Surviving Venice

by Anna E Bendewald

  Giselle was itching to call Vincenzo. “How’s the phone reception?”

  “In and around the abbey, it’s excellent. We have new technology in the bell tower, and when I return from town, I’ll have disposable phones for you. I must ask you not to use your personal phones for safety reasons.”

  “Certainly.” Markus stomped his feet against the frozen ground and exhaled a plume of vapor.

  “You won’t be bored here. We can keep you busy. There’s plenty to do in the barns.”

  “Happy to help,” Giselle said. “I remember coming here every year for school trips. Do you still have big draft horses?”

  “Oui, but nothing glamorous like yours. These are workhorses.”

  “You know my horses?” She was surprised.

  “What kind of a mother-in-law would Juliette be if she didn’t show us pictures during her visits? Juliette is my oldest friend. We grew up together.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  Making their way down the stone pathways out of the courtyard, through more locked doors and gates, they left the grand abbey via wide granite steps down to the private west grounds and headed toward a cluster of white and red barns.

  “Juliette never said she knew you personally, though now I know it’s another reason she never missed a chance to come here whenever she visited me and Vincenzo in Gernelle. I thought she’d forged a friendship with the monks here over cheese and preserves.”

  “Ah, she does have a special love of our old way of making food, but we’ve always kept in touch. Actually, when it was time for Vincenzo to travel for school, I was the one who suggested Aiglemont for him. Such fine schools there.”

  Giselle shot Markus a ‘See?’ look and then turned back to Daniel. “So, you grew up in the South of France?”

  “Oui, in Rennes-le-Château where Juliette's family lived. We were closer to Barcelona than Paris. Our families have been friends for generations. When Juliette and I were sixteen, she went to Venice for school and I came here to study theology.”

  “I thought Juliette was from Italy,” Markus said.

  “No, she’s from a very old French family called Clairvaux,” Giselle said. “She doesn’t talk about her family much though. After going to school in Venice, she fell in love with Gabrieli and never left.”

  They arrived at the horse barns and saw a monk waving his arms. “Help me gather the sheep!” he shouted. “Something pushed the fence over, and they’re moving toward the road!” He gestured toward the far-off four-lane motorway.

  “Oui, venaient!” Giselle yelled. “Coming!”

  “I’ll get them onto horses!” Daniel called.

  They rushed into the barn, and when Giselle grabbed a bridle from a hook and started nudging a horse out of its stall, Markus said, “Let me and Daniel go. You are pregnant, and a fall could—”

  “Ridiculous!” she cut him off. “Every woman in my family rode during pregnancy until their last trimester when they couldn’t get up on their mounts. There’s no danger to my pregnancy. First, I’m not going to fall off a horse while shepherding sheep. But even if I did, I’d still be pregnant. The worst that could happen could be a broken arm. Our little embryo is snuggled deep within my body.”

  He caught the bridle Daniel tossed at him, and before he could argue further, she’d finished bridling her horse. “I’ll take the gentler of the two and promise not to jump over any fences.” She made a clicking sound, backed the bridled horse out, and tossed the reigns over a fence post. Then she moved to Markus’ side, took the bridle from him, and had it on the big horse in a few quick movements. She jogged it out to Daniel and asked, “Which is mine?”

  “This one is very docile,” Daniel said. He made a stirrup of his hands and gave her a boost up. “Can you ride bareback?” he asked Markus.

  “I have strong legs.”

  “Kick them straight into a lope, and they’re very smooth.” He gave Markus a leg up and handed them short brooms of thin dried sticks strung with reeds. “These make a howling hiss that the horses are used to, but the sheep run from. Get between the sheep and the road, then swish your broom so they’ll run away from you and come back here.” Daniel opened a gate to the pasture.

  Giselle gripped her broom and kicked her horse into a lope with Markus right behind her. When they got between the sheep and the busy road, the herd stopped, confused, and one wave of her broom sent the herd running back the way they’d come. It didn’t take long before they’d gathered the sheep back in their grassy field where Daniel and the other monk had propped the fence up to secure them.

