The Train to Orvieto

by Novelli, Rebecca J. ;

  The rough fabric of his tweed suit, a gift from the owner of Knize in Vienna, irritated his skin. As he considered his situation, he reached down to scratch his bad leg. He was not himself, he decided, or he wouldn’t have acted so imprudently. It was quite out of character. He had to admit that he had made several misjudgments recently. He had been under strain, though he couldn’t say exactly why. It was as if something within could destroy him and required all of his strength to control it, ward it off. Perhaps he needed this holiday. He would simply sell the shares in the cache of raw gems when he got back and thereby mitigate any possible losses to himself. The simplicity and certainty of his plan made him feel calmer. An unwarranted attack of nerves. Nothing more.

  He was sweating. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead, then put the handkerchief away quickly before the waiter could see his agitation. The liquid smoothness of his Washington Tremlett shirt, one of a dozen he owned, and the comfort of his custom shoes from Lobb reassured him. All of his clothing was bespoke. Gifts—very well, payments—for risks he had taken during and after the War to find the lost, the missing, and the dead. Most were Jews and most were gone forever by the time he found any trace of them. It would be more accurate to say that he had searched for and sometimes saved the damned by supplying them with false identities, papers, even disguises before moving them across borders to a fragile safety. The superficial tokens of gratitude that he now wore affirmed that he was someone who had done this necessary, albeit illegal, penance for his own sins. The latter he considered numerous and beyond forgiveness. He knew that for others he had often made the difference between life and death. I must remember this if only for the sake of accuracy, he reminded himself.

  His impending appointment that afternoon with Father Enrico intruded on these already troubled thoughts. That Father Enrico had saved his life was a debt he could never hope to repay, and, in that light, his visit seemed paltry and any thanks he offered miserly. Recollection of his own helplessness at that earlier time invariably terrified Losine. Indeed, neediness, helplessness—his own or that of others—repelled him. Between a lightning bolt and the thunder that followed, he lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply, and gazed with half-closed eyes at the façade of the Duomo.

  Religion. A lot of fuss over a lot of folderol, he thought. We’re born. We suffer. We die. That’s all there is to it. People want to shield themselves from the simple facts of existence. He adjusted his tie, recalling the way Heinrich Bauer, shirtmaker to the German high command, had only a few days earlier touched it admiringly and begged for its provenance. Losine had revealed the maker of the tie in exchange for information about the operations of the gem seller to whom he had made the now-regretted payment.

  He felt an overwhelming and familiar fatigue that sleep did not relieve. Perhaps, now he could concentrate on the other reason for his trip, the photographs he intended to take of the ancient sites in Orvieto. His photographic practices were always the same: after researching a site and preparing a map in advance of his arrival, he paced out the terrain, checked the light at different times of day, noting the exact moment when the sun—or occasionally the moon—reached the right position. Since completing his photographs of ancient Greek, Roman, and Byzantine sites, he had begun work on major Etruscan sites. The following year, he intended to go to Jerusalem. “I’m a lover of ruins,” Losine told those who inquired about his expeditions and their motivation. The statement belied his actual purpose. Traveling under the cover of eccentricity enabled him to ask questions that might otherwise arouse suspicion. In the process of examining, say, a temple or a cathedral, he often met local experts and gained information useful in conducting his business transactions and his searches for the missing.

  He had made the acquaintance of various experts. Frequently, they, too, provided useful information that went well beyond the technical aspects of photography or archaeology. In Zurich, he preferred to send his film to a laboratory there that was highly regarded for its meticulous attention to clients’ privacy, though it could hardly be said that Losine’s photographs contained anything personal, unless the viewer surmised that the very impersonality of the photographs was what was most revealing about them. He filed all of his photographs, which numbered in the tens of thousands, in a locked cabinet in the basement of his apartment building in Milano. He neither showed them to anyone nor looked at them himself.

