This Crumbling Pageant

by David Fiore

  Scott told him his wife did, and the man thanked God. Holly handled the detective’s first few questions herself. She helped spell out Scott’s full name. That done, the man produced a photograph and asked if Scott recognized the woman in it. They could not have found a more tragicomic picture. There was Janet, on the deck of a cruise ship in a billowing, black cover-up, standing with a deranged grin beside a guy with a hairy gut and hairy shoulders and an equally loony grin. Around the couple a garish sunset spread its arms. Scott identified her, and the detective shot off a question.

  “What was your relationship to the deceased?” Holly said.

  Scott lit a cigarette. “We were friends. She was American. I’d go over her house for meals. She offered me a few dollars to take her food shopping once in a while.”

  Holly looked at him inquiringly. He shrugged, with his eyebrows, and looked away. She translated to the detective, and he then asked if Scott had ever met the man in the picture, or if Mrs. Brillo had ever mentioned a husband.

  “She told me he was dead.”

  The detective looked up from his notebook, directly at Scott. “Davvero?” Really? He wrote it down, shaking his head and chuckling.

  The burlesque was over before Scott could finish the cigarette. The detective gave him his card and told him he may in the future have to come in to get his fingerprints taken and sign a written statement. In the meantime Scott was requested not to leave the province without first notifying the Questura.

  At a slower pace, the couple resumed their walk. They discussed the interview. “Do you think Luca’s house is in this province?” Scott asked. They were going through a piazza, and a rally was forming in the corner. On the platform, a man with a bullhorn maintained an insistent complaint. The assembled demonstrators looked irritable under the weight of their picket signs and drooping rainbow flags. “That’s one angry gay pride parade,” Scott remarked.

  Holly stopped, thunderstruck. “Oh my God,” she began. “It’s a war protest, Scott! That’s the peace flag here.” She uttered an incredulous hoot.

  He took her heckling into the luxurious café, musing over his mistake. That explained the condom, and Gemma’s agility with it. Scott laughed to himself. Another mystery solved. Everything was wrapping up nicely.

  Then compunction pierced him. Over a graceful display case of pastries, he frowned determinedly. He didn’t believe he had anything to feel sorry about. But there it was anyway, the bodily pain of guilt. He guessed it was something he would have to get used to. One more quiver to drag around from his hide. Grazie, mia moglie.

  &

  That afternoon, while Holly was in the shower getting ready for their drive to San Michele’s, Scott’s cell phone rang. He answered it with an excited, “Lou!”

  “Hey, kid,” came the soft-spoken voice of his agent.

  “How are you?” Scott asked.

  “Pretty good. How about you? How’s the arm?”

  “It’s great.”

  “You keepin’ in shape?”

  “Every day. Where are you calling from? Are you back from Italy?”

  “Yep. We’re back home now.”

  “So.” Scott squeezed next to Pucci Luca on a recliner and braced himself. “How’d it go?”

  “Oh, it was a beautiful vacation. What an amazing country. We saw everything. We saw the ruins in Pompeii, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, the Pope. We saw the Coliseum. Connie and I stole a piece of it.”

  They talked about the trip for a couple of minutes.

  “Sounds like a great time,” Scott said.

  “It was. We can’t wait to go back. I have some good news for ya.”

  Here it is, Scott thought. He prepared himself for whatever kooky team Lou had turned up in his travels. The Venetian Gondoliers. The Parma Hams.

  “I got a call from the front office in Detroit. They’re looking for a long relief man to fill their Double-A roster. They offered you a spring training deal.”

  Scott was silent. Then he said, “Me?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why?”

  “First of all, what kind of question is that? Second of all, I guess the skipper of the SeaWolves remembers a game against them where you struck out the side. Supposedly a buddy of yours on the Tigers mentioned your name to him.”

  Johan. The big lug.

  “Well,” Lou said, “what do you say?”

