by Kai Meyer
“What do I have to do?” Cristina shouted at her. “Slap your face again? We only just got away with our lives. And we need you. The Alcantaras have houses everywhere, and many of them are empty. Try to think about that, will you? Somewhere we can hide will surely occur to you.”
Signora Falchi appeared beside the young attorney and laid a hand on her arm. “Leave her in peace.”
“No! They’re not going to hurt a hair of Alessandro’s head anyway. And wallowing in self-pity won’t help him or us. I lost almost my whole family in the past, shot or burnt alive. And I never once sat like that, blaming the bloody world for it.”
Rosa raised her head. “No, you screwed an old man in a wheelchair instead. But it wasn’t the world that made you do that.”
Cristina turned to stone, one hand half raised as if she really was about to slap Rosa a second time.
A nasty, malicious pleasure in this game stirred in Rosa. Her teeth returned to human shape, her tongue was a human tongue again. This took her mind off things. It did her good. “You flattered Trevini, and then you enjoyed breaking his neck. No, worse, you watched while other people did it for you. First me, then the Hungry Man.” She stared Cristina in the eye. “I may have lost something just now. Call it courage or self-control or my wonderful cheerfulness. But you? You lost all decency, every trace of honor. You left your honesty behind at the door of Trevini’s goddamn hotel. It was only about you, your loss, your bloody feelings. And you stand there and read me a lecture about self-pity and egotism?” She smiled up at her from below. “Go fuck yourself, Cristina.”
For a moment the attorney didn’t seem to know what to do. Her expression was fixed and empty. She just stood there, withstanding Rosa’s venomous looks, not saying a word.
“Have you two quite finished?” asked Iole.
Still not a word. They both kept silent.
Iole shook her head. “Oh, you crazy, stupid, bloody silly cows.”
Raffaela Falchi nodded, as if Iole had expressed her own ideas exactly.
Rosa sensed her own heartbeat, like an echo of the slap that had brought her out of her lethargy. Now she was looking through Cristina, but in truth it wasn’t about Cristina at all.
Finally Cristina turned around and walked away. The next moment, the sound of the motor was louder again, the airflow increased, and they were racing south.
“Shit,” whispered Rosa.
Iole nodded.
Signora Falchi looked out to sea.
“She saved us,” said Iole. “Neither of us could have steered this thing.”
Looking at it objectively, the situation was better than a few hours ago when they had all been prisoners, not just one of them. Only that hadn’t hurt her so damn badly.
She stood up, pulled the blanket around her, and climbed up to the cockpit.
She wasn’t going to apologize to Cristina.
She was going to thank her.
IN THE END IT wasn’t Rosa but the tutor who helped find them somewhere to go. The Alcantara clan had real estate all over Sicily, but Rosa knew what only a few of their properties were like. Did she own any buildings on the north coast where they could take refuge? She hadn’t the faintest idea.
“This place is a former church,” Raffaela Falchi had said, but she didn’t seem entirely comfortable with the idea. In fact she came out with the details only when land was in sight, and they had to make a decision. “It’s in a tiny village right by the sea. Almost no one lives there these days, now that everyone uses the expressway and hardly anyone still drives along the coastal road. The village is just about deserted, so the church was on the market cheap.”
“And who lives there?” asked Iole.
“My ex-boyfriend.”
Iole stared at the logo surrounded by flames on Raffaela’s T-shirt. “The musician?”
Her tutor nodded.
Cristina, standing on the cockpit steps, looked down at them. “I wouldn’t trust my life to my ex-boyfriend. Why would we trust yours?”
“Lorenzo won’t give us away!”
Cristina grinned. “Do I detect lingering tender feelings?”
Rosa was standing by the rail, still wrapped in the blanket because there had been no clothes on board for her to wear. She had stared out to sea while the others were discussing where to go, but now she turned around. “I have to get to Campofelice di Fitalia as fast as I can.”
Iole bowed her head. “And what about Alessandro?”
