Redemption

by Sally Fernandez

  “You’ll never leave the agency. And the agency needs you.”

  “I have complete confidence in you, Max. You’ll be able to handle things just fine.”

  “Thanks, Boss,” she scoffed. “But this is a lousy time to leave; the country’s a mess. And God forbid these periodic protests turn into nationwide civil unrest, as the media predicts ad nauseam.”

  “Don’t exaggerate. It’s for only a few months. Just play director, Max.”

  She had learned the hard way; it was useless to argue. “When?”

  “Not sure; possibly next week. I’m still making arrangements.”

  “So soon!” Max may have conceded, but she had no intention of backing off with the questioning. “So where are you and Amanda going?”

  “I’m going solo. As I stated, I need time to sort out some life choices—decisions I’ve kept postponing thanks to Simon.”

  “Aren’t you two supposed to be planning a wedding?”

  “Trust me, Amanda can handle it on her own, and I suspect she would prefer to be extravagant without having to ask for my approval.” He chuckled, trying to make light of his comment and to turn the conversation away from himself. Looking her squarely in the eye, he asked, “So how are things between you and Stanton?”

  “Great, Noble! Don’t change the subject. Is this what you truly want?”

  “What, time off or the marriage?”

  “Both.”

  He paused at the question and then answered in earnest, “I’m not sure—to both.” Maneuvering away from the personal banter, he said, “Pull together your open case files and let’s review them the first of next week. I’m sure there is nothing on the docket that you can’t handle.”

  “Noble…”

  “Max!”

  She backed off, sensing it was not the time to inquire further. Then, cutting off the repartee, she refocused on her immediate concern. “Where can I reach you?”

  “I’ll have my cell, but most likely it will be out of range.” He was aware that where he was going all frequencies would be frozen, and his personal time to get away would be limited. “I’ll try to call in once a week for an update whenever I can.”

  “What do you mean out of range?”

  “I’m playing it loose. Who knows, I may be trekking in Mongolia.”

  “You, Noble, playing it loose? Is that the best you can do?”

  “Let’s pick this up later. I have some calls to make.”

  She surrendered grudgingly and headed to the conference room.

  7

  LA DOLCE VITA

  As Natalie and Mario traversed the streets of Florence looking for Piazza Cimitori, Mario spotted a gelateria.

  “Mama, un gelato per favore?”

  “Mario, we are on our way to a restaurant. Ice cream will spoil your lunch.”

  “Mama, I’ll have my dessert first and then my pasta.”

  “You’re impossible! Why do you have to look like your father and act like him too?”

  Mario smiled. He was familiar with her expression and he knew she would concede.

  Natalie rarely could win an argument with Paolo, mostly because she was overcome by his charm. And, as Mario developed into a young man, she found his charm equally hard to resist. As she looked at the joy on his face, her anger toward both Paolo and Noble, for leaving them alone in Italy, began to diminish. “It’s not dessert; it’s dulce.”

  “Brava Mama.”

  “Prego.”

  Natalie never had a facility for languages, but over the years she had picked up a few words from Paolo. Now little Mario was her teacher.

  “Finish up. I think we’re almost there.”

  Mario, trying to be efficient with the tiny spoon, scooped out the rest of his pistachio gelato and then licked his lips for one final taste. “Mmm, buono,” he announced, thrilled at his conquest.

  As they continued to wend their way through the streets, Natalie saw what appeared to be a church she recognized from the description she had read. She quickly retrieved her guidebook and flipped to the page she had marked earlier as one of her landmarks. “Yes, I thought so.”

  “Thought what, Mama?”

  “This is the Church of Orsanmichele.”

  “What a strange name,” he remarked, wrinkling his nose.

  Reading from the guidebook, she explained, “It translates to the ‘kitchen garden of Saint Michael.’ This says the church was built on the same site where the kitchen garden for the monastery of Saint Michael was previously located. Mario, see how the exterior of the building is surrounded with statues? Each one was commissioned by a guild.”

  “What’s a guild?”

