Dark Night of the Soul

by Kristi Belcamino

  Just then a massive black bird swooped down onto the open-air patio and perched on the top of a chair. Startled, I jumped back and knocked into a table. The bird just stared at me.

  My heart was pounding. But I took a deep breath. The lanai was an outdoor and indoor space. Really it was a room open to the elements. That meant the bird wasn’t actually inside, right? It wasn’t another bad omen, right?

  Right?

  Chapter Five

  La Strega

  For some reason, I’d thought “florist” meant crowded little shop in town packed with bouquets. But when I plugged the address into my phone, we were led up a winding dirt road that hugged the cliff a little too closely for Bobby’s taste. His knuckles clutched the arm rest in the passenger seat of our Fiat 500. I patted his arm.

  “Don’t worry. I’m a professionally trained driver, remember?”

  “You are trained to race on a track, not keep small, Italian go-carts on goat paths.”

  “Ha.” But he was right. The car we’d rented provided as much protection as riding in a rickshaw.

  I sneaked a glance over at the sweeping views. An island was visible in the distance. The crunch of rocks alerted me that I’d gone off road a little. No harm, no foul.

  “Jesus Christ, quit sightseeing.” Bobby said.

  “Oops.” I gripped the steering wheel and concentrated on the curve ahead.

  As we neared the crest of the hill, I jerked the wheel. A woman with a bent back and a head scarf, all in black, walked along the narrow edge of the road. She looked up and met my eye. It was a strega. A witch. I knew with every fiber of my being.

  Her eyes looked at me as if she knew me. She put up her hand as if to ward away my car, but it was unnecessary. I gave her plenty of room as we passed. I didn’t want to be responsible for sending an old woman plunging off an Italian cliff. Even a witch. A harmless keeper of the ancient ways. Something I didn’t believe in, anyway.

  My mother had spoken of growing up in Sicily where there was a village strega who read Tarot cards, called Tarochi. The woman had accurately predicted my great grandparents’ deaths, apparently. But whenever we came across anyone reading the cards, my mother would make the sign of the cross.

  Once she did that in a dark alley during a festival in Monterey and the woman sitting at the table flipped out and nearly attacked my mother. She accused my mother of ruining her cards. The woman, bedecked in flowing scarves and layers of necklaces, ranted, face red, waving her arms. My mother didn’t say a word, not blinking, her chin held high, holding firm to my hand. Not challenging the woman, but waiting patiently for the tirade to end. She didn’t flinch or show a sign of weakness, but I noticed her hand rested on the cross at her neck. Finally, the woman backed off. Mumbling under her breath, she packed up her things and left. My mother stood her ground, not moving until the woman had disappeared.

  My mother wasn’t scared of any witch and neither was I. But still a wave of unease rippled through me as I watched the hunched figure grow smaller in my rearview mirror.

  “Everything okay?” Bobby was always tuned in to my every emotion.

  “Yeah.” I smiled at him. I didn’t want to admit that this morning still had me on edge. There’s being superstitious and then there’s just being stupid and letting shit ruin your day.

  But he was more worried about the cliff on the side of us than any old wives’ tales. He clutched the door handle as if he were going to leap out any minute.

  Finally, we turned a corner and saw a stone house with fields behind it and a large circle drive with a few cars parked on the edge.

  I looked over at Bobby. “We made it. See, silly, you had nothing to worry about.”

  He didn’t answer. His face was a little green.

  As we approached, a white vintage Lancia Aurelia spun its wheels on the gravel driveway as it zipped past, kicking up a puff of dirt. I caught a glimpse of the driver. Dark, sleek, slicked back hair. Dark sunglasses. That movie star dude from the restaurant last night. Dante had said this florist was internationally famous. Millionaires from around the world had arrangements overnighted for special occasions. Suppose it made sense celebrities would shop here. He probably ordered a ten-thousand-dollar bouquet for his hotel room. On a whim. For the hell of it.