  Losine examined the menu in the same manner that he examined gems and jewelry, noticing the stains on the paper, the fine threads within the paper itself, and the watermark. The painting on the cover of the menu—originally a watercolor, no doubt—captured the same view of the Piazza that he had just observed, though on a brighter day. In the corner he was able to make out the signature of the artist: W. Marcheschi. The waiter came over to him.

  “Something to drink, Signor?”

  “Have you a good Orvieto?”

  “In my opinion, the quality of the Orvieto is poor, Signore.”

  “Why?”

  “We assume tourists don’t know the difference, Signore. Perhaps the Vino Marcheschi.” When the waiter returned with the wine, Losine noticed the picture on the bottle. “Is Vino Marcheschi related to the artist whose work is on the menu?”

  The waiter nodded and poured some wine in Losine’s glass. “Signora Marcheschi paints. Tourists seem to like her work. Customers ask about it.”

  Losine tasted the wine and gestured that the waiter should fill his glass. “I didn’t say that I liked her work. Apparently, you do not.”

  “Her work pleases tourists, Signor. That’s all. You’ll find many more in the Marcheschi’s enoteca across from the Duomo. Would you care to order something to eat?”

  In the silence that followed, each man took the other’s measure. Losine decided the waiter’s opinion on tourists’ taste in art was of no importance. He glanced at the menu. The downpour outside became a torrent. Given the weather, completing the Orvieto photography would likely require a second visit. “I’m not a tourist,” Losine said to the waiter, “and I’ll have the wild boar.”

  3

  That he had never personally thanked Father Enrico for saving his life that day on the train had left Losine feeling ashamed, as if he had lost control. He had tried to ignore these feelings, but, at last, he had decided that he must find Father Enrico and discharge once and for all the obligation imposed by gratitude. In doing so, he imagined that he would be able to forget or at least diminish the anguish of those terrible days. He reviewed once more what he wanted to say, but no matter how he thought about expressing himself, he felt unaccountably awkward and inarticulate. I should have gotten this over with long ago, he thought. Just written a letter. Still, a letter would demand committing facts to paper, facts that must remain confidential. No, a private meeting now is the only option, no matter how awkward.

  In the aftermath of the storm, Losine could still hear water dripping in the Piazza. The downpour had left large puddles in which the reflections of the surrounding water-stained buildings floated like mirages. The façade of the Duomo itself suggested to him a forsaken bride in ruined finery. He noted the plaque outside: In 1290 Pope Nicholas IV ordered the building of this cathedral to commemorate the “Miracle of Bolsena,” which resolved forever any doubt that the communion cup contains the Savior’s blood.

  Actual blood? Sometimes Christians are intolerably literal, he thought. He was still early for his appointment and decided to go inside and look again at the Signorelli fresco. Tiny lights in tarnished chandeliers buzzed on fraying wires, as helpless against the twilight as the candles he bought at the entrance to the chapel. A bolt of lightning illuminated the interior of the Duomo and its silent relics in a barren flash before the returning gloom overcame the few candles that still winked in the drafts. The stone floor trembled in the ensuing thunder. The odors of dust and mold enveloped him. The smell of time made him feel even more fragile and transient than he already did.

  Remembering his visits t
o Orvieto with Greta, he entered St. Britius chapel, put more coins in the box and waited. The weak lights illuminated not only the fresco, but also a woman seated nearby on a hard, wooden chair, her head bowed and nearly covered with a black shawl. The chapel was so small and she so near that he felt he himself an intruder.

  “Excuse me,” he said. She lifted her head. “Forgive me for disturbing you.” Tears welled in her eyes. Adrift in his own grief, he offered her his handkerchief.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, then returned the damp linen. “I’ve soiled it.”

  “I have more. Are you all right?”

  She nodded. “I come here to be by myself.”

  “With so many tourists, how could you be alone?”

  “They pay no attention to me.” She sniffled and adjusted her shawl.

  He extended his hand. “Michel Losine…tourist!”

