“How would he do that?”
“He’d let it leak that I have paranormal gifts.”
“And you still said no?”
Angry, Paolo said, “Yep, I’m going to use the gift for myself. I’ll become wealthy enough that I won’t have to worry about a shithead like him.”
“Be careful, Pard, rumor is he has a lot of power. He was at the Academy recruiting last week. He wanted to talk to me. Then when you called and told me about your dad, I booked. I’m definitely going to avoid him now.”
“Good idea, Pard, good idea.”
They continued to walk to the car, weaving among the gravestones. Bill stopped at a concrete cross with the name Augliera at its base.
“Pard, I still don’t understand how it works. The ESP shit. I mean, I know you saved my life and Steve’s and Tony’s that day at the pits. But…how does it work?”
“I don’t know, Bill. I really have no clue. It just happens. And let me tell you, it’s frustrating. I’ll have a vision in my mind like I’m watching a movie, bizarre stuff like buildings crashing and airplanes exploding, and none of it happens. Yet I know it will. Something inside of me convinces me it’s true. Sometimes I just know, like betting on the football games. I can look at a picture of someone and out of nowhere I feel like I am transported to where they are.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No.”
“So do you experiment with it?”
“No. I’m afraid to.”
“Why?”
“Because I feel like I’m playing games with something I shouldn’t be.”
“I understand—like testing fate.”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“You know, Pard, what you are telling me is amazing. You should start to document what you see and keep it in a safe place. And most of all, Pard, take care of yourself. Use your gift for the good.”
“You’re right, Bill, use it for the good.”
“Listen to me, Paolo, write the stuff down. You never know when you might need it.”
“Yeah, maybe I’ll do that. Oh, by the way, start investing in gold.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. The thought just popped into my head.”
“You’re freakin’ weird.”
“Thank you.” The two friends walked back to Bill’s car, arms around each other’s shoulders.
CHAPTER 8
PAOLO GRADUATED FROM Yale University on Memorial Day. The Campus was alive with parents and students milling about. A gentle breeze circled the quad on the warm spring day. Over twelve hundred matriculates waited patiently to receive the prestigious diploma. The ceremony lasted nearly two hours. Paolo waited his turn by daydreaming about his upcoming trip to Italy. Afterward, the family gathered at his cousin Franco’s restaurant.
Drinking a glass of Chianti at the bar, Franco said, “So, my little cousin, you excited about your trip?”
“I can’t wait. I hope I’ll be able to track down our relatives—if there are any left.”
“You’re going to Amalfi, Messina, and Ottati.”
“Yep, the place I really want to go to is Ottati.”
“Our grandfather’s birthplace?”
“Yes, with all the research I’ve done on our lineage, Ottati is the missing piece of the puzzle. I know absolutely nothing about Poppie’s hometown. I plan on staying there the longest until I can uncover the details of our family history.”
“How you gonna do that?”
“I’m going to start with the records located at the town hall. If I find no answers there, then I’ll go to the church.”
“The church?”
“Sure, the church has all the records—baptisms, death certificates. I should be able to find some answers.”
“Paolo, why you so interested in all this family stuff? Our family is here now, what difference does it make?”
“I ask myself the same question. There is something inside of me telling me to go. I have no idea why, other than I know I’ve got to go. There are answers in Ottati for me, answers that will tell me who I am.”
“Who I am’? What the hell does that mean?”
“Let me explain it this way. When you gamble on the football games, you sometimes get a feeling that one particular team is going to beat another, right?”
“Yeah, but more times than not, those feelings are wrong.”
“Well, this feeling I have,” Paolo put his right hand over his heart, “is coming from in here. I have to go.”
“Hey cuz, you gotta do what you gotta do. I’m jealous, someday I’ll get there.” Franco paused, then with a curious look, he said, “Paolo, can you do me a favor while you’re there?”
“Sure, what is it?”
“Can you get me some recipes for the restaurant?”
“Absolutely.”
“When you get back, make sure you stop in the restaurant.”
The two cousins embraced each other. The party over, Paolo drove home.
