The Last Will of Moira Leahy: A Novel

by Therese Walsh

  "Mi segua, prego!" she agreed, and led us down the hall with a limp. From her belt loop, she produced a key on a crocheted band, and unlocked a door a few feet from Putra's apartment, on the opposite side of the hall. The smell of onions wafted out at us as she set her bag inside. I handed her the bag I'd carried as she regarded me.

  She asked if I knew who that man was.

  The landlord, I replied.

  She clicked her teeth. "Come si chiama?"

  Though unused to strangers asking me, flat out, for my name, I told her: "Mi chiamo Maeve Leahy." I was here to visit with Sri Putra, the empu, I said. Did she know where he was?

  He's dealing with an illness, she said.

  What illness? I wanted to know.

  She scrunched up her face, asked if I was a troublemaker.

  No, I told her. I just wanted to see Sri Putra.

  "Why do you?" she asked in her tongue.

  I hesitated, then pulled the keris from my bag. Her eyes bulged as she backed into her apartment.

  "Wait!" I said. "I'm not going to hurt you. It's just a--"

  "I know what it is," she said, hiding behind the door. "Magia nera."

  "Black magic? You're joking."

  She looked at me sternly, said it was no joke.

  "I'm sorry," I told her, "but I don't believe in those things--curses and spells and voodoo dolls."

  "Maeve Leahy." My Irish name distorted in her mouth. "You look like a good girl. You should not be here. You should not have that ... thing." Again, her eyes dipped to the blade. "And you should stay away from Ermanno."

  "Ermanno? Is that the landlord? What's wrong with him?"

  She lowered her voice. "They hate one another. They will destroy one another. The woman will be hurt--always the woman. You will be, if you don't get rid of that."

  I didn't understand, and told her so.

  "It is true that Ermanno is the man you met, but he is not a landlord," she said. "Only the landlady's son. He is taking over temporarily. He has always done crazy things but not had such power to match his skeleton-key fingers. Now, I fear he will creep in at night and pluck at my hair for his spells if the rent is late." She crossed herself.

  "He's just trying to intimidate you," I said. "Like a schoolyard bully."

  "No, he tries to summon evil spirits." Demone was the word she used. "He tries to conjure the magic his brother brings from the east. I thought that was all behind us, but now that the empu brother is back--"

  "Fratelli?" They're brothers?

  "Fratellastri." Half brothers. Sri Putra's mother had been Asian, she explained, and Ermanno's Italian. They shared a father. "Now go and never return. There is no good here." She shut the door.

  At least now I understood why Sri Putra lived in Rome. He and Ermanno were brothers. Half brothers. One short and clearly Javanese, as Garrick had confirmed; the other tall and seemingly a purebred Italian.

  I took a few steps and knocked on Sri Putra's door, hoping Mrs. Fiori was mistaken as to his whereabouts. No response. I breathed a little quicker, though, when I spied another note addressed to me. I tore it free of a nail, read.

  Visit Il Sotto Abbasso

  Taken literally, that meant "the under down." Was I meant to search under something? Was there a trapdoor in Putra's apartment? A basement of some sort?

  My hand hovered over the doorknob as I considered trying my luck again with the weak lock, but then I noticed Ermanno standing with his eyes on me--no, on the keris in my hand--from the wrong end of the hall. The building must have two sets of stairs. How long had he been there, what had he heard?

  I didn't wait to find out. I bolted down the hall the way I'd come, my head full of demon spirits and my nose the stench of onions.

  I DIDN'T LIKE to admit that Ermanno had bent any of my steel nerves, but I looked behind me more than a dozen times as I traced my path back to the hotel. It didn't help that I felt the lift of my skin, the sense that someone's eyes were all over me. Then I realized that everyone's eyes were on me and that I still held the keris, and so I tucked it back into my bag.

  It must be very powerful or he wouldn't want it so badly.

  Hadn't Glinda said something like that to Dorothy about her red shoes? Though I didn't believe there was anything otherwordly about the keris, I had to admit that shock had been curious. Maybe the threat of black magic had been enough to make even a keris flinch. Or--I smiled--maybe that zap was the universe's way of telling me I shouldn't carry a purse.