  “Unless you’re born here, you’re always a tourist.” She took his hand. “Willa Marcheschi…La straniera, as they say. Piacere.”

  “The artist! Didn’t I see your work on my wine bottle?”

  She laughed. “I only paint ordinary things.” She inclined her head toward the fresco. “I once imagined becoming a painter here—like the masters.” He waited for her to continue but she didn’t.

  “What prevented you?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t have enough history in my blood—or maybe not enough religion in my soul—to be one of them.”

  Losine drew up one of the hard chairs next to hers and sat down. “So, you’re a commercial artist, then…like the masters.”

  “You’re gallant, but you’ve probably came to Orvieto to see the frescoes, too.”

  “I’m visiting an acquaintance, Father Enrico,” Losine said. “Do you know him?”

  “Yes. He’s Monsignor Enrico now and he won’t be back until tomorrow. Does he know you’re coming?”

  Losine was relieved by the delay. Tomorrow he would be ready.

  Willa looked at him. “How do you know Monsignor Enrico?”

  Losine feared that it was more than a social question.

  “A chance wartime encounter.” He stood up and examined the fresco.

  She got up, too. “Really, where?” He noticed the vivid blue dress beneath her black shawl and her worn black shoes. Lovely ankles, he thought.

  “Train.” He said it abruptly, intending to discourage further questions.

  “People say Father Enrico was captured and that they tortured him after he helped a criminal escape from the Nazis. They say that his faith gave him the courage to resist. “

  “Was the criminal on a train, too?” Losine asked uneasily. He hadn’t known the real cost of Father Enrico’s help.

  “Yes, I believe so,” she answered. “Was that you?”

  He looked away. “Only in a moral sense.”

  “I shouldn’t have asked. Would you like to see the cathedral?”

  He nodded and put another coin in the light box. Her auburn hair glinted under the light, bringing back a memory of the sparkling angel that his gentile mother had always set on the mantel at Christmastime near his father’s menorah. He recalled that he had stored them in an unused corner of the basement. Are they still there? he wondered.

  “Most of the artists who worked on this cathedral died before they completed their commissions, so Signorelli had to bring all of their work together,” Willa said. “They say his style influenced Michelangelo.” Losine nodded and followed her out of the chapel and past the front of the altar into another chapel. “This is our reliquary.” He peered through a small window in the container. The faded blue cloth inside looked to him like silk.

  “I don’t see anything miraculous, except the enamel work,” he said.

  “Seven hundred years ago, they’d have burned you at the stake for saying that.”

  “And now?”

  “Now, you’re just another tourist!” she laughed. He smiled at her.

  She had a pleasant way about her. He was curious about her real thoughts. “Do you believe Signorelli saw the blood?”

  “I believe he gave his customers what they wanted. He made a good living and got plenty of wine besides,” Willa said.

  “Do you see the blood?”

  “Not really, but I don’t usually say so.”

  “And that plaque outside, the one about the miracle: Do you think it really happened?”

  “I think they were very devout,” she said. “Would you like to see the altar?”

  Losine followed her. “You’re not Italian.”

  “No. I came to Italy to be an artist when I was very young. I met Gabriele. We married, had a family, and started our business. The War came, and here I am.”

  “Do you still paint?”

  “Not seriously.” She paused and looked at her watch. “I must be getting back. Gabriele will wonder where I am.”

  Losine followed her. “Why were you crying just now?” He wanted to catch her off guard.

  Willa stopped on the steps of the Duomo. “Regrets.” She continued down the steps and into the piazza.

  He drew next to her. “What is it you regret so much?”

  She looked at him. “I regret that you are the only person who has asked me that question.”

  “You should paint seriously,” he heard himself saying. “Italians love art.”

  “They love the old masters. Women take care of the children and the house and the husband and the guests.” She looked away. “But that’s only half of it.”

  “And the other half?”

