by Joseph Grady
“There you go. Not all is lost.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
’NA GAMBA SPEZZATA
Sunday morning they hiked up the mountain that was just behind the retreat center: Sacro Monte. The path was steep and long, but it was wide and cobble stoned, with fifteen small renaissance chapels along the way. They walked slowly. It was Sunday, so the locals were out strolling up and down the mountain too. Each chapel was dedicated to a mystery of the rosary, designed to hold at bay the advance of Swiss Protestants into the Italian peninsula. It worked, I guess. Like all good hikes in Italy, after spending hours working your legs through an isolated wilderness area, you arrive at the top of the mountain to find a parking lot next to a church, a gift shop, and a terrace where you can sit and buy expensive cocktails. Two sides of the terrace bar on Sacro Monte were on the side of a cliff, and the third side was along the path, so you could sit and look at the view on two sides, and on the other side, watch people as they came up and down the path.
“Allora, eccoci qua, ancora un’altro spritz per tutti. E ancora un paio di cose da mangiare.”161 The waiter set four large drinks with straws on the table, and a couple of baskets of potato chips, and cleared away four empty glasses with straws and a couple of empty baskets of potato chips.
Scott raised his glass, “Here’s to the Madonnina.”
“To the Madonnina,” they all replied, and clinked glasses.
“What’s the Madonnina?” asked Andrew.
“Who’s the Madonnina? She’s that speck of gold you see right there.” Scott pointed out over the cliff towards Milan. On the top of the Duomo, miles away, there was a giant golden statue of Mary. On a very windy Sunday, from the top of the mountains in Varese, when the factories are closed and the cars aren’t driving to work, you could see her reflecting the sun off herself from the center of the city.
Natasha came out of left field and asked the group. “So what did you all think of that letter from the ‘true heirs?’”
Lucy sent her a sideways look and nudged Natasha’s foot under the table, while clearing her throat.
“Oh, you mean that letter you guys got that day that Lucy punched Andrew in the face?” said Scott. “I’m sure Andrew wants to talk about that, doesn’t he?”
“Whatever, it’s all fine,” said Andrew. “Yeah, we got another one from those same people a few days ago. Sounds like they’re all chummy with us all of the sudden.”
“Really?” said Scott. “What did they say?”
“Not much really,” said Andrew. “They just left a letter saying that they weren’t worried about the inheritance money anymore, and they’re sorry for having made us worry about bank accounts and all that rubbish. It’s a bit strange, if you ask me. I mean, why would they just say sorry and tell us to go about our normal business after all that drama?”
“Maybe they found out I was around,” said Scott. He was a little louder than normal, after one and a half spritz on an empty stomach. “The true heirs got scared and went away. I understand. I would too if I were them. Man, this country. I tell you what.”
“Guys, is this really the best place to be having this conversation?” said Lucy. The terrace was full of tables with people drinking Sunday afternoon cocktails. Their table was up against the railing that looked over the cliff ledge on one side, but packed in on the other three sides by tables full of Italians.
“Well, we’re up here in Varese, hundreds of kilometers from Rome,” said Andrew. “I doubt anyone knows what we’re talking about.”
“I don’t know, though,” said Scott. “I get the feeling whatever we’re doing here isn’t unrelated. Let’s be real, girls, I know something’s gotta be going down. You’ve both been spending the entire weekend creeping around an old convent talking to nuns on the sly. Call me crazy, but I’m almost certain that that would not be your first choice for a weekend get-away.”
Lucy looked at Natasha, with eyes that said, I told you so. You should not have brought this up in conversation.
“Come on,” Scott slammed his fist on the table and the people at the surrounding tables all shot exaggerated Italian glares at them. “Be honest. Just tell me. What are we doing here?”
“Scott!” shouted Lucy, “what did we tell you about not ... y’know ... not drawing attention, especially not when we’re talking about ... Just try to speak quietly and on the D.L.”
“Whatever. I’m going to the bathroom,” answered Scott. “But when I get back, I want some answers, okay?”
“I have to use the toilet too,” said Natasha.
“I’m gonna go buy a selfie stick. We’ve gotta get some group pictures,” said Andrew, pointing at the parking lot area where he saw some vendors who had been selling them earlier.
And Lucy found herself alone at the table, guarding the drinks, and munching on potato chips. She was leaning across the table, drinking from the straw in Scott’s spritz when she heard the yell. It was loud, deep, desperate, and short. It was followed by a thud with the unmistakable crack of breaking bones, and a very explicit series of English swear words, interspersed with the word, “Help!”
Everyone who was seated on the terrace got up, rushed over to the railing opposite the path, and looked down over the cliff’s edge. Some of them already had their cell phones out, and were calling for emergency help. A waiter came running through with a rope, and Lucy had to shove and dig her elbows into people to make her way to the railing. Scott was thirty feet below the bar, hanging onto a very small lonely tree that had grown out of an extremely narrow ledge on the side of the cliff and yelling in pain. His feet were dangling right above a two hundred yard drop.
