully organized style of finding and working through information just seemed to fly out the window. Somehow the Miggliozzi household really did make him feel oddly like he was simply letting things go and drifting along with whatever plan they had for him. So he marshaled his thoughts and put them down on paper before he started work on the Venetti.
He also felt like his little flashes of dream, and his odd double vision was something he would have to face up to soon and examine. The reluctance to do so was understandable. No one like to think they were going crazy, or that they were simply hallucinating, but the Lord worked in mysterious ways, and they might indeed be significant.
Once he was settled in front of the painting with a pair of forceps and a swab of cotton, Jacob felt much more productive. He started cleaning the delicate egg tempera, and smiled to himself when he remembered thinking that the painter must have been old school, back before he had discovered the signature. He had been half right. Egg tempera became almost obsolete once the easier to manipulate oil paints came onto the scene. Egg tempera, which was a mixture of egg, water, and pigment, was harder to use. It required thin coats of paint to be layered over one another and it dried very quickly. So it was easy to see why the Renaissance masters had embraced oils. Venetti was not an old man when oils became popular, no, but he was a country bumpkin by Venetian standards, and that explained why he was a whiz with egg tempera. Oils were expensive. Growing up, Matteo Venetti would have had to create his own paints, and egg tempera came from materials readily available to a rustic farm boy.