Belladonna

by Anbara Salam

  She nodded and swallowed. “I’m—I’ve—I’ve forgotten something inside. Do you mind if I go fetch it?”

  “No, of course,” I said, grinding out the last of my cigarette. “So sorry for keeping you.”

  31.

  March

  Monday and Tuesday it rained, hard, icy rain that needled the earth into loose mud. The cold snap prompted a surprise leak in the bathroom ceiling, and everyone was sulking on account of the pans of gritty drip water in the bathtubs. But for me, it was a gift. Two days with Isabella’s full attention. I entreated Donna Maria for a couple of eggs and persuaded Isabella into painting them with yellow flowers. We left them to dry on the common room mantelpiece, even though Ruth complained they weren’t appropriate paschal decorations. I tried my best to distract Isabella. I plied her with cookies and wine, borrowed Nancy’s radio, read aloud to her from the back catalog of Life magazines in Katherine’s care package. But every time she stopped to chew her nails or look out the window or sigh, my gut wrenched. Was she thinking of her? Was she missing her? What would she say when she found out I’d blabbed about her engagement? I wrestled my disquiet into the pit of my stomach. Sure, she might be mad for a while, but she’d forgive me. After all, it was for her own good.

  On Wednesday, I woke early and drank a Nescafé in the common room. The rain clouds had dispersed, and with the first rays of sun, the water in the earth rose in a mist. I sipped my coffee and flicked through a five-day-old copy of Il Giorno, feeling alert in the way that only early risers do. I heard soft footfalls behind me and saw Nancy rummaging in the shelves by the door. When I said good morning, she jumped and glanced her head off the top of the cupboard.

  “I didn’t see you in here,” she said accusingly, as if it were my fault. She rubbed the crown of her head. “What are you doing up so early?”

  I folded the paper. “The first bells woke me. I couldn’t get back to sleep.”

  She paused, unrolling a pair of gloves. “I’m going for a walk before breakfast. Do you want to join?”

  I heard myself agreeing before I had time to formulate an excuse. Nancy lent me one of her waxed jackets, and I put on Sally’s walking boots. We left by the side exit, and our breath rose in waves and mingled with the swirling mist. It was a pale lemon morning, the air so cold it felt like you could crunch it. The grass was crispy with sparkling frost, and the blossoms trembled with drops of dew that caught the sunlight and quivered. As we walked down to La Pentola, I looked back. The hill at the front of the building dissolved in the mist so the academy appeared to rise from layers of foam.

  Nancy and I walked through La Pentola, where birds were chirping in the market square, picking in between the cobblestones. In an open window someone was gargling water; we heard them spit and turned to each other, miming disgust. We passed out of La Pentola and walked down the winding little road that went to Prugnati and led, eventually, to Borgomanero. We stuck to the sides of the road, walking in the steep grass banks. The sudden cold after days of rain had frosted a crust over inches of slippery mud.

  Eventually, Nancy gestured to a gate at the top of one of the mounds, and we walked up to it, our feet cracking through shards of ice and sinking into the earth.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “Look—” She pointed at the field, where black-faced sheep nestled lambs so tiny their legs could barely hold them up.

  “They’re so cute!” I squealed.

  Nancy wiped a drip from the bottom of her nose. “Aren’t they? They’re pretty much fresh out of the oven.”

  “Really?”

  “Brand-new.”

  We stood and watched the lambs. I tried to coax one to come over with a branch, but although it turned its head in my direction, it was unmoved.

  “Strange. Cute as they are, we’re still going to chop them up and put them in a pot with rosemary,” Nancy said in a deadpan way.

  “Don’t!” I pushed her, and the wax on her jacket crumpled where I had hit loose fabric instead of arm.

  “But they don’t eat them this young, do they?”

  Nancy rolled her eyes. “No, Bridget,” she said, louder than she needed to. “The ‘lamb’ in ‘lamb chop’ is nothing more than a figure of speech.”