The door to the single bathroom was in the bar building, next to the place where Scott must have gone over the railing. Someone flushed inside, the door opened, and Natasha pushed her way through the crowd to where Lucy was looking over the edge. Andrew showed up too, wielding a selfie stick. There was little that anyone could do.
“Scott!” yelled Lucy.
He looked up, but couldn’t identify any of the faces. He was clearly in a lot of pain. “Lucy!” he yelled back, followed by a long list of expletives explaining exactly how he felt.
“Scott! Hold on!”
“Hold on, Scott!” yelled Natasha. “Hold on tight! Help’s coming!”
Help, though, in the form of professional paramedics, took over half an hour to arrive. Andrew stayed by the edge, yelling encouraging words and laughing, as Scott’s profanity got even more sarcastic and colorful. Lucy and Natasha paced back and forth on the terrace, sometimes crying and hugging, sometimes yelling encouragements down to Scott, always looking like they were on the verge of a breakdown.
The waiters managed to put together a very impromptu harness using rope they’d found in the basement. They dropped it down to Scott, and he even tied it around his waste, but he refused to let go of the tree, not trusting his life to the knot tying skills of waiters. It took a paramedic with a harness to repel down the side of the mountain and clip him in with professional ropes to finally convince him to let go of the tree. His right leg was very swollen, and once up on the terrace, they immediately immobilized him in a full body brace. Lucy, Natasha, and Andrew were kept away. He was hauled off to an ambulance and sped along the road that led down the backside of the mountain.
Lucy sprinted down the path that they had walked up, leaving Andrew and Natasha behind. At the retreat center, she fired up the van, drove to the gate, looked left, then right, and only then realized that she had no idea where Scott would be. She parked the van, and ran to her room in the retreat center, opened google, and called every number for every hospital emergency room anywhere near Varese. It took an hour to find anyone who knew anything, and by the time she did find out where Scott had been, they told her that he’d already been sent to a specialist in Milan.
“Milano. Ma dove a Milano?”162
“Il Grande Ospedale Metropolitano Niguarda.”163
“Vado subito.”164
“Guardi, le ore delle visite sono già finite. Può andare domani alle dieci.”165
“Va bene.”166
She hung up. Natasha was standing at the door, leaning up against the doorpost.
“Lucy, he’ll be fine. He’s safe now. There’s nothing we can do.” She sat on the bed next to Lucy and put her arms around her.
“I know ... it’s just ... knowing that’s not enough. Why don’t we go to Milan? Are we safe here?”
“We’re only safe because they think we might have the bank account numbers.”
“What do you mean?”
“Scott started talking too loud,” said Natasha. “Somebody sitting around us must’ve understood what he was saying. He basically admitted to everyone that he had no idea what was going on. They did exactly what they said they’d do. They told us that as soon as they could establish for sure that one of us doesn’t have the bank numbers, they’d off that person – as a warning to the one who does have the numbers. Perhaps they didn’t understand that he’s not a resident. Either way, it’s clear. They’re not messing around. It won’t be long before they come after one of us and use more direct methods. We don’t have much time.”
“Right, so I’d feel a lot better if we got out of here.”
“You’re right. Let’s get out of here.”
Lucy, Andrew, and Natasha checked out of the retreat center and spent the night in a cheap hotel near the hospital – three tiny beds in the room, and one bathroom down the hall. Breakfast not included. Lucy was the first to charge into the hospital at the start of visiting hours. After a brief search, she spotted Scott at the other end of a long hallway in a wheel chair with one foot propped up in a thick plaster cast. She immediately started walking and then running towards him. Scott’s eyes grew wide, and he made a very subtle stop gesture with his right hand, followed by two fingers at his neck imitating a knife. Lucy halted and looked back scared. Two old men in black suits and clerical shirts came out of a hospital room, and carted Scott off. Turning the corner, Scott finally got an angle to look at Lucy. He smiled and winked. She followed at a distance and watched from the windows of the waiting room as they loaded him up into a white van with the North American College logo pasted on the side, and drove away.
Turning around, she spotted the last person she would have wanted to see at that moment, lurking at the other end of the waiting room in a grey habit. The nun gave a nasty grin to Lucy. Alright, thought Lucy, with a clear mission consciousness. Game on. Let’s give it one more shot.
“Sister, can we talk one more time?”
“About the truth?”
“Let’s just talk, okay.”
“Okay.”
They took seats at right angles from each other — Lucy with her feet tucked under her chair so that her knees wouldn’t touch the nun — in perpendicular rows of plastic seats, and chatted in hushed voices below the whir of a Coke machine.
“I’d just like to give you one more opportunity to help us,” said Lucy.
“That’s very generous of you,” the nun smiled back.
“I know why you’re back in Italy and not Nairobi. It’s not medical. You were illegally selling prescription drugs there.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Nothing. Since we’re on the topic of truth, I’m just saying I know the truth about you. And if you want, I also know how to remain quiet about that truth.”
“Would you stop and think for a second.”
“I’ve already thought about it quite a bit. We came here on a mission. One of us almost died in carrying out that mission. I’m not at all interested in leaving here empty handed.”
