The Lantern, a Renaissance Mystery

by Joanne Lewis

  After her last prison stint, she had been placed on probation and ordered to complete a drug program. Upon graduation from the six-month program, she had entered a halfway house. Claiming she had no money, she had no choice where she was placed. Living on a block with daily drive by shootings for the last three months hadn’t been worse than anything else she had endured since Grandpa Raj’s death on the day she began her prison sentence.

  It hadn’t been her first time in prison. The first time was before Buddy was born. She knew the rules, how to get along with the guards and how to avoid the bullies. But this time, knowing she’d never see Grandpa Raj again and being away from Buddy, had made each day of her sentence unbearable. Except for visits from the Renaissance girl. She gave Filippa hope.

  Her muscles tensed from the sounds of a bullhorn and curse ladened lyrics. A pickup truck barreled down the street, toward her. Finally clean, she was going to die in a spray of bullets meant for somebody else. Isn’t that how it always happened? One line in a newspaper would identify her as being caught in the crossfire. She wondered who would miss her. She had no blood relations she knew of. Julio and Buddy were her only family. She had friends from the program but not real friends. More like acquaintances.

  “Hey, Baby. You’re looking fine.” Julio yelled through the open passenger window of the pickup. He shut off the rap music and hit the bullhorn again.

  Filippa jumped.

  Julio laughed, looked her up, then down. “Damn, Chica. Muy caliente. God definitely loves you.”

  She stepped off the curb. “Where’s Buddy?”

  “Sorry, Mami.” Julio ran his hand through his thick dark hair. “He couldn’t make it. Get in.”

  She hesitated. She didn’t want to get in his truck. She didn’t want to be subjected once more to his proselytizing arrogance. She didn’t want to go back to his shop where she would work at a greasy desk handling filthy money and side stepping butt slaps, dirty jokes and come ons. She didn’t want to return to the put downs, to the beatings. She didn’t want to go back to his bed although she had to admit, Julio looked good. Still handsome, still long and lean.

  She looked up and down the street again. A ratty Impala bounced along the potholed road, its chassis raised high over its wheels, angry lyrics spewing from open windows. The driver waggled his tongue at her as he drove past.

  “Get in,” Julio repeated.

  “I thought Buddy was going to be with you.”

  “You know how teenagers are. Remember when we were teenagers? Man, we used to get it on, didn’t we? Let’s go. I have to get back to the garage.”

  “I don’t know.” She looked down the street as if it held the answers to her future.

  “Give me a fucking break.”

  She stepped on to the curb. “I just thought Buddy would be with you.” She spoke softly, more to herself.

  “Well he’s not, Chica,” Julio barked. “You won’t get in. Fine.” He took off.

  The smell of burning rubber rose from the street. Smoke pillowed from the muffler. Two blocks away, the pickup made a u-turn on screeching tires. Julio braked hard in front of where Filippa stood on the curb. His arm hung out the driver’s window. He reached for her. She took a step back.

  “God loves you, Filippa. Please get in.”

  She looked down the street again.

  Julio shut off the engine and stepped out. He took her hand and kissed her on the lips. “You smell good.” He nuzzled his nose against her cheek.

  “Don’t.” She pulled her hand away.

  “Look, I didn’t want to tell you this today but remember I said Buddy was getting headaches.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s sick. Okay? Buddy is sick and that’s why he’s not here.”

  “What do you mean sick?”

  “Sick, like he’s not well, like really sick.”

  “Is it his asthma?”

  “No. C’mon,” he grabbed her wrist, “let’s go.”

  She shook her arm free. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s wrong with Buddy.”

  “Are you sure you want to know? I’m not talking about some flu.”

  “I’m positive.”

  Julio hesitated, then spit out, “He has cancer.”

  “Are you serious?”

  His face turned red, his words sprayed her like venom. “Would I lie about something like that?”

  Filippa pondered his question. Would Julio lie about his son having cancer?

  Seven-year-old Filippa firmly held her grandfather’s hand as he led her through the crowded lobby of the Fontainebleau Hotel on Miami Beach. Grandpa Raj nodded at the pretty women and handsome men who wore stylish clothes and looked at him with reverence. Filippa knew he was an important man, she just didn’t know why.