Before Paolo departed for Italy, his mother made him promise he would visit the Vatican.
“Maybe you’ll meet the Pope,” she said as she fixed the collar of his shirt, followed by a pat on the shoulder and a kiss on the cheek.
“Okay, Mom, sure, no problem, the Pope and I can have dinner together,” he said with a chuckle. The Pope was the farthest thought from his mind. Paolo was more interested in finding a classic Italian beauty, the likes of Sophia Loren.
She laughed and looked at him. “Paolo, I hope you can find the answers to your father’s family. Dad would be very proud of you.”
“Thanks, Mom, I’m sure the trip will be interesting, to say the least.”
“Interesting?”
“Yeah, you never know what God has in store for me.”
Lynn looked at him quizzically. “God?”
“I have no idea where that came from.” Paolo shook his head, leaned over, and gave his mother a kiss on the cheek. “See you next month, Mom.”
With a tear in her eye, she said, “Okay, be safe, Paolo.”
“Will do.”
Paolo arrived in Rome on a hot spring day. He hired a driver to take him to Amalfi. The passion within him to visit Italy tugged at his heart. He stayed in Amalfi for a week, searching for family, his mission to fill in the missing blanks of his elusive genealogy tree. The importance of knowing what made him tick drove him on his quest to find his ancestral origins. He felt the generations past gave insight to his being, his inner psyche. There was a thought that nagged at him: a truth was being hidden, an unrevealed truth about his family that might provide an explanation of his gift. While in Amalfi, Paolo successfully tracked the history of his two grandmothers.
His research completed, Paolo hired a local driver from Amalfi. Giacomo, a short, balding man with a paunch for a stomach, said he ate well. He was in his late fifties, old enough to be Paolo’s father. The Italian spoke broken English with an animated style. Paolo couldn’t help but like him.
“Sonny boy,” Giacomo said, using his nickname for Paolo, “How long are you going to stay in Ottati?” Giacomo’s English was clouded by his heavy Italian accent.
“Maybe four days.”
“Ah sonny boy, you’re going to fall in love, amore, amore. We will find you a nice Italian girl, how do you say, bella?” Giacomo kissed the tips of his fingers. “Bella, bella no bu ton for you, sonny boy.” He continued to talk as he drove the winding roads of the Amalfi coast. “Sonny boy, we are going to stop at my brother’s. We will stay the night, we mangia, drink wine, and have some fun.”
“Sounds good to me, Giacomo.” A kinship developed between the two.
Giacomo drove on Highway A3 in the heavy weekend traffic. He maneuvered the car along the curves of the coastline. The stop-and-go jerk of the car took a toll on Paolo. His mind needed a rest and he fell asleep. He dreamed of a woman with blonde hair and green eyes, the recurring dream he’d had since childhood.
She floated toward him, her eyes focu
sed on his. Mesmerized, he could not move. She began to speak, but he heard no words. Tranquility engulfed the two. Paolo knew he was dreaming; his heart began to race. She touched his face, her hand smooth; she looked in his eyes, her head tilted. Her hand dropped to his chest. He took her hand and placed it within him. She clutched his heart, withdrew her hand; she placed his heart onto hers. Their two hearts beating as one, she kissed him and disappeared. He awoke to the smell of the sea wafting across his nostrils.
“Sonny boy, you sleep well?”
“Yes, I did,” he replied as he stretched his legs. “Where are we?”
“We are about five kilometers from Vittorio’s hotel, we will be there real soon.” Giacomo went on to tell him that the hotel was a lifelong dream of Vittorio’s.
CHAPTER 9
PAOLO AND GIACOMO arrived at the seaside village of Pontecagnano at midday. The mountains rose in the distance. The hotel was located across from the beach with magnificent views of the Gulf of Salerno.
The Maserati’s engine roared. Giacomo made a left turn into the entrance of the hotel and beeped the car horn to announce his arrival. The few vacationers who sat on the balcony enjoying the day showed their displeasure. One particular guest displayed a familiar Italian hand gesture. A portly man with an uncanny resemblance to Giacomo walked out of the hotel entrance. Judging by the snarl on his face, he seemed quite angry. Who was the jackass making all the noise? When he realized who it was, the innkeeper’s eyes ignited into a look of joy, as if the prodigal son had returned home. He ran back into the hotel, stood in the doorway, and shouted for his wife.