  Scott didn’t respond right away. He knew how he was supposed to answer. It wasn’t even a debate. You get another shot at the Majors, you take it. No one turns down a jersey, even if it’s A-ball. It wasn’t the most romantic proposal—long relief meant coming into games so hopelessly blown it wasn’t worth wasting a good pitcher on—but he knew a lot of guys who’d dissolve in tears at such an offer. Of course, it was only a spring training deal. Scott could try out and, six weeks later, get cut. And then if he did make it, he could flounder in the bush leagues again. Still, he could feel the old competitor in him thrashing around. Scott had thought his ambition was dead. In fact, it had been buried alive and was now pounding and pleading to be rescued.

  “Wow, Lou,” he said. “This is a surprise. I was expecting to hear that you found me something in Italy.”

  “Actually, I did.”

  “You did!”

  “Yeah,” Lou said warily. “I just didn’t think you’d be interested after this other offer.”

  “Well, what did you find?”

  “First let me say you were right. Once I told them that you are able to get citizenship, the whole clubhouse went nuts. I guess the league there has strict limits on issuing visas. It tries to keep the game homegrown, but one of the ways teams get around that is to recruit players like yourself, guys with some direct Italian heritage. Most of those guys, though, don’t want to live in a foreign country. Or their wives don’t. I told them that’s not a problem for you.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “Are you sure you can get citizenship?”

  Scott’s father had never returned his call, but he did send an e-mail, in Italian, inviting him and Holly to stay with him in Naples. He said he had a room all set up, with a window by the bay, and that he could give Scott whatever papers he needed.

  “Technically,” Scott said to Lou, “I’m already an Italian. I just need to get my father’s birth certificate, and some other documents translated and notarized, and then I can be officially recognized.” All of that was true. No wonder Holly was so pissed at him for putting it off. “Why? What team did you talk to?”

  “They’re called the Neptunes.”

  This was more like it.

  “And I have to say,” Lou chuckled, “the contract is not bad. Much better than what you’re used to in the Minors. The salary is around three thousand a month—euros, I think—plus room and board and a car, too. And the meals, of course, are terrific. I saw players eating pastries in the dugout. And smoking cigarettes, too.” Reproachfully, Lou added, “But I hope you’re not still smoking.”

  “The season started already?”

  “No, they’re just training. They get a late start, and end early, and mostly play only on the weekends. It’s not a bad life. And I saw some players who looked like they were in their early forties. You can definitely have a long career over there, if that’s something that interests you.” He said that last part as if it takes all kinds.

  “What’s the team called again?”

  “Neptune. Nettuno. The stadium is on the coast outside Rome. They’re considered the Yankees of the Italian league. You’d finally get a chance to play for the Yankees. You know, baseball’s not that big in Italy—”

  “I know, Lou,” Scott said. Lou had a simple, childlike way of sharing common knowledge.

  “They prefer soccer. But they have some loyal baseball fans and some rich owners who keep the sport alive as a sort of hobby.”

  “Are there tryouts?”

  “No tryouts. I sent them some video. You’d have a
spot as a starter as soon as you can get the passport.”

  “As a starter? They know I’m a reliever, right?”

  “The owner wants you to start. He doesn’t speak a lick of English, by the way. I had to have Connie do all the negotiating. She speaks beautiful Italian.”

  “Do any of the players speak English?”

  “Meh. They all speak baseball. The game’s basically the same. The only difference I noticed is that the pitchers refuse to walk batters intentionally. They think it insults their manhood.” Lou paused. “So, what do you think?”

  Scott heard Holly getting out of the shower, singing Party in the USA. “Hold on a second, Lou.” He got up and grabbed his keys and took the call outside the apartment. Going down the stairs, he asked, “Do I have time to think about it?”

  “Not really.”

  “When does camp start for the Tigers?”

  “In three days.”

  “Shit,” he said. Then he remembered that in three days the frame shop would reopen. “Even if I decide to go, I might have to start a little late. Where is it, by the way?”

  “Lakeland, Florida!” Lou sang softly, like a subdued game show host. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to make up your mind this minute. Sleep on it, discuss it with your wife, and then give me a call tomorrow morning, my time.”