  * * *

  As we walked back to the academy, the smoke from the common room chimney puffed in a thick swirl, and I smiled, recognizing Joan’s vigorous handiwork with the poker. When we came in through the side door, Nancy went to find Donna Maria, and I climbed the stairs, feeling the chill evaporating out of my hair into the warmth of the building. I was considering how I would describe my walk. I’d talk about the beautiful sunlight and the baby lambs. Or would I tell them? I wondered—surely they’d see my rosy cheeks and know I’d already been outside while they were still sleeping.

  As I approached the common room, I could see there were at least six girls in the room already, huddled in the way of deliberate discussions. Patricia was wringing a dry tissue in her hands, shredding bits of paper onto the carpet.

  “What’s up?” I said.

  “Bridget—,” Joan said, getting up and coming over to me.

  “What is it?” I gripped the back of the chair. My heart was already quicker from coming up the steps, but now it came in half beats. I thought, Rhona. Rhona’s dead. And the obviousness of it overcame me and I thought, I knew this morning—I knew—something was wrong.

  “It’s Sister Teresa,” Joan said. “She’s missing.”

  32.

  March

  The last anyone had seen of Sister Teresa was three days before, on Sunday, when Bunny had met her and Isabella as they were coming back from the spa. Bunny’s shoelace was undone, trailing in the mud, and Sister Teresa had pointed it out. Isabella had walked on ahead while Bunny and Sister Teresa stopped to talk.

  “We spoke about walking boots,” Bunny said. Her face was pale. “It was so normal. Not anything unusual at all.” She looked frightened, as if the banality of the conversation was ominous in and of itself.

  “We’re making a timeline,” said Ruth. There was a notebook open on her lap.

  I wrinkled my nose. “Of what?”

  “Of where we last saw her,” Ruth said. She cleared her throat. “Joan said she might’ve seen her going into Compline on Sunday evening. But she’s not sure. It may have been Sister Benedict.” She looked at Joan, and Joan nodded, her eyes downcast.

  I yanked off my hat; my ears and cheeks were blazing. “No,” I said. “She definitely wasn’t in chapel on Sunday.” I pulled my hat through my hand and seized it at the end so the fluff of the bobble rested in my fist. “I was looking for her—” The girls looked at me, then quickly among themselves.

  “You’re sure?” said Ruth.

  “I’m certain,” I said. “I’d hoped to ask her a question. About gardening.”

  Ruth held my gaze, pursing her lips and nodding.

  I had been looking for Sister Teresa because of Isabella. I’d wanted to inspect her expression. Would she be mad? Upset? I was sure I’d know when I saw her face. But she never turned up. I’d been relieved. I thought it meant she was sulking in the convent, that she wouldn’t be likely to confront Isabella straightaway.

  Ruth was still scribbling. I tried to read her handwriting upside down. What was she writing? Why had I said that, about the gardening? I tried desperately to think of a gardening question, in case one of the girls quizzed me. About roots? About root vegetables?

  “Is Isabella awake?” Ruth looked up from her notebook.

  On the page, I saw now, was a list of names. They weren’t in any discernible order, but I could see my own name and Isabella’s name near the bottom.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I was out.” I shook my hat in my hands. It now seemed a disadvantage that I’d been out, that I was late to join the investigation.

  “You’ve been out already?�
�� Joan glanced toward the clock on the mantelpiece.

  “Yes, me and Nancy. She’s downstairs.” I was happy to turn the attention over to Nancy and give me time to rouse Isabella. I took a step backward toward the door. “I should go and fetch Isabella. Tell her.”

  Ruth gave me a sympathetic smile. “Of course—go ahead, Bridget.”

  She was so clearly enjoying this. Sitting up all primly with her list and her pencil, like the official academy notary. As if I needed her dispensation to talk to my best friend. I didn’t acknowledge her smile; instead I turned and went quickly down the corridor to Isabella’s room. A sliver of light shone under her door, so I knocked and she said, “Yes?” in a gravelly early-morning voice.

