by Julia Talbot
Brusque, he knew, but he couldn't stand it anymore. He left the house and made a break for it. He ran away from everything, including himself. He wandered for hours, occasionally taking a break and just sitting on a bench, staring at the city like he'd never seen it before. It was late evening before he went to church. He did, though, falling back on that which was familiar. He avoided Father Bertolli's church, knowing he could never go there and tell this tale, and instead went to one of the many large churches he'd passed on his walk. They would be busy enough even at this time of day for him to blend in.
The confessional was manned, so he stepped in. Jacob went through the motions, said all of the appropriate things. Forgive me, Father, he said it and he thought it, but he lied. Sat right there and came up with all sorts of small things he'd done. Like taking the Lord's name in vain. He admitted to having lustful thoughts. Just saying that almost had him giggling. Then he left, with the priest's assigned penance ringing in his ears and knowing no matter what he did it wouldn't be enough.
By nightfall he was back at the Miggliozzi house. He was tired and hungry and covered in a grimy sweat. Damien and Gianni's room had an even bigger shower than his, shaped to hold two, no doubt. He showered there instead of going back to his own suite, and borrowed a pair of pants and a shirt form the closet. Silk. It was nice. Then he went looking for Cecilia.
One of the footmen informed him that the family was at dinner, and Jacob's stomach growled, reminding him that he needed to eat as well. Conversation stopped altogether when he walked into the informal dining room, and he wanted very much to turn tail, but he took his seat instead. Looking to the head of table, Jacob made his apologies for being late, then waved a servant over to ask for a place setting. No one spoke while he filled his plate and forked up his first bite. Of course, he didn't look up until then either.
When he did, Cecilia put her wine glass down and folded her arms on the table. Leaning towards him she asked, “Did you have a good day?”
Well, at least she didn't ask if he was okay. Because he wasn't, and he might never be again. Nodding, he took another bite of whatever it was in front of him.
“You seem to have misplaced your collar, Father.” This was from Vanni, and Jacob simply turned to stare at him. Vanni actually faltered a bit. Jacob didn't give him the satisfaction of touching his throat like he wanted to.
“I didn't forget it. It didn't go with the outfit.”
No one seemed to be sure how to take that, and several more minutes passed uncomfortably. Then Cecilia recovered. “Can we discuss your project tomorrow?”
“Yes.” Chewing, then swallowing. Mechanically. “I want to apologize for earlier today, Signora. I was out of line.”
Looking at him oddly, Cecilia replied just as formally. “No apology needed, Father Ellory. I was keeping you from an appointment.”
“Thank you.”
Plowing through his food, Jacob refrained from joining in any further conversation. The rest of the family finally started talking to each other again, and the meal passed with an excruciating lack of speed. He declined the after dinner drinks, and slipped out of the dining room to wander off to the courtyard. Restless and unable to settle, he paced around the fountains and tried not to think too much.
“Walk with me Jacob?”
Wheeling around, Jacob saw Alessio standing behind him on the mosaic path through the tiny rose garden. “What is it with you people sneaking up on me?” he snapped. Then he took a deep breath. “Sorry. I'm ... out of sorts tonight.”
“I noticed.” Alessio gestured for Jacob to precede him, and they started off at a leisurely pace. “Jacob, I have to ask you something, and I hope you will be honest with me. While this is Marco's house, he is usually caught up in business matters, so I consider myself the head of this family. And if anyone has done anything to upset you, or hurt you ... Well, I hope you will tell me.”
“Define hurt,” Jacob said, and some of the confusion he felt bled into his voice. Some of the pain and loss. “I should never have come here.”
A large hand settled on his shoulder, and Alessio turned him so that they faced each other fully. “I'm sorry. What can I do to help?”
His skin tingled from the touch, even through the silk of his shirt. These people were mesmerizing.
“Nothing. That's the problem. Ever since I started working on that goddamned painting my life has been a disaster. I can see why the Church treated it like a ticking bomb. And since I've been here, Jesus, what a mess. I've done things. I've done things that I never dreamed I would and I've liked them. So unless you have the power to forgive me, or let me take it back, then there's nothing you can do!”