  “It’s a union; or think of it like your clubs at school. But in Florence there were many guilds: one for wool, another for leather products, and banks, and even butchers. Each guild hired an artist to sculpt a statue of its patron saint to decorate the outside of the church. According to this book, it became a competition to show off their importance.”

  “Who is that one supposed to be?” Mario pointed out.

  “Let me see.” Natalie speedily scanned her guidebook. “Good choice, Mario. That’s Saint John the Baptist. It was sculpted by the famous Lorenzo Ghiberti, best known for his bronze doors on the Baptistery. Michelangelo referred to them as the Gates of Paradise.”

  “Gates of Paradise?”

  “Yes, we will have time to see them tomorrow with Simone when he takes us to the Duomo. It’s one of the largest cathedrals in the whole world. Now let’s go; it’s getting late.”

  Mario spotted one other statue and hollered out, “One more, Mama! That one!”

  “That sculpture is by Donatello. It’s the statue of Saint George.”

  “Saint George. He’s the one that slays dragons. You used to read that book to me all the time.”

  “Bravo, Mario. Now let’s move along.”

  Finally, they stumbled upon via Tavolini, a small, charming street in the historic center of Florence. Like most of the streets, it was lined with various leather shops, a bakery café, and another gelateria. At the end of the street, toward the back of the piazza, Natalie spotted a welcoming sign above the door; it read “Birreria Centrale.” Standing in front was a young woman with a pleasant face, clad in black with a matching long apron. She appeared to be greeting the hungry clientele, as she warmly gestured them to be seated.

  Natalie and Mario stood by and waited their turn.

  “Buongiorno, tavolo per due.”

  “Si, ma dov’è Alessandro?” Mario asked.

  “Siete amici di Alessandro?”

  “No, ma il mio zio è il Direttore Noble Bishop,” Mario replied.

  “Ah, devi essere il giovane Mario e tu la Natalie. Mi chiamo Elena. È piacere mio.”

  “Excuse me!” Natalie rang out, and then with slight embarrassment, she apologized, “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid my Italian is not as good as my son’s.”

  The lovely women offered her a smile and then, in her best English, she said, “My name is Elena. Mi ricordo bene il tuo fratello. Visitò Firenze appena prima è mancato il direttore.”

  “I’m sorry; I don’t understand. Mario, please translate.”

  “Yes, Mama. Elena said that she remembers Uncle Noble. It was when he visited Hamilton before he died.”

  Natalie encouraged Mario and Elena to continue in Italian. She would patiently wait for the translation. As she listened to her young son, she noticed Elena pointing to another restaurant next door where a tall bear of a man was standing. Then she heard Mario and Elena exchange the word grazie, with Elena ending with “Prego.” Natalie knew enough Italian to know that once there was an exchange of “thank you” and “you’re welcome,” followed by “buongiorno,” the conversation had concluded.

  “Mama, that man is Alessandro.” He pointed. “And that is Osteria da Ganino. He also owns that restaurant.”

  Natalie braved the language and offered a buongiorno to Elena, and then she and Mario walked toward
the man whom Noble had described as a “gentle giant.” From the expression on the face of Alessandro, Natalie understood why.

  “Mario, please introduce us.”

  Even conversing in his childlike Italian, Mario suddenly seemed older than his years.

  “It’s my pleasure to meet Noble’s family. Please come in,” Alessandro greeted, in his best-limited English.

  Seconds after being seated at their table, Natalie was presented with a glass of Prosecco and Mario with a Fanta. Then a parade of delicacies appeared one by one at their table. Natalie was familiar with crostini, the appetizer portions of bread topped with various ingredients. But with Mario’s translation, she learned that one was topped with fegato, a delightful chicken liver pâté. Another slice of toasted bread was smothered with diced tomatoes and basil, more commonly called bruschetta. Then her little master explained a simple treat enjoyed by all Italians. First, he rubbed a fresh clove of garlic on a slice of toasted bread. Then he poured olive oil on top.

  Mario didn’t hesitate to bite into to his treat. And before scarcely finishing the first bite full, he announced, “Delizioso.”