  I'd nearly reached the hotel when a mime's street performance caught my attention. Dressed all in black, with a spade painted over one eye, the man entertained a small crowd with a deck of cards. Choose one, he'd indicate with a sweep of a gloved hand, and someone would. Now, tuck it back in the deck.

  I knew the trick, the way he marked the chosen card with another so that he could find it again in a flash. Moira and I had awed our friends with that exact illusion countless times; it was one of the allowables. Harder to explain were the times we'd be separated and know what the other was holding--or what the other was feeling. But that wasn't magic. That was just ... just.

  The mime did a quick shuffle, then lifted the two of diamonds before a young boy, who giggled and clapped along with the others. A good trick. The man caught my eye, offered me the deck, but I shook my head and kept walking.

  My skin rose up again, but I didn't look back. I wouldn't fear Ermanno. He was just a man, as he'd said. A man and perhaps a fool, for trying to appear more than he was, for making others like Mrs. Fiori with her bruised pears afraid of him over something as phony as magia nera.

  Phony or not, though, there was no reason for Noel to know about today's adventure. What would he have done if he'd seen Ermanno's hand in my bag? I imagined heated words. Dagger-eyed stares. Pistols at dawn. A sword fight. I grinned, despite myself. The beautiful, noble Englishman versus the beautiful, twisted Italian. I knew whose cravat I'd have tied around my arm, the scent of it faint with turpentine.

  THOUGH MY ITCH to explore never lessened, Putra's latest note took priority. Visiting Santa Maria in Cosmedin and the Mouth of Truth--though I hadn't a clue why he'd wanted me to go there--had brought good things. I was beginning to think that Il Sotto Abbasso must be a Roman attraction, too, since Putra must've known that my gaining entry to his apartment with Ermanno lurking would be unlikely. This was a disappointment; finding a trapdoor would've been fun.

  I was passing through the hotel lobby on the way to my room when I ran into Giovanni. "You weren't kidding when you said you work all the time."

  "I told you, my mamma is the owner. But what can I do? She makes fantastic cannoli." He winked at me.

  Ah, Italians.

  "Any messages?" I asked.

  "One. Your friend, Noel, wanted me to tell you that he is at the shops."

  Oh, well. Hearing from Sri Putra would've been more surprising than not at this point, anyway. I pictured Noel appraising antiques throughout the city and wondered if he'd remember our lunch date; the lost scepter of Romulus would trump his appetite any day of the week.

  "He needed clothes," Giovanni said, rupturing the image.

  "Clothes? Noel needed clothes? You're kidding."

  "Does this look like kidding?" He pointed to himself, his sober expression. "It is why his wallet was stealed from him--wearing blue jeans on Christmas." He tsk-tsked.

  "But he just went for pastries!"

  "He knows now he must look his best for passeggiata."

  I'd heard of passeggiata--when families went out to stroll the town in their finest clothes, confident they looked better than the neighbors.

  "You two will have not a euro left if you are not careful. 'When in Rome' does not come from nothing." His hands flew; God only knew what they said. "You look like tourists."

  "We are tourists."

  "You look like ... a red spot."

  I scrunched my face to match his. "We look like pimples?"

  "Targets." The word burst from him. "They
will crush your grapes and make you wine if they see you are tourists!"

  I repressed a laugh. "Do we look that bad?"

  His eyebrows did a funny dance--up with one, down with the other and switch--as he scowled at my faded Bugs Bunny sweatshirt. I covered Bugs in a protective gesture with my right hand. Moira and I had bought two of these tops when we were fifteen. Oversized. Perfect. Obviously long lasting. Exactly identical. Our mother had hated them. But, okay, maybe I was underdressed.

  "All right, name a nice shop with reasonable prices." I wasn't tenured, after all. Yet.

  "Mariella's shop is close. You give her my name and she will turn you ..." He kissed his fingers.

  "And what if I don't want to be--?" I made a rain shower of kissing sounds.

  "Passeggiata," he repeated, a grave wisdom in his voice.

