The Chapel

by Michael Downing

  I said, “Is that against the law?”

  He said, “I will maybe have to arrest you.”

  I said, “I’m lost.”

  He said, “I know,” but I wasn’t sure if he understood exactly what I meant. “I want to show you somewhere,” he said. He slipped out of his blazer, and as we headed toward the light, he arranged it over my shoulders.

  I said, “I’m not cold.”

  He said, “For me, then.” The buttoned-up front of his white shirt was shimmering, as if it were new-spun silk. Plus, I hadn’t noticed when I was sitting in his restaurant that he was just a few inches shy in all directions of being a giant. He walked so close to me that my back was cradled in his torso. “This is the chapel of my family,” he said. He put his arm around my shoulder. “In honor to the very special Madonna della Misericordia.”

  Through the wavy glass panels in an ancient wooden door, I could see a statue of the Virgin Mary surrounded by dozens of pink roses. The room was only slightly bigger than a phone booth. It was a mystery where those men were hiding. I said, “What does her name mean?”

  He said, “Mother of Mercy.”

  “The chapel is so small,” I said. “Are those men tourists?”

  “These are working men with love for the Madonna,” he said.

  “It looks tiny in there,” I said. I still wasn’t sure he’d understood, so I said, “Very little.”

  He said, “One morning, I will show you a painting also in our very little tiny chapel. For now, we lock her up in the nights and turn the—” This was the first time he seemed to be reaching for a word.

  I said, “Key?”

  He said, “Bells?”

  I said, “Alarm?”

  He said, “You are safe with me.”

  My eyes welled up. I was so confused by this reflex, so certain that something other than sadness had occasioned it, that I actually said, “You could make a woman swoon.”

  He smiled and said, “Soon.” He lightly turned me with his hand and led us toward the bright corner.

  I said, “You are from an old family?”

  He said, “Everybody is, no?”

  I said, “I am going home tomorrow.” I was thinking of my old family, which was disappearing. I was also regretting my swoon comment, so I said, “I really am lost,” as if that might clear things up.

  He said, “T. is telling me your name is E.”

  I was sure he’d meant that as a question, but I said, “He told me your name is Matteo.”

  He slowed us down and stretched his arm around my shoulders. “Permesso,” he said. He reached down into the interior breast pocket of his blazer, a space occupied by my breast, and tucked away his eyeglasses. He must have also found a mint, which he popped into his mouth.

  I felt lightheaded, and either I fell back against his chest and hip or he just sort of scooped me up as he resumed our earlier pace. I managed to stay upright.

  He said, “Cool air coming to us.”

  At the moment, thin streams of sweat were speeding down my arms and legs. He smelled like wood smoke, an occupational hazard, I guessed. We turned onto the well-lit street, and I recognized the big stone buildings from my walk with Ed and T. after the lecture at the Church of the Eremitani. The hotel was only blocks away. Maybe it was the proximity of my bedroom, or maybe it was the heat of his chest against my back, or maybe it was the lingering memory of those seven shadowy men and their seven suitcases, but I had a clear and miserable vision of Matteo on top of me on top of the bed on top of Mitchell and all of the Dante memorabilia I’d stuffed into his suitcase, so I said, “I have some work to do tonight,” which made no impression on Matteo, so I added, “Piles and piles of paper I have to deal with before I leave Padua.”

  He said, “We say Padova.”

  I said, “Padova.”

  He said, “Almost. Padova. Like you mean it.”

  I said it very slowly. “Pa. Do. Va.”

  “Suona come uno di noi.” He leaned into me, delighted. “Like one of us. Now, what are these papers that make you busy this night?”

  “Bad memories, mostly,” I said. I couldn’t tell if Matteo really believed I had work to do, or if he was just being gracious about letting me retreat to my room alone. Either way, it was a relief. “I wish I could just burn it all,” I said. “Start fresh.”

