Authors: Lisa Desrochers
He quirks a smile. “That it is.”
“So, I’m getting that your takeaway here is, you’re
not
Italian.”
“My father is Italian by heritage, but I grew up in New York, for the most part.”
“But . . . your accent . . .”
He winces for just a second, as if he’s self-conscious about it. “. . . Is a jumble. A product of speaking Italian as a child and living with my non-English-speaking grandparents as a teen.”
“They’re Italian?”
“French, actually.”
I just look at him.
“My mother’s family is from Corsica.” He clears his throat and crosses his legs, setting the book down and folding his hands over his knee. “But I’m quite certain Father Reynolds didn’t send you here to discuss my heritage.”
“He said I needed to talk to you about a project.” I lift my hand and wiggle my fingers. “You know . . . idle hands and all.”
He huffs a short laugh through his nose and leans back in his chair, studying me. It’s super awkward for a minute until he breaks the silence. “How many Hail Marys did you say he had you pray?”
“I didn’t.” I narrow my eyes at him. “So, do you have a project for me or not?”
He nods slowly. “I’m sure I can find something. But first, I need to know a little about you.”
“Such as?”
“Your name?”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Lexie Banks.”
“You’re American, yes?”
I roll my eyes. “Geez, what gave it away?” Maybe I shouldn’t be so nasty, but I feel myself getting really defensive. This whole thing is just so embarrassing, and if he asks what I did to get sent here . . .
“Why are you here?” And there it is, the question I’ve been dreading.
Instantly, the wall goes up and I can almost feel myself get pricklier. “I don’t really think that’s any of your business. I already confessed everything to Father Reynolds.”
An amused smile twitches his lips, but he fights it. “I meant in Rome?”
“Oh,” I say with a cringe, feeling heat creep up my neck. But I also feel pissed. He seems to find my misery amusing—like a cat playing with the mouse before the kill. “I’m at John Cabot University on a year abroad.”
“Studying . . . ?” he asks with a curious lift of his brow.
“Art history.”
He looks at me strangely for a moment before tenting his fingers under his chin. “Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.”
“Excuse me?”
“Matthew 7:7.”
I really wish he’d get to the point. “I know that’s scripture. What I don’t know is why you’re suddenly spouting it at me. I already said my Hail Marys, so I think I’m covered with the prayer thing . . . for now.”
He just looks at me for a moment longer, then untents his fingers and uncrosses his legs, leaning toward me with his elbows on his knees. “Have you been through the Vatican Museums yet?”
“No. I just got here yesterday.”
“We’ll have to remedy that. Are you free tomorrow?”
I’ve been dying to see the Vatican Museums. It’s on the top of my to-do list, but this feels more than a little weird. “I have orientation at John Cabot until four.”
“Perfect.”
“Listen. It’s really nice of you, playing the welcome wagon and all, but this is supposed to be my penance, not social hour, so . . .”
He nods. “Fine. Meet me at six tomorrow evening at the obelisk in St. Peter’s Square. We’ll talk about the project then.”
“The project is in St. Peter’s?” I ask warily.
He stands and turns toward the entry, opening the front door in a not-so-subtle cue that we’re done here. He levels me in his steady gaze as I stand. “Don’t be late.”
When I get back to my humble apartment with a bag of groceries, on which I just spent a small fortune, I unpack them into the kitchen. I grab my backpack and take it onto the patio, where I sit on the lounge and pull out my orientation stuff. There’s a badge with my name and Notre Dame student ID picture on it that arrived with my key the week before I left, and an orientation schedule, a map of the lecture buildings, and a staff directory that I printed out from the e-mail they sent.