  I lifted my hands in a gesture of defeat. "I'll go, but I have a mystery to solve first. I don't suppose 'Il Sotto Abbasso' means anything to you?"

  He looked around, lowered his voice. "It is secret place, in the underground."

  "Harlem Nocturne" kicked in again.

  "What is it, exactly?" I asked.

  "A place to dance and drink and--"

  "A club?"

  "Yes, a club under the ground. It is, how you say, hot."

  A club, huh. Sri Putra wanted me to go to a club? "I'd like to go there sometime, with Noel," I said. "How do I get there?"

  "It is only open on Sunday night--tomorrow. It is good luck that Mama let me have the night off. I can take you two. You would not find it without me. But first you will visit Mariella," he continued. "You cannot wear bunny man to Il Sotto Abbasso."

  It was my turn to raise a brow. "I have some nice pants--"

  "We will dance."

  "If you think I'm going to buy some sort of flowy skirt--"

  "Flowy? Like flow-in-the-dark?"

  I covered my mouth, but laughter burbled out.

  "Go to Mariella's," he said. "She will fix you."

  "And you're sure about the bunnies? Maybe just a little one?" I couldn't help myself.

  He scowled. "No bunnies."

  KEEPING NOEL'S ROBBERY and his sensible advice in mind, I left the blade in the safe in my closet, then made my way to Mariella's. A saleswoman in a bronze-toned belted suit and pointy shoes approached as soon as I stepped through the door (Mariella herself, as it turned out). I needed an outfit, I explained. Pants and a top. For dancing.

  She threw me in a dressing room and poured me into something scandalous. Not a pant leg or cartoon character in sight. I couldn't wear it.

  "The flower is in full bloom." In piena fioritura. "You have nice breasts," she said. "Why not show them off a little?" She sounded like Kit. Maybe that's why I let her bully me into buying what I did.

  I was standing at the counter, my credit card still smoking in my hand, when I saw him. Turned away from me, but close by, lurking in a corner. Tall. Dark. Ageless as Romulus himself. I would've felt better about it with the keris in my bag, but I called his name anyhow.

  "Ermanno."

  He turned, perplexed. This was not Ermanno's face, but I thought, for a crazed second, that it still might've been him. Magia nera.

  The man smiled, asked if I'd mistaken him for someone. I was losing it.

  I apologized to the stranger, grabbed my stuff, and left before I changed my mind again.

  Out of Time

  Castine, Maine

  LATE OCTOBER 2000

  Moira and Maeve are sixteen

  The lighthouse became Moira's favorite place to meet Ian, though there was nothing light about it; it'd been defunct for as long as she could recall. Still, he always brought a flashlight, and they walked up together, kissing, laughing, ducking when a car door slammed nearby.

  One Saturday they met earlier than usual, the sun just shy of a spectacular sunset. They found a secluded nook on the side of a hill, with a scatter of crisp leaves they covered with a blanket, and then they sat and watched the sky.

  "They think I'm seeing a movie with Ann," Moira explained when Ian asked how she'd managed the early getaway.

  "Ann Houghton? She's as boring as your sister."

  He laughed as Moira hid her hurt. Next time she'd lie about a girl more exciting than bookish Ann. It was so hard to constantly remember how Maeve would do things. It was exhausting.

  "Come here, Maeve," he said, and her stomach tipped as it always did at the sound of her twin's name. She moved until they were face-to-face, thinking he wanted a kiss. Then all at once he laughed and grabbed her, turned her so she sat on his lap.

  The first time she'd felt his arousal, it frightened her. But boys couldn't help things like that when they kissed girls. It was natural, harmless. At least that's what Ian said when he'd seen the look on her face. She didn't mind it at all now. In fact, she knew she could give him a little pleasure, and herself, by sinking into him when he pressed against her.

  "Play a song for me." He tucked his hand beneath her shirt and stroked her belly.

  "Ian."

  "I won't do anything you don't want," he said, stretching his free arm out before her. "C'mon. Play for me."

  "You think I pack a saxophone in my hip pocket?" she asked with forced levity.