“When they took him, he called something to me. About a hospital. And that I’d find him there. Or he’d find me.”
“Romantics, the whole lot of you,” groaned Cristina.
This time Rosa stayed calm. “If he can get away from them somehow, that’s where he’ll go.”
“What makes you think he might be able to get away from them?”
Signora Falchi got her answer in first. “Hope,” she said, in a tone of deep conviction. It was about the only time she’d ever taken Rosa’s side.
Iole stared at her, then at Rosa, and finally she smiled.
Cristina’s mouth twisted. “Well, first you need clothes. Unless you’re planning to hitch a ride to get there. You’ll have better chances of that the way you are.”
“Maybe Lorenzo will lend us his car,” said the tutor.
“And will he hand his last savings over to you as well?”
“He’s a good person,” she said indignantly. “And a Christian.”
Cristina rolled her eyes heavenward.
“Wow,” whispered Rosa.
“I thought he played rock music,” said Iole.
“Christian rock music. To biblical texts. Well, he used to, anyway.”
Rosa saw Iole’s smile. The girl had probably guessed all along that her tutor couldn’t have a really cool boyfriend.
“Is there a map in this boat?” asked Signora Falchi with sudden vigor.
Resigned, Cristina nodded.
“Then I’ll show you where it is, and we can pull up close to shore. I’ll fix everything else.”
“With your inimitable charm?”
The tutor gave her an embarrassed smile.
“And in that getup?”
“That’s his band.” She indicated the flame-ringed logo over her breast, and then added, more quietly, “Well, former band.”
For the first time, Rosa went to the trouble of deciphering the ornate lettering. Sinners & Winners.
“So eighties,” said Cristina.
SINNERS
THE WIND BLEW DUST and dried macchia debris over the empty main road. The dozen or so houses on each side of it were abandoned, doors and windows boarded up from outside. Someone had sprayed most of the boards with graffiti. At some point, one of the buildings had caught fire. The roof truss was exposed; the charred remains of rafters stuck out above the walls like black fangs.
At the end of the road, not far from the precipitous coastline, stood a small church, a plain, sand-colored structure with a squat little belfry on the roof above the porch. The tutor told them that in the 1970s a hippie commune had lived here—you couldn’t miss the floral ornamentation painted on the porch—before its members fled from their midlife crises and menopause. The last couple to leave, however, had been able to show a contract of sale, and Lorenzo had acquired the structure from them.
“You mean they desecrated it, right?” said Cristina tartly. “I mean, hippies! Orgies in front of the baptismal font. Junkies taking trips in the sacristy. Hash cookies instead of wafers for the Host.”
Raffaela Falchi wrinkled her nose as she led them away from the path they had been following up from a small, stony beach and along the cliffs. Wrapped in her blanket, Rosa felt like one of the apostles on pilgrimage herself.
An ancient VW minibus stood beside the church. Pale blue, but no floral motifs by way of decoration. It wouldn’t take her a minute to break into the old thing.
As they got closer, she saw bars over the church windows. Its double doors also looked massive. T
hat should have made her uneasy, but indifference still held her firmly in its grip.
“It’s full of expensive studio equipment,” said the tutor. “That’s why there’s so much security on the building.”
Iole, her cheeks red, inspected the faded paintings in the porch. “I like flowers.”
“Lorenzo hates them.”
Sarcasmo barked at the door. The tutor gently moved him aside and pressed the button of an intercom. It was some time before a voice spoke.
“Yes?”
“It’s me. Raffaela.”
Silence.
“Well, this is a good start,” commented Cristina.
Still no answer.
“Lorenzo?”
“What do you want?”
Cristina jerked her thumb upward. Iole giggled. Rosa watched the gulls flying over the sea.
“I’ve brought visitors with me,” said the tutor.
Iole whispered, “Want to bet he hates visitors?”
“Who are they?”
“Friends of mine.” Signora Falchi cleared her throat. “Fans.”
Sarcasmo lifted a leg and pissed on the wall.
“I need to pee, too,” said Iole.