“I'm sorry we've caused you such distress.” Alessio guided him to a bench and they sat. “But no, I don't have the power to forgive you. Your God, and you, are the only ones who can do that. You say you have done things. Then you say they're things you never dreamed of. Jacob, I have to ask if that's the problem. Maybe it's not so much the painting as it is you. Coming here has shown you a different world than your admittedly sheltered one was. Maybe you were supposed to do that.”
It was a reasonable argument. It might give him something to think about later. But not now. Joseph leaned forward and looked Alessio right in the eye. “Were they lovers?”
Rocking back a little, Alessio asked, “What? Who?”
“Alicia Rossi. Miggliozzi. Whatever. And Matteo Venetti. Were they lovers?”
“How should I know?”
“You're the family historian. What's your educated opinion?”
“If we're going to have this discussion I suggest we go inside and find a comfortable chair. It may take some time to answer your questions.” Alessio stood up and offered Jacob his hand. After a moment's hesitation, Jacob took it. They walked together into the house, and Alessio led Jacob upstairs to the family wing. “This is my office,” Alessio said. He pushed open a door and waved Jacob inside. “Would you like a drink?”
Shaking his head, Jacob settled into one of the broad leather armchairs flanking the room's fireplace. Alessio poured himself a scotch, then settled in across from him. “Very well,” he began, “Venetti and Alicia.”
“Right.”
“What makes you think they were lovers?” Alessio sounded genuinely curious, as if he'd never really thought of it. Maybe he hadn't.
But Jacob had given it a lot of thought. If he turned his sight inward he could see it. Alicia's golden skin stretched out on a drape of blue silk, all smooth limbs and lush curves. Venetti beside her, all hard angles and rough hair. They touched and kissed and whispered to each other. Jacob shook off the image. “I just think it makes sense,” he said. “It was about the time he did Alicia's portrait that his technique started to change.”
“Historically, that's probably because that was about the time he started to separate from his master's style and develop his own.”
“Maybe, but it wasn't just his use of color or his shade and light that changed. It was his whole view of the world.”
Alessio's smile was indulgent. “That doesn't mean they were lovers. That just means that young Matteo was learning more about the world. He was a naive young thing from the middle of nowhere...”
“Who had been in Venice for the better part of eight years,” Jacob finished. “Yes, he was from a small town in the middle of rural Venetia. His father was strict, and he was educated in the Church. But apprenticing to the man he did, and living in the city that long, it would be impossible to be so ignorant.”
“Do you really think so?” Alessio sat back and crossed an ankle over the opposite knee. “Maybe you're right. But I would wager that Alicia Miggliozzi was more woman than he'd ever met before. She wasn't a delicate lady. She was only one step away from being a peasant. It's not inconceivable that she had a strong effect on him without sleeping with him.”
“Possible, but not probable.”
They stared at each other for a few minutes, then Alessio grinned. “I
like you, Jacob. Have I told you that? Even when you're completely off balance with us, you manage to rally and stand up for yourself.”
A snort came out before Jacob could stop it. “When I'm not running away, you mean.”
“That may be your first instinct, but you always regroup.”
With a rueful grin, Jacob got up to go to the little bar. He wanted that drink after all. He poured himself a brandy, then gestured to Alessio's empty glass. “More?”
“Si. Grazie.”
“Prego.” Jacob finished with the drinks and sat across from Alessio again, serious once more. “Do you have any idea why this project is so important to your sister?”
If he was startled by the question, Alessio didn't show it. He just shrugged. “I have no idea why she feels it's urgent, but I know what she hopes to do.”
“Really? What? I mean, I have the feeling she wants to direct my research in a particular direction. But I have no idea why. Or where it's going.”
“She wants to have Matteo Venetti reinstated into the Church. Pardoned.”
That was absolutely the last thing Jacob expected to hear. He would have accepted something like “she wants to raise him from the dead” more easily. “You're joking.”