And my class schedule. Just thinking about my class schedule makes me tingle all over. I read through the list again:
AH 223 The Art and Architecture of Imperial Rome
AH 243 Roman Funerary Art: Honoring the Dead in Ancient Rome (On-site)
AH 296 Italian High Renaissance Art (On-site; Mandatory trip to Florence)
AH 339 Venetian Art (On-site; Mandatory trip to Venice)
And the crowning jewel:
AH 376 Michelangelo
At the same instant that my phone vibrates, so does the floor beneath my feet as music starts cranking out of the bar downstairs. I wipe the drool off my chin before I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the text.
Sam.
Hey, gurl! Waiting for hot Italian boy pics. You be slacking.
I set my orientation stuff down and stand, wandering toward the ledge over the street at the edge of the roof. I lean on it and look down at the milling people outside the bar.
18 yo kid wanted to sleep with me last night.
Ah! Fresh meat. Did u do it?
I roll my eyes, and just as I do, the same boy steps out of the bar. He grins when he looks up and sees me. “Ti amo,” he calls up to me, holding out an arm.
Fucked his brains out.
I text back, stepping away from the ledge.
U slut!
*eye roll*
I text back.
So, you are my fave person.
?
You left your mother-of-pearl hair clip in Katie’s car and she didn’t find it till she was packing up to drive back to school yesterday.
So, that’s where that went. I forgot I’d pulled it out when I was moping in Katie’s backseat over Rick. But . . .
Why does that make me your fave person?
Someone had to return it to your house.
?
And your smokin hot stepbrother answered the door.
My gut tightens the second I read it, and I feel sick. I can’t answer. I can’t even begin to form a thought that isn’t, “Stay the hell away from him!”
Don’t you want to know what happened?
she asks after a minute.
No. No I don’t.
What happened?
Went to Lightly Toasted for a drink.
You’d think Lightly Toasted would be a breakfast joint where you’d get coffee, right? You’d be wrong. It refers to the phase of drunkenness between “I just showed up, so pour me a beer,” and “I’m passed out on the floor, so don’t step on me.” The place is dimly lit and full of sofas and love seats covered with throw pillows in all the dark nooks and crannies. I’ve learned not to look too closely at what goes on in those nooks and crannies.
And?
I type with a shaking hand.
What? You think I’d jump his bones right there in the bar?
Yes.
I’m playing this one low-key. Talking, flirting, and a little touching, but that’s it. Luring him in with the demure act.\
I lean my elbows on the ledge and hang my head, blowing out a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. Mostly just relief.
You? Demure?
I type, but then I lift my head and see the boy is still down in the street . . . peeing into the alcove of my doorway. He shakes himself off and zips, then looks up. When he sees me watching, he smiles and blows me a kiss.
Great.
I look back at my phone.
Don’t knock the hard-to-get act. It works.
Good luck with that. Someone just peed in my doorway so gotta go. Keep me posted,
I type. And I want her to. But I also don’t.
I swipe to Trent’s text from this morning. He went out with Sam, but then he was lying in bed thinking about me? I still don’t know how to read that: between the lines or at face value. I haven’t responded, and I’m feeling like I should. I shouldn’t just ignore him. Or maybe that’s exactly what I should do. Finally, I type in,
Went to church today. Confessed everything. Hoping not to burn in hell,
and hit
SEND
before I can change my mind.
O
RIENTATION STARTS AT
nine, so I stumble around Rome—or at least my little corner of Rome—and find an adorable café for espresso and pastries beforehand. I point at the pastry case and direct the balding man behind the counter to something that looks like a chocolate chip croissant. He hands it and the espresso to me, and when I settle into a table in the corner and sip, I find out Italians like their espresso something akin to rocket fuel. The caffeine from this cup alone could power the next space mission. When I bite into the croissant, it’s not chocolate, but it’s sweet, and I moan a little as it melts in my mouth.
“I’ve died and gone to heaven,” I say out loud once I’ve devoured the whole thing.
“If you really want to suck up, bring one of those for Professor Nance,” a girl’s voice behind me says, and I turn to see a petite girl sitting at the table there, staring full on at me with neon green eyes and sipping her espresso.
“Excuse me?”