“I don’t like visitors. You know that.”
Raffaela Falchi furrowed her brow. “And how about all that famous love for your fellow man?”
Locks snapped on the other side of the door, and then it swung open. A man with dreadlocks down to his elbows stood outlined in the light, in jeans, old sneakers, and a dark red shirt with its sleeves rolled up. The smell of marijuana wafted out.
“Incense,” said Iole, pleased.
Sarcasmo wagged his tail wildly, pushed past the man, and set out on a tour of inspection inside the house.
“Hey,” grumbled Lorenzo, but Rosa could tell immediately that he liked dogs a lot better than his fellow men.
The tutor put her hands behind his neck and kissed him on both cheeks. Then, rather hesitantly and briefly, on the mouth. He looked surprised, but didn’t object.
Lorenzo was more attractive than Rosa had expected. He tossed his dreadlocks back over his shoulder with a movement of his head, and stepped aside. “Are you hungry? Thirsty? There’s beer.”
Raffaela cast the others a proud glance. Mine, her smile signaled.
Cristina, one of the most beautiful women Rosa knew, seemed to be enjoying provoking the tutor. With a swing of her hips that might have shaken even the church walls to their foundations, she walked past Lorenzo, gave him a cool smile, and said, “I’d just love a beer. Thanks.”
Rosa nodded to him without a word, and followed Cristina inside. His eyes rested on her only for a moment, as if naked women wrapped in blankets turned up at his door every day. He scrutinized Iole with more curiosity, then turned back to his ex-girlfriend.
“Fans?” he asked doubtfully.
“They love music.”
Cristina looked around. “Especially Christian music.”
“Does your group throw Bibles off the stage at the audience?” asked Iole. “I saw that once, on TV.”
He shook his head. “A long time ago. And there’s no group anymore. I compose alone and sell my albums online.”
They were in the main nave of the former church. If it hadn’t been for the columns and the altar at one end, you might have thought the tall room was an untidy but very chic loft. There was a sleeping area with a crumpled futon in one corner; in another a couple of armchairs and a large beanbag, which Iole instantly claimed for herself. The heart of the room, however, was a fortress of synthesizers, monitors, and mixing desks, with endless rows of regulators and a great many tangled cables.
At last Rosa saw the fresco on the right-hand wall, partly hidden by the massive stone columns. Several spotlights were turned on it.
“May I look?” she asked.
With a wave of his hand, he invited her to examine the huge wall-painting more closely.
It was the kind of thing she had seen in countless churches: the temptation of Eve in paradise, depicted in several scenes in front of the same background, a naively painted, candy-colored Garden of Eden. But Rosa’s eyes were drawn not to the flourishing vegetation, or the figure of Eve with her nakedness chastely concealed. She was staring at the snake, a glittering golden monster twice as large as the woman holding the apple.
Lorenzo pointed to a refrigerator. “Help yourselves.” Then he went up to Rosa, standing under the arcade of the aisle. Her interest in the fresco seemed to impress him more than Cristina’s ass.
“That’s why I compose music,” he said.
“That’s why?”
“To keep the enemy within bounds.”
She nodded understandingly. “The serpent.”
“Satan.”
For a moment there was silence, until his ex-girlfriend appeared beside them and pressed a bundle of clothing into Rosa’s arms, with a pair of pale canvas shoes. “These were in the wardrobe. Maybe something will fit.”
“All yours, Signora Falchi?” Rosa looked at her doubtfully, because she and the tutor were nowhere near the same size.
“Only some of it,” said Lorenzo.
The tutor ignored him, and told Rosa, “Call me Raffaela. It’s about time we used first names. I don’t even know if I’m still employed by the Alcantaras or not.”
“I’m Rosa.” She took the clothes. “I’m afraid my access to the bank accounts is blocked right now. So as for your salary—”
“Forget it.”
Rosa tried to smile. “Thanks, anyway. Thanks for not leaving Iole in the lurch.”
“She deserves to have us look after her.”
