Authors: Lisa Desrochers
I look at him for a long minute in the waning light. “You know everything that’s in there. Why don’t you just do this thing with the kids? Why do you need me?”
He makes a slow loop around the front of Laocoön, inspecting the piece from all angles. “Because I’m boring. No twelve-year-old wants to hear a deacon drone on about things that were created hundreds of years before they were born.”
“So, why do you think they’re going to want to hear
me
drone on about things that were created hundreds of years before they were born?”
He turns and looks at me, grasping his hands behind his back. “Because your task is to find a way to make it interesting—bring it to life for them, make them want to know more. Part of what we’re hoping to instill in them is a hunger for knowledge that will carry through into adulthood.”
I think about the tattoo over my heart, the kanji symbol for knowledge—which makes me think about Trent’s matching tattoo, rippling on his pec while I made love to him—which reminds me why I’m here. I shake off the shudder and look at the reverend. “But I don’t speak Italian, so unless I’m expanding their cultural knowledge by ordering them a pizza, which is just about all I know how to say in Italian except, Va ’al diavolo, I don’t get how this is going to work.”
His eyes widen for a beat when I tell him to go to hell in Italian, but then he says, “I will be your mouth, when necessary.” For some reason, when he says the word mouth, it draws my attention to his. And now I’m staring at it. When I don’t say anything, he continues. “Children are extraordinarily perceptive. Only someone authentic, with a deep love of art, will radiate the enthusiasm needed to keep them engaged.” He lifts a hand and rubs his chin. “I hoped that person might be you, but if you’re not interested—”
“I didn’t say that,” I interrupt, because I am. How many people get to spend their free time hanging out at one of the most renowned museums in the world teaching kids to love art? This is an amazing opportunity. “How will this work with my schedule at school?”
“I’ll need you one afternoon every other week, but we have a degree of flexibility in our scheduling. This is just one segment in a three-day series of presentations. I have a historian who will take them through the Forum and Colosseum, and an architectural student who will walk them through the Pantheon for the other two days. Once I have all your schedules, we’ll coordinate them so your commitment with me will be consistent.”
“How many Hail Marys did
they
have to say?” I mutter.
He tilts his head at me but doesn’t answer.
I try to think of a downside, but I can’t find one. “You’ve got yourself a tour guide.”
A smile curves his lips. “Excellent.”
It’s not till I get home and look at my phone that I see that Trent responded to my text. I sit on the lounge on my patio, ignoring the bass vibration from the bar and the possibility that a boy might at this very minute be peeing in my doorway and open it.
Hope you said a Hail Mary for me. Heading back to school tomorrow. Same apartment, in case you feel like sending some Italian wine or anything.
So, that’s it. It’s over. We’re good. Things are back to normal.
I’ve got my best friend back. What happened isn’t going to ruin our family because it’s over and done. We’re archiving it into the dead files, where we’ll never talk about it or think about it or dream about it again.
I breathe deep and am shocked that I finally can. It’s like the elephant that’s been sitting on my chest went looking for some other condemned soul to torture. All the tension in my muscles runs out, and suddenly I’m exhausted. I can barely keep my eyes open long enough to brush my teeth. God, I’m going to sleep well tonight.
I flop on the bed and call Julie before I’m totally out, and when I wake up in the morning, the phone is in my bed, and I don’t remember most of the conversation or hanging up, which means I probably didn’t.
All I remember for sure is I dreamed about Trent . . . in my bed.
I am so going to hell.
“P
ORTA
S
ACTA,” THE
Reverend Moretti tells me as we step through the entrance into the narthex of St. Peter’s Basilica, stopping in front of a huge double door on the right front of the immense façade. Today, we’re in the normal throng of visitors. No private tour, unfortunately. The reverend flashes his credentials and gets us past the long lines—more perks—but there’s still a bottleneck at the main entrance. “The Holy Door,” he continues. “It’s also called the Door of the Great Pardon because its sixteen panels depict the sins of man and his redemption through God’s mercy.”