  We parked in the sprawling circular driveway near another Italian car. Not nearly as fancy as the vintage vehicle. It looked like a rental. That’s when I spotted Dante on the porch waving madly. His brilliant white smile glowing against his olive skin. He was small and fit and lithe. His black hair was shorter than I’d ever seen it. I jumped out of the car, raced over, and grabbed him, kissing his cheeks.

  “God, I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever,” I said. I hugged him tight. We might not be related by blood, but Dante was, and would forever be, the closest thing I had to family.

  “It’s only been a week.” He pulled back, laughing.

  “Like I said.” I drew back and took him in. “You’ve been on the beach the whole time, haven’t you? Your tan? I’m insanely jealous.”

  “Right?” He laughed. “But not the beach. By the pool. No tan lines that way.”

  I burst into laughter. “Of course. Plus, the beach would be too plebeian for you.”

  I reached over to hug Matt.

  Matt was tall and distinguished looking for a thirty-one-year old. His fair hair was prematurely gray at his temples, matching his silver-framed glasses. He was the smartest person I knew. And possibly the kindest too. His work as a senator was going to change things in our screwed-up country. He’d already introduced the most revolutionary and practical health care bill that anyone had seen. Both sides of the aisle were nodding their heads. Finally, there would be some agreement and people wouldn’t have to worry about dying from something that health insurance coverage could prevent—or fix.

  Matt had the charisma to work with both sides to smooth out the kinks and disagreements and get something passed that would change millions of lives. He was the only guy Dante had ever dated and the only guy who I thought was even remotely good enough for my best friend.

  I was so happy for them.

  I kissed Matt’s cheek. “Congratulations on your plan. You are saving lives. Truly.”

  “I sure hope so,” he said, modest as ever. “We’ll see if it passes.”

  “It has to!”

  “Some of the major players are going to be at the wedding, so we’ll get them drunk and record them saying they agree with the plan and send it to the Washington papers,” Bobby said.

  “Perfect plan,” I reached up and kissed his cheek.

  Matt’s fair skin flushed, but he smiled. “Ready?” He gestured to the house.

  Behind him, in the open doorway, an older woman with a chic gray bob was heading our way. She held a tray of Champagne flutes. Dante introduced us to Simona, the owner of the house and the florist.

  “First, we begin with a toast,” she said, handing us each a glass. “Cin-cin!”

  “Cin-cin!” We said. We were giddy with laughter.

  Simona led us around the back of the house to a massive greenhouse up against the hill. The inside was filled with flowers and their heady scent surrounded us. Inside, near the door, six stunning bouquets made up of black and red roses sat on six large tables. Black twisted twigs stuck out of the bouquets along with tiny miniature red roses. “This is another client’s order,” she said as we walked by. I turned and cast one last glance at the bouquets as we passed. Sort of El Vira-ish if you asked me.

  Simona led us back into the back corner where Dante and Matt’s arrangements waited, some in massive urns, some in vases, all a brilliant mix of red, pink, fuchsia and yellow roses mixed with smaller buds of purple, orange and white flowers.

  “Fucking brilliant,” I said, then put my hand over my mouth. “Sorry for the F-bomb.”

  The woman smiled. “I take that as a high compliment.”

  “It’s a candy-colored wedding theme,” Dante said, gesturing towa
rd the arrangements.

  “Wow. It is perfect. Just perfect. I could not love it more,” I said.

  After we all spent a suitable amount of time admiring the flowers, we headed out. Simona led the way with Bobby and Matt at her side.

  I stayed back with Dante.

  “How are you?” I asked. He was glowing. “You look fantastic.”

  “Deliriously happy.”

  My heart was too full for words. I leaned my head on his shoulder and sighed. “I couldn’t be happier for you.”

  “I’m so glad you’re here to share all of this with me,” he said.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Roiling black clouds swooping in on a massive gust of wind of greeted us as soon as we stepped of the greenhouse. Torrents of rain came down in thick sheets out of nowhere. The other three, who were close to the house, ducked under the patio overhang. Dante and I stepped back into the doorway of the greenhouse. The clouds swirled around overhead and small flashes of lightning crackled above. In the distance, out at sea, I could see clear skies. Bobby suddenly seemed so far away. He and Matt waved jovially. Their heads dipped together as they spoke to one another. Matt’s blond head near Bobby’s auburn one.