“No. I'm not. She won't tell me why, and I've stopped asking. But that's what she says.”
Bewildered, Jacob tucked that little piece of information away for later and concentrated on his brandy. He turned the conversation toward more general topics, and he found that Alessio was a delightful conversationalist. Well educated and opinionated, Alessio was quick to argue a point, but able to concede gracefully. By the time he was tipsy form the brandy and the urgent need to relieve himself made itself known, several hours had passed. Alessio waved away his yawning apologies with a laugh, and sent him off to bed.
Which made Jacob hesitate. Turning back at the doorway, he asked, “May I make a request?”
“Of course.”
“I hate to make everyone work again, but could I have another room?”
With a knowing look, Alessio waved an expressive “no trouble’ hand. “Of course. Would you like one of your own? Or shall I have them move your things to the twins’ room?”
Damn the skin that blushed so easily. “I'd like my own, please. Even if I stay, well, somewhere else.”
“I'll have someone attend to it now.”
“Thank you.” Jacob left, before he put his foot in his mouth any more. He couldn't believe the things he'd been doing, and Alessio just accepted them so easily. It made him uncomfortable in ways that he really didn't understand. He had a lot to think about thanks to Alessio, not least of which the things the man had said about Jacob and his calling.
The theory Alessio came up with for him suited the situation of Matteo Venetti, too, didn't it? Only in reverse. What if, in all of the whirlwind world of art apprenticeships and love affairs, Venetti found that his life no longer suited his real needs at all? Jacob would have to think on it.
Without really thinking, he went back to the twin's suite. It was just down the hall. The door was unlocked tonight (for him?) and he let himself in. One of the twins was in bed already, only an unbelievably messy mop of hair sticking out of the covers. The other was in the shower. Singing opera. Badly. Jacob snickered. Whichever half of the pair it was, he sounded like a bull moose in full rut. This was why he needed them. Their uncomplicated approach to life soothed a head filled with too many questions. Jacob skinned out of his clothes and went to the bathroom, wincing at the horrible sound close up. He attended his needs quickly, and was goofily warmed to see a third toothbrush on the sink waiting for him.
Without disturbing the bathroom Pavarotti, Jacob went back into the bedroom and yanked on the mound of covers planted solidly in the middle of the bed. A malevolent eyeball peered out at him, and Gianni said, “Make him stop.”
“No way. He's your twin. Now let me in.” They snuggled together and tried to cover their ears with the sheets. When Damien finally shut off the water and came out of the bathroom, Gianni and Jacob were a helpless pile of laughter. Which meant they couldn't escape Damien and his wet hair when he pounced on them. After they were through with him, Jacob slept like a baby that night.
Chapter 8
His appointment with Cecilia the next day wasn't until late in the afternoon. So Jacob set out purposefully the next morning for Father Bertolli's church. He needed the opinion of a man of the cloth. Arriving just after Bertolli had finished breakfast, Jacob asked to speak to him privately. Pietro fetched him, and Bertolli greeted him with something like relief.
“Jacob. I was beginning to think you were lost in that house forever.”
“No. But it has been rather interesting. I need to ask you a personal question, if that's okay.”
“You are welcome to ask, of course. Come sit down.”
The scene was eerily similar to the one last night in Alessio's study. They sat across from each other in Bertolli's office. Father Bertolli was relaxed, Jacob tense. Jacob turned his question over and over in his mind, trying to find the right words. “Father,” he started, “I know we all have times when we question ourselves, wondering if we did the right thing joining the clergy.” Bertolli nodded, and Jacob was relieved. “What I wanted to know is if you've ever had a real crisis of faith.”
Unsurprised by the question, Bertolli looked Jacob over carefully as he replied. “Not really. I have often questioned God's plan. I have often wondered what my place in it was, and whether I would be able to play my part as I needed to. But I've never questioned my belief in God, or the wisdom of pledging my life to his service. Are you?”