  Natalie followed Mario’s instructions, ending with a generous bite. “Yum, I agree; it’s delicious.”

  No sooner did the words leave her mouth before another wooden platter appeared with generous slices of prosciutto, salami, and various pecorino cheeses, also to be enjoyed with more slices of Tuscan bread. As Natalie and Mario continued to enjoy the lavish meal, Alessandro stayed close by conversing with Mario and freely answering questions. Natalie was especially inquisitive as to why the bread contained no salt, tasting different from the bread at home.

  Alessandro delighted in telling the various tales but the one he seemed most to enjoy involved blaming the port city of Pisa, Florence’s warring rival. With Mario’s assistance, he explained that in the 1500s, Pisa had a monopoly on the salt imports. During one of the fractious wars with Florence, Pisa decided to impose a salt embargo on the proud Florentines to make their daily lives difficult and thwart their means of food preservation. Florence’s immediate response was “We do not need your salt!” and they devised other methods to preserve their food. To this day, they no longer add salt to the bread recipes. But as a proud restaurateur and lover of food, Alessandro also clarified that the bread was the Italians’ third utensil, and was used to sop up the sauces on the plate.

  “Sale nel pane rovinerebbe la ricetta,” he declared.

  Mario stepped in, anticipating the need for translation, and said, “Mama, salt in the bread would ruin the recipe.”

  Natalie beamed at both of them. Enjoying Alessandro’s melodic Italian and watching her little man translate provided a double treat.

  While it appeared Natalie had finished her questions, Alessandro still had a few of his own.

  “Lo conosceva il Direttore?” he asked.

  “Mama, he wants to know if you knew Hamilton,” Mario translated.

  Natalie spoke slowly as she replied, “Hamilton was a very dear friend and one of the few who attended my wedding. We were sad when he decided to retire and move to Florence, but I understand he was very happy here.”

  Alessandro appeared to understand and responded, “Era anche amico mio. Lo considerava Noble molto. Penso che lo considerava come un figlio.”

  “Mario,” Natalie beseeched and then quickly offered a “Mi dispiace” to Alessandro. The one phrase she had mastered—“I’m sorry.”

  “Hamilton cared very much for Uncle Noble and considered him a son.”

  With the grateful help of Mario, Natalie hung in and was reassured to discover that Hamilton had made a life for himself among friends before his sudden death.

  During their pleasant exchange among the three of them, the wait staff had removed their empty plates and the wooden platter without notice. Then, not wanting to monopolize Alessandro’s time further, Natalie started to signal for the check.

  “Cosa volete per pranzo?” Alessandro asked, quickly stepping back into restaurateur mode.

  Natalie was floored. She was positive that he had just asked them what they would like for lunch.

  “Pasta per favore,” Mario responded immediately.

  “Mario, we have had more than enough food,” she politely scolded, as she clutched her stomach.

  “Madam, a little pasta for Signore Mario?” Alessandro suggested.

  His English had be perfect at that moment, she thought, knowing she’d have no other choice but to surrender.

  “Okay, but what is the word—poco?”

  “Si, Madam, a little.” Alessandro smiled with his gentle grin and then asked, “Che pasta vuoi, Signore Mario?”

  “Vorrei spaghetti e polpette,” he said with poise.

  At Mario’s response, Natalie could not help overhear the couple at the next table chuckle.

  At the same time, Alessandro let out a little laugh. “I will return in one moment,” he replied. Then, with a slight bow, he left to go to the kitchen.

  “What did you order?” Natalie asked, curious at the reactions.

  “Spaghetti and meatballs, Mama. My favorite!”

  Natalie could not help but giggle herself, once clued in to the surrounding expressions.

  “What?” Mario asked, wanting in on the joke.

  “Your father told me once that spaghetti and meatballs is not an Italian dish. It was invented by Italians who moved to America.”

  “I don’t understand. Alessandro must have meatballs,” he stated with a confused expression.

  “In Italy, meatballs are typically served as a main course or sometimes in soup.”