  When I glanced at Dante, his brow was furrowed. His brilliant white smile now covered with lips held tightly together.

  I stepped back. “Dante?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “What is it, honey?”

  “It’s just that everything is so perfect, I can’t help but worry that something is going to go wrong.”

  I frowned. “Stop it, Dante.”

  But he looked so worried, I tried to lighten the mood.

  “Besides, you know it’s my job to worry. Stick to what you’re good at. I’m way better at worrying than you.”

  Instead of laughing, like I’d wanted him to do, he bit his lip, looking over at Matt and Bobby. The rain was starting to thin. We’d make a break for the house in a minute.

  “There was something weird this morning,” he said. He ran a hand through his short dark hair. “When we left our hotel room there was a guy on a motorcycle.”

  Apparently, the motorcyclist wore dark sunglasses, a helmet with a black face shield, and black clothing. He was parked across the street from the hotel entrance. When Matt and Dante came out, the man revved the engine on his bike and seemed to be staring at them. Then, right when they stepped onto the street, the motorcyclist shot out of his parking spot and headed their way. They both jumped but didn’t have time to move. Fortunately, a black car pulled out of seemingly nowhere and came between them and the motorcyclist. The cyclist skidded to a stop, stayed staring for a moment, and then took off in the other direction.

  “I don’t know, Dante,” I said. “It could be a coincidence. Maybe you’re freaked out, um, extra sensitive, because of what happened last week.”

  When Matt had first introduced the health plan, it had pissed off some people. Mostly rabid supporters of the current president and his failed health care plan.

  Last week, an angry man had confronted Matt on the street outside his Washington, D.C. apartment. The man threw trash at Matt, saying the health care plan would allow gay couples to share insurance and that it was a sin. He said Matt would burn in hell and that he wished Matt was dead. Dante had been with him when it happened.

  “Gia, that man wanted to hurt, Matt. He was crazy, but the thing is I know that angry guy is not the only one out there. The scariest thing is Matt said it’s not the first time something like that has happened. He doesn’t tell me because he doesn’t want to worry. Those people are insane, Gia.”

  “I know. And Matt needs to be careful. Maybe you should hire security for him back in D.C. But here’s the thing. Let’s let that go. Tomorrow is your wedding day. We’re in Italy now. It’s not like anyone would be here who didn’t like Matt, right? I’m pretty sure Italians don’t care about our health care plan.”

  “I don’t know, Gia,” he said. “I just can’t shake this feeling.”

  For a second, I wanted to confess to Dante that I was filled with dread, as well. But that would only make him feel worse and more worried. But I couldn’t stop the slide show playing in my head: the dead woman’s green eyes, the oil slick on the floor, the black bird, the strega.

  No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t shake the ominous mood. I don’t think Dante could, either. As fast as the storm had come in, it whisked away and the sunlight was blinding. Instead of rushing over, we stood silently watching the men we loved laughing and eating and drinking, trying to ignore the heavy pall that had fallen over the day.

  Chapter Six

  Malocchio

  The white sandy beach was transformed into a fairy land for the rehearsal dinner. The small cove was secluded, but the pastel colors of the buildings on the sides of the cliff glowed in the setting sun.

  At the other end of the beach, another series of tents was set up. I wondered if it was the movie star guy and if I’d read about his wedding later. I still couldn’t put my finger on who he was, but I swore I’d seen him before. Maybe he was an Italian film star? Or maybe just a model.

  For our party, a small open-sided tent with temporary wooden dance floors had been placed on the sand adjacent to a boardwalk. The tent was strung with white party lights and candles covered a half dozen tables. As soon as the sun dipped below the horizon, the candles were lit and the inside of the tent glowed with an ethereal light.

