Mysterious Ways

by Julia Talbot

  Where to go? He didn't have his wallet, so that let out a cab. He didn't want to go to Father Bertolli yet. Not until he'd had time to get his head on straight. Maybe the University. It would be quite a hike, especially at this time of night, but he could sleep on the little couch in his office, and he had some work clothes there he could change into. He walked for what seemed like hours, but it helped to clear his head, so he couldn't complain.

  Ever since he'd arrived at the palazzo he'd been off balance. Cecilia, with her resemblance to a dead woman, Cristina's flirting, Vanni's innuendo, all of it had conspired to keep him guessing, wondering which end was up. Damien and Gianni were worse, in a way, because they weren't doing it deliberately, he was sure. But it was another crack in his armor. It had been a long time since Jacob had struggled with feelings like this. Most of his passion over the last few years had been reserved for art, and his studies. He had physical needs, just like any man, but he had been able to ignore them or work through them most of the time. So this was all new. And confusing. Add to that his disorienting visions and dreams, and it was no wonder he couldn't think straight to save him.

  The University was dark and quiet and Jacob was grateful that he didn't meet up with any of the other grad students. Or security. He washed up in the public bathroom, and changed into his work clothes, and settled on the uncomfortable couch to try to rest. An hour later he was still squirming and sighing. He couldn't get the image of the twins out of his mind. He couldn't get the idea that he was sinking somehow out either. Giving up on sleep, Jacob got up and put his collar back on, and headed for the pretty little chapel not far from his office. He could probably benefit hugely from some prayer.

  The chapel was so quiet it was almost eerie. Maybe he was just used to the constant low-level buzz of activity at the palazzo. Even at night someone there was buffing floors or washing dishes. Jacob took a minute to light a candle and say a small devotional before going to sit at a pew. He knelt forward onto the knee brace and closed his eyes, folding his hands tightly in front of him. For a long while he simply let his mind wander, meditating on the nature of his sins, and searching his soul for the best ways to atone for them. He needed to confess, to do penance, yes. But he felt that he also needed to take more firm action. To shore himself up against the type of temptation that he was facing.

  The chance to stay at the Palazzo Miggliozzi was a once in a lifetime gift. Jacob had accepted it readily. Perhaps too readily. Maybe that spoke of pride. He should ask to be allowed to work with the collection during the day and spend his nights at his tiny apartment on campus. That would be a step in the right direction. Removing himself from the proximity of his tormenters was not enough. That was avoidance, and he had been taught to meet his problems head on. There had to be something else he could do. Walking into Cecilia's day room or Marco's office and accusing them of trying to mess with him wouldn't work either. Everything that had happened was as much his fault as theirs. Maybe that's what he had to do to be proactive about all of this. Shoulder his share of the blame.

  The more he tried to work it out the more tangled it got. The cool, incense filled air of the chapel did nothing for him. He thumped his head against the back of the pew in front of him. Why couldn't he concentrate? Even the simple, rote words of the Rosary slipped away from him while his thoughts jumped around and around in his head. Sighing, defeated, Jacob went back to his office and pulled out a bottle of wine he'd stored in his desk. He drank until most of the wine was gone, and he was sleepy enough that he could ignore the bad spring on the couch as it dug into his ribs.

  Dreams were something Jacob was coming to dread. They came to him that night in a flurry of tangled limbs and blue-green eyes, along with lions crouching above him, finned tails wrapping around his legs while wings fanned out around him. He dreamed too of brocaded ladies and men in hose and doublets melting into fiery visions of demons and devils. Flames licked at his skin, blackening him until the pain was enormous, throbbing inside and out. Finally there was just him, running blindly down endless halls until there was nowhere else to run, and he chose to die rather than give up. His own scream woke him, and his hands automatically reached for his throat to make sure it was still intact. There was no bleeding smile across his neck, and he flopped back down on the couch to catch his breath, listening to his heartbeat throb in his ears.