She twists the pink tip of a strand of her short black hair around her index finger. “You’re heading over to the orientation, right?”
Just when I’m starting to think this girl must be clairvoyant (maybe those are X-ray contacts that can see through a person’s skull into their thoughts) she nudges my backpack with her foot. I look down and see the John Cabot badge that I clipped on the zipper tab this morning, so I wouldn’t lose it.
“Do you go there?” I ask.
“Not yet. I’m a newbie too. But my sister came here last year and said Professor Nance plays favorites. His favorites are apparently the ones who bring him puddings.”
I was trying to decide if the accent was British or Australian, and the “puddings” gives it away. “You’re British?”
She bobs a quick nod. “From York. You?”
“America.”
“That bit I knew from your accent,” she says. “Where in America?”
“California. Not too far from San Francisco.”
“I’ve been to San Francisco. Nice place.”
I shrug. “It’s okay, I guess.”
Her iPhone starts to vibrate, jingling against her spoon, and she untwists her finger from her hair and picks it up. She reads something on the screen, barks out a laugh, then puts down her cup and starts typing with her thumbs. “She also just said to watch out for Claudio, Professor Nance’s TA. Shagged half her class last semester and gave them all crabs.” She grins up at me and wiggles her eyebrows. “Just in case you were thinking of sampling the local cuisine.”
I’ve had plenty of “cuisine” lately. I’m not looking for any more. “Good to know.”
She puts her phone down and sips her espresso. “What are you studying?”
“Art history.”
“Ah, then you’ve come to the right place. But it means you’ll miss out on the immense pleasure of Professor Nance and his crabby TA.”
I’m sipping my espresso as she says it, and when I laugh, it geysers up my nose, burning the whole way. I cough so hard that I swear I dislodge a lung.
“Sorry for that.” She hands me a napkin, which I take. “Have you been through the National Museum yet?” she asks, as I mop myself up.
“Not yet. I just got here a few days ago. But I’m going to the Vatican Museums tonight.”
She grins. “Try not to cream your knickers right out loud.”
My cheeks flame. “Um . . . yeah. So what are you studying?”
“Anthropology, which means I’ve come to the right place too. I’ve already creamed my knickers down in the catacombs and again at the Forum. Glad I packed a few extra pairs.” She shifts her chair closer and holds out her hand. “I’m Abby.”
“Lexie,” I say, shaking it.
She picks up her phone and looks at the screen, then stands. “We should be shoving off.”
I shoot the last of my espresso and scrape my chair back, hiking my backpack onto my shoulder. Despite what I told Dad, I didn’t explore yesterday. I was too busy beating myself up for going to confession—which, I guess, I’ll have to confess next time I go. “Do you know where we’re going? Because I’m clueless.”
“The main building is just around the corner,” she says, leading the way to the door. She winds us through a narrow alley, and when we come out the other side, there’s an archway over the road. “Here,” she says, crossing the street to a pair of green double doors, which are propped open.
We follow a few other semilost-looking people through the door, one of whom is a tall, lanky, blond guy in jeans, a blue polo shirt, and a Red Sox baseball cap. So I’m guessing he’s probably here for the orientation too. Abby grabs my elbow and tows me to a wide marble staircase directly in front of us, and we climb it to the second floor. There are a dozen or so other people waiting in the second-floor classroom that Abby leads me into, and Red Sox Cap Guy and another girl come through just behind us. A wiry man in a blazer, (despite the fact that it’s got to be ninety outside and there’s apparently no air-conditioning in here) with thick salt-and-pepper hair comes in a few minutes later and sits on the edge of the desk in the front of the room.
“Hello. My name is Professor Avery. Did everyone find us okay?”
We’re here, I want to say, so pretty much, yeah. But reality is, I’d probably still be wandering the narrow Roman streets, twisting my ankles on the cobbles, if Abby hadn’t saved my sorry butt.