  Waiters bustled in another small tent nearby, this one enclosed, where the food was waiting on warming trays. I had peeked in while Dante went to fetch his mother from her hotel: we would feast on Amalfi Coast specialties: a cheese course, fresh bread, fresh linguine pasta with a lobster sauce, a simple green salad and Limoncello granita for dessert. Simple, local, and elegant.

  Finding Matt’s fair head and tall form, across the tent on his phone, I watched him charm everyone in sight. I was both sad and angry that nobody in his family would attend the wedding. It was going to be a small ceremony and their absence would be felt. On Dante’s side, he had me and Bobby, his mother, three aunts, two uncles, and about five cousins.

  About a dozen of Matt’s politician friends were flying in for the reception but that was different than family. I knew it pissed Dante off to no end that Matt’s parents had refused to come. Hopefully Mrs. Marino could make up for it a little. She’d treated Matt like her own son ever since Dante had introduced them several years ago.

  Dante’s small Italian rental pulled up in the cul-de-sac bordering the beach. Dante helped his mother out of the car and I rushed over to kiss her.

  “Gia, mi cara.” She squealed and grabbed me and hugged me and kissed my cheeks, acting like I was her long-lost daughter even though I’d been with Dante when he picked her up from the airport a few hours ago. Even though the rehearsal dinner was billed a “casual beach affair,” Mrs. Marino was old school about la bella figura. I knew she’d spent the last hour getting her hair “done.” She wore a pressed beige shift, matching beige pumps and a string of pearls. She always channeled a very busty Jackie O.

  I melted into her cushiony embrace and didn’t draw away for a few seconds, not realizing how badly I’d been aching to feel a mother’s hug again.

  “This,” she said drawing back and looking around with wide eyes. “This is so beautiful it hurts my heart. I am so happy for you, my son.”

  Dante, who was wearing white linen pants and a white shirt unbuttoned enough to show off his spectacular tan and reveal his gold necklace with the Italian horn pendant, leaned over and kissed the top of his mother’s head. “Mama, it wouldn’t be anything without you here to share it with us.”

  At that moment, Matt arrived and stooped down to kiss Mrs. Marino’s hand. She was about two feet shorter than him so it was no small feat.

  She blushed. “Oh, Matt, you are such a flirt.”

  I loved Matt because he was rock solid and an old-school gentleman. He was unfailingly gracious in a
ll situations. I can just imagine how he reacted when those whack jobs confronted him the other day. He probably patiently listened to what they had to say—until the police came.

  Dante escorted his mother over to the table and helped her settle into her seat.

  Matt and I watched. He looked sad. I wondered if he missed his own mother. I straightened his emerald green tie and gave it a pat. Wearing green was another Italian tradition for the groom at the rehearsal dinner. Dante was wearing a matching one. But he’d tied his as a belt.

  “Matt, you know you are family, already? Wedding ceremony or not? Mrs. Marino considers you her son and hell, you and Dante are like brothers to me.”

  As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I remembered my real brother, my biological brother: a sociopath killer. Sometimes it was easy to forget now that Christopher was safely in a coffin, six feet underground.

  “And, you’re the little sister I never had.” He put his arm around me. I breathed a sigh of relief that he didn’t mention Christopher. He exhaled loudly.

  “You okay?” I peered up at him.

  “Gia, I couldn’t be any happier.”

  I searched for Bobby’s auburn head in the crowd and found him at a far table. He was smiling and listening to one of Dante’s uncles tell him about his work as a contractor in San Jose. When he looked up, I winked.

  Once everyone was settled into their seats, the food was brought out. After we dug in for a while, it was time for the toast. Time for the best man to give the ‘Per cent'anni’—the Hundred Years of Good Luck—toast.

  Bobby was talking to one of Dante’s cousins about the Whale shark and how it was on the verge of extinction, especially along the Gulf of California, because of the way it filtered food made it ingest micro plastic particles that had contaminated the oceans. The cousin looked appalled, shaking her head every now and then. “I’m utterly disgusted by human kind,” she said, taking another sip of her wine.