  “Frank,” Grandpa Raj held out his hand.

  The skinny, dapper man whose blue eyes sparkled, and whose chiseled face was beautiful like a girl, warmly took Grandpa Raj’s hand and patted him on the back.

  “You remember my granddaughter, Filippa.”

  “Of course.” Frank bowed in front of her. “How are you, gorgeous? I see you got your red hair from your grandfather.”

  Filippa blushed. The man smelled like one of Grandpa’s cigars.

  Two women wearing bikini tops and very short shorts stood nearby, clinging to each other, pointing at Frank and giggling. Frank winked and the girls sighed.

  “You singing tonight?” Grandpa Raj asked.

  “Sure am. Have to justify that Penthouse suite.”

  “Mr. Sinatra,” one of the girls called, her voice shaky.

  “See you later, Doc. The public waits.” He sashayed to the girls and put his hands around their waists.

  Filippa wasn’t sure why Grandpa was called Doc or Doctor, although he had explained it by saying he had a degree—a PH something. It didn’t matter. To her, he was Grandpa Raj most of the time. Dr. Rajah at story time.

  As they headed up in an elevator, Grandpa Raj got down on one knee. He straightened her pink dress then held her hands. “Don’t forget what I told you. Sit quietly. Don’t talk to anyone. When we’re done, we’ll get dessert and Dr. Rajah will tell you a story.”

  She knew the routine. Wait for Grandpa Raj like a good girl while he talks to a man in private. Then, go to The Rascal House on Collins Avenue and eat black and white cookies and drink egg creams while Dr. Rajah tells her another story of Ellie the Elephant’s adventures.

  In the elevator, Filippa counted the dings. At the eleventh one, the elevator coasted to a stop. The doors opened and they walked to the end of the hallway. A fat man let them in. The room was enormous, maybe as big as their house. Grandpa Raj pointed to a couch where she sat next to a dark-skinned boy. Grandpa and the other man went into a room and closed the door.

  Filippa looked at the brown boy. “What’s your name?”

  “No hablo Ingles,” the boy said.

  “Me llamo Filippa.”

  “Me llamo Julio. Mucho gusto.”

  Filippa hoped he wouldn’t say anything else because she didn’t know any other Spanish words, except for a few bad words Grandpa’s friends had taught her.

  Julio looked around the room as if to make sure they were alone. He jumped off the couch, opened a cabinet and returned with a tall bottle without a label. Julio unscrewed the top and tipped it into his mouth. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and held out the bottle for Filippa. She smelled the brown liquid and winced. It was sweet and powerful, like nothing she had ever sniffed before. Just smelling it made her nostrils tingle.

  “Quieres?” Julio asked.

  She hesitated.

  “You chicken?”

  “I thought you didn’t speak English,” she said.

  “I thought you were hip.”

  Filippa grabbed the bottle and chugged, the liquor burning her throat then warming her belly. She handed it back to Julio who took another gulp then kissed her on the cheek.

  “Cuban Rum,” he
said. “If my Papi knew we were drinking this, he’d kill us.”

  “Then we shouldn’t drink it.”

  Julio smiled. “You sure are square. How old are you?”

  “Seven.”

  “I’m fourteen.” He took another swig. “You like older men?”

  Filippa looked at him, confused. Of course she liked older men and younger men and boys and girls and elephants and everyone. Her head spun. Her stomach churned. The room twisted like Grandpa Raj’s lava lamp. Julio’s face stretched and distorted then regained its original shape. He was saying something, his face close to hers. She didn’t know what language he was speaking. He tipped the bottle into her mouth. Brown liquid flooded her tongue, burned her teeth, and scorched her throat. He kissed her. The kiss felt nice. His lips were thick and warm. Then she felt his tongue push her lips apart. Their tongues touched and she pushed him away and burst with laughter. What a funny thing to do—touch tongues. She couldn’t stop laughing. Her sides hurt. Her nose dripped. Everything Julio said was funny, or maybe he said nothing at all. She didn’t know. Didn’t care. Whatever he was doing or saying or whatever, whatever, he was hilarious.

