by Sam Cabot
But evil was subtle.
“Father Kelly? We can’t stand here all day.”
No, they couldn’t. Livia Pietro, and the new poem, and Lorenzo’s fate, were waiting upstairs. Thomas squared his shoulders and, for the second time that day, entered a house whose inhabitants weren’t human.
51
From the easy chair by the front window in Ellen’s studio Livia heard the conversation on the street, heard the door shut, heard Ellen lead Thomas Kelly up the two flights in silence. He was a brave man, she decided. Brave, because he was obviously so frightened, so repulsed, but still he continued because he wanted to save his friend. That’s what courage was about, she’d always believed: not the absence of terror, but the ability to go on in the face of it.
Ellen ushered Thomas Kelly into the room. She said, “I’ll leave you two alone for a while,” and went out. Kelly stopped and stared around, taking in the bright midday sun streaming through the skylight, the turmoil of pinned-up drawings and sketches, the two easels, each with a painting half-finished; then he turned his gaze to Livia. “Why are we here?”
“Lovely to see you, too, Father.” He frowned. She felt a pang of guilt; she shouldn’t tease him. “Please, sit down. Ellen’s a friend of mine.”
He didn’t move from the doorway. “I didn’t like what happened the last time we went to see one of your friends.”
“I don’t blame you. But don’t worry. Ellen’s not much like Spencer. There won’t be any drama.”
“Do you have friends everywhere? I suppose you do, a lot of friends. That must be what happens when you have centuries to get acquainted.”
“I’m sorry. I know this is hard for you. Please,” she said again. “Sit down.”
He didn’t, but his tone was a shade less belligerent when he said, “I saw you slip money into the collection box.”
“Call it penance. That was a nice distraction in the aisle, by the way.”
“Thank you,” he said automatically, but he remained standing, clearly warring with himself. The scholar, she wondered, against the cleric? If so, the scholar won. Still without moving into the room, he said, “Tell me this. How many of you are there?”
“Of—?”
“Noantri.” He made a face, as though tasting a lemon.
“We borrowed the word ‘Noantri’ centuries ago, from the native-born Trasteverians,” she said calmly. “When we use it, we do mean our kind, but it’s not a dirty word.”
“Answer my question. How many Noantri are there?”
“Altogether, in the world? Probably ten thousand, give or take. A third of us here in Italy, half of that number in Rome, half of those in Trastevere.”
“A third? Three thousand . . . three thousand . . .”
“Three thousand vampires, yes, Father. In Italy. We were once more scattered, and we can still be found everywhere, but we concentrate, for obvious reasons, in countries and cities with Catholic populations.” Incomprehension clouded his face, so Livia added, “For the hospitals. For the blood.”
Perplexity looked like it was about to give way to something worse, so she went on matter-of-factly, “And also, because once we started to gather, we found we very much liked living in Community. The comfort we feel in the presence of one another is something we never knew until the Concordat. In all the years Before, no Noantri was safe who wasn’t furtive and hidden.”
“Comfort?”
“We’re kin, in a way. We feel it more physically than the Unchanged do, but everyone feels heartened in the presence of family.”
This was too much for the scholar; the cleric reasserted himself. “Family? Blood relatives, you mean? That’s a perverse angle on that concept.” Thomas Kelly, his disgust reaffirmed, crossed the room and sat. “Let’s get to work. You found another poem.”
52
Livia Pietro had just unzipped her bag to draw out the new poem when the door opened. Thomas jumped but settled back again; it was Ellen Bird, bearing a tray. He marveled at himself: It’s okay, nothing to worry about, just a young vampire with some sandwiches. He realized his coma-hallucination theory had long since faded away and he missed it.
“I know you’re hungry, Father Kelly.” Ellen Bird smiled, balanced the tray on an art-book pile, and left.
Thomas turned to Pietro. “She knows I’m hungry. How? She sensed my blood sugar falling? Smelled the stomach acid building up?”
“Maybe you have a lean and hungry look. But ask yourself this: If Ellen’s Noantri senses did tell her something an Unchanged couldn’t have known, is that a reason to reject her food?”
Part of Thomas felt it should have been. The other part reached for a napkin, a sandwich, and a bottle of beer.
“You can use that pile of books as a coffee table. Ellen doesn’t care much for furniture,” Pietro said, replacing the poem in her bag to keep it from damage. “Take a minute to eat. You’ll do better when your blood sugar’s up.”
“You can tell, too?” She just smiled. Thomas examined the sandwich suspiciously. “What’s in it?”
“I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.”
She was offended. Well, good. Oh, what, Thomas, now it’s all right to offend people on purpose just because you don’t like them? He was startled to hear himself ask that, and reminded himself, They’re not people! To which the response was even more surprising: So? No, really, now he was seriously confused, and Livia Pietro wasn’t even doing it. It must be his blood sugar, which was, in fact, low, no matter who knew it. He looked again at the sandwich. It did look like standard Italian fare: salami, cheese, and tomato. But this was a Noantri household. The two parts of his mind were still quarreling when his mouth took a bite. Salty meat, smooth soft cheese, and sharp tomato perfectly set off the crumbly thick bread. A truly great sandwich, or he was starving, or both. He leaned down for a second bite, then stopped as Pietro reached for a sandwich, too.
