by April Smith
“I notice you don’t have security.”
Nicosa reacts as if he’d never considered it. “No security?”
“Do you have an alarm system? I don’t see one.” I gesture toward the cloistered yard, apparently unchanged since 1132. “You’re isolated, with access from every direction. Forgive me.” I smile. “You asked what I do in Los Angeles? I sell home security systems.”
When making up a false identity on the spot, it is best to stick to something you know.
“We’ll have to talk about that,” he promises.
I exchange a look with Cecilia, expecting a conspiratorial smile in return for keeping my ties to the Bureau a secret, but she lowers her eyes, unwilling to connect.
Inside the family quarters is the layered smell of old fires. The floorboards creak as we enter what used to be a small chapel, with pale stone walls curving toward the ceiling like hands steepled in prayer. The room has been modernized with milk-white couches and a flat-screen TV. In a niche that must have once held a statue, someone has placed a miniature wine cask. High in the vaulted ceiling is a tiny six-paned window, the only source of natural light. I imagine that if the chrome lamps weren’t shining, throwing a warm glow into the corners, it would be black as a closet in here.
We pass through a huge dining hall where naked plywood tables and folding chairs are stacked—before or after a party, or maybe always at the ready. The windows have been jazzed up with embroidered curtains, and one whole wall is a cupboard for china. The kitchen is cavernous, but it is the kitchen of a working family. A funnel-shaped brick fireplace dominates, with well-used iron grills. Do they actually cook over an open fire? There is also, of course, a gourmet range in stainless steel, and a pair of fancy refrigerators. Track lighting looks down on a ten-foot granite island with built-in sinks for preparing the baskets of tomatoes and baby zucchini, great bunches of sage and basil and loaves of bread that are making me faint with hunger.
Still in heels and the silk dress, Cecilia trades the doctor’s coat for an apron, refusing offers of help.
“No, no. You relax. I hope your ride on the bus was okay. Giovanni picked you up?”
“Everything was fine. He said he had been studying—seems like a good kid.”
“We are proud of him. He is going to carry the flag for our contrada during Palio. It’s an honor. They always pick the most handsome young man.” She caresses Nicosa’s cheek. “It used to be his father. Still is.”
Nicosa removes Cecilia’s hand and kisses her palm with the passing intimacy of a long marriage. “Where is Giovanni?” he asks.
“He’s at soccer. After school he practices the flag, and then soccer,” she tells me with a smile. “Busy schedule.”
“We had a nice talk.” I describe our conversation about his love for Siena.
“That’s more than we talk to Giovanni in a week,” marvels Nicosa.
Cecilia says, “He likes to talk in the car.”
“Or shopping. He’ll quote Dante if you buy him a pair of tennis shoes.”
Cecilia frowns, retrieving a melon from the window, swinging her hips around the kitchen in sensual display; just like Nicosa, she’s sexual and distant at the same time.
“You’re making him out to be a brat. He is not a brat,” Cecilia says.
“I would never say that about my son! He’s a good student and stays out of trouble; what more can we ask? Do you need me to cut the prosciutto?”
“Non ora. Fra un pò.”
“Voglio vedere Giovanni giocare.”
“Va bène.”
Her husband leaves, and Cecilia lets out a sigh that probably says more than she would like me to know at this point. Her demeanor is guarded. Despite the excited welcome, she is hovering on the other side of the island and keeping her eyes on the food prep, as if to maintain a distance while evaluating the stranger in her kitchen.
“Nicoli wants to see a little of Giovanni’s practice,” she says. “We will have something to eat in a minute. I would have met you at the bus, but we had to perform an emergency C-section.”
“Mom and baby okay?”
“The baby will have some problems,” she says, ending the discussion.
I try to let things unwind as if I really were just a long-lost relation. There are moments of awkward silence. She takes a bowl from the refrigerator and starts dipping zucchini blossoms into a batter she must have prepared between surgeries. I thought I was efficient. But these are petty thoughts. This is an industrious woman who is also a publicly betrayed wife. Despite all that, she and her husband seem to be—wildly and improbably—in love. It makes me see that Sterling and I are still way at the beginning.