  She felt weak and shaky. Then pressure on her head, around her arms and between her legs. She lay back on the couch and laughed until her body was thrown into the air, soaring like a seagull over Biscayne Bay.

  The fat man smacked Julio. The bottle flew from his hands and crashed into a sliding glass door, shattering into pieces. The fat man hit him again, sent him reeling off the couch, across the room, into the cabinet.

  Strong arms cradled Filippa. She recognized his smell of a freshly smoked cigar. Grandpa Raj clutched her to his chest.

  “I’m a tiny little baby,” she laughed and laughed and laughed as Grandpa Raj carried her away.

  “I’m not lying,” Julio stood next to her on the sidewalk. “Buddy has cancer in his brain.”

  “He’s only fourteen,” Filippa muttered.

  “I know. I didn’t want to tell you like this, it being your birthday and all, and Valentine’s Day too. I thought I’d wait until tomorrow. Here, I got this for you.” He pulled a chocolate bar from his shorts pocket. “Hershey’s. Your favorite.”

  Filippa took the brown rectangular package. It mushed in her hand.

  “C’mon, let’s go home. Buddy is really excited to see you.”

  She hesitated still. What if Julio was lying? What if he wasn’t sick? But she couldn’t take a chance. If Buddy were really ill, she would have to be with him. Her original plans of spending time with Buddy then going to Italy to find the Renaissance girl would have to change.

  Filippa threw the duffle on to the floorboard then climbed into the passenger side of the pickup, the chocolate bar a ball in her fist. Julio jumped in and squeezed her knee. He turned the key, shifted into drive and pounced on the accelerator. Filippa’s head flew back. She pulled the seatbelt on and adjusted the bag between her feet. She wedged the chocolate in a slot in the passenger door.

  “Tell me more about Buddy. When was he diagnosed? What do the doctors say?”

  “Later, Cielo. Remember, it’s your birthday. I’m so proud of you, baby. You’re going to do it this time, right?”

  She nodded. Her words caught somewhere between her heart and her throat.

  “We’ll get you back to work at the shop. And you’ll start going to my church. Father Lorenzo is anxious to work with you. It’s Monday so we can go to Bible study tonight and every Sunday for services. Choir practice is Tuesdays and Thursdays.” He smiled broadly as they entered the on ramp to the highway. “We’ll stay on track this time.”

  “It’s not we. You’ve been clean for twenty years. It’s me.”

  “Me and Buddy are going to help you.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not working at the garage. I’m not living with you unless Buddy needs me. And I am not going to church.”

  “Okay, okay. Stay calm. You can go to AA meetings and work with your sponsor and when you’re ready, you can go to Sunday services.”

  “Juli, did you hear me? I’m not going back to the life I left.”

  “Chica, you have no choice. You didn’t finish high school. You’re a two-time felon. You know what happens if you get three strikes. And with your record, no one’s going to hire you.”

  She looked out the window. I-95 rolled under them.

  “I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” she said.

  “Me too. But if you give yourself to God, all will be forgiven.”

  “If only Grandpa Raj was still here …”

  “Follow the voice of the Lord and He will reunite you with Grandpa Raj. He will give you salvation and save you from an afterlife in hell. Filippa,” Julio grabbed her hand, “pray with me. You are in limbo. You must accept Christ. You are not alone.”

  She pulled her hand away. “Don’t you get it? I am alone. Everyone leaves me. My mother killed herself the day I was born. I never met my father. Grandpa Raj died on me. You left me when you married her and had Buddy. I love Buddy like he’s my own son but you only came back to me after Buddy’s mother skipped town. Even God has left me. I have no one. I have nothing but what’s in here.” She gripped the duffel. “Please tell me Buddy isn’t really sick.”

  “I wish I could. Look, everything’s going to be different this time. I promise.”

