Storming Venice

by Anna E Bendewald

  Markus felt a jolt of apprehension and Giselle said, “Tell me you didn’t go inside the shed.”

  “Are you kidding?” She looked almost angry. “Absolutely not! Now that we know about the deadly chemical in those pretty glass vials all over the thing, you couldn’t pay me to go inside that shed.”

  Giselle looked relieved, if a bit defensive. “Well, good then. But really, as long as you don’t touch them, it’s safe.” Her voice trailed off as the three of them fixed her with stares letting her know how reckless she sounded. Then Veronique and Selma headed out the kitchen’s back door, climbed into Veronique’s pickup truck, and drove off down the road toward their house.

  Giselle locked the door and turned to him. “We’re finally in the privacy of our own home. Does it feel different than when we were here before?”

  “Do you mean, now that we are expecting a baby, and we no longer need to hide from everyone? Very different.”

  “I’ve dreamed of making this my full-time residence again. When I married Vincenzo, I begged him to stay here in Gernelle.”

  “Away from his family in Italy?”

  She gave him a wide-eyed look of exasperation. “I came up against his parents, too. In the end, he compromised and bought us a home in Paris instead.”

  “Da, I remember standing outside that Left-Bank mansion waiting for you to come out.”

  “Oui, that’s right, the morning after we met in the Metro.”

  She moved into his arms, wiping every other thought from his mind. She gazed up at him, communicating her intention and igniting his pent-up needs like a spark to kindling. He lifted her onto the big butcher-block island, stepped between her legs, and used both hands to sweep the hem of her sheath all the way up to the crease of her hip. She gasped as he eased her legs apart.

  “What is it that Veronique saw?” he asked, searching her eyes.

  “Hmm?” She closed them and brushed her lips against his.

  He gently nipped her neck with his teeth. “She knew you were pregnant.”

  Giselle grazed her fingertips along the nape of his neck and trailed them across the back of his head as she drew him forward. She murmured, “No idea…but Juliette saw it, too.”

  Then he kissed her. His lips parted, her lemony tongue stroked his, and he shivered. Straightening up, he pulled her hips to the edge of the counter and pressed himself against her, nudging her legs even wider. She unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it off, and let it fall to the floor. He unzipped her dress. Pulling the soft fabric over her head, he revealed the miniscule lace demi-bra that barely scooped her perfect breasts. While they were still small, they were swollen in a way they had never been before.

  When she lay back and offered up one foot for him to remove her shoe, the provocative pose sent him over the edge. He plucked off the shoe, tossed it aside, then placed her bare right foot over his left shoulder and unbuttoned his pants. With one thumb, he hooked her G-string out of the way and, with the other, he stroked her lightly.

  Uncharacteristically, she commanded, “Mon amour, I want you inside me. Play with me later.”

  “Who said I cannot do both?” He reached for the nearby the honey pot and withdrew the dainty wand.

  Together they began to move in a rhythm that became more urgent as he teased her with surprising ingenuity. They held their climax off as long as possible while he drizzled her most tender areas with amber nectar. After he was spent, he took her over the edge using his mouth and the innocent-looking wand. When they were both satisfied and sticky with honey, he said, “Now that is something a good guest would never do on the contessa’s countertop.”

  She kissed his glazed mouth and hooked her ankles together around his waist. “Thank goodness Vincenzo came out of the closet when he did. I can’t imagine going another minute without experiencing your hungry bear act.”

  He released himself from her legs and teased, “Mmm, hungry bears do like honey.”

  Glistening here and there, they headed naked through the chilly halls and up to the mirrored shower in the fantastical bathroom near her bedroom.

  They had dinner in front of a fire in the Moroccan room attached to the kitchen, and then puttered around doing a few domestic things and getting settled before they dampened fires, extinguished lights, and headed upstairs.

  Undressing awakened their energy at a primal level. After enjoying each other on the sofa in the walk-in closet, they finally made their way to Giselle’s enormous bed, ready to fall into a deep sleep, their limbs happily entwined. She murmured against his chest, “Let’s redecorate this room.”