  “If you must know, I don’t have the will or the courage to paint seriously.” She turned to him. “I managed to get to Italy, but I couldn’t go any further. Didn’t dare to do what I wanted to do. Once I got here, I felt as if my journey had ended rather than begun. To be honest, I couldn’t bear the solitude of it. I had never thought about it. I imagined art with a capital “A” would be here waiting for me. But people expected me to have connections, letters of introduction, a serious portfolio, something important to express. I had nothing—just a few drawings, some watercolors, and mostly a fantasy about becoming an artist. It wasn’t enough.”

  “Surely, it was a start.”

  “It’s no surprise that my work was rejected as the trite scribbles of una straniera. Of course, I never considered any of this before I came. I couldn’t have imagined it. At first, I believed people would change their minds—that I could change their minds—but they saw my efforts as proof of their original judgment. I could have apprenticed myself or perhaps found other work, I suppose, but I wasn’t imaginative enough or brave enough to keep trying. I thought being married and being here would solve my artistic dilemma. It only compounded it.”

  Naive, Losine thought, but he admired her honesty and her ambition, just the same. Yet, saying so would make him appear condescending, and he wanted their conversation to continue.

  “I’d like to buy some wine. Would you show me your paintings, too?” Do I sound sincere? Am I? At least it’s something to do, he told himself. I’m not hurting anyone.

  “You’ve earned a drink just for listening to me.” She smiled and waved at a passerby. Evidently, his request hadn’t offended her.

  “Tomorrow morning, I’m planning to photograph the ruins. I need a guide and an assistant,” he said on an impulse. He hoped she would come with him. He was feeling especially alone, untethered.

  “Orvieto is a very small town. Everyone talks. It would embarrass my husband,” she said, “and anyway people already think I’m…well, they think what they think.”

  “You mean ‘no’ then?”

  “Yes…no.” She smiled again. Her green eyes wrinkled at the outer corners where her fair skin had developed fine lines and crevices. More than thirty, he thought, but perhaps not yet forty. “Our shop is here,” she said. “Come in and meet my husband.” The paint on the doorjamb had turned to powder. Losine ducked under the transom and followed her inside. The planke
d floor creaked under their weight. Papers lay strewn on the counter. On the shelves, bottles of wine covered with thick dust lay in stacks. Dim light filtered through the small windowpanes, but not enough to enable him to see what was in the next room.

  “Gabriele, a new customer!” Willa called into the dusky interior of the store. She sounded pleased.

  “Sono occupato.”

  “He’s busy. He’s doing the books today. It’s much easier if I do them, but he likes to do the accounting himself.” She took several bottles from different shelves. “Try these. I’ll find glasses.” Losine brushed the dust from the first bottle, studied the label. Willa’s arabesques of leaves and branches, the counterpoint of dark tree trunks, the simplified play of sunlight and shadow reminded him of ancient frescoes. She returned with still-wet wine glasses. “These will do.” She took the bottle from him, opened it, poured the pale liquid into a glass and set it in front of him.

  He tasted it. “It’s young and somewhat vinegar-y,” he said. “I like the label, though. Would you like to sell me the original drawing?”

  Willa showed him a second bottle that had no label. “This one is better,” she said. “I shouldn’t let you taste it because we have so little. We think it’s one of the very old Orvietos.” She poured the honey-colored liquid into a clean glass. “Gabriele is certain it’s the same as those the Popes drank centuries ago.”

  The taste was much more complicated, unlike that of any wine he could recall. “I’m surprised that it’s held up.”

  “People believe that the original Orvietos had magical properties. They say if you make a wish and drink the wine, you’ll experience a miracle.” She raised her glass.

  A miracle? Should I make a wish or let fate take its course? Never mind. What difference does it make what I wish for? he thought. “Did you make a wish?” he asked her.

  “No, but I think it’s a nice story.” She set her glass on the counter, gathered the papers and moved them out of the way. Self-conscious, Losine thought. “Gabriele wants to produce the old vintages again if we can raise the money to do it. I think the miracle aspect would be popular with tourists and profitable for us.”