“Do you think Nicoli bought my story about selling security systems?”
“Sounded good to me,” she says. “Do you really?”
“When I was on the robbery squad at the FBI, I used to collect the tapes from the surveillance cameras in banks. It’s about as technical as popping out a CD.”
“Don’t worry; Nicoli wasn’t paying attention.”
“But you’re still afraid to tell him I’m an agent.”
“Not afraid. It’s just not a good time. He’s sensitive about politics.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Not at all,” Cecilia answers in a reserved tone, confirming my sense that we have taken several steps back from the warmth of our initial contact. “Tell me about you. Are you married? Do you have children?”
“No children, married to the job.” Don’t push it. We have time. “How did you find out about me in the first place?”
“I first heard your name when I was a child. My father told us that we had a relative in America named Ana, and if we ever wanted to meet her, we must work hard in school so we could visit. I never knew if you were real or something he invented so we’d get good grades. Who in your family came from El Salvador?”
A delicate aroma of dough sizzling in olive oil arises from a large copper skillet.
“My father. His name was Miguel Sanchez.”
Cecilia freezes on the spot, still gripping a slotted spoon. “Your father was Miguel Sanchez? I didn’t realize he was your father.”
“What did you think?”
She fumbles. “I thought maybe he was an uncle or a cousin and that you and I were distantly related. But, Ana, he is my father, too.”
I am not impressed. “Seriously, it’s a common name.”
“Yes, it is a common name,” she snaps impatiently. “But for him to speak of a girl named Ana in America? That is too much of a coincidence. Did you know he was from the town of Cojutepueque?”
“I thought it was called La Palma, but that could be wrong.”
Cecilia has put down the spoon and turned off the stove.
“It’s in the mountains, thirty-five minutes from the capital, San Salvador. My mother was Eulalia. Together they owned a fish market. It started out as a space in the mercado but eventually they bought three stalls. She ended up running it because Papa wasn’t always there. He was often in America.”
“Where in America?”
“Nobody knew. At times he would send money, so maybe that’s why she tolerated his absence. He would come and go. Then one day he never came back.”
“Do you have a photo of him?”
“Somewhere.”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t remember what he looked like. He died when I was five, and my grandfather threw out all the pictures.”
Cecilia is shocked. “He died?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“How?”
I hesitate. “Are you sure you want to know?” She nods. “He was murdered.”
“Did they ever find the killer?”
“No. The case was never pursued. In fact, there never was a case.”
“Capito. Because he was a Spanish man, in the country illegally.”
I don’t answer.
Cecilia brushes moist eyes. “We never knew what happened to him,” she murmurs.
“I was a teenager when he left for good.”
“This is crazy.”
“My mother told me that he had a wife in America.”
I remember the day I found the marriage certificate in a bank vault in Santa Monica, California, after my own mother died, proving that she had been married to Miguel Sanchez. Her relationship with a brown-skinned immigrant was the cause of my California grandfather’s lifelong rage at both of us (she, the whore; me, the half-breed), and why my mother and I stuck together, afraid of his explosive fits. I suppose I’m still fighting the bad guys because I couldn’t fight Poppy. Now the sudden recollection of my mother—for some reason, that damn worn apron made of soiled, quilted squares that had seen a hundred meat loaves and pans of brownies, which she would never replace because it was good enough—makes me soften with longing for her comforting presence, taken away too soon.
“This woman in America,” I press. “Did you know her name?”
“It was a strange name. Like a princess in a fairy tale.”
“Was it Gwen?”
My mother’s name. The recognition is instantaneous. Miguel Sanchez’s other wife. We stare at each other.
Oh my God!
“We are half sisters!”
We embrace, embarrassed, giddy.
“What do we do?” Cecilia’s brown eyes are wide.
“I don’t know!” I laugh. “Make dinner?”
Cecilia throws a cold stare at the assemblage of dishes as if about to sweep it all aside.