  By then it was late morning, late enough to call the palazzo and let them know he was all right, and that he would be back sometime during the day to collect his things, could he please make an appointment with signore or signora Miggliozzi? Jacob knew there was a very good chance that he would be denied access to the Venetti collection after this stunt, and certainly after he moved out of the palazzo, but it was the only real solution that presented itself. He was ashamed to admit that he was afraid to go back, but he was. He went to see Father Bertolli instead.

  The young priest that acted as Bertolli's assistant directed him to the churchyard that the older priest had bragged on when Jacob had visited last. Bertolli sat on a bench supported by two carved angels, feeding a horde of cats from a large can of tuna. He looked up as Jacob settled onto the bench next to him, but stayed quiet. The silence stretched between them, not really uncomfortable, but waiting.

  They sat, enjoying the sun on their faces, and finally Jacob began to talk. “I'm going to see if they'll let me work at the palazzo during the day.”

  “They won't let you. It's all or nothing with them.”

  “I have to try.”

  “What has happened now?” Bertolli studied him shrewdly. “What are you running away from?”

  “Myself mostly.” Jacob's tone was wry. “But also them. I'm a priest. I think I've forgotten that. And I don't think they ever noticed it.”

  “Bullshit.” Bertolli's accent turned it into bool sheet, which made Jacob grin. “They know very well what you are. In fact, it makes it more amusing for them. That is not what really attracts them, though.”

  “So what does?”

  Turning, Bertolli put a hand on Jacob's shoulder and looked at him earnestly. “Your naiveté.”

  His mouth flapped open, and he stared.. “Oh come on, Father. I can't be that bad. I mean, I know I'm not nearly so worldly as they are, but I'm hardly a child.”

  “You might as well be.” Father Bertolli reached down to pet one of the cats that came forward in search of more food. The animal flinched away, hissing, reminding Jacob that it was no pampered house pet, but one of Rome's many feral cats. “This animal is more worldly than you are,” Father Bertolli continued. “It knows what to expect from people. They will beat you down as often as they can.”

  “That's a pretty harsh attitude for a priest.”

  “I may be a priest, Jacob. But I am no fool. God's greatest gift to man was also his greatest curse. Free will. Knowledge. I know the people I serve. I know their strengths and weaknesses and I love them anyway. Take Cristina Ghiradelli for example. The little maid at the palazzo. She is a slut. You needn't look so shocked. You know it's true. Does that make her less worthy of God's love? No. Does it make her beyond redemption? No. Do I like her any less? Of course not. But I don't have to be blind to her failings. It's better that I am not. That way I can help her steer clear of the pitfalls that she is most inclined to fall into.”

  Letting that sink in, Jacob nodded. “Okay. I can see that. But do you really think I am that ignorant?”

  “Yes,” Bertolli said bluntly. “I think you put aside the modern world a long time ago in favor of your paintings from four hundred years ago. I think you see the world through a very outdated lens. You need to be much more aware of yourself, and of how you feel about things. What are your greatest weaknesses, Father Ellory?”

  “You're right, to a certain degree Father.” Jacob sighed, and toyed with a loose thread on his pants-leg. “I have been deluding myself into thinking that I could control my urges without really looking too hard at what they are. Maybe I need to meditate a bit on my besetti
ng sins.”

  “Si.” Bertolli sounded satisfied. “That would be a good start.”

  “Then I'll start on that as soon as I collect my things from the palazzo.”

  Any answer Bertolli might have made to that was cut off by his assistant running into the churchyard. “Father. You have visitors.”

  “I'm in conference, Paolo. Who is it?”

  “Damien and Gianni Rossi, Father.”

  Blushing, then paling, Jacob got to his feet. “If you don't mind, Father, I'll just go and leave you to it.”

  “Oh, but I do mind,” Bertolli answered. “I'm certain they are here for you.”

  “I don't want to see them.”

  “Stay here.” The Father pushed Jacob back down onto the bench. “I'll see what they want.”

  The wait seemed to be endless, but it couldn't have been more than five minutes before Father Bertolli returned. He smiled at Jacob. “I told you they wanted you. They want to talk to you.”

  “No.”

  “I won't let you hide from them. If you don't want to talk to them you must tell them yourself.”

