As she entered the premises, she was initially struck by how perfectly her beautiful costume mirrored the well-seasoned and effortlessly chic interiors. So much so, the guest caller felt that she could almost have been part of the vintage furniture.
Just as she was about to recline on the chaise longue that stood to attention by the wall, Sister Agatha stopped short and let out a little gasp. She suddenly remembered that she wasn’t there to swan around and act like Lady Muck; she was there on extremely important business, and because she had been too busy drooling over the breathtaking views along the way, the wannabe-murderer hadn’t even chewed over her plan for her final act of destruction. (She had also insisted on treating her driver to a delicious, inexpensive tramezzino sandwich in one of the many bars that were dotted about the place; in fact, so heavenly were the prawn and crab options that Sister Agatha had four in total!)
In her defence, the hijinks over the past five days would have taken their toll on even the hardiest of souls, so it was no wonder that this one-hundred-and-eighteen-year-old was not firing on all cylinders. Even still, she berated herself for being sloppy, particularly as she had only managed to escape from Warsaw by the skin of her false teeth.
Seeing as she was determined not to falter at the final hurdle, she decided to slip out of the building and return at a more opportune time when she had properly hatched a plan. But before she could make this discreet U-turn, a receptionist emerged from a small office behind the desk and, with her arms outstretched, she proceeded to give Sister Agatha a marvellous welcome.
“Benvenuta!” she exclaimed, her voice so powerful, it was a surprise she hadn’t awoken the dead.
Sister Agatha’s knowledge of Italian was almost non-existent, so she hadn’t the foggiest idea what was being said to her.
“I’m here to visit an old friend,” Sister Agatha informed her, winging it. “His name is Riccardo Trentini.”
As soon as she uttered those two words, a most peculiar thing happened. The receptionist’s face went from being that of a simple middle-aged woman to one that could be found on a greedy child after being given the keys to a sweet shop. Her breathing became manic; her face flushed.
She quickly scurried out from behind her desk and took Sister Agatha by the arm and led her—somewhat forcefully—down the corridor.
“Madonna! We knew you would come,” the receptionist gushed, fighting back the tears. “We knew it!”
While Sister Agatha had always enjoyed the sports day that the convent had often organised in the years gone by, being dragged across the floor in some sort of hybrid between tug-a-war and a wheelbarrow race by a possibly unstable woman proved most unpleasant for the one-hundred-and-eighteen-year-old.
“Promise me you won’t be disappointed if he doesn’t recognise you, though,” the receptionist added in between breaths. “You probably aren’t even aware of how old he is at this stage.”
That’s where this Italian version of Su Pollard was wrong, utterly and entirely.
They finally arrived at an open door and stopped. Sister Agatha leaned against the wall as she caught her breath, but it was soon evident that the receptionist had little interest in rest breaks. After giving Sister Agatha one final smile, she took her by the arm again and led her into the bedroom.
“Riccardo, c’è qualcuno per Lei,” the receptionist informed him, although this news that somebody had come to visit him received neither a response nor an acknowledgment. Instead, the world’s oldest person remained facing the window, looking out onto the calm Adriatic Sea.
The receptionist gestured to Sister Agatha to take a seat beside him.
“Per favore—don’t expect too much from him; it has been a long time since he last spoke. As I already mentioned, it is unlikely that he will recognise you.”
As an extremely confused Sister Agatha moved closer to him, the receptionist returned to the door, and when a cleaner passed in the corridor, she barked at him to fetch some person called Ludovico.
“Pronto! Pronto!”
Sister Agatha wondered if it was the day off for the staff at Stella della Laguna with the residents being given the run of the place, because this lady, as welcoming as she was at the beginning, appeared to have a colony of bats in the belfry. Who did she think Sister Agatha was?
When the fussed-upon visitor returned her attention to the man sitting in front of her—the only living soul who stood in the way of her fulfilling the promise she had made all those years ago—the pandemonium faded away; instead, she felt a quiet melancholy overtake her. When society conjured up images of people over a hundred years old, those they pictured were usually of the barely-functioning variety, folk who should be revered and respected but who, ultimately, should be treated like a dusty ornament in someone’s not-to-be-touched glass menagerie. While Sister Agatha always felt she had successfully and rebelliously broken free from this profile, looking at Riccardo Trentini slumped in front of her, she soon realised that stereotypes were stereotypes for a reason.
On top of that, she also thought that it would be extremely regrettable if even one droplet of blood had to be spilled in the disposal of her unsuspecting rival—Riccardo looked ever so lovely and serene, and utterly undeserving of anything so crude. Maybe he would be a rational and obliging gentleman who could be convinced to shed his mortal coil sooner rather than later? After all, it wasn’t as if a world of adventure awaited the poor creature in his current state.
Just as she was about to make her case, Sister Agatha was struck by all the vivid artwork that littered the room behind him. In fact, she felt like she could have been sitting in a museum, such was its beauty. Whoever his muse was, Riccardo undoubtedly harboured an obsession because he had evidently fashioned his entire collection on her.