  Isabella was propped up on her pillows reading a Georgette Heyer novel. She was wearing her glasses, her hair tied up roughly at the top of her head so a few rogue strands flopped over the side of her face. She looked so silly and ruffled, I smiled despite myself.

  “Hey,” she said, putting her book down. “So what’s all the fuss about? I’ve been listening to tramping and coming and going and whispering for hours. Is someone finally knocked up?”

  I stepped closer to the end of the bed and wrung my hat. The muscles in my stomach clenched. Isabella was only going to get worked up. Maybe even worried. And I’d have to talk to her about Sister Teresa. I’d have to hear her talking about Sister Teresa.

  “Well?”

  “No, it’s just—”

  “Why are you dressed?” She took off her glasses and yawned.

  “I was out,” I said. “Anyway, listen—there’s something I need to tell you.”

  She frowned, sliding the book onto her nightstand.

  “Sister Teresa—no one can find her.”

  Her head tilted back, giving her a slight double chin. “What do you mean, no one can find her?”

  “She’s—well, she wasn’t in chapel on Sunday, and no one has seen her since then.” I stared at a darn in her sheets. “Do you know where she is?”

  Isabella glanced at her watch. “She’ll be at the laundry by now, surely?”

  “So you have seen her?” I felt strangely triumphant, like I’d caught her in a lie.

  “No, I mean, not today. But this is ridiculous.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed. Pulling the tie out of her hair, she shook it down and ran her fingers through the kink it had left.

  “Why?” I said. “When did you last see her?” Conflicting emotions tugged at me. I wanted Isabella to have seen Sister Teresa, because then we could all stop talking about her. But I also hoped they hadn’t spoken yet. I needed more time to prepare an excuse for mentioning her engagement.

  “I guess I last saw her Sunday afternoon.”

  An acrid sort of triumph gurgled in my stomach. I knew all about Sunday afternoon. And they were both too stupid to even know they’d been caught. “And not since then?”

  Isabella shrugged. “Sometimes she’s busy for a couple of days, Briddie. She has things to do, you know.”

  “It seems Ruth—”

  “Ruth? What’s she got to do with anything?” Isabella stood up and pulled her robe from behind the door. As she came closer to me I could smell the warm, musty sleepiness of her body.

  “She’s trying to figure out— Look, shall we go to the common room? The others know more than I do.”

  “But this is stupid,” she said as she opened the door, tiptoeing down the corridor since the floors were cold. She minced to the edge of the common room carpet. “So, what’s going on?” she said, tapping Joan on her hip until she shuffled off and gave Isabella the seat. I followed, lingering by the doorway.

  “It’s Sister Teresa,” said Joan, talking over Ruth and winning by force of volume. “She’s gone.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Isabella said irritably.

  “No one has seen her since Sunday. Donna Maria said she didn’t go to chapel this morning.”

  Donna Maria’s name made things crystallize. Suddenly, it was more serious than a common room game. The back of my neck prickled. Could something truly have happened to her?

  Isabella licked her lips. “Has anyone checked her room?”

  “Donna Maria went. She said the bed wasn’t slept in.”

  Isabella opened her mouth and closed it again. She started chewing her thumbnail. “But she probably just left really early?”

  “Donna—”

  “This is ridiculous,” said Katherine, interrupting. “Let’s just get Donna Maria up here and ask her ourselves.”

  Isabella looked at me. Then the others were looking at me.

  “Me?” I said, affronted I’d been designated the errand girl. And yet, there I was, standing by the doorway.

  “Would you mind?” said Ruth.

  “And get Nancy, too, while you’re at it,” said Isabella.

  “And some coffee,” said Katherine. Joan laughed, and although I knew it to be a joke I shot them both a frigid look.

  Nancy was talking with Donna Maria on the threadbare chairs in the lobby. From the staircase, I caught the words “Father Gavanto,” “hospital.” I hovered until Donna Maria noticed me and her expression shifted from concern to a tired pretense of cheerfulness. Like I was a kid, bugging them in the middle of an adult discussion to show off a finger painting.