  Feeling ridiculously like Maria in the Sound of Music, Jacob nodded, and went into the church. He didn't want to do this, had no intention of seeing them when he slunk in and out of the palazzo with his bags, but it would be cowardly or worse to avoid them. They had been very kind to him. So he went. They were there, waiting for him with matching anxious expressions, and Damien almost took a step forward, but Gianni held him back. They shared a look, and Damien subsided, letting Gianni take the lead as usual.

  “Jacob.” Gianni hesitated, obviously searching for words. “They told us you were going back to the University. Please, we're sorry. We didn't mean to upset you. Don't let us drive you away from your work.”

  Feeling his face heat again, Jacob shook his head. “It's not just you. I mean, not you, but what happened earlier. It's not.” He was babbling. Jacob stopped and took a deep breath. “I think it would be wiser for me to stay at the University and come to the palazzo every day to work. Maybe that way I will treat it like a job, which is what it is.”

  “You are angry at us.” That was Damien and the plaintive tone of his voice made Jacob wince.

  Shaking his head, Jacob tried to make them understand. “I'm not mad at you. But I do think that what goes on in your house is a bad influence on me. I need to be among people who are more like me.”

  A snort came from Gianni, who crossed his arms over his chest and stared at Jacob angrily. He looked like a very small boy having a temper tantrum. Damien, though. Damn it, Damien looked hurt. “You're saying we're sick.” There was a sincere quaver in Damien's voice, and he looked like a beaten dog.

  “No,” Jacob said as gently as he could. “I'm saying you're confused. And you confuse me. So does the rest of your family. So I should stay away.”

  “They will not let you into the collection if you leave,” Gianni taunted, and Damien hit him on the arm.

  “Stop it.”

  “Well, they won't.”

  “He's right.” Where Gianni was snide, Damien was earnest. “They will take away your grant, too. Please, I promise, we'll leave you alone. We won't bother you anymore. Just come back with us.”

  Feeling helpless, Jacob looked around for Father Bertolli. He was there, but he was just out of earshot, studiously ignoring them. Unlike his assistant, Paolo, who was listening with open-mouthed amazement. Jacob shook his head again. “I can't.”

  “Won't is more like it,” Gianni snapped. “Come on, Damien. Let's go. He doesn't want our apologies. Avanti!”

  “No.” Damien struggled free of Gianni's grip and turned back to Jacob. “Please? Your work, it's important. We'll be good.”

  This was stupid. There was no reason to cause this sort of trouble over what had happened. Yes, Jacob was deeply disturbed by the relationship between the twins. And he had issues with the lady of the house. And her brother-in-law. Okay, with all of them, but they could only touch him if he let them. His soul was his to save, not theirs to corrupt. He wasn't a coward, was he?

  “Okay,” he said. “I'll come back.” It took a weight off him to say it, and it put a blinding smile on Damien's face. Gianni had to act like he was still angry, of course, but there relief was in his eyes. Father Bertolli sighed heavily behind him, and Jacob knew at least one person was unhappy with his choice.

  “We have a car outside. You'll come now?” Damien looked so pleased, so hopeful that Jacob couldn't say no. He nodded and Damien bounced on his toes. “Molto bene!”

  “I'll be out in a minute. You two go on.” When Damien would have argued, Gianni put a hand on his arm and whispered to him. They left, and Jacob turned to Father Bertolli. “You don't approve.”

  “It's not my place to approve or disapprove.” Bertolli raised his voice. “Paolo, get me a piece of paper and a pen will you?”

  Paolo scampered off and Father Bertolli grinned. “He's had enough of a show already today. Besides, I want to give you my phone number. And I want you to use it. If you need to talk, need a ride, just need to get out. Anything, you hear me?”

  “I'll be fine,” Jacob said decisively. “But thank you.”

  Paolo was back then with paper and pen and Bertolli scribbled his number down and handed it to Jacob. “Be careful, my son,” he said formally, and made a cruciform over Jacob's torso. With equal seriousness, Jacob thanked him, and went out of the church to catch his ride back to the strangest place he'd ever been.