  Scott stepped out into the noble, old streets of Bologna. “Okay, I will. I should warn you, though, that I’m kind of leaning toward the Italian team, or maybe even one that’s closer to where I am now. Holly loves it here. She loves her job. I’ve never seen her so happy. Do you think you’d be able to find me something where I am now?” For a second, Scott thought he’d lost the connection. “Lou? Hello?”

  “Definitely,” Lou finally answered. “That wouldn’t be a problem, if that’s what you want.”

  “Well what do you think I should do?”

  “It’s up to you, kid. But look, I’ll be honest with you. If you do decide to play in Italy, you’ll lose any chance of ever being a prospect again. Even if you put up good numbers—which you should, the competition is weak—nobody’s gonna take it seriously. Because it’s Italy. And then again, you might not put up good numbers. It’s hitter-friendly over there. Small parks, aluminum bats, no depth in the rosters. I just want to make sure you know what this decision means.” He went quiet. “Your wife really loves it there, huh?”

  “She does.”

  “And you can’t live apart for a while? It’s not uncommon.”

  “No,” Scott said. “We can’t.”

  24

  The sun was setting as they drove to their landlord’s castello, south down a well-paved country lane. By now, the monotonous plains had begun to roll. The car meandered through hills and meadows, past the formal gardens of large and inviting villas, before veering west to the highway. Down a route called A1, Scott gripped the shuddering wheel and repeatedly checked the gauges. He couldn’t get used to seeing his speed in kilometers. It was physically difficult for him to go up to the speed limit. Whenever he saw the needle approach 110 he felt like he was flying out of control, even though he knew it was only about 65 mph. On either side of him, motorcycles shot by. Holly passed the time fussing with the radio. He hadn’t told her about the phone call from his agent. It killed him that he was going to turn down the Tigers’ offer, and he needed time to resign himself to it before saying anything, or else his resentment would show.

  Glancing down at the directions, he took the first exit and merged onto another route before turning off onto a white-pebbled road. He followed it for three kilometers through a wooded terrain rampant with ivy. Gradually they gained altitude until the trees were swept away and the road wound openly above uncultivated foothills that sat bulging and ribbed like reptiles.

  Again they ascended, and again a dense woods swimming in creepers closed around them, lulling Scott into forgetfulness. Then the trees were stripped off and a picturesque abyss seesawed into view. A mountain walled up the other side. The more they climbed the more hair-raising the turns became. Round a steep bend Scott slowed to let a meager flock of sheep pass. The shepherdess was a deformed woman with a staff. He inched through, and then said, “Poor lady. She never even looked up at us.”

  Gray stones piled up around them and grew organically into the tiniest medieval village. The square with its cracked fountain could barely accommodate their mid-size Passat. Except for a spindle-legged woman waddling beside a tall woman, the town seemed deserted.

  “Look at this ghost town,” Scott said. “Is Luca Dracula?”

  Across the piazza, a narrow street inclined sharply. He nosed the car up and gingerly gave it some gas. The village vanished, the ground leveled, and after some two hundred yards Scott braked at a fork in the road surrounded by tombstones. The directions said he needed to stay on his current path. He looked up at the fork. It was perfectly split, and the metal road sign was so violently twisted it looked like blown glass and was impossible to mentally reconstruct.

  “Oh I love this song!” Holly said, turning up the volume.

  “Holly, help me!” he begged.

  In the fenceless graveyard, they saw someone, a woman. Holly rolled down her window and called out to her. She was a blonde whose youth and healthy looks seemed out of place in this blighted environment. Holly asked directions and the girl gladly pointed the way. She knew San Michele, naturally. She spoke Italian by the book. Even Scott could semi-understand her.

  “Ah!” he said as they pulled away. “Now her Italian was perfect!”

  “She was a foreigner, honey,” Holly told him. “I think Russian.”

  The village was like a way station on the road to the summit. They drove through a forest of firs and then continued snaking up the hill. Along the crest ran an ornamental iron gate. Scott stopped at the stone gateposts and turned through at a crawl. “This must be it,” he said.