  Near the hotel, he stepped in front of me and grabbed the brass handle of the plate-glass door. When he tugged, the glass whinnied and wavered. The door was locked, and he’d almost pulled it off its hinges. Before we could locate an intercom or bell, a buzzer sounded, and he ushered me into the lobby.

  Ricardo was standing at his post, leaning forward, hands pressed against the desk, looking like a stoic steward on the deck of the Titanic.

  When I turned to say good-bye, Matteo said, “I take the papers now for burning.” He put a hand against my back—his blazer, my back—and led me to the elevator. “This is my best time.”

  Ricardo said, “Buona notte.”

  Matteo said, “Notte.”

  I said nothing. Since I’d felt the press of his big hand against my back, I had been practicing my Pranayama, deep yogic breathing. This kept me upright in the elevator, and my hand didn’t even shake when I stuck the key into the electronic lock and led Matteo into my room. But when I got as far as the bed, I stopped—walking, breathing, thinking, being.

  He slipped his coat off my shoulders, tossed it back toward the red chair near the door, and stood behind me, inching in until I could feel the soft press of his chest and belly, my hips against his thighs. He ran his hands down my sides beneath my arms.

  To steady myself, I said, “I am leaving tomorrow.”

  He said, “I have been following you in my heart.” His hands had reached my waist. He pressed in closer, wrapped his arms around me, and starting at my waist, he undid the buttons of my dress, which were as compliant as a zipper. He worked his way swiftly up to my neck, and then he gently pulled the dress apart until it slipped off my shoulders. He kissed my neck. He said, “Mmm.”

  The aroma of wood smoke was more profound than ever, tinged with yeast and garlic. I had a brief flirtation with the possibility of passing out, overcome with desire—but for him or a pizza? I could already imagine how my sheets and hair would smell when I woke the next morning. The moment reeked of aftermath. I was suddenly wide awake. I clumsily pulled up the sleeves of my dress.

  Matteo said, “What?”

  If he’d had an arugula pie in his pocket, I might have let him finish what he came to do. My appetites were all mixed up at the moment. “I really am going home tomorrow,” I said, doing up a few buttons, hoping he understood that I was pretending we had agreed this was a mistake.

  He said, “We are here now.”

  A very T.-ish thing to say, I thought. I could feel him towering over me.

  Graciously, ungrudgingly, he said, “What do you need to burn?”

  This provoked a grade-school memory of Joan of Arc, flames flying up her body, head tilted toward the sky. I said, “It’s just some paper.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Paper burns.”

  Handing over that suitcase seemed more intimate than anything that had happened yet between us. But if I left it under the bed, I knew the idea of it would haunt me, as if I had abandoned a lame animal in a wooded darkness, or bolted the door behind me as I walked out of the home of a dying man. Or maybe I knew a maid would discover it, and Ricardo would call me in Cambridge, and I would begrudgingly pay the exorbitant price of shipping Mitchell’s unfinished business to my doorstep—thus preserving Mitchell’s greatest failure and my status as the aggrieved widow, burdened by his losses and mine.

  I bent down beside the bed and reached in under the sideboard. By the time I got the suitcase out and had its handle in the air, Matteo was pulling something from the inside pocket of his blazer, as if he might have to put on his glasses and examine the documents to be sure I was not involving him in a crime. I rolled the suitcase to
him. He bent down and kissed me, which totally surprised me. His tongue was huge. He reached around my back, but I stiffened when I realized the suitcase had become a currency, and he now felt I owed him something for his willingness to do my bidding, that I was in his debt.

  He propped his two hands on the suitcase handle, and I saw that he was wearing a wedding band. He said, “This is not looking as you think.”

  I pointed to his hand and said, “Did you just put that on?”

  He let go of the suitcase and tossed something onto the bed. “You don’t understand,” he said.

  But I did. On my bed was a perforated strand of three black condom packets. I was flattered by his overestimation of my stamina, but I said, “I am going home.”

  “I must have something to say,” he said.

  “Trust me,” I said, “you said it.”

  He said, “You must let me—”

  “No,” I said. “I got it.”

