“Anyway, I guess the point is that these are universal stories with the usual universal ingredients—the good guys versus the bad guys—or the monsters—the beautiful princess waiting to be rescued—or sacrificed. Love, lust, fate—you name it. It’s really not that far removed from real life, when you think about it, for better or worse.”
She nodded, wondering if there was more.
“By the way, Elena, the oracle was fulfilled. Perseus took his mother back to Argos, where he accidentally killed his grandfather while playing with a discus. Fate is fate, I guess, and no one can escape it. Whatever God or the stars ordain.”
He sighed. “I hope I’m not sounding too preachy or boring you, but I really miss being at the university. The exchange of ideas, the intellectual stimulation, the excitement. But there’s nothing much I can do about it. That seems to be my fate, at least currently.
“And so, my dear Elena,” he said, recovering his equanimity and nudging her towards the window, “we have our own little classroom here instead, which will have to do. Not such a terrible substitute, when you think about it,” he added gently.
As Elena now bent over the telescope, she paused and looked up at Niccolò. “So, Perseus,” she asked, lowering her eyelashes in mock bashfulness, “if I’m ever threatened by a sea monster will you rescue me?”
“What do you think?” he replied with a smile. “Here, let me help you.”
He put his arm around her to help her direct the lens and adjust the instrument into a position more comfortable for her height, and his jet-black curls mingled momentarily with her dark wavy hair. As he stood back, he saw that a faint blush now colored her cheeks and suffused the slender white column of her neck and throat.
And bewitched by her beauty and the tales told by the stars, he bent and kissed the top of her head, her rosy cheek, and her soft and gently welcoming lips.
Chapter Seven
Elena walked over to the pew in which she and her family always sat each Sunday morning and made herself comfortable. Today she had slept later than usual and had decided to go to mass on her own rather than with her parents and brother Giulio. They had already been to services at Santa Maria in Trastevere two hours ago and had indulged her wish to wake up late and go to church without them. In fact, they had just finished eating a light breakfast, the scent of freshly baked rolls and the ersatz coffee they had been forced to favor since the beginning of the war still wafting through the apartment as she hurried out the door.
As she waited for the service to begin, she glanced around her in the dimly lit transept and realized that there were very few familiar faces there that morning. Most of the people whom she knew from the neighborhood had apparently attended mass earlier, and, to her surprise, she felt a bit uncomfortable among this group of strangers. It was a good thing she’d arrived a few minutes early. Otherwise she might have been forced to sit somewhere towards the back, where it was harder to concentrate and hear Father Donato’s sermon.
Father Donato, the parish priest, was getting on in years—she guessed his age to be somewhere in the vicinity of seventy, maybe seventy-five—and his voice had begun to weaken, taking on a slight tremor that made it difficult to hear him at times. He had been assigned to the parish of Santa Maria in Trastevere for as long as she could remember and had become almost a surrogate grandfather figure to many of the young men and women her age. He always had a kind word, a ready smile, and, on occasion, a pocketful of sweets hidden deep inside his cassock, which he distributed to the youngest children who came to mass.
She smiled to herself as she thought about how easy it was to go to confession, knowing that he was there on the other side of the grate in the confessional booth. Not that she'd ever had any serious sins to confess. She had never been given more than a few halfhearted Hail Marys to say, and then only for minor infractions such as not paying complete attention during her catechism lessons as a child or, nowadays, for being reluctant to wash dishes at home or clean up her bedroom.
The church filled up quickly, and the service began. An hour later she found herself standing outside the massive, carved wooden doors of the building, opposite a large plaza and fountain, waiting to greet Father Donato. It had been several weeks since she had been to confession, and she wanted to ask him how he was feeling. He had seemed unusually lethargic this morning, weak and exhausted, even during his rather brief sermon, and Elena was concerned that he might actually be ill.