I study the panels of the bronze door.
“His Holiness opens it only on holy years for the pilgrimage.”
“When is the next holy year?”
His gaze shifts from the door to me. “Not until 2025.”
I scrunch my face. “So what happens on
unholy
years?”
He blows a puff of air through his nose that could almost be a laugh. “It stays bricked over on the inside.” He leads me toward the main entrance, and we catch a slight lull in the crowd, so it only takes us a few minutes to get through the massive double doors into the central nave of the church.
“Holy crap,” I say when I walk in and look up. I knew it was big, but . . . “Holy—” His hand on my arm and his stern gaze stop my next word. “Sorry,” I whisper.
“Saint Peter’s Basilica is the largest church in the world,” he says, stepping deeper into the cavernous space. But he’s already lost me because, in the corner to the right, behind Plexiglas, I see the Pietà—one of Michelangelo’s greatest creations. One of the pinnacles of Renaissance sculpture.
I’m totally dumbstruck. I can’t move. I can’t even speak. I’m fairly certain I’m having my first truly religious experience, and it’s probably a very bad thing that it’s happening in a church, but it’s over a sculpture. Mental note: Add idol worship to your list for confession.
It must take the Reverend Moretti a while to realize I’m not following him because it’s a full minute later when his gentle hand grasps my elbow, directing me toward the crowd surrounding the sculpture. We wait while the masses snap their shots and move on, and several minutes later, we’re standing at a black marble rail about eight feet from the Plexiglas. Five feet past that, on a high, oval pedestal, is the Pietà.
“I take it you recognize this?” he asks me, and I hear the smile in his voice.
I still can’t speak. All I can do is stare. The detail is truly exquisite—the folds of Mary’s robes; the way her fingers press into her crucified Son’s flesh as she cradles Him in her lap. Jesus’ ribs, the veins in His arms, His fingernails . . . every last detail is perfect.
“He was only twenty-three when he did this,” I finally say, but it’s a whisper, swept away in the noise of the crowd.
The reverend leans close to my ear. “I’m sure, then, that you’re aware the process took less than two years and was completed 1499, and that this is the only piece that—”
“—Michelangelo ever signed,” I interrupt without taking my eyes off the sculpture. “I also read that he regretted his moment of vanity later and swore never to sign another work by his hand.”
“I’ve heard that anecdote as well.”
“This is truly amazing,” I say, still staring at the Pietà. “How could someone carve something this intricate with hammers and chisels. I mean, now, with modern tools, sure, but . . .” I lean on the rail, as close as I can get. “Think of the talent . . . the devotion and the passion that had to go into creating this.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long minute, and when I finally glance in his direction, he’s leaning a hip on the marble rail, but he’s not looking at the Pietà. He’s looking at me. “Passion can sometimes bring out qualities in a person that they never knew they possessed.”
“What is your name?” I blurt. I don’t even know where it came from, but suddenly I really want to know. “I mean your real name. Your first name.”
“Alessandro,” he answers after a beat.
“But I can’t call you that.”
It’s not a question, but I still see him contemplating his answer. “It would probably be for the best if you didn’t,” he finally says, and his expression is hard to get a handle on—his full red lips pressed into a determined line but something in his deep charcoal eyes indecisive.
I look back at the Pietà. “I could stay here all day.”
“I understand the sentiment, but,” he says, pressing his fingers gently into the small of my back and shepherding me off to the side of the crowd, “there’s lots more to see, including another great work of Michelangelo’s.”
“The Sistine Chapel,” I breathe as tingles run up my spine.
And I realize Abby wasn’t exaggerating about the creaming-the-knickers thing, because this is downright orgasmic.