After a few mumbled yeahs, he smiles, revealing stained teeth that could use an Invisalign intervention. “Well, we want to get you comfortable here before classes start next week. We’ll be taking you on the tour, so hopefully you’ll know where to go when the time comes. You also all have individual meetings with your curriculum advisors at either one or two, so check your orientation schedules.”
“Um . . . ?” Baseball Cap Guy says. “What orientation schedule?”
“It was e-mailed on the tenth,” Professor Avery says. “Did you not receive it, Mr. . . . ?”
“Higgins,” the guy says. “Grant Higgins.”
Professor Avery leans back and rifles through some papers on his desk, like it’s magically going to turn up there. “We’ll visit the computer lab and print you a copy,” he says when he comes up empty. “Anyone else without a schedule?”
We all shake our heads, and Grant grimaces.
“Excellent. So you’re all aware that John Cabot University is English-speaking. All your classes will be in English. We do, however, encourage you to interact with locals . . . explore the culture. Though learning is our primary objective, the greatest experiences you’ll take home with you are the ones from outside the classroom. We offer a plethora of services and resources to make this the best experience possible for each one of you, so I encourage you to take advantage.”
We spend the next few hours going over logistics, from the class schedules to the textbooks and fee schedules. We tour all the main buildings as well as the surrounding area. Abby elbows me as we’re leaving the resource center and points at Grant Higgins, who looks relieved now that he has his orientation and class schedules. “Dibs,” she says with a grin.
“I hate the Red Sox. He’s all yours.”
W
HEN
I
SHOW
up at St. Peter’s Square that evening, the Reverend Moretti is already there, leaning against the concrete barrier at the base of the obelisk with his ankles crossed and his arms folded over his chest. His eyes tick to his watch as I stroll up.
“You’re late.”
“You said six.” I glance at my phone. Six fifteen. “It’s six . . . more or less.” In all honesty, I know I’m late. I got distracted by the pretty pastries in the shop near my apartment. They had those same croissants, which I now know have currants in them. The way they melted in my mouth was so worth the wrath of the reverend.
He gives me the eye.
I give him the eye back. “It was a long walk. I had to stop for nourishment.”
He turns on his heel without another word, and I follow him across St. Peter’s Square to the right side of the Basilica. Watching him weave through the milling crowd, it hits me how fluid his motions are. Even just walking looks graceful when he does it. He stops at the bottom of a ramp and makes an “after you” gesture with a wave of his arm and a small bow. I start up the ramp, and he follows. We push through a door at the top into a foyer with a wide staircase off to the right. The reverend flashes a badge at a guard there and says something in Italian. The guard looks me over and nods to the reverend, who holds an arm out toward the stairs. I start up them, and he follows.
“Where are we going?”
“I told you, to the museums.”
He says it like he thinks I might be a little slow, and it pisses me off. I stop and look at him. “No. You said you had a project.”
He tips his head up the stairs and arches an eyebrow at me. “Which is in the museums.”
I plant my fists on my hips and stare him down. It’s not that I don’t want to see the museums. I do. More than anything. They’re the reason I’m in Rome. But I don’t like being left in the dark. “How do I know you’re not just jerking me around?”
His causal aloofness slips a little, and he looks momentarily surprised. “Are you suggesting my motives are less than pure?”
Oh, God.
I’m a moron. “No,” I backpedal. “I just mean, why all the mystery?”
He starts climbing again, and I keep step with him. “There’s no mystery, really. The Church has several missions that target children. The purpose is twofold. We strive to educate them in their Italian culture in the hope that it will not only inspire them to better themselves in the eyes of God but also to protect their national heritage, of which the Church is a large part. With your interest in art history, you’re the perfect missionary for this part of the program,” he says with a wave of his arm at the double glass doors in front of us, just at the top of the stairs.