  Giselle loved being out in the country, so far removed from the vogue persona she had to assume as Contessa Verona in the cities at art events or on Vincenzo’s arm. Here she didn’t have to worry about French tabloids reporting her every move, or the art world gossiping about her mental stability based on her dangerous sculptures.

  Here, the scents wafting from the Ardennes Forest grounded her. It was the same forest that butted up against her property in Gernelle. Deep and magical, mossy and alive, especially in the dark recesses beneath the canopy of boughs where the sunlight failed to penetrate.

  Comfortable within the borrowed coat, she took a deep breath and loped alongside Markus. The sight of him riding across the untouched winter landscape, his legs gripping the big Belgian draft horse, made her ache for him. He hadn’t grown up with horses but had learned to ride while staying with her in France. She was impressed at how firmly he sat astride the enormous grey horse. She was riding a smaller Ardennes draft horse, and while she had strong legs, the broad girth of this beautiful mare’s back was about her limit. God help her, despite losing Gabrieli, she felt happy—and that made her feel guilty.

  When they got back to the horse barn, they met up with Daniel and he walked them to the pasture where they released their horses to graze. “I have requests from the farmhands. Can you give some attention to the kids, lambs, and piglets?”

  “Of course,” Markus said.

  “And can you help gather eggs in the hen house?”

  Giselle said, “I’d be happy to.”

  “Where is Yvania?” Markus asked, looking around.

  “She’s in the barn helping the vet tend to the goat who broke the fence.”

  “Are you off to town now?” she asked.

  “Oui.”

  They went to check on Yvania. She was in one of the larger barns with a veterinarian who was cleaning a gash on the front shoulder of an adult goat. Yvania was handing clean gauze to the vet and tossing soiled medicated strips into a bucket. Then she picked up an aerosol can and shook it. After the vet dried the wound, Yvania stepped close and said, “You will take hold so he does not bite?”

  The vet held the goat’s head. “Got him.”

  She said, “Hokay, I am going to spray now.” And with a burst of aerosol mist, she shellacked the wound with a thick white glue. The goat jumped once, then took the offered apple out of the vet’s hand, fright forgotten, and chomped contentedly. As Yvania placed the can back on a shelf, she commented, “So much better than putting tree sap on the wound, this liquid skin.”

  “They use it on humans, too,” the vet said. “It fuses to the skin and stays in place until new skin grows and the old sloughs off. For this adult, it’ll last about a month. Plenty of time for the wound to heal.”

  “If I had a cut, I would love to try on me,” Yvania said enthusiastically.

  Giselle admired the old-world-meets-new-world tableau, and Markus said, “I love that at her age she is excited by new things. She will be good with our children.”

  Giselle took a deep breath, inhaling the cool scents of fresh hay bedding for the little goats and the tang of goat milk in the air. “Let’s get animals for our property. I’d like to raise our children around animals.”

  Yvania heard and responded, “Da! Is goot for children.”

  After helping clean out the pens and groom the kids and lambs, Giselle wondered if her hormones were mak
ing her baby-crazy. She was feeling positively maternal toward the little beauties. Next, they headed over to the pigs, who adored being brushed and scratched. Finally, Giselle headed off alone to gather eggs.

  The henhouse was a yellow wooden structure with three levels of shelving, and each nest was packed with fresh straw. Ducking inside she spotted a monk scooping feed into a bucket. “I’ve come to help you gather eggs.”

  He nodded as if he already knew who she was, then pulled a folded card from inside his wool cassock and handed it to her. It read: I HAVE TAKEN A VOW OF SILENCE.

  He was about sixty years old, tall and lean. Giselle nodded and returned his card. After showing her how to feel around each perch for eggs and place them in slim old-fashioned crates, he left the hen house to spread food around the hen fields.

  About ten minutes later, she’d just fallen into the relaxation of her task when she heard heavy footsteps on the wooden walkway just outside the thin wood-slat wall. They sounded ungainly, and something tentative about them made her hyperalert. Someone sneaking up on me? Being hunted had made her paranoid.