“I mean, really. Think. Your blonde friend got that story from an old Dutch nun with no memory. If a senile nun can remember a story like that, do you really think it’s a secret from the rest of the community? I am in Italy for medical reasons. And your cute blackmail story, clearly, everybody already knows all about it. You can tell whomever you like.”
Lucy leaned forward like she was going to stand up. “Well it was worth a shot.”
“Stay seated!” yelled the sister.
Lucy sat back down and crossed her arms.
“I have been blackmailed with various false accusations at least twice, annually, for the last forty years. Welcome to the third world. Say what you want about me, but much worse has already been said. You’re an amateur. Now are you going to tell me the truth about what you were doing in Varese?”
“At this point, why should I?”
“Who knows? Maybe I’d help.”
Lucy sighed, looked at the ceiling, and then fixed her eyes on the Coke machine. “Maybe we’re investigating a murder.”
“There. Now was that so hard?”
“Yes.”
“You’re right. You are here on a mission. Your friend Scott seems to know nothing about it.”
“You talked to Scott?”
“Of course.”
“And Scott talked to you?”
“We chatted. An interesting fellow, that one.”
“Chatted about what?”
“Life. You realize he almost died? That can be a rude awakening for someone so young. He has a lot to discern in the next few weeks. You know he has a different life than yours. Maybe he hasn’t realized that yet, and maybe a brush with death might wake him up.”
“Wait… no… you need to stay out of this.”
“I will. I will. Though, I must say that I did consider contacting his superiors, given his ambiguous behavior. But I thought better of it.”
“I’m not having this conversation.”
“Nonetheless, he convinced me about you.”
“About me?”
“Alright, well I have been doing my own research on the Eugenio case. It is indeed strange. There’s not much material except for a few articles by a certain Ludovici, who then turned up dead a few weeks later on the scene of the crime – the crime scene where you also happen to live. It’s weird, and if you ask me, you’re better off staying out of it. But I don’t know, like I said, Scott convinced me that your heart is in the right place. Whatever you are doing, you are doing it for a good purpose. I hope. But I must ask you, please, be careful. In fact, you are much better off staying out of it.”
“It’s too late for me to get out.”
“Well. In Eugenio’s files, there’s nothing written about his mother. And this is not a surprise. It was clear that she was from some sort of mafia family, hiding because she had been found pregnant at the wrong moment or from the wrong man. The older nuns called her ‘Ginevra’ but that was clearly not her real name. The family must have been very influential because, even last night, years later, the older sisters all got shifty eyes when I asked them about it at dinner. If you look inside that envelope of yours on the chair over there” — a large brown envelope sat unaccompanied three chairs down from the sister — “you would notice that somehow you’ve procured a copy of Eugenio’s files and a picture of baby Eugenio with his mother. It’s truly surprising that you managed to get your hands on those. You must be very crafty.”
Lucy looked back through the glass wall at the traffic outside, then at the envelope and back at the whirring Coke machine. “You mean you ... you mean ...”
“It’s quite unusual that those copies got in your hands. You must be very crafty indeed.”
“Did you – ”
“It’s better if you don’t ask questions. But you might notice those documents, nonetheless, in that envelope of yours.”
“But that’s not —”
“In that envelope of yours!” the sister cut her off.
“Oh my God, I’m such an ass.”
“Yes you are. But that’s not the point. If you got to know me better you’d say the same thing about me.”
“But why are you helping me?”
“To be clear, I don’t want to acknowledge helping you with anything in particular. But in the abstract, looking back at my time in the pharmac
y, I’ve learned to judge who needs help and who doesn’t. You’re lucky you have good friends like Scott. In the future, just try to remember. You don’t have to manipulate to get what you want. Sometimes the truth is enough.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“No really. I’m sorry. You don’t know how bad I feel.”
“I can imagine. You don’t have time to feel bad about yourself, though. Go on. Get out of here and worry instead about your friend who had the accident. Between you, me, and the wall, I think he actually does have a vocation. It’s going to be quite difficult for both of you when he finds out, but you can help him to make his decision more clear, by staying away from him. Anyways. Go. Get out of here.”
Lucy stayed there and looked back at Sr. Gabriela with sympathetic eyes.
“I said go!” she shouted.
Lucy got up, but didn’t move until the nun shoed her out of the room with her hands. She picked up the envelope, left the hospital, and went back to the cheap hotel to find Andrew and Natasha.
Feeling unable to drive back to Rome, Lucy took the front middle seat, Natasha the passenger seat, and Andrew the wheel. She texted him:
Where are you? When do I see you?
Over the next three hours along the highway she sent twelve similar texts, each with more dramatic expressions of her need to see him, but he didn’t respond until they entered Tuscany.
Tough to say. Once we get back to Rome, me and my foot will be immobilized in my room upstairs for at least a few days. There’s no sheilas allowed on the seminary corridors. Sometime soon I’ll be headed to Wisconsin for surgery on my ankle. Call me.
“No,” she sighed, turned off her phone, and slammed it into her bag.
“What’s up?” asked Andrew.
Lucy looked to her right at Natasha, who was asleep with her head bobbing up and down, and then turned back to Andrew, “Nothing’s up.”
“Was that Scott?”
“I don’t know what to do, Andrew.”