  They crunched up a long driveway of unraked gravel, between a grove of cedars and leprous statuary. At the very summit arose the storybook prison tower of San Michele’s little hilltop fortress. Now it seemed obvious to Scott that castello meant castle.

  Holly perked up at the sight of their jocund landlord, who was waiting at the arched front doors with arms already wide open.

  “Ben arrivati!” he sang.

  He was dressed for the country in jeans, an Aran sweater, and rubber-soled boots. With him were a young woman and two other well-groomed couples in their thirties. Scott parked behind Luca’s metallic-red Escalade, and Holly jumped out and trumpeted, “It’s incredible, Luca!” It was so enthusiastic it seemed to take Luca by surprise.

  The others were Italian, and seemed nice, if only they spoke English. San Michele’s girlfriend was not at all what Scott had imagined. She was classy. Glasses with stylish frames, little make-up, natural chestnut hair. After introductions, they all took a moment to admire the grounds. The estate embraced a cherry farm, a tumbledown barn, a great yew, a huge sycamore. “I was christened right there,” Luca said to Scott, indicating the private chapel. “I had it deconsecrated and now it stores all my sporting equipment.” The castello’s original structure, he continued, dated back to Saint Anselm. In the Vatican once he happened to see a depiction of it on an eleventh-century map, looking very much as it did today, though in 1374 it was thrown down by an earthquake. Over its history, the castle underwent many restorations. During WWII, Castello Famigerato had the distinction of being bombed to pieces by the Americans.

  “Please don’t let the name fool you,” Luca said, as if Scott had any idea what he was talking about. “It’s a name as old as these hills. Its tower once imprisoned the poet Barba.”

  Starry-eyed, Holly gazed up at it. “Fantastico,” she whispered audibly.

  Scott thought she was pouring it on a bit thick, but would’ve chalked it up to envy on his part had not San Michele seemed to notice as well. Again Luca had given her a look of surprise. Pleasant surprise. He invited everyone
in, putting a landowning hand on the small of Holly’s back and guiding her body inside.

  It was a small castle, considering. The tour took them from the vestibule through the main corridor, past a fireplace and a staircase leading to the upper floor, and into a parlor, dining room, a sizable kitchen with pantry, and then down a hallway leading to several bedrooms with shuttered windows and dark ancestral portraits on the walls, then into the music room, game room, and something Luca called the “Oriental room.” In one wing there was a picture gallery and a “modest” collection of Mannerist art.

  That the castle was small and tastefully furnished annoyed Scott a little. He couldn’t even make fun of Luca for gaudiness. It was something irreproachable of taste, exquisite of design, a bit musty of smell. In fact, Holly loved it. Several times during the tour, while Luca called their attention to this or that architectural oddity or storied artifact, she found Scott’s hand and squeezed it, as if she were getting sexually aroused. Scott did notice his thoughts falling back on certain old patterns, and it struck him then that jealousy was a disease, a recurring mental illness, and he was a sick man. At least this time he recognized the episode and was able to catch himself before falling completely down the rabbit hole.

  “The other wing I’m converting into a home movie theater,” San Michele said, before conducting them through yet another doorway. Here, the beam ceilings glared above a mammoth fireplace and a cheerily burning fire that enlivened a vast living area at the back of the castle. It was a rustic room. Barbarian, Scott thought. Despite all the glass-cased bookshelves, and boiserie paneling crowded with abstract and folk art, and all the bronzes, vases from the bottom of the sea, Roman trinkets and Etruscan doodads, it was a savage place. Luca jabbed the fire with a poker and cautiously fed another log into the blaze, while the guests led themselves out to the patio.

  The air was brisk. Scott walked over to the stone balustrade. The valley was in deep shadow. In the horizon, distant mountains made a plaything of the sun. The rays caught the castle’s terra-cotta roof tiles and painted them bright orange. On one side of the rocky ground a pear tree leaned next to a high garden wall clad in wisteria vines. Scott ventured solo in the other direction, around an imposing stone wall with one pointy little window looking north. There, the forested hill dropped off, and the twilit city of Bologna lay in a jagged gap between the pines.