They swish open, and he presses his fingers into the small of my back and ushers me through into a long, wide hallway with enormous maps frescoed into the twelve-foot walls and the curve of the arched ceiling above. “Galleria delle Carte Geografiche,” he says with a wave of his arm. “The gallery of maps. There are forty frescoes here that were painted between 1572 and 1585 by the renowned geographer, Ignazio Danti. They represent the Italian regions and the papal properties at the time of Pope Gregory XIII.”
I move slowly up the hall, mesmerized by the details. It hits me fifteen minutes later, when I’m about halfway up the corridor, that this is the Vatican. There are more prized works of art here than anywhere else in the world. I feel suddenly dizzy with the overwhelming realization that I’m actually here.
I look back at the Reverend Moretti, and beyond him to the long stretch of empty hall. “Where is everyone? This is the Vatican Museum. It’s supposed to be a madhouse.”
“The museums close at six.”
“But they let you just”—I wave my arms at the frescoes—“wander around in here?”
The hint of a smile curves his lips, and something flashes in his eyes. “They trust me.”
“Perks of being an almost-priest, I guess,” I mutter, turning back to the frescoes. I work my way slowly through to the end. “This is amazing,” I say as the glass doors at the end of the corridor slide open.
One corner of his mouth curls, and he nods. “I thought you might like it.”
I move through the door into the next gallery.
“Galleria degli Arazzi. The gallery of tapestries,” he says.
I glance back at him as that kid-on-Christmas-morning zing of excitement ripples through me. “Brittany Simmons would so hate me right now.” She’s my class’s resident haughty bitch. Every group has one—the person who thinks they rein supreme over everyone else. She was livid when I scored the year-abroad scholarship she thought she deserved.
“I feel obligated to remind you this is your penance for previous sins. It doesn’t seem prudent to start racking up more so soon.”
I spin and see him fighting a smile. “What am I supposed to call you, anyway?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Reverend Moretti will suffice . . . for now.”
Something about this guy gets totally under my skin in that really annoying pebble-in-my-shoe way. I turn to the tapestry in front of me. “So,
Reverend Moretti.
This tapestry was fashioned from a Raphael original.”
“Keen eye,” he says, stepping up next to me and tucking his hands into his pockets, “but actually, these tapestries were all realized in the 1520s and ’30s from drawings by Raphael’s students. None of them are based on his original work, but some of his students picked up his tendencies, so there are similarities.” He leads me halfway up the hall to a tapestry of Jesus and His disciples. “This one is especially interesting. It and many of the others are done in the Flemish tradition, which gives it a three-dimensional appearance. Walk past it slowly and watch Jesus’ eyes.”
I do, and not only do they follow me, but the long table at the end of which He’s sitting points at me no matter where I stand. “So . . . wow.”
He steps up next to me, his eyes following the lines of the artwork. “These hung in the Sistine Chapel for almost one hundred years.” He glances at me. “Are you taking notes?”
I tap my forehead and smirk. “Right here.”
He gives me the skeptic’s eye for a long heartbeat, then turns and moves farther up the hall. We go through several more galleries in the next few hours and end in the Cortile del Belvedere, in front of the white marble sculpture of Laocoön and His Sons.
“This is where it all began,” he says, admiring the sculpture of an immense and very naked Laocoön and his two mature, equally naked but significantly smaller sons, one on either side of him, struggling against a serpent that is wound around all three and biting Laocoön’s hip. “Pope Julius II acquired this sculpture in 1506 when it was unearthed in a Roman vineyard near Santa Maria Maggiore. He sent a young Michelangelo and Giuliano—”
“—de Sangallo to check it out,” I interrupt. “They told him it was the real deal and said he should snap it up and bring it back to Vatican City for preservation. It was the first piece in the Vatican collection.” I fold my arms over my chest and stare him down. “Art History 101. What kind of amateur do you think I am?”
A smile ticks his mouth. “It’s good to know you were paying attention.” He turns back to Laocoön and smooths a hand over his perfect hair. “Tomorrow, we’ll tackle the Sistine Chapel and St. Peter’s Basilica.”