“We should be making Salvadoran food!”
“What is Salvadoran food?”
“You’ve never had pupusas?” she cries. “Living in Los Angeles? Corn tortillas stuffed with pork? Next time I will cook them for you.”
Our chatter becomes animated as we compare childhoods—what we wore to school, friendships, crushes, restrictions, dating, church. I cut the melon and remove the rind. Cecilia takes a package from a cabinet near the cold stone floor. Sliding the burlap wrapping away, she reveals a dark pink hunk of prosciutto, which she slices with the practiced care of a surgeon. Moments later, crescents of bright orange melon and transparent feathers of prosciutto are arranged on a platter. We lay linen on the table, set the silverware and pasta bowls. She minces garlic, lemon zest, and parsley with precise, aware movements; not hurried, not dismissive, not just throwing something in the microwave, and I try to slow down and follow the rhythm of her lead.
Nicosa returns with Giovanni, who is fresh from the field of battle—pink-cheeked, with muddied legs and reddened knees, his hair as soaking wet as if it had just rained.
“Cosa è sucesso?” Nicosa asks, sensing that something is going on in the kitchen besides pasta with cherry tomatoes.
“We just found out we are sisters,” Cecilia announces.
“È vero? Really?”
“Half sisters,” I murmur awkwardly, still not used to the idea. “Same father, different mothers. Different countries.”
“We are sisters!” Cecilia declares. “There are no halves.”
Giovanni gives me a sweaty hug. “You are my aunt!” He grins.
“You understand why this happened?” Nicosa demands. “Because it is Palio.”
Giovanni’s cheeks flush. I expect a cynical teenage reply, but instead he cries, “It’s true!”
“They say that in July and August the people of Siena go mad from the heat, and that is when they have the Palio. You must understand the Palio is not just a race,” Nicosa explains, serious as a priest. “It is a time of analysis that arouses deep emotions. You abandon cowardice and embrace action. You defeat death and create life. The city is like a hole in time, every monument and painting in Siena possessing a symbol or a secret code that brings us back into the past. Show your aunt the famous Magic Square.”
Obediently, Giovanni grabs a scratch pad and with dirt-stained fingers spells out the letters:
SATOR
AREPO
TENET
OPERA
ROTAS
“It’s a Latin puzzle that can be read in every direction,” Giovanni says, excitedly. “See how the word tenet forms a cross? This mystery”—he taps the pad—“is written on the wall of our own church, the Duomo.”
Not for the first time since I have come to the abbey, I feel a chill.
“What does it mean?”
“ ‘God holds the plow, but you turn the furrows,’ ” Giovanni says.
I look quizzically at my new sister, staring at the letters over my new nephew’s shoulder. “What does that mean?”
“There are two types of fate,” Cecilia replies. “The actions of God, and our own responsibility for our lives. Two kinds of fate have brought us together.”
Nicosa pops the cork on a cold bottle of Prosecco. “Welcome to the family. Salute.”
We four touch glasses.
“Congratulations, Giovanni,” I say.
“Why?”
“For holding the flag in the parade. Your mom says it’s a big deal.”
“Oh.” He blushes. “Grazie.”
“It’s not simply that he holds it”—Cecilia begins, but Nicosa stops her by encircling her waist and stage-whispering in her ear.
“Shhh. She will see.”
“Okay, caro.” Cecilia smiles and lifts her mouth to be kissed.
But now we have a problem.
I am leaning against the pillows on the sweet-pea bed, on the phone with Dennis Rizzio.
“She’s not just a relative,” I say, covering my legs with the cashmere throw. “She’s my sister. Her son is my nephew. How can I do this?”
“Did you and Ms. Nicosa grow up together?” he demands, a crackling New York counterpunch. “Did you two share a crib? You know this lady less than twenty-four hours. You know nothing about her. She’s a blank slate.”