  “Da, now that we share it.”

  “I always kept it the way my mother had decorated it for me, but now we’ll make it ours. Let’s make Vincenzo’s old room across the hall into the nursery. Okay?”

  “Good plan.” He felt sleep tugging at him, since it had eluded him the night before. If she said anything else, he didn’t hear.

  Raphielli felt better than she had in years. It was still raining outside, but she hardly noticed. Today she was wearing a soft blue sweater that complimented her favorite green scarf, a shimmery skirt that only came to her knees and felt quite daring, rain boots with wedge heels that made her two inches taller, and a beautiful pewter-colored raincoat that made her waist look tiny when she cinched it like Ava taught her. She’d even applied a bit of lip-gloss while Alphonso watched, then he’d kissed it off, and she’d had to reapply it.

  Later at the office she was working through some progress reports when her phone chirped. The screen showed it was from the abbey.

  “Pronto, Eugenia?”

  “Alo, Raphielli? Are you okay?” Her voice sounded stressed.

  “Sì, Eugenia. I’m fine. Why?”

  “It’s all over the news that Salvio’s alive and may be traveling from Egypt!”

  “They’re wrong. He’s dead.” The lie started to feel like the truth.

  “If you say so…”

  “Did you find anything about those symbols?”

  “Actually, I did.”

  “Great. What’d you find?”

  Eugenia’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “They’re associated with Marcion of Sinope.”

  “Who?”

  There was a crinkling of paper as Eugenia consulted her notes. “He was a follower of the Apostle Paul. But I found a handwritten notation on an old scroll that means ‘son of son,’ which is very odd. After Paul’s death, Marcion went everywhere Paul had visited and personally collected all of Paul’s writings.”

  “Paul was big on correspondence. That must have been a lot of travel.”

  “You’re not kidding. Good thing this Marcion of Sinope was a rich boat merchant. He had the money and boats to travel around the Mediterranean where Paul had spread Jesus’ teachings.”

  “What’d he do with the letters?”

  “He pulled them together and transcribed a copy, which he sent to Pope Pius in Rome. I’ve always been taught that Paul’s letters were lost—at least the ones that didn’t make it into the bible—but I found notations in a scroll speculating that Marcion hid them. So, this man, one man, is responsible for saving most of the writings canonized as the New Testament.”

  “How could that be? I’ve read every scroll I could get my hands on at the abbey and at the monastery up the hill. After twelve years of theological study, I should know of Marcion of Sinope.”

  “In our oldest books, whole pages have been blacked out, and they bear the Vatican censorship seal, but I was able to make out something very like the astral symbol and boat you gave me. It looks like the Vatican has gone to great lengths to suppress information about Marcion of Sinope.”

  “What else did you find?”

  “He joined Peter’s church and donated a lot of money in an effort to gain access to the power brokers around the Pope. If I had to guess, I’d say Marcion was trying to reshape their early doctrine to suit his and Paul’s understanding of Christ’s teachings. When Pope Pius discover
ed the motive for his generosity, he excommunicated Marcion from the church. The official reason was the seduction of a virgin named Inez, but it looks like they didn’t want him meddling in how the Bible was being compiled.”

  “Excommunicated for trying to ensure that Paul and Jesus’ teachings were included in the Bible? That sounds outrageous. What happened to Marcion?”

  “He was killed.”

  “Killed? By who?”

  “I wondered that too, so I started doing some cross-referencing. I’m telling you, I’ve never had such a difficult time doing research. I ended up going back into the Aramaic scrolls. I found that one of Marcion’s contemporaries was arrested for saying that Pope Pius’ bishops had ordered Marcion of Sinope’s murder.”

  “A bishop? Dio mio!”

  “I found your woven knot symbol in that scroll entry. Apparently Marcion’s left ankle was tied to a weight and he was drowned. An odd detail to immortalize in writing.”

  “Ah, okay. Thanks for looking this up for me.”

  “Raphielli, Rome considers this man to be dangerous.”

  “And you said the astral-looking symbol was two suns? I thought they were two moons.”

