As they scatted to the tune of Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood” on the way back to their room, they passed by a tiny shop cut into a wall that still had its yellowed lights on. There was a restored oil painting visible from the street that caught Carlo’s attention and he entered the shop. The owner kept working at his bench. He noticed a painting of a young, voluptuous woman gathering olives in her apron, the Basilica of St. Francis rising on a hill in the background. Nathan couldn’t resist and slipped into the shop, looking over Carlo’s shoulder.
“Looks like Isabella!” Carlo commented.
“Ah, your imagination is running away with you.” Nathan laughed. “Are you stuck on Caterina’s friend?”
“We just like to talk together, that’s all.”
“Who are you kidding? I wish I was half as intimate with Rachele.”
“There are other issues.”
“What are you getting at?”
“I have other things on my mind.”
“I know. That’s why I wanted you to listen to some swing. Andiamo, Carlo.”
The following evening Carlo challenged Nathan to find the best pizza in Trastevere. They were having a good time drinking decent, white table wine from one of the neighboring hills, until Carlo had to go the bathroom. He passed by the oven, the flames from the wood traveling across its brick ceiling, an image that lit up all the rumors about the concentration camps. By the time he got back, Nathan could see him frowning as he sat down.
“What happened? Couldn’t find the bagno.” Nathan laughed nervously.
“I found it all right. Here comes the pizza. Mangia, cugino.”
They found the pizza to be perfect, a good corniche, slightly burnt on the edge, the right balance of mozzarella, San Marzano tomatoes and basil. Nathan tried to bury himself in his enjoyment of this simple preparation and hoped that Carlo would rid himself of the demons in his mind, his leg pumping the floor so hard that Nathan could feel it vibrate under his feet.
“I’m joining the Jewish Brigade.”
“You ought to think this over before you take a plunge.”
“I don’t want to be filled with guilt anymore.”
“Don’t you think this stuff is on my mind too? It will eat you alive, if you’re not careful.”
They finished the meal quickly. On the way home, they discussed the change in the weather but there were other things on Nathan’s mind. He ruminated about his cousin as they trudged through the dark, but in the end Carlo would have to find his own way. He wondered if Nick and Caterina were happy together and what was really going on between Carlo and Isabella. And he thought his cousin was just going along for the ride to Assisi keeping him company. All of a sudden a downpour drenched them, as they ran the few remaining streets to the room.
Several weeks after the concert, Carlo walked into Nathan’s room with a grin on his face.
“I did it cugino!”
“Did what?” Nathan’s mouth opened.
“I signed up with the Jewish Brigade.” Carlo paced around the room. “I’m going to hitch a ride with a US army transport group heading north. I have to catch up with them, subito!”
“Hold your horses, will ya! You’re going too fast for me.”
“Last week I met Brigadier Benjamin’s orderly and he told me all about this Palestine Regiment. It’s part of the British army.”
“I never heard of them.”
“It’s made up of mostly Jewish soldiers from Palestine, but Jews from other countries can also join. So there it is. We’re going after those Nazi scum.”
“I am glad you’re all excited about this, but remember this is a bloody war. There’s nothing romantic about it. It only takes a couple of seconds to do something stupid.” Nathan hugged his cousin, so Carlo didn’t see the anguish in his face. He had already come to the conclusion that none of Carlo’s family was likely to have survived. Now he might lose the sole survivor of the Venetian branch of his family. Carlo gathered his things and, after sharing some Sambuca together, he marched out of the room. Nathan looked out his window and saw Carlo strutting down the viale and yelled out, “Buona fortuna, kid,” but his cousin was oblivious to his call.
Nathan thought about what Rachele was doing. He visited her every weekend he was free, as the seasons passed, summer, fall and winter, but they never had much physical contact. The beginning of their relationship began with promise but now was punctuated with stray marks of Rachele’s odd behavior. He never knew what to expect from her, what her mood might be. Nathan kept on going back to her until the day he got a note from the Mother Abbess that he had become a strain on Rachele’s emotional stability, that she had become more afraid to leave the convent, even briefly. He crumpled the message. “I spent so much time trying to help her. Every God damn weekend pass I could get. I pitied her too much and drove her away. It’s all my fault for being a schlemiel.” He tossed around in bed all night, never finding a comfortable position.
It was another sunless Sunday morning, his cousin gone, and he called out to the empty room: ‘Damn it, Nathan, she doesn’t seem to fit in the outside world. You’re not going to save Rachele. She’s fragile as a porcelain doll.’ Despite not having broken through her resistance, he was still determined to go back to Assisi and try again, even though the nuns didn’t want him around anymore. If he overextended his leave, then let them throw him in the stockade. What would it matter anyway?
After hours of straining his Paperino, Nathan slid the motor scooter to a halt. He was in such a frenzy he had no recollection of the scenery he had passed. To him it was like a canvas smeared with green and brown with patches of white, shapes but no recognizable forms. He had no idea what he could say to change things around, but the nuns would not stop him from speaking to Rachele. Let them call the carabiniere. Nathan completed his run and banged on the cloister door with such force every nun in the convent must have crossed herself. The Mother Abbess spoke through the grille without showing fear.
