“Right?” Catherine says when he squeezes her hand. “Can you believe it?”
“This is spectacular. So—so beautifully preserved. And there’s no one here.”
“There’ll be people later in the day, I’m sure, but right now, we kind of own this place.”
“These Greek architects knew what they were doing when they picked a setting, didn’t they?” On top of a high hill surrounded by lower hills of undulating green, the Temple sits in serene dominion over the surrounding farmland, much as it did almost twenty-five hundred years ago when it was new.
“So the book says seventy by one hundred eighty-five feet. One end points east. And the other west—well, yeah.”
“Front to the east—typical for Greek temples.” Mark approaches the building, taking in the smooth columns, the angle of the roofline, and the way the building defines its space. “Once, this was a functional building, and there were people—right here—who designed it and built it, and people who looked at it every day.”
Catherine points to the west. “There’s the theater out there. That’s where we’re going next.”
“Not close, is it?”
“No.” Catherine points to a shady spot. “Let’s sit under those trees for a bit.”
“And it’s back down then up again, isn’t it? To the theater, I mean.” Mark sits on the ground.
“Yep.” Catherine sits between Mark’s knees, leaning on his chest. “Too hot for this? I can move.”
“Worth it,” says Mark.
“I love it here, Mark. This part of Sicily, I mean. I feel as if I’ve come home.”
“It’s beautiful, all right.”
“It’s going to be so hard leaving. I wonder if we could be happy living here.”
“You serious?” Mark is used to Catherine’s dreaming, but this sounds different.
“I think I am.”
“I really like it here too, Cath. But I can’t see us staying. I miss New York. I have a job waiting for me.”
“I have a job too!” Catherine sits up and twists to face Mark. “But it’s like I was born here—and before you say anything, I know that sounds silly.” She sighs. “And it will be very hard to leave Nico.”
“Leave Nico?” Mark wishes he hadn’t sounded so incredulous.
“If you knew him, you’d feel the same way. He’s so serious and lonely. He needs me.”
“You’ve only known him—although to be fair, ‘known’ overstates it—a little over two months. He’s managed his whole life before that without you. And what about me—your own husband? I wish you’d focus on the real people who need you.”
Catherine stands. “Real people? What are you saying?”
“OK, OK. That came out wrong. And it’s not even the point. But you have to admit, he’s never, ever been around when I was. Not once. And don’t you find it odd that everyone else manages to miss him too? Every time?”
“He trusts me. He isn’t ready to trust you yet.”
Mark stands and puts his hands on Catherine’s shoulders. She pulls away. “Cath. It’s been months, and no one else—”
“I know! I know that. No one has seen him but me. I don’t understand it either. But there must be an explanation.”
“Seriously, Cath?” He again puts his hands on her shoulders, which remain rigid under his touch, although she doesn’t pull away. He softens his voice. “I sometimes wonder if you could be imagining Nico.”
She shakes out from under his arms. “So you think I’m crazy?”
“I never said that. But I worry—”
“Your specialty!”
“Don’t be that way.” He is close to shouting. “Goddamn it, Catherine, I worry about what’s going on with you.”
“On with me? I—”
“Look at you! What are those ribbons in your hair?”
“They keep my hair back. That’s all.”
“Really? Because they look like something you’d find on a doll in a tourist stand. And that weird red vest thing with the black laces you wear sometimes, with all the embroidery and the leaves—”
Catherine’s hand goes to her chest as if to cover it, although she’s not wearing the vest now. “Giulia gave me that. It’s hand-embroidered—all local plants and herbs.”
“Well, I don’t see her wearing anything like that. And I never saw you wear anything that—that hokey before either. But wait.” He stops and holds up both hands, palms facing Catherine. “Wait. Let’s not get caught up in talking about the clothes. It’s not simply the clothes. It’s—the thought has crossed my mind that you—maybe you’re making Nico up on purpose—”
“What? Why would—”
“—but I could never come up with a reason. Until today.”
“I do not understand what you are saying, Mark.”
“I’m saying maybe you want to stay here, ignore everything that happened, forget your job, your colleagues—all of it. And this Nico is your excuse.”
Catherine shakes her head. “I can’t believe you’d say that. Any of it.”
“I can’t believe you’ve said some of the nonsense you’ve been saying either. Who are you anymore?”
“Because I’ve changed? People change, Mark. They grow.”
“I don’t consider an adult finding herself a five-year-old playmate—imaginary or not—to be growth.”
Catherine looks away. “You know what? I’m not in the mood for the Greek theater.”
“Fine. Let’s just go.” The only thing better would be to keep on going. Straight to the airport.
NINETEEN
Catherine
The next morning, Catherine walks Mark to the car in silence. They don’t have much experience being angry with one another, and although she’s nowhere near as furious as she was yesterday, she remains disappointed in Mark and confused. She can sense his frustration with her as well. Will two weeks apart improve the situation or allow those feelings to grow?
