The Perfect Sun

by Brendan Carroll

  When he returned from the closet, he laid out the rather worn suit on the bed and put away the red robe. It was clear that Gambrelli had no intention of wearing the garb of Cardinal again. The valet’s dark thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

  A messenger delivered a letter addressed to His Eminence, Paolo Gambrelli, Supreme Father of the Holy Roman Church. His first official letter and again, before his coronation. He smiled as he read the return address. Polunsky’s envoy had miscalculated its arrival by one day, but the post was very unreliable since the war. He broke the seal and opened the letter. Handwritten from the Baron himself.

  Polunsky was ready to set sail as soon as the Pope could attend him in Naples. Simple and to the point. Excellent. Everything was progressing with amazing speed for the times, but even Papal authority might not be speedy enough. If they did not make haste to retrieve the Ark from the Mountains of Horeb, it was possible someone or something else might disturb it. The longer they waited the more risky and precarious its position became. Such an artifact would not remain unnoticed for long. It would draw attention to itself, and he had seen the vast and surprising numbers of Zoroastrians in the vicinity. He’d not considered them in years, in fact, no one had thought of them. The world thought them to have succumbed to the wars and famines. It was, however, no surprise to learn that they were somehow connected to the Templars. It seemed every occult and heretical movement in the world was connected with the Templars. Perhaps that was reverse thinking. Perhaps the Templars had connected themselves to these bands of miscreants. Whatever the case, he had no fear of the Bedouins who professed brotherly love and worshipped fire. If they loved and revered fire so very much, they might just have the opportunity to learn what fire actually was and how terrible their god would treat them, if they were to experience him in close quarters. He almost smiled at this wicked thought, and then crossed himself, remembering his vows and his fasting and the ritual he was about to do.

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  “What is that you are cooking, Poppi?” Vanni asked and raised both eyebrows at his father.

  Only the barest few white strands in Lucio’s hair he had gathered from his days as a mortal here and there, and the scar he had worn since his youth, set him apart from his handsome son. They were identical in almost every respect. The tattoos on Vanni’s chest were different from his father’s, having been put there by elves rather than Egyptian priests. The younger Dambretti ran a towel over his curly black hair and smiled at his father.

  “It is nothing,” Lucio turned back to the stove. The smell of fresh garlic and onions filled the air with tantalizing promise. He added a dash of extra virgin olive oil and dumped the bowl of sliced mushrooms into the heavy cook pot before replacing the lid. “Just something I threw together.”

  “You are too modest. Just like your favorite son. Too modest.” Vanni laughed and returned to the living room, where he switched on the stereo. The stirring notes of one of Verdi’s operatic overtures drifted back to the kitchen, and Vanni began to hum the tune while he finished drying his hair. “When are you going to teach me the mystic rites of the kitchen, Poppi? I promised Ronni an authentic Italian supper, and I want to impress her with my cooking skills,” he called to his father.

  “What cooking skills?” Lucio asked him over his shoulder as he turned the veal cutlets, simmering in the wine sauce.

  “There, you see?” Vanni reappeared in the kitchen and crossed the room to the windows overlooking the busy street below. He opened the casement windows and breathed in the fresh air blowing in off the Bay of Naples. “I have no skill at cooking. It is the one thing the King could not teach me. He doesn’t cook, you know. He eats a great deal for such a small fellow, but he cares nothing for cooking. He prefers to study the stars and the planets and the things that delve in the earth. Not that those things are important or interesting, but he feels it is his destiny to worry with such things.”

  “His destiny? Yes, he would have a destiny, of course. The son of King Ramsay,” Lucio said as he stirred another pot of simmering beans. The aromas emanating from the stove made his mouth water, but he was not one to taste himself into satiation before the meal was on the table. He smelled the steam again, replaced the lid and picked up his glass of wine from the counter. The wine was perfect. The meal would be perfect. A small yellow bird lit on the window seal and Vanni offered it a bread crumb. The bird seemed to think nothing of taking the food directly from Vanni’s hand.