“Signor Nathan, we already wrote to you about Rachele’s worsening condition. There is nothing you can do. It is in God’s hands, not yours.”
“Mother Abbess, per favore, I beg of you. Give me a chance to see Rachele. If it doesn’t work, I promise never to come back. I swear on my family’s honor.”
The Mother Abbess closed the grille and a few moments later opened it. “You can speak to her in our church. Remember that God is watching what you say. He does not care about your passion, only what is in your heart. Wait by the baptismal fountain inside. I will send Rachele there if she agrees to see you.”
Nathan stepped outside the convent to get some fresh air but the wind blew dust into his eyes, which he rubbed, irritating them further before entering the church of San Quirico. The church was empty, void of sound, and dark except for groups of flicking votive candles in front of various saints. He felt that an hour passed instead of fifteen minutes, when a familiar extern nun opened the high, wooden door and brought Rachele in, whispering that he could have ten minutes with her.
The thick door slammed shut behind them as Rachele walked down the aisle. He imagined they were models for a phantasmagoric painting, the focal point of the composition, this pretty woman stretched in black distortions, his form receding in the background, his face unrecognizable. Rachele knelt at a small altar dedicated to St. Clare and counted her prayers on black rosary beads, the smell of burning wax in the air. Nathan stood behind Rachele, calling her, but she did not turn around. He came closer and she got up, crossed herself and swung around in a frightened way.
“Prego, sit with me in the pew.” He took her by the arm and guided her to the first row and both sat sideways.
“Why do you come here to this holy place?”
“Rachele, you don’t have to remain in black anymore. You’re safe now.”
“No one is safe. I stay awake during the night and sleep during the day. No matter how my sisters try here, they can’t break this cycle. Neither prayers, nor gardening, or even baki
ng can help me to fit into the peaceful routines of their daily lives.” She grasped her knees and put her head down. “But still, I have no place to go. I belong here.”
“Rachele, you’re not a nun. You’re Jewish. You don’t have to conform to anything. All you have to do is get back to a happy place.”
“I try to go to these happy places, as you call them, but everything is blurred. My dear sisters try to coax me into feeling good about myself. When their words hurt too much, I get a throbbing in my head that feels like it’ll just burst through my temple and I scream.”
“You’re not screaming now.”
“You’re different but I don’t know why. Are you Jewish too?”
“Rachele, I have gone over this before, from the first time we met. I wanted you to know that our people will survive despite all the horror that hounds us.” He placed his hand on hers. She did not move it but showed no sign of recognition. He squeezed her hand gently but it remained limp.
“Why are you here?”
“It’s you, Rachele. Can’t you see in my face what I feel?”
“I see a handsome young man. Are you in the pictures?”
“No, Rachele, I’m just an American GI.” She took her hand away.
“I can never leave here. This is where I will stay the rest of my life.”
“You don’t have to do this. You can change your life.”
“You don’t know what runs around my head. You can’t know and why would you care?”
“I need you as much as I think you need me.” Nathan faced the statue of St. Clare and looked down at her plaster feet. The chapel felt like the most silent place in the world for Nathan, until he turned and spoke emphatically. “I loved you from the moment I saw you. I don’t know what you remember and how you remember, but I am alone and so are you.”
“I am not alone. I have all my sister friends. They protect me from everything.”
“You don’t feel anything for me, is that it?”
“You treat me like a patient.”
“That’s not true, Rachele. Prego, stop placing imaginary barriers between us.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You sound like the doctor. Did he send you here because he’s frustrated?” There was a thudding noise at the door. “I must go back to my cell.”
“Before you go, can’t you express how you feel about us? Anything.” He stood up. “Some day, I’m going back to America, don’t you understand?”
She got up and walked to the back of the church while the extern nun opened the door and ushered her out. Nathan felt as if the white marble would crash down on his head at any moment before he was able to exit the church. His hand started to jerk and he vomited when he reached his motor scooter. Feeling dazed, he sat on the ground until he regained his composure, and made sure he wasn’t going into a full-blown seizure. When Nathan fired up his Paperino, he gazed over the walls. He could see a lone light on the top floor and swore it must be Rachele’s cell. She would not be throwing him a spool of thread to grab while she held the end of it, no filo della vita, a lifeline that Italians held on the pier while their relatives clung to the ball, unraveling as the steamer for America slid into the dark. There were other immigrant stories that Nick had told him, and they all had sad endings like his own.
Nathan sped back to Rome and no longer cared where he would wind up. Things would be the same no matter where he was, the road kicking out from his tires, the black trees swaying in the dark sky, the only sounds in the night, the roar of his engine muffling the thumping of his heart that he felt deep within his ribcage, heavy and plodding, no lifeline.
XVII
It was Christmas Eve and Captain Smith dismissed his staff at fifteen hundred hours, so Nick used the time to get a gift for Caterina on the Via dei Condotti. He wanted to buy a silk scarf even though it would be expensive, something that she would appreciate considering their time together. The shopkeeper was patient, displaying each scarf across his chest like the ceremonial sashes that Italians love to wear in public, until Nick found one he liked.