  "I'd love to be your saxophone, have your hands all over me and your mouth on mine all of the time." He made a deep noise that sounded like he'd just eaten a spoonful of caramel.

  Moira swallowed hard. Twice. "You would?"

  "Oh, yeah," he said, and nuzzled his face into her neck. "C'mon, one song. Unless you're not who I think you are." She went stock-still. "Maybe that's a recording I hear from inside your house and not you at all."

  "Right." Her breath felt shallow and sharp. "Or maybe I'm really my sister?"

  "She could never be you."

  "Why not?"

  "She's not like you."

  "We're twins. Exactly the same genetically."

  He dropped his arm. "Which just proves there's a lot more to a person than genes. You've got balls. You've always had them. That's why you won't be stuck here for the rest of your life."

  He looked seaward with the same longing she'd seen in him before--when he stared at the enormous ship stationed in the Penobscot, where trainees from all over the country came for education in ship handling. She felt his restless desire for more in a hundred ways. He and Maeve were so alike that way.

  "You can leave, too," Moira said. "Join the Maritime Academy. You can travel all--"

  "Not if my old man has his way with my life."

  She stared where he did, at the black water and its dusky golden highlights. "I think you can make anything happen if you believe in it. You can convince your father and become a merchant marine. And Moira has a lot more to offer than you're giving her credit for," she couldn't help adding. "She's had different opportunities than ... than I have. She plays the piano very well and--"

  Ian feigned a yawn. "Sorry, I'm sure you love her and all that, but I can't stand the piano."

  "She knows Liszt."

  "What's Liszt?"

  "The composer, Franz Liszt. He's difficult to master."

  "Yeah? From what I've heard she hasn't mastered him yet."

  Moira couldn't hide her splintered expression that time.

  "I like you," he said. "You're the one who's fun to be with. I don't want you to be your sister. C'mon. Play me."

  Moira put her cold fingers on Ian's arm, moved them around a little.

  "That's not a song," he said. "That's a fidget."

  She closed her eyes against a blurred and watery vision, and played for him. The fleshy notes she touched were for piano, but she held herself as if she played the sax; and the song was Liszt's Liebestraume, notturno No. 3, a piece about love, holding onto it for as long as you're able--for lost love is wretched. She doubted Ian would ever appreciate it.

  "You're amazing," he said when she stopped. "The most amazing girl in the world. Let's go all the way."

  She turned t
o look him in the eye. The sun cast long orange fingers over his cheekbones and made a mask of his face. He pressed himself against her again, clasped her to him.

  "I hope it's not too soon, but I need a real girlfriend. I'm a man, you know, not a boy anymore."

  "But--"

  "You thought I was a virgin?" He smiled.

  Moira nodded. "Who--?"

  "If you're not ready," he said, "then maybe we're not."

  "You mean you'd break up with me?"

  "Break up from what? You won't even hold my hand in the hall." His gaze grabbed at her; it hurt. "Maybe that's the game, huh, Maeve?"

  "There's no game."

  "You want to keep me at a distance. Other girls wouldn't."

  Moira thought of Paula, the day Ian had been with her without his shirt. And then she thought of her sister. Maeve, she knew, wouldn't think so much. She'd live in the moment, let passion decide. Moira wanted to believe she had passion, too.

  Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong!--I have as much soul as you,--and full as much heart!

  "Can I think about it?"

  Ian wrapped a finger around the saxophone stone necklace and pulled her close, then kissed her until her body hummed with possibility.

  "Just don't think about it for too long," he said, as breathless as she was. "You'll love sex, Maeve. You'll be a natural. You'll see."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  DECLENSION

  When I arrived back at the hotel, I carried four bags of clothes and quite a bit more debt. I changed into one of my new outfits--a pair of gray trousers and a tangerine-toned silk blouse Mariella said made my eyes look elettrizzante. She'd somehow noticed my hair as well, my roots. Why have you taken away your color? You are young. Be beautiful. But in this, I was resolved; I bought a blue hat and stuck it on my head.

  "Hello, gorgeous," Noel said after he stepped through my door a little later.