According to their friends, Catherine and Mark are lucky. They’ve grown accustomed to hearing how rare it is to see a couple who fit each other so well, who never argue, and whose mutual affection is straightforward and genuine. They’ve come to accept this as truth, that their life is charmed, that they are different—special. Yesterday changed all that with one brisk wallop from reality, and there’s no going back or unsaying what was said. Oh, sure. They’ve had words before. But this was different. They’d both felt it. Worst of all, there’s no denying that Mark does not feel the pull of Sicily the way she does, and he has no interest in trying to change. Which is worse—questioning her sanity or her veracity? Because he’s done both.
Mark places a light kiss on Catherine’s cheek. “You know how to get me.”
“Have a safe trip.”
“Thanks.” Mark opens the car door, but turns back to Catherine. “Do you want anything from Rome? I can always pick something up if you tell me.”
“Not that I can think of. But thanks.”
He brushes lint she can’t see from his suit jacket before hanging it inside the car and sliding into the driver’s seat, one arm resting in the open window. “Well—bye, then.”
“Bye.” Catherine pats his arm, and the sadness in Mark’s eyes deepens her own. There’s no reason to think this surprising new them puzzles him any less than it does her.
TWENTY
Seth
December 22, 1992
Dear Notebook,
I made a big mistake. I sent some things to Catherine. Just so she’d know I really wasn’t some weirdo. Really small things I thought she’d like. But if I had thought about it more I would have known it wasn’t gonna work. They were so little and it is right near Christmas and Hanuk
kah. In my mind when she found them outside her office door she would be happy and think maybe I was someone she wanted to know better. But I think it made me look like more of a freak than those stupid notes. God, now she probably thinks I’m in love with her or something. Sometimes lately I feel confused and I make really bad decisions. They seem sensible at the time but when I look back I wonder what the hell I was thinking. And now she ended my extra studio time with her. She says it’s her schedule but I know it’s not that. I wanted to believe that’s all it is but she still sees Karen. What if she won’t let me in her class again next semester? Or she gets someone else to teach it just to avoid me? I don’t know what I’ll do. I’ve been having those panic attacks again. I have to fix this somehow.
There’s nothing good. In three days it’ll be Christmas. My first one without my family. I said I’d go to my uncle’s for dinner and for presents like we always all did, but I’m gonna say I’m sick or something. I’d rather stay here alone and pretend it’s one more regular shitty day than be there and remember every single second that my family isn’t. Karen and her boyfriend are giving a new year’s eve party and she invited me. I’m not sure why, except she sees me three or four times a week in art class. Probably pity. I said I’d go but I’m gonna be sick for that too. Although I could go and make the party really special by hyperventilating in a closet the first time anyone mentions Catherine’s name.
I don’t sleep much. I’m up all night thinking about how the world makes no sense. Awful things keep happening. Random stuff. Yesterday, a huge plane crashed in Portugal and went on fire. 56 dead so far. A whole lot more people are in the hospital. And then today, some Libyan plane with 159 people on it “disintegrated” while it was landing in Tripoli. How can a plane disintegrate? Everybody dead of course. All these freakish accidents. Nothing makes any sense. It’s hard to care much about anything when the universe is waiting to smack me down when I least expect it.
There was an earthquake someplace I never even heard of in Indonesia. An earthquake and a tidal wave and thousands of people wiped out—bam. 2500 people. I can’t figure out how I’m supposed to live with all of it. Once you know that any minute some stupid thing from out of the blue could wipe you out or your family or friends—not that I have any left—but how does anything else even matter? I know that’s not a “healthy” way to think, but I guess I’m not healthy yet. I can’t go back to Dr W or I’ll be a zombie on my daily handful of pills again. Probably even more pills than before. I really have to talk to someone. To Catherine. I know she can help me. I’ve got to get her to listen to me.
The Queen of England made a speech right after the fire in Windsor Castle. She called 1992 “annus horribilis”—a horrible year. I never heard that expression before, but yeah I get it. The only halfway decent thing about 92 is that it’ll be gone soon. Maybe that will make some difference. I don’t know. I don’t know much of anything anymore.
Total dead since I started keeping track
Plane crashes: 918
Natural disasters: 5078
TWENTY-ONE
Mark
The one thing missing is Catherine. If only she could be here sharing his success. That argument they had in Segesta—if she were here, seeing what their life could be like, he’s sure she would forget all about farm life in Sicily with some strange kid. The past few days, he’s visited one spectacular rural property after another. His head swims with images and details that would take her mind off this country-bumpkin business. Catherine belongs with him, as a partner and as a member of the social circle he must fit into to get ahead. He’s got to strengthen those connections, and Catherine—charming, intelligent, funny—is a definite asset. Or she was before this phase she’s in now. Catherine has always been able to get away with an offbeat but winning personal style. He loves the way she seemed, without effort, to pull off a look that said, “I know how to be fashionable if I want to, but this is better.” And there was no denying he enjoyed the cachet that accompanied having a wife who fulfilled his colleagues’ expectations of an artist. What she’s doing now, though—there are times she skirts around the edge of looking like an illustration on a cheap Chianti label. Imagine if she’d shown up here looking like that—like something out of the local folkloric museum.