“I thought you didn’t eat. Eat food, I mean.”
“We don’t need it, no. But we can metabolize it, and the tastes and textures of food are like any other sensations—more powerful and nuanced since we became Noantri. Many of us enjoy eating. It’s always been my habit to eat when my Unchanged friends do.”
“To keep us company? Or to conceal yourself better?”
She replaced the sandwich on the tray. “I won’t if it bothers you.”
“No,” he said. “No, go ahead. These are amazingly good. You don’t want to miss them.” He searched his own voice for sarcasm and unexpectedly found none. “Just leave me another two or three.”
Pietro smiled. “Don’t worry, Father.”
“Thomas.” That was even more unexpected. “I’d rather you called me Thomas.”
“Only if you call me Livia.”
“I don’t know.”
“Then I don’t either. Father.”
Thomas pulled away from her gaze, uncomfortable. He really needed to raise his blood sugar. He finished what he was holding in three more bites with no conversation in between, drank some beer, and reached for a second sandwich. Pietro was obviously letting him take the lead, set the rhythm, so, as much to break the silence as anything else, he spoke. “These paintings. And the ones in the entrance, and the hallways. I don’t know much about art, but they seem quite good. Only, they’re in so many different styles. For someone so young—” He stopped, realizing what he was saying.
“It takes some getting used to,” Pietro said. Livia. He was going to try to start thinking of her as Livia. “For us, too. When we meet it’s one of the first pieces of information we exchange. How long we’ve been Noantri. It situates us for one another. Ellen’s from New York.”
“I thought I heard that in her voice.”
Pietro—Livia—shook her head. “Her original way of speaking would make her sound like a Brit. She was born in 1745. She’s my Elder by
about a hundred and fifty years.”
“I . . .” Thomas paused, finished his beer. “I don’t even know how to think about that.”
“Don’t try.” Livia’s voice was gentle. “As I said, it takes some getting used to. Now that your blood sugar’s returning to normal, let’s look at this poem.”
53
Livia leaned forward and placed Mario Damiani’s third poem on the art-book coffee table between herself and Thomas, holding it flat on its edges. Before she’d had a chance to work her way through the Romanesco lines, her cell phone rang. She rummaged it out of her bag.
“Livia, it’s Spencer.”
“Oh, good! Where are you? Are you all right? What happened in the church?”
“I’m home and I’m fine, thank you, apart from some minor psychological brutalization at the hands of the Carabinieri. And more to the point, the Gendarmerie.”
“They were there, too?”
“I’m afraid so. The incident was unfortunately serious. That old monk was killed.”
Livia drew a sharp breath. Thomas sent her a questioning look. “It’s Spencer,” she told him. “Spencer, Father Kelly’s here with me. Tell me what happened.”
“Am I on speaker?” Spencer asked carefully.
“No.”
“Good. I’m sure it will be better if you tell him in your way, rather than if he hears it from me.”
“That’s considerate of you.”
“You needn’t sound so shocked. I’m not a total beast, Livia. In any case, what seems to have happened is that you were correct about the Vatican Library clerk. He was there, and he tried to follow us into the saint’s foot chapel.” That sounded more like the Spencer Livia knew.
“He must have come for the book,” she said. “Who is he?”
“His name is Jorge Ocampo. Does that mean anything to you?”
“No. The police told you that?”
“No, they told each other that. Within my hearing. Careless of them.” Except, of course, the Unchanged police officers had no way of knowing how far Spencer’s Noantri auditory reach extended. “Ocampo is an Argentinian national.” Which, since the clerk was Noantri, did not mean much. “The old monk sought to prevent him from following us. To give us, presumably, our meditative peace. There was an altercation, and the monk fell or was thrown to the ground. He hit his head and gained admission to heaven.” Yes, definitely Spencer. “But listen closely, because this is the part that will prove important to you and your priest. Because a churchman died in a church, the Gendarmes sent a representative. A handsome young Neapolitan, who just happens to be the vice assistente who arrested this same clerk at the Colosseum Metro station this morning for theft of Vatican property. Though all they found on him of the stolen property was a tracking chip.”
“Hmm.”
“Don’t hmm yet, there’s more. The Neapolitan Gendarme has a theory which he’s shared with the Carabinieri. It involves a large and well-organized ring of thieves specializing in antiquities, possibly international in scope and clearly effective enough to successfully steal from the Vatican. And to attempt, in the same day with the same personnel, a theft at Santa Maria della Scala.”
“The same personnel?”
“The clerk, who was obviously the inside man on the earlier occasion, as he was employed at the Vatican Library. And an art historian, one Livia Pietro. And also—quite appallingly—a priest. An American named Thomas Kelly.”