  Everything was perfect. Time alone with his son. A precious, priceless holiday. Holiday. “What holiday is this? I forget.”

  “Midsummer’s Eve,” Vanni said as he leaned out the window to watch the bird take the tidbit up to its nest under the eaves of the building.

  “Ahhh, si`,” Lucio sat down at the tiled table and frowned. “When did we start celebrating Midsummer’s Eve?”

  “We’ve always celebrated Midsummer’s Eve, Poppi.” Vanni turned to look at him, puzzled.

  “I know that Il Dolce Mio’s people do, but the Order does not support the date as a holiday,” Lucio said thoughtfully. “It is a pagan thing. You know, bon fires and midnight dancing, that sort of thing. Of course, the Feast of Saint John is very near the same date.”

  “Yes, yes, that and frolics in the wood with fair maidens,” Vanni said happily with just a touch of mischief in his voice.

  “I thought that was the Spring Equinox.” Lucio blinked at his son.

  “You mean Ostara? No, that is when we hunt for eggs, and start to plant for the harvest. When the sun warms the earth and new things begin to grow. Midsummer’s Eve is the time of planting, but a different sort.”

  “What do you mean?” Lucio refilled his glass and poured a drink for his son.

  “Midsummer’s Eve is the night of the great rite,” Vanni said and sat down across from him. “When… you know, girls and boys and all that.”

  “Oh, I see.” Lucio laughed. Of course he knew. He was only teasing his son. “And what does Ronni think of it?”

  “I should hope she doesn’t think of it at all.” Vanni’s dark eyes grew wide. “She belongs to me. I am her only love.”

  “Don’t be so sure, my son.” Lucio turned up his glass again and bitter thoughts from the past filled his mind. “The love of woman is only as good as the man she loves.”

  “What do you mean, Poppi?” Vanni leaned his elbows on the table. “Do you have advice for your son? You know Il Dolce Mio says I never heed advice. That is not true. I love advice. I have tons of advice stored in my head and someday I intend to use every bit of it.”

  “I have no advice concerning how to keep the love of a woman, Vanni.” Lucio shook his head. “You see where I have come to. I am alone here.” He waved his arms at the apartment. “After all these years, I am finally alone. That is what you have to look forward to, if you don’t find the answer to the mystery I never found. I have lost every woman I have ever loved, simply because I didn’t know how to keep them.”

  “Every one of them, Poppi?” Vanni’s bright smile turned down in a sad expression. One he was not used to. “Is there not one left who loves you?”

  Lucio frowned again. Something was not right. Not right. There was something he should be doing or saying. Something…

  “Every one,” he affirmed and finished off the wine. “Don’t look so disappointed. You are not me. There is nothing that says a son must follow in his father’s footsteps in every aspect. You don’t have to suffer the same fate.”

  “What fate is that, Poppi?” Vanni asked quietly. “I thought you did not believe in fate? What happened to the will of God?”

  “The will of God?” Lucio looked at his son as if he were crazy. “What do you know of the will of God?”

  “Nothing,” Vanni also finished off his wine. “I only know what I want. The Creator has never bothered to let me in on the big story. I try not to think of it. Perhaps it is the will of God that I do not understand the will of God. Since everyt
hing is the will of God, then it could be no other way.”

  Lucio watched in silence as his son began to set the table for supper. His thoughts were jumbled, confused. How long had it been since he had come here to his apartment in Naples? Weeks, months? The Grand Master would be furious. He’d been neglecting his work at the Villa again. He would be in for a good tongue lashing if not a beating. His thoughts of the perfect day had evaporated, and then his morose thoughts of returning to work were interrupted by a light knock on his front door. Vanni laid down the plates, but Lucio stood up.