Pleased with his purchase, he looked out the shop window while his present was being hand wrapped with pizzazz. He squinted his eyes in disbelief when he saw Caterina leaving the Antico Caffé Greco across the street with an older Italian gentleman, the same one he saw her with at the beginning of their relationship, if that’s what it was. His face turned pale noting the same moustache waxed at the tips, the ascot puffed out of his sports jacket, the assured gait. They disappeared in the direction of the Piazza di Spagna. The shopkeeper repeated ‘Signore, Signore, prego, Signore,’ as Nick envisioned Caterina taking a passeggiata with the old man around the fountains, admiring Keats’ house and ascending the Spanish Steps for a view before heading for his hotel room.
Nick returned to his old room and found Nathan by the light of the window finishing a painting from one of his Roman sketches. He dropped the wrapped present on the table and sat down, while Nathan gave a sidelong glance and resumed working.
“It’s for Caterina,” Nathan said. “Should be done for the New Year. Real sweet of her to invite me to your Christmas Eve dinner.”
“Yeah, sweet all right.”
Nathan put his brush down and sat next to Nick.
“It’s always something, Nick.”
“I saw her on Via Condotti.”
“So she’s not allowed to shop?” Nick grimaced. “Okay, tell me what’s eating you.”
“Caterina is back to her old tricks.”
“If I get your meaning, I think you’re off base, no matter what you saw.”
“There you go again taking her side. If I didn’t know better.”
“You’re going pazzo on me.”
“I saw her with that same ritzy, Italian guy again. You remember from last time.”
“No, I don’t remember.”
“I’m telling you she’s with another guy who looks like he has a lot of dough.”
“I’m sure there’s a logical explanation. So don’t go jumping the gun.”
“Can’t believe how you’re always taking her side now.”
“For cryin’ out loud, why can’t we just have a little fun tonight? You’ll get over it.”
“I’m not done with this yet.”
“Don’t do something stupid. Give her a pass. I’ll get ready and we’ll walk over together like nothing ever happened.”
When they got to Caterina’s apartment, the table had been set with some red candles. She sang the popular song, “Oh Mia Bela Madunina,” the one dedicated to the gilded statue on top of the Duomo in Milano. While Caterina glided from stove to table, she paced all four courses of the evening, including variations on calamari, vongole, gamberi and pesce spada. They drank the two bottles of Frascati Nathan brought that were young and tasted of white peaches and apples, the way good Frascati should be. They also polished off three other bottles lying about and afterwards, del caffé and Sambuca. Caterina laughed at Nathan’s jokes while Nick watched the two of them.
“Caterina, you have it all, looks and cooks,” Nathan slurred.
“Nick, I have a secret admirer.”
“Or two.”
Caterina laughed. “Certo, anche tu!”
“I’m not talking about me.”
“Oh, come on Nicky, it has to be you.” Caterina giggled. “Stop being a silly goose.” She patted Nick on his cheek. “Maybe you need another shot of Sambuca.”
Nathan stretched over and tapped Nick on the shoulder. “Easy buddy. Don’t ruin the party.”
“Isn’t it getting late for you, Nate?”
“I’m not leaving till I have another Sambuca for the road.” Nick got up and looked out the window.
“What’s with Nick?” Caterina whispered to Nathan.
“Ah, don’t pay any attention to him,” Nathan responded, then raised his voice. “He’ll get over what’s bugging him. Won’t you, buddy? Oh, ignoring your old pal. You know somethin’ …” He slammed the table with
his palm. “You got one hell of a gal! So Nick, take out that poker you got stuck up your ass and wise up!”
“Vafonculo, Nate!”
Nathan pushed himself up and tripped over the chair. Caterina helped him up after struggling with him a few minutes.
“Take your friend home, Nick. He could fall and hit his head. And then what?”
“Sure, whatever you say.”
Nathan leaned on Nick’s good side, as he balanced the both of them with his cane. Caterina sat down and poured herself another Sambuca and swirled it around the glass, the door slamming on their way out. Several hours later, Caterina heard the key in the lock and Nick sat opposite Caterina.
“Madonna, have you lost your mind, Nick. And on Christmas Eve!” She squeezed the silk scarf with her left hand. “Say something. You spoiled the holiday after my slaving over the stove.”
“Who was that old guy I saw you with coming out of Caffé Greco.”
“Signor Giacomo Parini. He was a banker friend of my father from Milano.”
“I thought you were originally from Rome.”
“I am a Milanese.”
“Another one of your secrets.”
“You are jealous of an old man?”
“Who said anything about jealousy?”
“You obviously have made your mind up. You can take this back.” She slid the scarf to Nick.
“I don’t want it back.”
“Is that all you don’t want back?”
“You went to bed with him, didn’t you?”
“And what if I said no, would you believe me?”
“That’s not the first time I saw him.”
“So you work in an intelligence unit and think you know everything. Tu sei un cretino!” She swayed her praying hands. Nick got up and threw the empty bottles into the garbage pail. “Maybe you should stick your head out the window to listen for a little bird. Prego, watch that a star doesn’t crash on your testa dura.”
Somewhere in the Stars Page 20