“I can tell you that she needs me. Why else would she want me here? She’s clear about not letting her husband know I’m FBI—she’s trying to walk some kind of a line. I don’t know what it is, except there’s fear and desperation that she thinks only someone close, like a sister, would understand. I feel a responsibility toward that. Also to the case.” I’m worrying the fringes on the blanket. “I hope I can do both.”
“Trust me, she’s not a real sister. Your sister is the one who makes you drive three hours on the Long Island Expressway because it’s Mother’s Day and she doesn’t want to come to you. She’s a bossy pain in the ass you have to tolerate because she’s your sister, because if you don’t, your brother, who can’t stand her either, is gonna get mad. You and Cecilia Nicosa have nothing like that. No obligations, which is good. So don’t jump to conclusions.”
“I think she’s still testing me.”
“Why do you suppose she doesn’t want her husband to know you’re Bureau? Because he’s up to his neck in cocaine, and she knows it, and she wants her and the kid out. That’s her agenda. Nothing has changed,” Rizzio insists. “You’re in an ideal position. She reached out to you, remember? Like you say, she wants your help.”
I find myself relaxing back into the pillows. The tension escapes with a sigh—I am back inside my comfort zone. Dennis is right. Let me do what I’m good at: pretending to be who I’m not. Put aside these notions of what family is supposed to be and accomplish the task.
“You’re more of a help to Cecilia as an agent who can get her out of there than as some bogus half sister. What does that mean, anyway? History. Words on paper.”
Right, I think, wanting to be convinced. My loyalty is to the mission.
“Caught a break in the London attack,” Dennis is saying. “Are you interested?”
“Sure.”
In truth, I’m pretty well past the whole thing. It was literally another time in another country. Italy has absorbed my focus now.
“The Brits traced the vehicle identification number on the abandoned Ford in Aberdeen to Southall, West London. The original owner, Mr. Hafeez Khan, says he sold it to ‘a foreign type’ as a junker for five
hundred pounds cash. It had almost ninety thousand kilometers on it. No paperwork; the buyer takes the keys and drives away. The seller doesn’t even have a name.”
I squirm underneath the covers.
“So there’s no way to ID the guy?”
“Mr. Khan is sitting down with a police artist as we speak. It’ll be interesting if he comes up with a description of the same guy you saw in South Kensington.”
“How did he contact the buyer?”
“The car was sold on Craigslist. They met in a parking lot. Like I said, no paperwork, but Mr. Hafeez did keep one remnant of the transaction. He didn’t remember at first, but he still had the buyer’s phone number. Are you with me?”
“Barely.”
“Mr. Khan is a butcher, so what does he do? He writes the phone number of the guy who wants to buy his car on a piece of paper and sticks it on that nail where they put the receipts. The Met Police search his shop and it’s still there. You know that nail thing?”
“Yes, I do.” My eyes are closing.
“Just like they have in every New York deli. They have them in London, too. And this entire case could turn on it. One nail. I thought that was something.”
SEVEN
Cecilia decides to give a party in my honor. It will be outdoors by torchlight at the abbey, in the ruins of the original church. I guess this is why she keeps banquet tables stacked up in the dining room, ready to roll. Someone else will do the cooking, but the key ingredients have to be assembled according to Cecilia’s standards, from individual shopkeepers she’s known for twenty years in the district of the noble contrada of Oca in the heart of Siena.
Oca district is clearly marked by green and white silk with a crowned white goose flying from every building—as opposed to Oca’s blood enemy, Torre, the Tower, whose blue and burgundy banners, showing an elephant carrying a tower, warn that you are entering enemy territory. Just like gangland L.A., sporting the wrong colors in the wrong district during Palio is either a deliberate challenge or just plain stupid.
We are dutifully wearing Oca scarves, flowing capelike over the shoulders, as we haul string bags filled with groceries up the forty-five-degree incline of Arte della Lana; it’s barely ten in the morning, and my neck is prickly with perspiration. We turn a corner and the street drops to S. Andrea Gallerani in a heartbeat. Ahead is another rise. If you graphed it, our little shopping trip would look like a killer hills workout on a treadmill.