“Isabella, Isabella, veni, veni. Giacomo is here!” The car screeched to a halt in front of the hotel. As if he were a fit teenager, Giacomo jumped out. With tears in his eyes, he ran to his brother; they embraced and kissed each other. Isabella came out of the doorway, a kitchen towel in her hands, wiping as she neared the two men. Giacomo turned to Paolo, who was still in the car watching the two cousins embrace, and said, “Sonny boy, sonny boy, veni, veni. Come, come.”
Paolo exited the Maserati and placidly approached the three. His long hair disheveled from the two-hour drive, Paolo stretched his well-trimmed body; he could easily pass as a native Italian. Isabella leaned over to her husband and whispered loudly in his ear.
“Vittorio, he reminds me of you when you were young, what happened?”
“It is your cooking, my principessa, do not blame me.”
Paolo listened as husband and wife bantered back and forth. A truth struck the young man. This husband and wife were united in the true bond of love, a love his heart longed for.
“Sonny boy, this is my brother Vittorio and his wife Isabella.”
The couple greeted Paolo with hugs and the customary kiss on the cheeks. Isabella’s embrace lasted longer. The two escorted him into their house. Paolo understood some Italian; he overheard Giacomo and Isabella as they spoke about him. Isabella wanted to know if he was married or had a girlfriend. She couldn’t help but think of the possibilities of him with one of her nieces. Giacomo politely told her to leave him alone.
Excited that a guest from America was visiting, they treated Paolo like royalty. Sergio, the son of Vittorio and Isabella, carried Paolo’s luggage to a room overlooking the plush gardens surrounded by cypress trees. Two French doors led to a small balcony with a table and two chairs. The room was decorated with picturesque scenes of the Amalfi Coast. A blue swirled pitcher filled with water and a matching basin sat on a brown four-drawer dresser. A nightstand next to the single bed completed the simple, peaceful room.
The hotel had a classic Italian charm and beauty, the courtyard surrounded by lush gardens with a swimming pool in the center. The smell of the sea coupled with the aroma of the gardens overwhelmed Paolo’s senses. Peace came over him, a feeling of home, family, and safety.
Sergio said, “You can unpack later. Let me show you our house.”
The young men walked into the residence separate from the hotel. The furniture reflected past family hand-me-downs. Photos of family outings hung on the walls: a series of photos of Vittorio and Giacomo when they were young, a wedding picture of the husband and wife. Overall, this modest home was a pleasant one.
Isabella went off into the kitchen. Known for her culinary delights in and around Pontecagnano, she cooked a sumptuous late-afternoon meal of fish and pasta. Isabella served the feast under a canopy of grape vines. The portico overlooked the gardens of the hotel. Paolo was enthralled at the scene that lay before him—the ocean, the cypress trees, and the gardens. He was oblivious to the Italian conversation taking place. Eventually the conversation encompassed him.
Isabella questioned him about America. What was it like? Had he ever met Frank Sinatra? How many brothers and sisters did he have? Did he have a girlfriend? Was he looking for a girlfriend?
Finally, Vittorio chimed in, “Isabella, basta, basta. Let him enjoy his food, we have plenty of time to talk.”
“In life sometimes we don’t have plenty of time,” Paolo replied to Vittorio. “It’s okay, Isabella, whatever you ask I will answer.” He spoke with a smile and sincerity.
Vittorio seemed impressed that the young American understood his statement. After the question-and-answer period was over, Isabella stood and began to clear the table.
“Come, let us men go and enjoy the gardens with some wine and fruit.” Isabella was some distance away. Vittorio yelled, “Isabella, bring us some wine and fruit, we will be in the terrace garden.”
“Yes, my darling husband.”