I
’VE HAD TWO
weeks to come up with something that will keep kids interested in ancient art. Between that and the start of classes, my mind has been pretty occupied. Which is a good thing. Already, I’ve seen some amazing works on my “field trips” in my art history classes, and I’ve begun to feel comfortable enough that I’ve done some exploring between my apartment and campus on my own. Like, just yesterday I finally saw the famous thirteenth-century mosaics at Basilica di Santa Maria in Trastevere. And I’ve stumbled on some places completely by accident. This whole city is the big black X on a treasure map.
But nothing can keep my mind totally off Trent.
We’ve been texting back and forth, but not for hours like we used to, and it’s all been surface stuff. He tells me about his classes and his profs, and I tell him about some of the things I’ve seen around Rome. We’re both avoiding anything deeper, and as much as it hurts that we can’t talk like we used to, at least we’re getting back to something resembling normal.
It’s a start.
And I hear from Sam and Katie here and there. My last text conversation with Sam went something like this:
Sam:
You getting any Italian ass?
Me:
I spend all my free time with a priest. What do you think?
Sam:
How old a priest?
Me:
Twenty-four.
Sam:
Hot?
Me:
Yes
(In hindsight, I should have lied.)
Sam:
Don’t know, Lex. Yrs of pent-up sexual frustration? Could be totally hot.
Me: O_O
Whether I have class or not, I set my alarm to call Dad and Julie every morning at eight so I catch them before bed, and every morning they grill me for details on everything I’ve seen and done. I text them pictures as I go, so they pretty much know where I’ve been, but Julie says it’s more real when they hear it from my mouth.
Alessandro (which is what I call him in my head even though I can’t to his face) and I have e-mailed back and forth several times while I’ve been working on the presentation, but I’ve only seen him once since the day in St. Peter’s and the Sistine Chapel, and that was only for a minute, when I stopped by the rectory to pick up a book on the Vatican Museums he wanted me to read. When I’ve suggested meeting to go over my notes, he’s begged off, saying we’ll do a dry run when I have the whole thing hammered out. But, like it or not, the good reverend is going to have to see me today. I did some sketches I’m thinking of incorporating into the tour, and I need his input. I’ve e-mailed him every day this week asking to meet, and he hasn’t answered.
I get the distinct feeling he’s keeping his distance for some reason.
It’s probably because I pissed him off when we walked into the Sistine Chapel, and I looked up at the ceiling, and hissed, “Holy shit!” at which point everyone around us gaped at me, and a grumpy Swiss Guard tried to throw me out. Alessandro had to intervene on my behalf, and he looked none too pleased about it.
It’s not my fault I’m a Michelangelo groupie. Or maybe it is, but he’s the one who said, and I quote the good reverend himself: “Only someone authentic, with a deep love of art, will radiate the enthusiasm needed to keep them engaged.” He got what he wanted. He can’t bitch about it now.
I
am
going to have to rein back my “enthusiasm” around the kids, though. The tours don’t start for a few weeks, so I have some time to get over the orgasmicity of it all before then.
The Roman streets are always crowded, but Saturdays are the worst. I elbow my way through the pedestrians and street vendors clogging the sidewalks and spilling into the narrow roads, and finally make it to the rectory. I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and knock.
No one answers.
I knock again.
Still nothing.
I spin and look across the street at the church. He could be there, but the truth is, after what happened in confession three weeks ago, I’m not really keen on running into Father Reynolds, so I’ve pretty much avoided the place.
Time to man up.
I march across the street and through the door, which is propped open. There are a few obvious tourists walking the walls and inspecting the frescoes, and there is a middle-aged woman kneeling in a pew, praying.
And there’s an open confessional.
Damn.
I breathe deep and move in that direction. I breathe deep again as I step through and close the door behind me, and one more time as I kneel at the red curtain.
“Nel nome del Padre, e del Figlio, e dello Spirito Santo. Amen,” the sandpaper voice that I now know is Father Reynolds’s says, and I cross myself.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been three weeks since my last confession . . . and I’m sure you remember that one, so we’ll just skip to the new stuff, okay?”