  He reached up and held my face in his huge hands. Urgently, beseechingly, he said, “You are knowing nothing.”

  I said, “That is not exactly a compliment.”

  Maybe he wasn’t listening, or maybe he didn’t understand, but his ardor was undiminished. He said, “When we will ever meet again?”

  “I’m not even here,” I said. I took a step away from him. The suitcase handle tilted back against his belly, and I saw that he was hard already, so maybe that breath mint was actually a Viagra, and though his size would not have been a deal breaker, it was breathtaking, probably better suited to a yogi with a more rigorous Pranayama practice. I said, “In my mind, I am not here.”

  “I know,” he said ardently, as if everything I’d said so far had made perfect sense. “You must let me speak to heal your losses.”

  Someone had told him I was a widow. I didn’t want him to say anything about Mitchell, so I said, “I was actually lost,” as if an adverb might tip the balance back toward my side. “Mixed up,” I added, pointing a finger at my head and twirling it around, indicating a possible mental illness.

  “I know all about this,” he said. His tone wasn’t threatening, but it was impatient, as if his walking me back to the hotel entitled him to spew something before he retreated back into the night. I really wished I could slip a condom over his head. “You must let me speak.”

  “In Italian,” I said.

  “Si, si, si,” he said proudly, “Italia.” He seemed to think I was conceding home-field advantage.

  “No, no, no,” I said. “In Italian. You understand? You can say everything, anything at all, but just say it in Italian.”

  And astonishingly, he did. His brushed back my hair, and then withdrew his hands and leaned so far forward on the suitcase handle, I was sure it would soon break. He spoke softly, sometimes smiling, sometimes purposefully shifting his gaze away from mine and whispering. It was mesmerizing. At one point, he slapped his hand right against his heart and heaved out a huge blast of air, and then he shrugged and held up one finger, to assure me there was just one more thing, the last thing, and he smiled broadly while he explained something that seemed to involve the buttons on my dress, his bald head, somebody sleeping peacefully, the Madonna della Misericordia, and a bird or a plane or an angel—something with wings.

  I didn’t say anything.

  Matteo looked genuinely confused. He said, “No? No?”

  The light above our heads flicked off.

  He said something else in Italian, not a compliment as far as I could judge his tone, and then I heard the whir of the suitcase rolling away and the door swinging open and shut. I didn’t move for several seconds. I heard nothing, but I knew he was standing just outside my door. I felt I owed him something—not a triple-header, but an apology or an explanation or a rain check, maybe. And then I heard him knock—just once. I took a deep breath, and I stepped toward the door. I took the handle in my hand, and as I pulled the door wide open, Mitchell’s suitcase fell against my shins. I stepped out into the hallway. It was bright and empty.

  I RIGHTED THE SUITCASE, AND WHEN I TRIED TO COLLAPSE the long telescoping handle, it wouldn’t budge. I didn’t know if Matteo had bent it out of whack while he was delivering his Italian aria, or if the bang against the door had jammed the handle so it wouldn’t collapse. Either way, I took it as a sign. That suitcase was an unfit traveling companion. I grabbed my nail scissors and cut away the tag with Mitchell’s name. I’d never noticed it before, but instead of our telephone and street address, he’d printed his Harvard information in the blank spaces beneath “Home.”

  I wheeled the suitcase to the elevator, and in the lobby, I found Ricardo at the front desk with an open book.

  I said, “I found this in my room. It was under the bed. It isn’t mine.”

  Ricardo said, “Signora Berman.” He checked his watch, as if he considered this an inappropriate hour for conducting business with a single woman.

  “The handle is broken,” I said.

  He said, “You broke this?”

  I said, “No.”

  Ricardo said, “He broke this?” I noted a slight change in tone, as if he might feel he had to come to my rescue if Matteo had wronged me, but that seemed to open the door to my room yet again, so I said, “It was broken. Perhaps that is why it was left under my bed.”

  Ricardo said, “We are on the end of his English.”