“Spencer. Are they serious?”
“The Gendarme is entirely serious and he seems to have sold this theory to the Carabinieri. They’ve become intent on catching the miscreants. It took all my powers of persuasion to convince them I barely know you, I was a touch surprised when you appeared at my door, I’d never met your priest before, and though I had no inkling of your intentions in visiting Santa Maria della Scala, I could assure them that your reputation and character were entirely spotless. You’d have been pleased, I think, to hear the fervor with which I defended your honor.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure. I told them their theory was flatly absurd, and that I was sure you would be able to clear up any misunderstanding as soon as you had the opportunity to speak with them. In order to help you restore your good name, I promised them that, though I had no earthly idea where you’d gone while I was praying over the withered extremity of the sainted Teresa, they could be sure that if I heard from you or of you, they’d be the first to know.”
“Did they believe you?”
“I doubt it, but what does it matter? It’s clear they also suspect me, which is why they were willing to share their innermost thoughts: so I’d know how much they know, shiver in my boots, and come clean. However, they had no grounds on which to take me into custody, though keeping me inside a church for over an hour was in my view punitive detention enough. I have no doubt they’ve set a watch on my home, so you’re not to come here. However, if I can be of any assistance to your task by leading them around Robin Hood’s barn, do let me know. And talking of your task, how are you progressing?”
“We found another poem, at Santa Maria in Trastevere. In an aumbry.”
“In a what?”
“It’s— Look it up. We’re working on the poem now.”
“I’m reaching for my dictionary. I’ll leave you to it, but if the poem—or any other you find—doesn’t yield to your combined powers, I’d be happy to help. And in any case, do be careful. Your names and faces are all the rage in law enforcement circles.”
“Thanks, Spencer. You caught us just in time.”
“I endeavor,” Spencer drawled, “to give satisfaction.”
54
Once again Thomas was having trouble concentrating.
This distraction, so new to him, had first fractured his scholarly focus in the ancient apothecary. There he’d found himself trying to unravel the air, to sort pine bark from rose petal, detach mint from mushroom. Now, leaning with Livia Pietro over Damiani’s poem, his mind again popped with unmanageable thoughts and sensations. Partly, he knew, it was the unpleasant news conveyed by Spencer George: that he and Livia were wanted by the Carabinieri and that the old monk was dead. Thomas had said a brief prayer for the soul of Father Battista, though he suspected the friar didn’t need the help of a priest as heavily compromised as Thomas Kelly to get into heaven. Guilt was an element of his distraction, too: though Livia had tried to assure him the monk’s death wasn’t their fault, of course it was. And of course, she knew it was. What would it be like, he suddenly wondered, to live forever, to go through eternity accumulating loss and guilt, with no way to expiate, to make amends, to be forgiven? With no end in sight? He glanced at Livia, her black hair falling about her face as she leaned forward, her arms wrapped around her in her own posture of concentration that, he realized, was already familiar to him.
Without looking up, she spoke. “The poem, Thomas. I know a lot has happened and it’s not easy to deal with. But the poem is what’s important now.”
He was glad her gaze didn’t stray from the torn notebook leaf, because he felt his face grow hot. He straightened his shoulders and stared down at the poem, too.
Dojje de morte? Er piaggnisteo de l’esse nati?
Frammezzo a le crature alate, l’api, l’uscelli,
le sonajjere d’angioli, eccosce volati
a spiarje l’estasi ne l’occhi bbelli,
da dove, simme và, posso scappà coll’ale ’mmacolate.
Death throes? The pure puling of being born?
Among the winged creatures, birds and bees
and hierarchies of angels, here we swarm,
look down upon her face in ecstasy,
whence, if I chose, could flee, both wings untorn.
Again, uppercase blunt lead-pencil letters along the bottom:
I F I D E.
Nothing. The words
gave him nothing at all. Death or birth? Hierarchies of angels? Looking down in ecstasy, or looking down on a face in ecstasy? Who was looking? Whose face? Whose wings were untorn? Though that, of all the images here, was the only one that struck a bell in Thomas’s mind; but it was a bell so faint that, try as he might, he was unable to call up any meaning.
The letters, though: they were a different matter. With growing excitement he stared at them. The first set had made no sense; neither did these, but if you added them to the first ones, and then read them backwards, they almost did.
“Aedificavit,” he said tentatively, trying it out. “‘Built.’”
“Built?” Livia looked up. “Built what?”
“I don’t know. But if you read these letters backwards and then the first set backwards, I mean if you read them together, they nearly spell aedificavit. ‘Built.’”
“Nearly?”
“It’s missing the initial a, but it’s a compound letter, ae, so maybe he thought he could dispense with it. Or maybe it’s in the next line! The a. On the next poem.”
Livia was silent for a moment. “Are you saying this is a cumulative upside-down acrostic? In Latin?”
“From everything we know, that kind of thing would be right up Damiani’s alley.”
She nodded. “Yes, that’s true. You could be right. It would answer the question of whether the penciled letters are his.”