  “I’ll get it,” he said, not wishing to go on with the scenes playing out in his mind. The Master floating in the pool at the Villa, the hot Italian sun beating on his white gabardine suit while the old man took his time before paying attention to the Golden Eagle and then the inevitable haranguing and accusations. The insults and for what? For the honor of being a member of the exalted Order of the Red Cross? What had it ever gotten him other than trouble and woe? Trouble and woe with the exception of his son, Vanni, and of course, Lucia and Marco and Galen. They were his only accomplishments of any consequence.

  He opened the door and was shocked to see Catharine de Goth standing in the hall. She wore a pretty yellow summer dress, white gloves and a flowered scarf over her golden red curls.

  “Catharine! What a surprise!” He smiled and held the door open. “Won’t you come inside? Vanni and I were about to have supper…” He turned and called to Vanni to lay out another plate. This was wonderful.

  “Lucio…” Catharine’s eyes darted about the apartment and then settled on his face. Something was terribly wrong with her. She dropped her handbag on the carpet and stood looking at it in confusion. The Italian scooped it up and handed it back to her. He took her arm and escorted her into the kitchen.

  “Look who is here, Vanni,” he said and beamed at his son, who was busily laying out another place setting on the blue-tiled table.

  “Catharine,” Vanni greeted her and took her hand, kissing the back of it. “A pleasure to see you again? Have you been in Naples long?”

  “Vanni,” she uttered his name and nothing more would come.

  “Here, sit down, la dolce mia,” Lucio pulled out a chair for her. “We were wondering how we were going to finish off this perfect day with this perfect meal without the perfect dinner conversation. Now that problem is solved. You are here to save us from gorging ourselves for lack of anything better to do. Perhaps we might go out for a movie after dinner. I haven’t seen a good movie in ages.”

  “Neither have I, Lucio,” Catharine replied, but stared at him in fascination. “And do you know why?”

  “Why?” He asked as he sat down next to her and took her hand in his. “Surely you have not been keeping yourself locked up in that creepy castle with your brother? Such a delight as yourself should be seen in public as often as possible. Your face adds beauty to this ugly world.”

  “You will never change, Sir,” she smiled and withdrew her hand. “That is not the reason.”

  “Then tell me.” He poured her glass full of the robust Tuscan label.

  “I have seen no good movies lately because there have been no movies made in over six decades,” she said. “Perhaps longer.”

  “Che cosa e` esso?” He asked as he continued to fill the other two glasses from the seemingly bottomless bottle of wine. The same bottle from which he’d been drinking all afternoon. “No movies? What are you talking about?”

  “Lucio!” She grabbed his hand, spilling his wine. “Look at me. It’s Catharine.”

  “I know who you are, my sweet.” He frowned and grabbed a towel. “Please, Vanni, help me with this. Miss de Goth is upset. Drink your wine, my love. It will soothe your tattered nerves. This heat is too much. Vanni, turn on the fan, will you?”

  Vanni handed him another towel and then flipped the switch for the overhead fan.

  Catharine watched all of this with her mouth hanging slightly open.

  “You poor child!” Lucio stood up. “You should lie down before we eat. It might be too much for your delicate stomach.”

  “Lucio, listen to me,” she tried again. “There have been no movies, no movie houses. For God’s sake! There has been no apartment in Naples for a hundred years!”

  “What are you talking about?” He asked her again, but sat down. “Tell me what has upset you so.”

  “Vanni,” Catharine called to his son. “Please come and sit with us. You are driving me crazy.”

  Vanni dropped the towel in the sink and sat down at once.

  “What’s wrong, Miss Catharine?” He asked and touched her gloved hand.

  She ripped the glove from her hand and threw it on the floor much to their dismay.

  “Lucio! Have you ever know me to dress like this? She rubbed her hands down the embroidered bodice of the sun dress. “Gloves? A patent leather handbag? And look at these shoes! They are deplorable. Not even leather.”

  “But you are the picture of perfection,” Lucio frowned sympathetically. “You are truly beautiful. You do not need pearls and diamonds for you are gem in and of yourself, but if you like, we can go out after supper and I will buy you everything you want. Anything to make you smile again.”

  “That is not what I want.” She dropped her face in her one gloved hand.