  I said, “I’m tired, too. It is late. Please, take this.” I wanted to turn and leave him with the problem, but I was certain it would end up at my door again.

  Ricardo said, “You want safekeeping?”

  “Perfetto,” I said. “Safekeeping.”

  He ducked down and came back with a tag for me to fill out.

  I said, “It is not mine.”

  He said, “Non il mio.”

  I really wasn’t sure if he was translating what I’d said into Italian or issuing a disclaimer. I was just determined not to let him or Matteo write the end of this story. On the tag, I wrote, “Owner Unknown.” I could feel Ricardo was waiting for me to fill in the rest of the blanks, so I copied the phone number from a tour agency brochure hanging beside the front desk, invented an illegible email address, and handed him the ticket.

  “You are safe with me,” he said.

  I didn’t say anything.

  VI

  I didn’t sleep. I watched a little bit of news with British accents, and several long commercials for a colorful array of headbands and adhesive tape that seemed to be an at-home facelift kit. At eight-thirty, I finally got out of bed, and I surprised myself by feeling momentarily excited about what had almost happened with Matteo, as if his kiss and his embrace had almost awakened me, or some part of myself that had been asleep for years. However, during a very brief consult with Mirror, Mirror on the bathroom wall, I decided I looked less like Snow White and more like poor Lazarus, dragged out of his cozy tomb, trying to pass as a normal, live person.

  I slipped into the linen shirtdress, which was so wrinkled it looked like lavender aluminum foil. My hair was staticky, flying up after each brushstroke, as if by ignoring all the firing synapses that were trying to form thoughts in my head I had caused an electrical storm up there. Even by my shamelessly low fashion standard for the day, the red bag with the lavender dress was a no-go, so I emptied it out and plucked my phone and room key from the mess. As a bonus, I found Pietro’s business card, printed in Italian and English on opposite sides: From Venice? To Venice? Picking you up every times! There was my ride to the airport. And the prospect of seeing Pietro reminded me of those postcards I’d written, and I didn’t think, I just grabbed the two stacks for Sam and Rachel.

  As I got out of the elevator, the young tux at the front desk said, “Signora Berman?”

  I said, “Yes.”

  He said, “Momento,” and hustled into the restaurant.

  I braced myself for a final encounter with Anna, or maybe Anna and Francesca both wanted to berate me for my generosity. Instead, Shelby appeared in the doorway and yelle
d, “I thought I’d missed you!”

  I said, “Shelby!”

  She said, “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, following her to her table. “I look a mess, I know, but I’m really fine.”

  “I love those shirtdresses of yours,” Shelby said. “They look good no matter how many times you wear them.”

  Shelby had shimmied into her white jumpsuit, as if she had decided to skip the train ride to Venice and hop on her rocket instead. I thought this, but I said, “I’m happy to have a chance to say good-bye,” which was just as true.

  She handed me something small and cool. “It fell right off my knitting needle on the bus to Vicenza,” she said. “Like a sign or something. It was only thanks to you I was able to take that side-trip, after all.”

  It was a little disk of lapis lazuli, like a fragment of a comet that had fallen through Giotto’s painted sky. I didn’t believe it had fallen out of its own accord. I knew Shelby had pried it free for me. “This is a sign of how sweet you are, Shelby,” I said.

  She said, “Are you really going home today?”

  I said, “Right after I mail these postcards.”

  Shelby was so impressed with my literary output and the number of friends I had back in Cambridge that I felt obliged to tell her the truth.

  “But they’ll get all ten postcards at once,” she said.

  “No,” I said. “You see, I’ll mail one here, and maybe one or two from the airport, and then the rest from Cambridge—every few days.”

  Shelby furrowed her brow. “With Italian stamps?”

  She had a point. I said, “That won’t work, will it?” If she’d asked, I couldn’t have re-created the logic of writing the postcards in the first place.

  Instead, she said, “Everybody loves a postcard, no matter what.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  Shelby said, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I said, “Nothing a pot of coffee won’t clear up.” There wasn’t a waiter in sight.