Suddenly she felt a tap on her shoulder and quickly turned to see the cold hawk-like eyes and hard features of an acquaintance of her brother—Mauro Rostoni. She could hardly call him a friend of Giulio, since she knew that her brother had disliked and studiously avoided Mauro, even though the two had attended the local high school together. She had heard that Rostoni had completed all requirements for the priesthood in one of the local seminaries directly affiliated with the Vatican in less than the usual number of years and had just taken up a prestigious position in the Apostolic Palace as an assistant to the Holy Father himself. He was rumored to be brilliant, and it was common knowledge that he was very ambitious. She guessed that he was spending a rare Sunday with his family, since it was likely that his duties in the Holy See would keep him away from the parish on a general basis.
Elena had always found him somewhat repellent. Not that he was physically unattractive in any significant or unusual way, but there was something about his unyielding manner and stony expression that always made her think of some sort of predator, silent and deadly, lying in wait, ready to spring on its hapless victim.
Though it was warm outside, even for the time of year, she shivered and crossed her arms in an unconsciously protective gesture, waiting for him to speak. After all, he had sought her out—not the reverse—and she certainly had no intention of encouraging any conversation with him.
In fact, she couldn’t imagine why he had approached her, since she had always deliberately kept out of his way. And besides, what would a newly ordained priest want with a teenage girl like herself? She certainly wasn’t a candidate for holy orders. But she also knew that on the few occasions when he’d attended mass at the same time as her family usually did, that he would stare at her from under hooded eyelids, like some horribly repugnant reptile, cold blooded and silent, yet quick and deadly when it strikes.
He wouldn’t be the first young man in the neighborhood to have found her attractive, but he was certainly the last one with whom she would wish to have any contact whatsoever. She knew she was naïve in many respects, but still, she had always thought that anyone who had joined the priesthood would do so only if he had a serious calling or true vocation for it. Not that she hadn’t heard risqué stories about priests and nuns.
She hoped he wasn’t going to ask to walk her home, perhaps to inquire about Giulio, because if he did, she knew she would be firm in her refusal, even to the point of rudeness if necessary. And she hated to make a scene in public, especially outside the church and possibly in front of Father Donato, whom she expected to emerge from the building at any moment.
She looked at Rostoni with a guarded expression on her face and was stunned when her grabbed her arm, holding it in a painful vise-like grip, and maneuvered her around the corner of the church and into a narrow side street, where a black-shirted figure waited for him.
She was too shocked to protest or even to cry out or scream. The only sound that escaped from her throat was a choked gasp of terror and pain. Finally she kicked his shin and he released her arm. But she was too frightened to run.
“My dear Signorina Conti,” he said in cold, sarcastic tones, ignoring his bruised leg, “I think you’d better stay put and listen, if you know what’s good for you. And for your whole miserable family.
“My friend here, Giovanni Torloni, has been informed—and I’ve confirmed for him—that your family has been employing a racially inferior tutor for you. A Jew,” he spat out venomously. “And in clear violation of the Racial Laws.”
Ele
na now tried to move away from him, but he had cornered her near the wall of a nearby building, and there was no escape.
“No Jew may be employed by any Christian family,” he continued. “As you well know. No Jew may receive any financial benefits from racially pure Italian families. As you well know. That is the law. You and your family have been under surveillance for some time now, so don’t even try to deny it. We’re not stupid or blind.
“Mio amico, Giovanni, and his colleagues are willing to overlook your past behavior as a personal favor to me, as long as it does not continue. As a matter of fact, you might wish to consider me as a prospective tutor, my dear Signorina Conti. I assure you that my credentials are impeccable and my fees quite affordable—at least in your case,” he added as his eyes ran up and down the length of her body. “And my duties at the Vatican are not as time-consuming as you might believe.
“Meanwhile, you and your entire family are in danger of denuncia. I need not explain, I am sure, just what happens to those who are denounced to the Fascist militia or the Gestapo as collaborators with the Jews.” He paused for dramatic effect and added, “Or to those who are their whores,” moving even closer to her, as she tried to shrink back into the wall.