  Chapter 5

  They got back to the house just in time for his meeting with Cecilia. The twins were on their best behavior on the ride there, sitting as far apart as they could, not touching each other or Jacob. It was agonizing. Still, he knew they were doing it for him, and was warmed by it. His contradictory feelings had to be put aside for a while, though, while he straightened things out with Cecilia.

  She was pleasant, but Jacob could see the pure steel in her backbone when she laid down the law. He was told in no uncertain terms that either he stayed and worked, or he shut up. Which he could understand; he'd vacillated quite enough. Even he was a little disgusted with himself. He apologized sincerely, but not effusively, and let it go at that. The feelings she normally aroused in him were muted by the situation, and he was grateful for that. He wasn't about to fall all over himself. That was his mistake to begin with. Jacob left Cecilia's parlor feeling much better. In control, as it were.

  Skipping dinner with the family, he ate in his workroom and caught up on note making. He included the details of his dream, which he had forgotten to write down the night before. He put down everything he could remember. Then he looked through the folder Terri had given him on the Venetti collection. He perused the photos of the paintings and jotted down which ones he'd like to look at first.

  All of the paintings had approximate dates. He would start with the oldest first, which only made sense, considering that he was supposed to be contrasting the man's early works with his later paintings. Which were absolutely brilliant. He settled on a painting of Saint Sebastian, and another of the Archangel Michael. He would request access to those in the morning. It felt good to do his work, to get back into the swing of things. His passion for art had always been there for him, and it was nice to find that it had not been eclipsed by other passions.

  Working well into the late evening made him feel productive, and sane, and he went off to bed with a lighter heart. He took a few minutes to say his prayers, and was amazed to realize he had not done so in days. It was no wonder he was losing touch with the real world. His reality was grounded in his faith, and that had been sorely neglected lately.

  Several days passed without Jacob seeing anyone in the family. He worked with Teresa, who was coolly efficient, but not in any way rude. Any requests he passed along were met promptly, and he felt like maybe his mini-breakdown had at least had a few positive effects. The Venettis were fascinating. The first two he had picked were indeed early works, painted some two yea
rs after his Rossi lady. They were competent. Not nearly as flat and lifeless as his first attempts, but not anywhere near the sheer genius of his later works. The themes were more typical of the era than Venetti's later works, as well. Saint Sebastian suffered, upside down and full of arrows. His face was a mask of agony, and his body was emaciated, all sagging skin and showing ribs. The perspective was good, and the colors were well mixed, but it lacked something that he couldn't put his finger on.

  The portrait of the Archangel Michael was worse. The technique on it was better, yes, even than Saint Sebastian. Which told Jacob that it was painted maybe a year or two later. It featured the angel in the foreground, sword in hand, fighting off an evil horde. The evildoers were scrambling around under Michael's feet. The background, however, was a bucolic pastoral scene. Something that could easily have come from Venetti's childhood. Fat sheep and slow moving bovines grazed in the pastures, and the skies were blue and clear. As a whole, it was somehow wrong. Disturbing really, as if someone had taken the scene of this epic battle and swept it up in one great fist, then dropped it on some unsuspecting farmer out in the middle of nowhere.

  There was no rhyme or reason to it, really and that was what bothered Jacob about it the most. Looking at it gave him the feeling that two different paintings were at work here. Like Venetti had been painting a big, sweeping landscape for a classical style Bacchanal, and had been inspired mid-stream to paint Michael instead. No wonder they tucked this one away in the vault.

  Time passed with amazing speed once he actually started work, and before he knew it, more than three weeks had flown by. It was the end of May. Jacob had no summer classes to assist with, which meant he still had about three months of time to work on the Venetti project without interruptions. He only wished he was closer to some kind of conclusion. He had studied and authenticated about five out of the twenty paintings in the Miggliozzi collection. They were all relatively early works except for the huge vision of Hell hanging in the library. Yes, there was a marked difference in the paintings of each stage. No, it had nothing to do with the medium. Wood, canvas, oil, egg tempera, all of these were used in both periods with equal skill. So what was the catalyst?