  Filippa tuned him out, touched the side of her right eye and winced. The pain was long gone, along with the marks. But the emotional scars were still there, would always be there. When Julio had quit drinking and doing drugs, she had thought everything was going to be different. It didn’t take long for her to learn that his abuse was not alcohol or drug related. She and Buddy had bonded during the worst moments of Julio’s wrath.

  She recalled the last time Julio had struck her. He hadn’t liked how she had stacked the dishes in the dishwasher. She had run out of the house but didn’t remember anything else. Not getting in her car and driving. Not buying a case of beer and drinking and driving until her eyes lost focus and the road became a blur. Not the accident. Still doesn’t remember. She only knew a little boy named Roman had died. She pled guilty and spent over five years in prison for DUI Manslaughter.

  “And besides,” Julio was still speaking, “you have no family, no money, no skills, nothing. You need me. God and I forgive you for your sins.”

  As Julio continued to speak, to lecture, to preach, Filippa felt the coarse fabric of the duffel between the thick pads of her fingers. She thought of its contents.

  Her clothes.

  Her passport, obtained in one of the many moments when she had been determined to escape Julio but had failed to do so. Always afraid to leave Buddy. Always believing Julio when he had said no one else would love her. She would be dead, face down in the gutter without him.

  Grandpa Raj’s death certificate.

  A black composition book, its cover speckled white, its pages frayed and filled with Grandpa Raj’s long hand elegant writing.

  Grandpa Raj’s worn copy of Giorgio Vasari’s Lives of the Artists.

  Grandpa Raj’s English to Italian, Italian to English dictionary.

  Yellowed newspaper articles with rolled edges.

  Letters—some typed and official looking and others handwritten.

  Sketches of Filippa Village, the blissful place she had dreamed of since childhood that she would design.

  A tattered and stuffed Ellie the Elephant—her childhood companion.

  As Julio steered the pickup off the interstate, her heart pounded more quickly as she knew she was closer to seeing Buddy. Did he really have brain cancer? If true, she would feel devastated for Buddy, for herself, but also disappointed about delaying her trip to Italy. She had been planning it since Grandpa Raj had overdosed on the day she began her prison sentence. But if Buddy were sick, staying in Opa Locka with him would be worth it. Worth everything. She could go to Italy another time. The Renaissance girl would understand.

  She pictured one of the two remaining
items in the duffel. A modern Italian periodical on architectural history with a photo of Brunelleschi’s dome on the cover, Giotto’s bell tower slightly out-of-focus in the foreground. The magazine was dated seven years before Grandpa Raj’s death and announced an on going contest that would not end until someone presented credible proof of a girl who was believed to have sketched the first skyscraper and cantilevers. What was so remarkable was that this girl was thought to have lived in Florence, Italy in the fifteenth century. Grandpa Raj had been positive the same girl who had dared to enter the competition to build the lantern on top of Brunelleschi’s dome had also created the first skyscraper with cantilevers. The prize was equal to one million American dollars.

  Grandpa Raj had been a professor at Flamingo College in Miami and an architectural historian. It had been his dream to find this girl—Filippa’s Renaissance girl—not only to win the contest and the money but also to gain tenure. Grandpa Raj had always believed she existed, had told Filippa about her when she was small, and had always felt frustrated when his peers mocked him and said no such girl had lived. But Grandpa Raj was positive and had vowed to go to Florence where documents were well preserved from the fifteenth century to get the evidence, to win the contest, to prove his colleagues wrong.

  Filippa wondered if she was ever found. Had the money ever been collected? Was the competition still on after all this time? Had the true identity of the Renaissance girl been revealed?

  Filippa stuck her hand in the duffel and felt for the last item. Yes, still there. A sack filled with ten thousand dollars in cash. She felt proud she had been able to save this money through all the years and not blown it up her nose. On the day she began her prison sentence, the stack of one hundred dollar bills was inventoried and placed in a locker. She was shocked and pleased when upon her release she received all of her belongings from the locker and the money was still there. And somehow she had been able to keep it hidden while in the drug program and again at the halfway house. This money was her mortar. Along with Buddy and the Renaissance girl, a constant in her life. She knew she had held on to it for a reason. She just didn’t know why.