“Ah. I do. And I also remember I sent you on mission with the Reverend Moretti. How is that going?”
“Well . . . that’s really the reason I’m here. I’m looking for him, and he’s not here or at the rectory.”
“So, you have nothing to confess?”
I snort out a laugh. “I didn’t say
that.
”
“Well, then. First things first. The act of contrition.”
I bow my head as we mutter the prayer together. When we’re done, he says, “So, what have you to confess?”
“I’m trying to be more careful with my . . . okay, that’s a lie. I just lied to you. I’m not trying to be more careful about anything. I still take the Lord’s name in vain. All the time. Probably another hundred times since my last confession. And when I was at St. Peter’s Basilica with the Reverend Moretti, I went all idol worship on the Pietà. And I cursed in the Sistine Chapel, and the Reverend Moretti had to sweet-talk the guard into not throwing me out.”
“Sounds like the reverend is getting you in all sorts of trouble.”
I point at him even though he can’t see me through the curtain . . . I hope. “Right! That’s what I said. It’s all his fault, but . . . he hasn’t answered my last few e-mails, and I need to see him, so . . .”
“One thing at a time, my child. Anything else you find yourself in need of confessing?”
“You know,” I say. “Surprisingly, that’s all I can think of at the moment.”
“Very well. Do you come to the Lord with free mind and heart, ready to accept Jesus’ guidance and absolutions of these sins?”
“I am sorry for my sins and ask Jesus to forgive them as well as any I have forgotten to confess.”
“Very well. Once again, please be more mindful of your thoughts in regards to taking the Lord’s name in vain.”
“Yes, Father.”
“And that includes times when you are inside churches with fine works of art.”
“Yes, Father.”
“I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
I cross myself as he says it.
“It is Saturday. You will find the reverend at the youth center.”
“Which is . . . where?”
“Take a right outside the door, then a left on Vicolo del Polverone. You’ll see it one short block up on the left. Gray building with no windows and a blue door.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“Go in peace.”
“Thanks be to God.”
If I’d ever bothered to learn my left from my right, following directions would be so much easier. As it is, three lefts and four rights later, I finally stumble on Vicolo del Polverone. As luck would have it, right in front of me is a gray building with no windows and a blue door. Just to be sure there aren’t two, I walk a block in either direction. When I’m fairly certain this is the place, I cross the street to the door, which is ajar. I push it open wider and peer into the gloom.
Around the edges of the room, there are weight benches with stacks of free weights, and punching bags hang from the ceiling. There are a few boys—teens as best as I can tell—working the bags. The middle of the room is dominated by a small boxing ring, complete with ropes. Two shirtless boys in protective headgear and gloves are sparing.
As my eyes adjust to the poor lighting, I scan the room for Alessandro, but he’s nowhere. So maybe there really are two gray buildings with no windows and blue doors. As I’m turning to leave, I glance again at the fight in the ring.
The boy facing me sends a jab at the other boxer’s face. The boxer ducks and shuffles to his left. The movement is so fluid, so graceful, that he makes it look effortless—more like a dance than a fight. The boy who threw the punch staggers a step, thrown off-balance by his miss, and the other boxer lays his gloves on the boy’s shoulders to steady him and says something low in Italian. The sheen of sweat covering the boxer with his back to me shimmers, catching the little bit of light in the room, and I realize he’s older than the boy he’s sparring with. He’s cut, his defined muscles rippling under smooth olive skin as he moves.
“Padre, c’è qualcuno qui,” someone calls from the punching bags. I turn and see all three boys there staring at me.
I look back at the ring in time to see Alessandro let go of the boy he’s sparring with and turn. When he sees me standing in the door, his eyes widen for an instant. He pulls off the gloves and headgear and moves to the ropes, grabbing a towel that’s hanging there and wiping his face and chest. He tugs a T-shirt over his head, and I feel a twinge of disappointment as that spectacular body disappears behind brushed gray cotton.