Right now, he’s at a party given by Richard and Simone Strauss. Richard, a former senior partner in the firm, took an early retirement a couple of years ago and is pursuing a second career in finance with a small, aggressive venture-capital company. From the looks of things, he’s doing quite well, and Mark is more than a little in awe at being here. A lot of people talk about owning a villa, and although he’s not sure what the actual definition of villa is, he’s pretty sure this is one. And a beautiful one at that. It’s the kind of place he envisions for himself and Catherine one day. Of course, they would still live most of the time in New York. But they’d be traveling here more, and Catherine’s academic calendar would let them “open their villa” for the summer. Maybe something a little smaller than this would do, but certainly just as nice and with a guest bedroom or two. They could invite his parents, who’d never even been out of Wisconsin much except to visit them in New York. What a step up from that two-room cabin on the lake they went to every summer when he was growing up.
A string quartet, on an open interior balcony, plays what he thinks is Vivaldi. At the lavish buffet table filled with platters, one draws his attention. It sits next to an elegant, hand-lettered card reading “salmon and duck ceviche.” Mark is helping himself to one of the delicate canapés when Simone joins him. She takes his hand and delivers a soft kiss to each of his cheeks. “Good to see you, Mark. It’s been so long.”
“Simone, always such a pleasure. Thank you for having me.” Mark takes in Simone’s chic and tasteful dress. Her hair, makeup, and jewelry are all perfection—even he sees that. In fact, the entire crowd seems to be made up of nothing but beautiful people. He feels as if someone let him in by mistake, and he might be told that the leaky sink was that way, and would he please attend to it at once. But next time—he’ll make sure he fits in better next time.
“I understand you’re a rising star now, Mark. Doing great things here. There are a few people Richard wants to make sure you meet before the evening is over.”
“So I’ve heard. About meeting people, that is.”
“No need to be modest. We’re quite proud of you. And Catherine is well? After all that unfortunate business?”
“Very well, thank you. And what are you up to these days?”
“Oh, once a historian, you know. Now that we’re here so much of the time, I’ve turned my attention to Italian culture. I’m collaborating on a paper that should be out next year. And living near Rome—well, talk about culture. It’s a dream.”
Mark looks for a spot to place his dish, and Simone catches the eye of a waiter at the side of the room who rushes over to relieve Mark of the plate. Simone takes Mark’s arm and leads him to a pair of armchairs that whisper, “We are simple, tasteful, yet expensive.” As he takes a seat, another waiter brings a tray with two heavy crystal glasses of chilled red Lambrusco and two small plates of Parmigiano-Reggiano shavings, papery-thin wafers of prosciutto, and slender strips of grilled eggplant. “Try this wine, Mark. It’s lovely and dry—from Emilia-Romagna. As is everything on these plates.”
Simone sips her wine. “Now tell me—where are you staying?”
“In Sicily, actually. A tiny place you probably never heard of—Macri.”
The only word that comes to mind for the look on Simone’s face is astonished. “Why there?”
“Catherine found it through a classified ad. But, Simone—that felt like more than an idle question. Was it?”
“Well, Macri is one of the more unusual Sicilian villages. On the wild and woolly side. I’m sure it’s nothing more than folklore, but I
envy you—staying in such a colorful place.”
“Colorful . . . ?”
“It has a long history of magic, witchcraft, the evil eye—that sort of thing.”
“From what I’ve heard, that’s true of half of Sicily.”
“Oh, but Macri is especially well known for familial magic.” Her voice makes a subtle shift to the lecturing-professor side. “Some people call them hereditary witches, but that’s not ‘witch’ solely as the evil sorcerer. It encompasses a more benign figure as well.”
Mark finishes his Lambrusco, and a waiter appears with another. “This witch business—it probably explains the reactions I sometimes get when I tell people where we are.”
“Familial magic is an ancient and secretive culture, and it exists throughout much of Italy and Sicily. Some of these families claim to trace their magic powers back five hundred years or more. Many of these villages had no doctor, so they relied on the magic powers claimed by one or more local people, usually women. It’s not hard to see how believing someone can cure you with herbs or spells could lead to the belief that those same people could harm you. It’s fascinating. Come.” She stands and walks to a small, delicate desk in the corner of the room and hands Mark a pad and pen. He can’t help thinking that the desk is probably worth more than all their furniture at home combined. “Jot down your mailing address, and I’ll send you some reading you might find interesting.”
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