  Lucio took hold of her chin and raised her face, kissing her lightly on the lips. He wiped away her tears with his free hand.

  “Look at me, Catharine. I love you. I have always loved you, and I always will. I don’t care if you dress in sackcloth and ashes and dip yourself in mud. You will still be beautiful.”

  At that, she burst into more tears, but quickly stopped. Her face was red with anger.

  “I will not cry, Lucio Dambretti!” She told him fiercely. “Whatever enchantment this is, I will learn it and I will undo it. I refuse to be made a patsy for whoever is at the bottom of this.”

  “You are overwrought.” He pulled her close and patted her shoulder. “Things will look differently in the morning after a good night’s rest and tomorrow, I will take you to the Villa, and you can go swimming there. It is a beautiful pool. Perhaps I may have time to join you. I have always…”

  She pushed him away and sat looking at him with one eyebrow raised expectantly.

  “I’m sorry, Catharine,” he apologized. “I don’t understand. I was just telling Vanni I can’t give him any advice on how to keep the love of a woman. I can win it fairly easily, but I can’t keep it. Perhaps you might tell him why I lost you. Why I lost every woman that ever meant anything to me. Will you tell him so he will not suffer as I have suffered?”

  “Lucio, do you hear yourself?” She looked from the father to the son, who sat hopefully across the table, waiting for her advice. “You haven’t lost me. I am still your wife. I still love you. Won’t you come home? Together we can find out what has happened, and together we can beat this.”

  Lucio sat staring at her in disbelief.

  “The sun has surely injured you, my sweet.” He jerked his head at Vanni. “Bring her a glass of water. Where are you staying? What hotel? We will see that you get home safely. Would you like me to call your brother? Where is he? Does he know you are in Naples?”

  “How long have you been here, Lucio?” She asked him, and then asked the same question of Vanni.

  “Only a few days,” Vanni assured her. “I have to be getting back to Scotland for the wedding.”

  “The wedding?” She frowned. “You mean your wedding with Veronica?”

  “Of course.” His face lit up at the mention of his fiancée. “Who else? The most beautiful girl in all of Scotland, in all of Britain, in all the world.”

  “You have your father’s way with words.” She smiled and then seemed to notice the wonderful smells in the kitchen for the first time. “What is that smell, Lucio? Have you been cooking again?” She changed her tack. “I’m famished.”

  “Of course you are.” Lucio’s expression changed immediately. “
Vanni, what are you waiting for? Bring on the soup!”

  Lucio took her hand and pulled off her remaining glove. He grabbed the one from the floor and laid them out neatly on the table.

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  Simon could not find the bottom of the pool. He opened his eyes and sneaked a peek before swimming down a bit further to retrieve the watch. He grabbed the glittering gold in his hand and then bobbed to the surface, holding it up over his head.

  “I got it!” He smiled and his sons applauded. They stood around the pool as if it was the greatest spectator sport since soccer.

  Philip helped his father from the pool, and Zeb handed him a towel.

  “I knew you could do it, Poppi.” Izzy pulled out a chair at the patio table. D’Brouchart sat under the shade of the green parasol, sipping a glass of lemonade, frowning at him.

  “Is it still working?” his father asked him as he examined the gold pocket watch.

  “I don’t think so,” Simon frowned and shook the watch. “No. I’m afraid it’s ruined.”

  “You can buy another one,” Dan told him before leaping into the pool, splashing water all over the tiles.

  “What I can’t understand is how it got into the pool,” Simon remarked as he toweled off his silky blonde hair. “I had it in the pocket of my uniform. I’m sure of it. I can’t remember the last time I saw it.”

  “You know you’re not supposed to wear jewelry with the uniform, Simon,” his father reminded him as he watched his grandsons playing in the crystalline pool. The sun was hot, and he was considering the possibility of taking another dip himself. “It’s against the rule.”

  “Rule, schmool,” Simon said. “If I didn’t wear the watch, who would know what time it is?”