“It is only my special regard for you that has prompted me to share this with you,” he added, glancing at Giovanni, who still stood within earshot, languidly exhaling a puff of smoke from his cigarette, his hand resting casually on the pistol that was ostentatiously displayed in its gleaming leather holster, the insignia on his uniform displaying the Fasci di combattimento—the ancient Roman bundle of rods enclosing an ax with a projecting blade.
Elena narrowed her eyes and thrust out her jaw defiantly, now angrier than she had thought possible. “My tutor, as you term him, is a friend of my brother,” she said waspishly. “Which you are not. He tutors me for free, so he’s not in violation of any law that I know of. My family does not employ him. He receives no salary. He is intelligent and generous. And gentlemanly. Which you are not. I cannot see how this is any of your affair.”
Clearly infuriated, Rostoni grabbed her chin between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed, shifting her face upward so that she could not avoid the menace in his eyes. Though he was hurting her, she would not give him the satisfaction of crying out. His breath was hot upon her face.
“I will not repeat myself again, cara,” he hissed. “You have been warned.”
And as he removed his hand from her jaw she felt him deliberately brush it against her breasts and pinch her nipple. In terror mixed with an equal measure of anger, she crunched her heel on his instep and broke away. She fled down the street, not pausing to catch her breath until she had reached her home.
In the inner courtyard of the apartment building, she collapsed near a large pot of pale hydrangeas that had somehow survived the winter and burst into tears, harsh sobs racking her slender frame.
“Dio, Dio,” she cried over and over again. “What am I going to do? What am I going to do?”
And though she had not yet eaten, she clutched her stomach and vomited in dry, painful spasms onto the lavender and pink petals, shaking and shivering uncontrollably in the warm late July air.
Chapter Eight
It had now been eight weeks since Elena and Niccolò had been meeting on a regular basis for her tutoring sessions in math and physics. Both were pleased to discover that they worked comfortably together. She found that he explained difficult concepts and theories far more clearly than her teachers had ever done and that he was exceptionally patient when she needed more time to assimilate information. Effortlessly patient, in fact.
At times he would entertain her with anecdotes about the university, something that Giulio rarely did, and he treated her as if she were his contemporary, rather than some sort of surrogate younger sister. He had told her, once, that he had always wanted a sibling, but that it had just never happened. Apparently his parents had been married for close to ten years before he himself had been born, and at this point in time, the most he could hope for was to marry some day and have at least several children, to make up for having been an only child.
“Not that there haven’t been some advantages to it, Elena,” he confided. “But I would have rather had less attention from my parents and fewer material possessions and had a couple of brothers or sisters to share it all with. At any rate, it wasn’t as if I—or my parents—had any choice in the matter.
“And no choice seems to be par for the course nowadays, in general,” he remarked. “At least for many of us. And believe me, I don’t mean to downplay how this war has affected everyone, not just those of us who happen to be Jewish. None of us knows what tomorrow will bring.”
As he said this, he saw that Elena’s eyes had suddenly filled with tears, and he leaned over to wipe them away with his handkerchief. “What’s wrong, Elena?” he asked. “Have I said something to upset you?”
“Oh, Niccolò,” she cried, and burst into tears. She wept bitterly for a few minutes, as he put his arms around her and tried to calm her down.
That one tender kiss, a week earlier, when he had broken curfew and regaled her with tales about the stars, had not yet been repeated. Though there was an undeniable attraction between them that they were finding increasingly difficult to resist, they had not been left alone in the apartment until now. And because they generally used the large mahogany dining room table for their lessons, in a central and highly trafficked area of the Conti home, they had done no more since then than lean against each other over their books or hold hands surreptitiously under the table.