But she wasn’t there to admire art, she reminded herself, and so she moved the chair directly in front of her prey and reiterated to herself that this man was the only person in the entire world that stood in her way of achieving her goal. Sentimentality was only for Hallmark cards, after all.
She looked directly at his sunken, hollow face, but his eyes didn’t flinch; Riccardo was only inches away from her, but he may as well have been thousands of miles.
“Ciao,” she said, unsure if it was even worth her while engaging him in conversation.
“You might not think it,” the receptionist interjected, a note of pride in her voice, “his heart is that of a man fifty years younger than him. I medici say he could live another few years if he remains this peaceful.”
On hearing this prognosis, Sister Agatha didn’t even attempt to hide her disappointment.
“I hope you know how important you were to him,” the receptionist continued, misinterpreting Sister Agatha’s heavy heart and pointing towards a large sculpture that stood by his bed. “He kept you close to him all these years. Unfortunately, the director of Stella della Laguna has auctioned most of his work, but Ludovico insisted that those few remain where they are.”
The receptionist then lowered her head, ashamed of the words that she was about to utter.
“Sadly, those remaining pieces are due to go on sale sometime next week. The director… He has to…”
She could barely bring herself to say it.
“Money,” she eventually revealed. “I hope, for Riccardo’s sake, he doesn’t know what’s happening—it would break his heart.”
Sister Agatha wasn’t quite grasping what this crazy receptionist was jabbering on about, but she was getting tired of her ridiculous ways. How she wished that she would go away and make herself useful—like helping one of the residents with their daily crosswords or cleaning the mildew out of the cobwebs.
“I always imagined it must have been difficult being a model for an artist—having to remain frozen for so long,” the receptionist continued, trying to leaven the mood. “I can barely keep still for un secondo!”
Sister Agatha was about to give this extremely irritating nuisance short shrift when it suddenly dawne
d on her what was being said. Initially, it seemed so ludicrous, she wondered if she had pulled her new corset too tight, thereby starving her brain of much-needed oxygen, but as she continued to look around the room, there actually appeared to be some truth in what was being suggested. The nun slowly walked towards one of the examples of Riccardo’s extraordinary artwork that rested on his bedside locker. She removed her tinted glasses to make sure that what she thought she was seeing was, in fact, true.
When she had overheard her diagnosis in Navan several days ago, a multitude of thoughts ran through her mind, notably, what was in store for her in her final days. But, she most definitely didn’t expect to be standing in a nursing home on an island just off the coast of Venice, staring back at herself.
But there, in front of her, was the absolute likeness of Busty Miller!
“We have been wondering for years who she was,” the receptionist revealed, drawing closer to her. “And now you have arrived. Non ci credo.”
Sister Agatha couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing—or seeing—either.
“Aspetti qui! We all want to hear the real story, especially Ludovico. He will be here in un momento. You must tell us how you fell in love. Will you?”
Before getting an answer, the receptionist had vanished to rally the troops, leaving Sister Agatha alone. Even though she hadn’t prepared herself for this visit, the last thing she anticipated doing was telling the staff and residents of Stella della Laguna about her one true love, Pádraig Keogh.
Chapter Eleven
Ludovico Bianchi was a hopeless romantic. There was nothing that excited him more than a good love story. Since childhood, each September during the Venice Film Festival, he would either stand outside the stylish Cinema Palace for hours on end and watch all the beautiful actors like Juliette Binoche or River Phoenix pose for the cameras in their resplendent gowns and dapper tuxedos, or loiter around the grounds of the magnificent Excelsior Hotel nearby, which offered temporary lodgings for these visiting VIPs. If ever he caught a glimpse, Ludovico would wave at them as if they were his long-lost friends. (When they didn’t wave back, he concluded that they obviously couldn’t see him because of the incessant flashing of the paparazzi’s cameras.)
Having watched almost every romantic comedy ever made, he would always project himself onto the shoulders of their stars, convinced that he was one of the characters onscreen. He would laugh with them, cry with them and cheer them on, unable to distinguish between fact and fiction.
In real life, things weren’t quite so peachy. Being in possession of good looks, Ludovico attracted many male admirers, and to begin with, those fellas were quite bemused with his infatuation with romance. But when it transpired that Ludovico’s understanding of intimacy was limited to a kiss and cuddle (why sully matters by getting unpleasant bodily fluids involved?), those red-blooded boys ran for the hills. “Jog on,” was his response, deciding that the Johnny Depps and George Clooneys of the world were more than enough for his beating heart. His mother would often demand to know when she should expect grandchildren; Signora Bianchi had died waiting.
The very minute Ludovico joined the staff of Stella della Laguna, he became infatuated with the mysterious Riccardo Trentini. When the nurse wasn’t busy with the duties he was employed to do, he would spend his hours daydreaming about who was the beautiful muse in his work. Her delicate features were so precise and lifelike that he was entirely convinced she had to be more than just some model the sculptor randomly picked up from the streets; she must have been his love—his soul mate.
Every day, Ludovico would conjure up different possibilities as to what might have happened between the pair. Maybe the young lady had been in an unhappy marriage to some influential politician or statesman, and their love was forbidden and clandestine? Could it be that they were two teenage lovebirds and after she had fallen pregnant with his child, her deeply religious parents had sent her away to a rich aunt in the mountains, never to be seen of again? Or perhaps she had been struck down with tuberculosis, and they had hastily married moments before she had died in his arms. Oh, the tragedy!