  “No. You’re confused. The item in the middle of the astral symbol isn’t a crescent moon, it’s an archaic depiction of the earth’s shadow crossing over the moon.”

  “Oh, now I feel dumb. I should have figured that out.”

  “You’re getting soft now that you’re away from your studies,” Eugenia teased.

  “Did you find out why it represents Marcion of Sinope?”

  “Sì, his death coincided with the eclipse of 118 AD.”

  “So the symbol is an eclipse, and the figure in the boat is Marcion of Sinope…”

  “Depicted in one of his ships. Where did you see these symbols?”

  “They were…part of a design on a dress that caught my eye.” She hated forcing the lie out of her mouth.

  “Uh-huh.” Eugenia’s voice dripped with skepticism. “I was really swept up in your mystery and had to sneak into the Minor Cannon’s private library. A dress, huh? Is that the story you’re sticking to?”

  “What? I… sì.”

  “Well, you should take another look at that dress. These are probably not the same symbols. But if they are, I’d really like to see it. Don’t wear it to church though, just to be on the safe side.”

  “Thanks for checking, and it was good to hear your voice.”

  “Sì, you too. With these rumors about Salvio, I’m worried about you. You could come stay in the cloister for a while.”

  “Grazie, but I have a shelter to run. Oh, hey…if I decided to do a bit more research, do you have any suggestions where to look?”

  “I could put you to work in the scroll room if you came back. Otherwise, you’d have to figure out how to get inside the Vatican library.”

  “Er…I’ll take another look at that dress. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  “You do that. If you can take a picture of it, I’d love to see that dress.”

  “Wait, I swear you said two suns.”

  “Well, it may be an incorrect character sequence, but in Aramaic, it says Marcion of Sinope is the son of Paul’s son.”

  “I thought you meant two celestial suns, not offspring sons. Paul had a son? I didn’t know he was married.”

  “All men married back then.” Her voice dropped to barely audible. “Someone’s coming. I have to go.” The line disconnected.

  Raphielli sat considering the strange information, when her thoughts were interrupted by Kate hurrying through the office door on her cell phone. She was clearly distressed.

  “I’m sorry, Ippy, I don’t understand what you’re saying.” She slid behind her desk, held the phone with one hand, and scrolled the calendar on her computer screen with the other. “Both? Both contessas?” She listened and then said, “I understand Giselle might not feel up to it, but…can you give me any indication of when I can speak to them? Uh-huh. Well, thank you for calling. Give them our best.”

  When she was off the phone, Raphielli asked, “What’s happened?”

  Kate looked confused. “I have no idea. Ippy just canceled all of Juliette and Giselle’s volunteer shifts. She had no information beyond that.”

  “That can’t be good. I hope Giselle’s all right.” Raphielli got up and grabbed her coat. “I’m going to run across the courtyard and see if anyone at Juliette’s shelter can tell me what’s going on.”

  She went out through the kitchen door, hurrying through the rain, and pounded on the back door of the homeless shelter until one of the kitchen volunteers opened it a crack. When they recognized her, they allowed her to enter and then went back to work.

  Raphielli headed through the kitchen, down the main hall, and found the receptionist. After a brief and frustrating conversation, all Raphielli learned was that Juliette wouldn’t be in all week. Turning on her heel, she retraced her steps to the kitchen, went out the back door, and carefully maneuvered around the courtyard’s deep puddles on the path to her own shelter. She banged on the door, and the cook opened it, handing her a clean towel to wipe the splatters from her new boots.

  Back at her desk, she tried to call Juliette, but Ippy answered the phone saying she’d take a message. Next, Raphielli called Cardinal Negrali, but he had no explanation for their sudden change of plans. She’d just hung up when Kate got up from her desk, pushed her glasses up her nose with an air of frustration, and let out a long exhale.

  “How can I help you, boss?”

  Kate looked over the top of her lenses and widened her eyes at the new nickname, then headed for the door with a resigned wave of her hand. “Ugh, you can’t.”

  “Let me guess. Paloma?”