They both glanced at the girl, who had made herself comfortable on the beanbag and was petting Sarcasmo. Rosa hadn’t told her about Fundling yet, and decided to bring her up to date as soon as possible. Iole had a right to know the truth. Fundling had saved both their lives at the Gibellina monument, and she had spent as much time at his bedside as Rosa.
“Do you believe in God?” asked Lorenzo abruptly.
“I’ve never had any reason to.”
He looked her up and down. “Something bad has happened to you.”
“I lost my clothes. So?”
“Something else, too. Before that.”
Raffaela cleared her throat. “Lorenzo sometimes gets inspirations. It comes from the stuff he smokes.”
He took no notice of her. “We turn to God when we’re in a bad way. Sometimes he will help us.”
She cast a surreptitious glance at the snake on the wall. “Not me.”
“Maybe you haven’t prayed to him about it hard enough. Or not with your whole heart.”
“Would it help if I bought your CDs?”
“Help you to find God?”
“Help me to get you to drop the subject.” She smiled. “You mean well, I know. But it’s not his help I need. Only yours.”
Cristina opened a can of beer. Foam spilled out and splashed to the floor. She swore.
Rosa pointed to a side door. “Bathroom?”
Lorenzo nodded.
A little later she came back. The shoes fit, but the white T-shirt was loose around her narrow shoulders. The jeans were also too large, but they would do. She had rolled up the legs at the hem a couple of times, and threaded a belt that she had found in the bathroom through the loops at the waist. The big metal buckle was shaped like a fish.
Lorenzo and Raffaela were standing by the kitchen counter in a side aisle of the church, quarreling.
“Rosa.” Iole waved to her across the room.
Rosa went past Lorenzo’s studio equipment. Sarcasmo saw her, and wagged his tail.
“I think he’s not missing Fundling quite so much now,” said the girl.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“I’m so glad we managed to bring him with us. Away from the island, I mean. He doesn’t like to be alone in the villa.”
“You know all about that.”
“Exactly.”
“I have to
talk to you,” said Rosa.
Iole lowered her voice and gave her a conspiratorial look. “You want to get away from here. Without us.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Iole was always a puzzle to her, surprising her again and again. “It’s about Fundling. He . . . he isn’t dead. I think.”
The corners of Iole’s mouth moved, but no smile came. “Like your father?”
“Alessandro and I”—even mentioning his name hurt—“we found out a few things. About Fundling. And the judge. Probably the accident and Fundling’s death was only a trick so that he could disappear.”
“But why would he have to do that?”
“Fear of the clans.” She herself didn’t believe what she was saying. Of course Fundling had had good reason to get himself to safety, away from the revenge of Cosa Nostra. But that couldn’t be the whole story. What had he been doing in that hotel? What exactly was he looking for?
Deafening electronic feedback boomed from the big loudspeakers in the middle of the church. “Sorry,” called Cristina, who had sat down with several cans of beer at one of the mixing desks, and was playing around with the knobs.
Lorenzo, muttering in annoyance, hurried up to keep her away from his expensive equipment.
“Does she have to get drunk now of all times?” murmured Rosa.
Iole smiled. “She’s seen a lot of pretty sick stuff these last few hours.”
Rosa’s eyes went back to the huge serpent in the fresco. “Human beings turning into animals?”
Iole leaned forward on the beanbag and hugged Rosa. “I’d like to be like you. But I’d rather be like Sarcasmo even more. All soft and fluffy.”
Rosa hugged her back. Iole had many remarkable talents, and one of the greatest was her ability simply to speak the truth at the most complicated moments, thereby reducing the world to manageable dimensions.
The girl let go of her and looked critically at Rosa’s clothes. “You can’t go out like that.” She took her own black T-shirt off over her head. “Here. That white thing doesn’t suit you.”
Rosa had to smile. Then she exchanged her top for Iole’s, which fit her perfectly.
With the baggy white shirt flapping around her, Iole looked like the cartoon character Casper the Friendly Ghost. “When are you going to take off?”