But the theory the nurse indulged the most was his interpretation as to why Riccardo stared so intently out the window, day in, day out. He decided that he was waiting for the love of his life to return to him, and the reason that they had been kept apart all those years was down to a horribly simple misunderstanding. They had planned to run away together but someone—like a jealous, overbearing parent—had done something wretched to prevent them from disappearing into the night together. The fanciful nurse was emphatic that the gifted artist had not given up hope and, as such, neither would Ludovico.
Every day for over twenty years, when the thirty-eight-year-old arrived at work, he would enquire if Riccardo had had any visitors, and even though he never received a favourable response, he always needed a minute to regroup after being told that the artist remained alone. But once there’s life, there’s hope, and there was clearly a reason this brilliant man was refusing to die: he was living for someone; he was living for love.
Ludovico sat in the kitchen with a few of his colleagues, eating the leftover birthday cake that had been made for one of the residents, when the cleaner came rushing in with the news.
“È arrivata! È arrivata!”
Ludovico spat out the masticated sponge, making a sorry mess of the lovely canteen table in the process. He couldn’t believe his ears: could it be true? Had Riccardo’s one, true love finally arrived?
“È arrivata! È arrivata!” the cleaner repeated.
Ludovico had always known that God was good; he knew that He wouldn’t fail him on this occasion. He knew that his endless prayers, rosaries, and novenas would be answered one day—and now it seemed as if that “one day” had arrived.
Unable to handle the excitement of the announcement, he went into a state of shock and remained rooted to the chair, staring directly in front of him. The bewildered cleaner looked on, wondering if she should call for one of the doctors. Ludovico’s hands suddenly started to shake; his legs began to tremble. Sometimes, the only reason he got out of bed in the morning was in the belief that this particular moment would come to fruition. Now that it was here, he hadn’t a notion of how to act.
Without knowing what else to do, the nurse furiously wolfed down every last morsel of the cake—his face covered in chocolate, and cream, and multicoloured sprinkles! When he finished, he released a long, animalistic burp, much to the disgust of those around him. Now fuelled and ready to go, the elated man slowly got to his feet and took a deep breath. Then, with a speed that would put a blush on the cheeks of a cheetah, he sprinted out of the canteen and down the hall to meet the lady who had captured Riccardo Trentini’s heart many moons ago.
Better again, he was finally going to hear what the real reason was that had kept them apart for so many years.
* * *
Pádraig Keogh placed a large blanket under his bed sheets to give the impression that he was in the land of nod. He didn’t expect anyone would be checking in on him at this early hour, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Mrs Keogh usually enjoyed a healthy lashing of brandy each evening—a tipple that would, without fail, send her into a deep coma. But when she awoke the following morning, along with a mild headache there would also be a note waiting for her under her only son’s pillow, one that explained his love for Butsy Miller; how it was real, and vital, and irrepressible, and that, without the girl by his side, life wasn’t worth a jot to him. Content that everything was in order, Pádraig opened the window and disappeared across the field; such was his hurry, his feet barely touched the ground beneath him.
When he eventually approached the village, he could see a lone figure standing beneath the tree and was delighted that Butsy, too, was early. The sooner they could get out of Kilberry, the better, he opined. The closer he got, however, the less convinced he became that it was actually his darling Butsy who was, in fact, waiting for him, seeing as the figure ap
peared to be almost a foot taller, and at least a couple of stone heavier. He started to slow down until he reached a stop. Pádraig’s heart sank: standing under the sycamore tree was not the most beautiful girl in the village, it was none other than his blasted mother.
After making a mental note to give Liam, the big-mouthed milkman, a good hiding when he next saw him, Pádraig tried to compose himself. Even though he knew only too well that there was no chance his mother would entertain the union, the nineteen-year-old was insistent that he wasn’t going to allow her to walk all over him any longer—something that she had been doing to him and his siblings since they were born.
“You might stop me today, Mother; you might stop me tomorrow, but I am going to be with Butsy Miller one way or—”
“I’m dying,” Mrs Keogh interrupted—her voice for the first time lacking the authority that everyone had become so accustomed to hearing.
“What?”
“In a week, maybe a month, I will be gone,” she continued, her face unable to hide her fear. “Then you’ll be able to do whatever you please, with whoever you please.”
Pádraig didn’t know what to think—or even how to feel; it seemed as if the pair did nothing other than cross swords, but that didn’t mean he wanted her to die.
“The girls and I are going to your aunt’s in Wexford—the doctor thinks the sea air will be of help. I would love you, my only son, to be with me.”
Pádraig felt a knot zigzag in his stomach; he was being asked to choose.
“Of course, it is completely up to you,” she added.
A fit of coughing then took over, and Mrs Keogh was forced to lean on the tree for support. Immediately, he dashed over to her, placing his arm on her back, rubbing it in the hope of quenching the fire that appeared to be raging within her chest.
Sister Agatha Page 17