  “She’s about to leave here and go bail her boyfriend out of jail.”

  “But, her boyfriend put her in the hospital, killed their unborn child…”

  “We can’t reach her.” Kate sighed.

  “Even if she won’t try therapy…can’t we just get her to stay?”

  “She has flat-out refused my invitation to just live here for a while.” Kate nodded, turned toward the door, and then spun back around to face her. “Ah! You can help! Come with me.”

  Raphielli followed her to the sunny private therapy room where Paloma sat, shrunken inside her shelter-issued sweat suit. Her bushy copper hair with black roots had been partially fastened into a twisted ponytail at the back of her head, the ends fanning out in all directions. Her bruises on her jaw had faded to greenish-black, and the ones under her eyes were now just green smudges at the inner corners.

  Kate took a seat across from her and said, “Paloma, I’d like you to talk to Raphielli.”

  Paloma jutted her chin and gave Raphielli a rudely appraising look up and down.

  Kate gestured for Raphielli to sit down and continued, “I have the discharge papers you requested. We recommend against you leaving but, by law, it’s up to you.”

  The response was a satisfied smirk and a defiant stare. Kate glanced meaningfully back and forth between Paloma and Raphielli. “Before you go, I’ll give you two a few minutes alone to talk.”

  This was irregular, but then again, they hadn’t discharged anyone from the shelter since it had opened so recently. But Raphielli trusted Kate’s judgment and gave Paloma an encouraging little smile. The tough redhead uttered a few light nasty laughs and held her hand up for Kate to stop.

  “I don’t need to talk to anybody here, I don’t need to know anybody here. I just need to be home in my own bed…with my man. Do you know how pissed he’s gonna be if I don’t get out of here and bail him out?”

  “I’m taking your documents outside with me.” Kate held up the file. “I’ll be back in a little while, then we can sign them, and you can go wherever you like.” She got up and stood next to Raphielli. “I’m sorry, but I need to ask for your scarf.”

  “Pardon me?” Raphielli couldn’t have just heard what she thought she heard.
r />   “Your scarf, please.” Kate’s tone was firm.

  Raphielli felt ambushed. Paloma’s eyes slid back and forth between her and Kate. Raphielli touched her scarf protectively. “Kate, may I speak to you in the hallway?” She started to get up.

  “I’m afraid not.” Kate gave her head a quick shake. “Please give me your scarf, and take a few minutes to speak to Paloma before she leaves us.”

  Raphielli was aware that Paloma was watching the power play between them as she relinquished her scarf. Kate turned to Paloma. “You’ve taken this woman’s charity, now please do her the courtesy of speaking with her.” Kate left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Paloma was staring at her neck. “Holy shit! What did that?”

  Raphielli swallowed hard. “Hanging.” It came out as a whisper.

  “I’m guessing you didn’t do that to yourself for kinky sex…” She abruptly dropped the joking tactic. “What did she mean your charity? Did you pay my bill or something?”

  Raphielli was at a loss for how to handle that question. She didn’t feel it was helpful for the residents to know she was the patroness of the shelter.

  “Kate said we should talk, but you’re not talking.” Paloma suddenly acted like a sleuth. “Raphielli, is it?”

  “Ah, I would have liked some time to collect myself. I wish I had my scarf back.” Her hands went to her neck.

  Pointing to her own jaw, Paloma said, “Well, you can see my face, so it’s only fair that I see your neck. I’m pretty broken up in my ribs, and they tell me my hips are gonna be fucked up for the rest of my life. Where else are you hurt?”

  “While I was hanging, I tried to hold myself up to breathe and I hung onto the cord really tight with my hands. So, my back, shoulders, and neck muscles were torn a bit. Um, my ligaments and tendons, and my vertebrae were a bit damaged.”

  “You hung on?” Paloma sounded awed.

  “Until I heard a scream and then I lost my grip and was swinging…” She wished she could excuse herself from the little room.

  “Oh, shit…” It was a gasp and the tough mask Paloma usually wore fell away. “How’d you get hung?”