Elena’s mother had gone out ten minutes ago with the family’s ration coupons to pick up a few things from the local greengrocer, a process that could take up to an hour because of the queues. Her father, an accountant, was still at work, and Giulio had popped his head in the doorway just a few minutes earlier to say that he was stepping out for a while and would be back soon.
As Niccolò held her, he hoped her mother and brother wouldn’t return early and find them in this potentially compromising position. Not that there was anything technically wrong with holding and comforting her, but he knew he had been placed in a situation of trust and was reluctant to do anything to jeopardize it.
Elena finally stopped sobbing and began to explain haltingly, “I didn’t want to tell you this . . . I didn’t know how. But I have to. I haven’t even told my parents yet. Or Giulio.
“But Sunday, after mass, someone from the neighborhood, a horrible person named Mauro Rostoni, took me aside . . . No, he forced me to come with him,” she said with a shudder of revulsion. “He threatened me, Niccolò . . . He threatened to get you in trouble with the Blackshirts for tutoring me. I tried to tell him that you do this for free. That we’re not in violation of the Racial Laws. But I don’t think he cares.”
She wiped away a tear that had coursed down her cheek. “There’s more. He . . . he hurt me. And he touched me . . . inappropriately.”
She tried to regain her composure and then added, “You see, Niccolò, he’s a priest! He was ordained about a year ago and works at the Vatican. No one would ever believe me. It was horrible!”
Niccolò looked at her in shock and held her both of her hands tightly in his. “Elena, is there anything else? You don’t have to be afraid to tell me. Did he harm you in any way? I think you know what I’m trying to ask. Please tell me. I can try to help. I thought you looked upset when I arrived today, but you seemed to get it under control, and I didn’t want to intrude by asking.”
“I’m afraid of him,” she answered. “He . . . he didn’t . . . force himself on me,” she stammered brokenly. “But I don’t know what he’ll try to do next. He’s dangerous. He has a brother in the local carabinieri and friends among the neighborhood Blackshirts. He brought along a friend to intimidate me. Someone who just stood there and watched while he . . . while he hurt me and . . . touched me.
“I don’t think I can talk about it anymore. But I’m scared.
I’m scared about what could happen to you.” And she started to cry again.
He held her close and stroked her hair gently, and she tilted her tear-stained face to meet his lips. They kissed, slowly at first and then more hungrily, all but forgetting that her mother or brother might come home at any moment. She leaned closer and dotted his neck with soft kisses, then unbuttoned his shirt in a naturally reflexive action, pressing her lips over and over again to his chest and passing her hands over his body, under his shirt.
He groaned and cupped her breasts, startled to find that she wore no bra beneath her dress. Her nipples grew erect at his touch, and he fumbled at her buttons, opening her dress to the waist and slipping it and her thin cotton camisole off her shoulders. He bent and kissed her breasts, caressing her gently, and felt her hand reach for his crotch, rubbing him until he thought he would explode.
His hands now rested on her buttocks, beneath her dress, his hands inside her panties. She moaned and began to unzip his trousers as he pulled her panties down to her ankles and slipped his fingers into her, stroking and probing as they continued to kiss with greater and greater urgency, their tongues hard and thrusting into each other’s mouths.
Heedless of everything but each other, they staggered backwards against the wall, and he raised her to him. She flexed her knees and slid onto him in a movement that brought with it a sudden gasp of pain followed by sensations she had never imagined possible, as they melted together in a timeless act of love, ordained by fate and sanctioned by the all-knowing stars.
Chapter Nine
The bells of San Pietro had just rung out to the heavens, triumphantly clanging in the cocktail hour of 8 PM and the official start of a papal reception for the German ambassador and his entourage in the Apostolic Palace. Vespers had been celebrated earlier in the basilica, and now all was quiet behind the massive locked doors of the great church sanctuary. In the dark evening sky, Orion the hunter and Gemini the twins emerged from behind a heavy mass of clouds and then disappeared from view.
The Lost Catacomb Page 15