  Looking through gaps low down in the siding, she saw big black boots and thick legs in dark pants. Someone had stopped, and they were facing the wall as if sensing her. Soundlessly, Giselle set her crate aside, sank to her knees, and got low so she was eye level with the gaps. Peeking out between the weathered slats, she could see the boots more clearly, but not who was wearing them. Perhaps if she got lower, she could look upward and see their face or whether they had a weapon.

  Her pulse pounded as she lowered herself flat against the straw, praying she wasn’t crushing unfound eggs. This view was no better. She glanced around for a weapon and snatched up a handheld metal claw used for raking the nests. “Who’s there?” she called.

  “Oh! Someone’s talking in there?” a surprised voice called back. It was a gruff local Châlons-en-Champagne accent, but the end of her sentence had a neighboring Ardennes-Metz slur. No way Salvio could convince a local woman to take money to kill her. Not a chance in this tight-knit region.

  Giselle swung the door open to reveal an old woman writing something on a chalkboard hung on the wall. She had a stack of empty egg crates under one arm.

  Giselle said, “I’m gathering eggs. Daniel said I could help out.”

  “Ah, our special guest. I won’t ask your name,” she said. “I’ve already met Yvania. I’m Ida, the cook’s assistant. I came for eggs. Usually, it’s the boy, but he’s busy churning butter. My joints don’t like churning when it gets this cold.”

  Giselle gave Ida what she’d gathered and returned to her chore. It seemed such a strange thing to be hunted by Salvio Scortini, a man she’d never met, and to have him hire hit men. It wasn’t something she’d have believed if they hadn’t come racing onto her property trying to murder her and Markus yesterday. Those disturbing thoughts were interrupted when she heard Daniel talking to Markus just outside and went to join them.

  Daniel turned to Giselle. “I have news. First, Juliette said Gabrieli’s funeral is the day after tomorrow in the Vatican, and that while it breaks her heart, she and the pope agree that it’s too dangerous for you to attend.”

  “Merde! I was afraid of that! Now I hate Salvio even more, if that’s possible! He cracked Vincenzo’s head and killed Gabrieli, and now he’s kept me from…” She took a shuddering breath. “I understand…I’m fine. Just really…really angry.”

  Daniel handed her a disposable phone. “Okay, second is your friend Fauve spotted a man who looks just like Bernardo, the hit man she drugged. But she checked with the authorities, and he’s still in custody.”

  Markus tensed. “Where did she see this new man?”

  “He just arrived in Aiglemont. She encountered him in the general store near her hotel. He was asking questions like what they knew about the recent story in the news of the men who targeted you…and if anyone knew where you were.”

  “Oh, my…”

  “Fauve says his questions sounded casual, like small talk. He has an Italian accent.”

  “What’d she do?”

  “Your friends are quite brilliant, actually. She texted her husband, Henri, to look out the window of their hotel and watch for someone who looked like Bernardo. Then they called everyone in the area, and now all the locals are keeping an eye out for this man. He’s wearing all black, driving a silver Peugeot with a rental sticker. The text group keeps expanding and they’re getting constant texts from neighbors reporting where he is and who he talks to. They’ve included your new burner numbers in the group, so both of your phones will give you the latest updates.”

  Giselle looked down at the new disposable phone, and there were indeed group texts on it. The latest reports were of the snack he’d just bought at a fuel station; a tin of sprats, plain crackers, and a bottle of Volvic mineral water. “They’re calling him ‘Spratman’?”

  “Your country folk are very perceptive.”

  “You’re too nice to say ‘nosey,’ but you’re right. We don’t miss a thing when it comes to life in our neck of the woods. So, here’s another hit man who looks like the one Fauve drugged yesterday. I’m glad we’re here until the coast is clear.”

  “Strategically, we shouldn’t leave this hired killer lurking about the countryside. I’ll think of a trap for Spratman,” Daniel said as he hefted a suitcase. “Now, let’s take your clothes to your quarters, and then eat.”