Paolo perceived the mutual tone of respect between husband and wife. Isabella and Vittorio had a natural form of communication, seen and unseen. They were two people who had come to realize through their own life experiences the meaning of love and respect.
The three men stood and began to walk to the gardens. Giacomo and Vittorio, their arms interlocked, walked ahead of Paolo. He had never seen two men walk together in this fashion. Paolo wondered about their closeness. There was a bond between the two, a life experience held them together. He imagined they would die for each other.
The sun, well past its zenith, laid its late afternoon shadows. The cypress trees showered their green hues upon the bright ocean-blue sky. A gentle sea breeze came from the east. They sat around a picnic table underneath a pergola lined with purple grapes.
“Your hotel is beautiful.”
“Thank you, Paolo.” Vittorio reached up, grabbed a grape, and popped it into his mouth.
“Giacomo told me you almost became a priest?”
“Yes, when I was a young boy my life changed and I began to look at life differently.” Paolo could see a sadness in Vittorio’s eyes.
“My parents died when I was young.”
Giacomo chimed in, “That’s how we became brothers.”
Paolo was confused, “I see.”
“Tell him the story, Vittorio.”
Vittorio’s eyes fixed on a point beyond the cypress trees; a blank stare overcame his face as he recalled the painful memory, a memory with no escape, a reality in a young boy’s life, the nightmare that crept into his dreams. Vittorio began to tell his story…
CHAPTER 10
VITTORIO WAS BORN in Rome in 1917 to Anna and Paolo Esposto. At the age of eight, he walked the sidewalk along Viale Dei Parioli in the town of Pinciano. Carefree, he strolled by a row of three-story yellow stone apartment buildings hung with orange shutters. The fragrant aromas of the evening meals filled the air.
Vittorio turned the corner to find three black cars parked by his house. He cautiously walked closer, a bewildered look on his face. The street was deserted. People stared out their windows, hiding behind curtains as if evil lurked close by. One of his neighbors, seeing him, tried to wave him away. He waved back as he walked a path that forever changed his life.
As Vittorio approached his house, Mr. Parisi, his next-door neighbor, ran out and swept him off the sidewalk. Taken by surprise, the eight-year-old began to fight; he kick
ed his little legs and tried to scream. Mr. Parisi covered Vittorio’s mouth with his hand and whispered, “Keep quiet, little one, the Squadristi.” Cradling Vittorio in his arms, he ran back into his home. He placed the young child on the floor.
“Pietro,” his wife whispered, “the Squadristi are leaving.”
“Giacomo,” he called softly to his son. “Take Vittorio to your bedroom.”
Pietro and his wife, Christina, stared at one another, their faces ashen with fright. They had heard the blood-curdling screams of their neighbors.
“Christina, I am going over there. Go be with the boys and make sure they stay in the bedroom.”
“Be careful, my husband, maybe it’s best that you don’t go,” the panic-stricken wife said.
“I have to,” Pietro’s voice hardened.
“Why do you have to?” Her voice filled with fear. “Don’t get involved, they will kill you as they did them.”
He said to her in a loud whisper, “I have to, they are our friends.” Pietro walked through the door to face the brutality of man.
Giacomo, four years older than Vittorio, guided him down the dimly lit hallway to his bedroom. Vittorio, frightened, almost in tears, asked, “What is happening, Giacomo?”
“Shh, shh.” He held his finger to his mouth. “You must be quiet.”
“But why? Why did your father bring me here? I want to go home to my mother and father,” his voice started to tremble.
“I don’t know, Vittorio, now be quiet. The Black Shirts were in your house.”
Not knowing who the Black Shirts were, Vittorio began to ask questions. He stopped abruptly when he looked out Giacomo’s bedroom window.
CHAPTER 11
AN EERIE SILENCE echoed throughout the neighborhood. Pietro ran into the house, yelling out the names of his two friends. He searched the bedrooms, then entered the library where his friend wrote editorials for the newspaper he owned, his pen his only weapon. Desk drawers lay on the floor, overturned books were strewn about, picture frames had been broken. The silence was overwhelming.
Messenger From God (The Last Eulogy Series Book 1) Page 4