  “Do you think—the others have asked—could we check with Donna Maria about Sister Teresa? It would help, maybe, if we got everyone together,” I said to Nancy, blushing and feeling ashamed of my meekness.

  Nancy turned to Donna Maria and asked her in Italian, and Donna Maria nodded.

  “Are the girls up in the common room?”

  “Yes.” I smiled weakly. “There’s a sort of summit meeting going on. It would help, maybe, if we could get everyone together to answer questions.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Good thought,” she said.

  And my blush faded, because now it was my idea to collect everyone together.

  * * *

  Donna Maria and Nancy followed me up the dingy staircase to the common room. Mary B. rose from her chair and gestured for Donna Maria to take it. Nancy stood on the other side of her.

  “Thanks—oh, thank you, Bridget,” Ruth said, turning to me with a grateful smile. I suppose she was smart enough to know her moment of power would only hold up for as long as we tolerated her being in charge. I went to stand by the fire even though I was already too warm dressed in Nancy’s jacket.

  “What does Donna Maria think?” said Isabella, looking at Nancy rather than Donna Maria.

  “Why don’t you ask her yourself?” Nancy said pointedly.

  “Please, Nance,” Greta said softly. “None of us are as good at Italian as you. And we don’t want to misunderstand something.”

  “Fine,” Nancy said. “Donna Maria is a bit concerned.”

  At her name, Donna Maria tipped her face up to look at Nancy.

  “She says no one has seen Sister Teresa since Sunday afternoon. She was definitely in the convent then, but she didn’t come to chapel on Monday or Tuesday. And Donna Maria says she hasn’t been to her room today either.”

  There was a moment of silence. We all looked at each other. Now that an adult, a real adult, had confirmed it, the room was bristling with nerves.

  “She’s really missing?” I said.

  “Yes, Bridget,” Ruth said with some astonishment.

  I dug my fingernails into my palms. The girls were always launching inquisitions about lost earrings and mislaid fountain pens. How was I supposed to know when it was something really real? My stomach scrunched and tumbled, and an acid taste rose at the back of my throat.

  “But—but maybe she’s been going out early and coming back late?” Isabella asked. She had taken a pillow from the armchair and was holding it against her stomach.

 
Nancy shook her head. “Apparently she should’ve collected the garbage pails yesterday evening, but they haven’t been emptied. Donna Maria says Sister Teresa would never have forgotten.”

  The room fell silent again as we all assimilated this.

  “You don’t think”—Isabella swallowed—“she could have had an accident or something? She’s always walking around by herself.”

  I pictured Sister Teresa trapped in a pile of rubble. A part of the ceiling in the spa fallen through, and she lay crushed under the bricks. Her cap fallen off, exposing her as Rosaria. Isabella, kneeling by her side, wailing with grief. Sweat began to trickle under my collar and I edged away from the fireplace.

  Nancy sighed. “Look, let’s get Elena and Signor Moretti, and I’ll ring Signor Patrizi. We won’t get carried away.”

  “Signor Moretti and Elena went to Terrato for the Easter festival,” said Barbie. Her face was ashen.

  Nancy chewed her lip. “Well, we can get Signor Patrizi at least.”

  “And we should ask the sisters,” said Ruth.

  “But. They. Can’t. Talk,” said Katherine.

  “If ever there’s a time to start speaking—,” Sylvia was saying.

  “OK,” said Nancy, and since everyone just kept bickering, she said it again. “OK. I’ll call Signor Patrizi, and I’ll ask Donna Maria to speak to the sisters. They can write, you know, girls. They’d have written a note if something was up.” She offered her hand to Donna Maria, who blinked at the hand and then around the room.

  “And,” Nancy continued as we began to talk over each other. “And someone should go to La Pentola and get Father Gavanto.”

  “I’ll go,” said Mary B. and Joan at the same time.

  I looked at Isabella. She was picking at the button in the center of the cushion. I went and touched her arm. She stood but shrugged me off, keeping hold of the pillow.

  “Are you OK?” I said, following as she walked back to her room.