  Markus put his phone in his pocket and said, “Yvania is making her bread. You monks here are in for a treat.”

  “It’s good?” Daniel asked over his shoulder.

  Giselle was suddenly hungry. “It’s life-changing!”

  The three of them climbed the path up to the abbey.

  Luigi had been working for more than thirty-six hours and he was exhausted. He’d gone home for a twenty-minute nap and a shower before hurrying back out through the storm to the Hotel Londra Palace for the Amendola’s press conference. He squeezed into the lobby and found reporters from various news programs in front of a phalanx of locals who were volunteering to look for the missing teen.

  The event appeared to be orchestrated by the news program Notizie Now!, a popular new cable show that promised news but delivered outrage and sensationalism. One of the show’s correspondents was speaking into a microphone behind the podium on a small temporary stage. She was asking for everyone’s help in finding Benedetta while Signore and Signora Amendola stood frozen nearby. Luigi saw their behavior for what it was; they were terrified someone would discover their crime.

  When it was the couple’s turn at the podium, they mumbled that they were praying for Benedetta’s safe return, and the event concluded with the correspondent urging attendees to search for Benedetta and take flyers bearing her photo. Luigi moved to the stage and helped the coiffed correspondent down. Up close, he could see her thickly applied makeup. It looked outlandish in person, but the HD cameras must read it as flattering.

  “I’m Detective Lampani. I have a few questions.” He was looking past her and right at Benedetta’s parents. “Signore et Signora, you reported your daughter missing after twenty-four hours? Or two weeks? Which is it?”

  Their eyes bulged, and he ignored the correspondent’s protests as he maneuvered around her to prevent the Amendolas from leaving the stage.

  He pressed, “The missing person statement you filed with us early this morning said you saw your daughter go jogging last night. Was she in the habit of jogging during rain storms? You don’t live near Parco Savorgnan, so why were you there last night?”

  “We meant to say, Parco Biennale…” the wife began to say, when the husband spun her around and she almost fell.

  The correspondent was objecting over Luigi’s shoulder. “Don’t upset them. They’ve been through enough, and I’m about to film an interview with them.” She then addressed the Amendolas. “We’re set to film upstairs. Come this way. You can talk to the police afterward.”

  Luigi stepped aside, but his
questions had spooked the couple into coughing up a third story. As they hurried past, he couldn’t resist tossing some bait to see if they went for it. “You said you’re praying for her return. You’re Catholic?”

  The two flinched in unison but recovered in a flash. “Of course! Good Catholics,” they stammered.

  “Which church do you attend? You know, where you’ll hold the prayer vigil?”

  “Ehi fermi questo! This is harassment!” the correspondent objected and hustled the couple toward the elevator.

  Luigi could have marched the couple down to headquarters, but at this juncture he didn’t want his interest in this missing person’s case to become known to his department or even Chief Inspector Laszlo.

  There were three Catholic churches in the Amendola’s sestiere. He’d check to see if they attended services. Benedetta had refused to answer his question about her religion. His hunch was they were part of the anti-Catholic group Salvio had surrounded himself with.

  He headed over to Sestiere Canaregio to find Cardinal Negrali. Luigi had seen him hovering around Raphielli’s daily routine for weeks now, and it was time to become better acquainted with the Vatican power player who, as the most influential cardinal in the world, was touted to be a shoo-in as the next pope.

  Cardinal Americo Negrali was the head of Chiesa di Santa Maria dei Miracoli, which the local Venetians called “the Little Church”—sort of tongue in cheek. And while the cardinal could have attached himself to any cathedral in the world other than Saint Peter’s in the Vatican, Negrali had an apparent soft spot for this church.

  He’d set tongues wagging and headlines flying over a ten-year period when he spent almost four million euros to have the church’s marble exterior removed, rinsed inside stainless-steel tanks of distilled water to remove some of the natural salt content from the stone, and then reassembled.