  Mario, still finding it terribly confusing, was pleased to see Alessandro walk out of the kitchen and head their way. Then, adding to his muddle, Alessandro placed a plate with a generous portion of spaghetti al ragù in front of Mario. To the side, he placed another plate heaped with small meatballs.

  Mario, still not understanding the difference between the Italian and the American versions, promptly picked up the plate of meatballs and scooped them on top of the pasta. “Vedi, spaghetti e polpette,” he announced with great pride, having solved the dilemma.

  Laughter broke out throughout the restaurant; the patrons had just witnessed the humorous scene.

  Hungry Mario paid no attention as he twirled his fork with agility.

  Natalie sat back and sipped on the glass of red wine Alessandro had generously poured, while Mario enjoyed his lunch. During that time, she watched as customers continued to stream into the restaurant, asking either for a table inside or out in the piazza. She happened to notice one man greeting Alessandro with the typical Italian cheek-to-cheek hug, a charming habit Paolo could never break. Then, oddly, they turned and headed toward her table.

  “Questo è Eugenio. Egli e stato un amico di Hamilton è lui ha conosciuto il tuo fratello quando l’ha visitato a Firenze,” Alessandro introduced.

  “Excuse me?” Natalie asked, still lost in the lingo.

  “My name is Eugenio,” the stranger quickly responded, noticing the fact that she didn’t speak Italian. “I was a friend of Hamilton’s. Also, I met your brother when he visited Florence.”

  “My name is Natalie and this is my son, Mario.”

  “Piacere mio,” Mario acknowledged and then returned to tackling his meal.

  Natalie was thrilled that Eugenio spoke flawless English and was able to engage in an actual conversation. While Mario was engrossed in an obvious activity and Alessandro scooted off to other customers, Eugenio explained that he was a curator at the Uffizi Gallery. It was there that he had met Hamilton.

  “So you gave the tour to Professor Ducale’s students?” Natalie asked.

  “You know the story about the professoressa?” Eugenio asked, quite surprised.

  “She was my husband’s aunt.”

  “Mama mia!” Eugenio stated, finding the happenstance quite intriguing.

  “Paolo hasn’t seen her for years. She divorced his uncle soon after Hamilt
on moved to Florence. I never had the occasion to meet her.”

  “Yes, it was an odd set of circumstances,” Eugenio replied, not sure how much Natalie knew about the story. She most certainly wouldn’t have known that the professor was accused of leaving a satchel of money at the entrance to the Vasari Corridor, he mused. He knew it had been rumored that the professor was seen leaving a bank with money that Hamilton had prearranged as part of his sting operation to lure a notorious terrorist named Simon. That led Hamilton and Enzo Borgini to follow the professor through the halls of the Vasari Corridor, while on a tour with her students. Upon discovering they had been outmaneuvered, Hamilton interrogated both Eugenio and the professor. The professor told all she knew, including her involvement with Simon. Later Hamilton befriended Eugenio, and since that time, the story had taken on as many twists and turns as the Vasari Corridor itself. None of the rumors had ever been confirmed.

  “Would you and Mario like to see the Vasari Corridor?” Eugenio invited.

  “Mario?”

  “Si, Mama!”

  “Splendid. It would be my pleasure to give you a private tour if you are available tomorrow afternoon.”

  “We’d love to. Thank you.”

  “Bene, good, I’ll pick you up here at four o’clock.”

  “We’ll look forward to seeing you tomorrow. And thank you again.”

  Eugenio bid his goodbye and headed to the bar in the back of the restaurant wherein Alessandro had already prepared an espresso. In Italian fashion, Eugenio took the afternoon caffeine fix with two precision gulps and then left the restaurant with a friendly ciao.

  When Alessandro rejoined them at the table, he had already discovered from Eugenio about the private tour and quickly reconfirmed the arrangement with his son Simone. It was settled. He would take them on a quick tour of some of the sights in the morning beforehand.

  “Smile,” Alessandro requested, as he snapped a photo of Natalie and Mario on his smartphone and then promptly sent it to Simone. He then gave Mario instructions for them to meet the next morning at ten in front of the Café Scudieri in the Piazza San Giovani. He told them they would find it near the Baptistery.