“I'm questioning everything right now, Father. But yes, I am wondering if I was right about my calling. The last month or two has been educational for me.”
“Educational or just confusing?”
“Both.” Jacob smiled slightly. “I'm learning a great deal about myself that I never even considered before. And I'm afraid I have a great deal to atone for.”
Looking solemn but sympathetic, Bertolli nodded again. “Maybe you should leave the Miggliozzi house now.”
“You're the one who said you wouldn't let me hide from them.”
“Well, to be honest I thought you would resist them.” Bertolli got up and poured himself a cup of coffee, then offered one to Jacob. He accepted gratefully, and hid a smile. He loved the little rituals of food and drink in this country, how they turned to them when agitated or upset. Was it only a few short months ago that he'd thought they were irritating? “Apparently you fell right in with them, though.”
“You have no idea.” Sighing, Jacob thought of everything that had happened lately and knew he could never tell all of it to Bertolli, even in confession. “Suffice to say I have issues to work through.”
“I hope you will trust me enough to let me help you.”
“Thank you.” Jacob stopped and thought for a minute. “I'd like your opinion on something else. But I have to ask that it stays between us, at least for now.”
“Very well.” The answer was honest and firm, and Jacob was happy with it.
“Why would Cecilia Miggliozzi want to have Matteo Venetti reinstated into the Church?”
Bertolli's bushy eyebrows practically flew off his face. “What?”
It was funny, that expression on Bertolli's usually placid visage. “That's what I'm told. Apparently that's why my research is so important to her. Important enough that she made the offer to send some of her family away for me, and made me promise not to leave until I spoke with her.”
Muttering under his breath in Italian, Bertolli hopped up out of his chair and went to the shelf of reference books behind his desk. He picked a fat volume of history and started leafing through it, still mumbling things like “odd” and “must be here somewhere.” Jacob sat and watched, bemused at the priest's sudden change in manner. Finally, Bertolli gave a satisfied sounding grunt and came back to sit down.
“I knew it was here somewhere.
Pure speculation, but a contemporary of Venetti's, a poet named Vincenzo Garza, made extensive notes about Venetti's trial. He wrote that he thought Venetti committed suicide because he was excommunicated. The two events were not unrelated.”
Amazed, Jacob stared at Bertolli, anger flaring hot in him. “You knew this all along and didn't tell me? Why didn't you show me this in the first place?”
With an eloquent wave of his hands, Bertolli shrugged. “Well you are the expert, no? I thought you would have all of this.”
“I'm the expert on his known paintings and his technique, but not his life. Especially when some people are doing their darndest to hide things from me. May I borrow that book?”
“Of course.” Bertolli handed it over. “Just remember that much of it is propaganda. Garza was like an early tabloid writer.”
“I'll keep it in mind. Thank you, Father. I should get going.”
“Si. Oh, and Jacob?”
He was almost to the door, but Jacob turned back. “Yes?”
“Be careful. And if you need help with this crisis of faith, as you called it...”
“I'll come to you.” With a last wave, Jacob hurried out. He took a cab back to the palazzo, wanting very much to get settled and do some research before his meeting Cecilia. He stopped by the kitchen and charmed one of the girls there into giving him some crusty bread and a plate of olives, cheese and pesto. Munching his snack he set up in his workshop and skimmed through the section of Garza's book that related to Venetti. It fascinated Jacob, who had never really seen any contemporary source material on Venetti before.
According to Varza, who had only known Venetti by reputation and passing acquaintance, Venetti was indeed something of a country bumpkin. Smart, and talented, but naive and rather religious. Apprenticed to master who was ham handed and brutish, it was no wonder that Venetti became something of an enigma. He retreated into painting more and more, though, after a certain affair of the heart ended badly. The lady's name was not mentioned, but Garza alluded to the fact that she was a married woman. During the next few years, Garza wrote, Venetti became more and more strange, and his paintings began to scare the church. That was when the attempts to excommunicate him began. Only three short months after the inquisition that was formed for the trial succeeded in banning Matteo from the church, he killed himself.