Authors: Robert Girardi
The cardinal stands and gives a slight bow. “Signora,” he says, “I was just on my way. I do not wish to intrude upon your afternoon.”
But Antoinette and I prevail upon him to stay. We finish the lemonade, and as the first blush of evening comes to the sky over the river, the cardinal expresses a desire to try one of our local alcoholic concoctions.
“I have heard much of the mint julep,” he says. “I saw
Gone With the Wind
in Italy when I was a child, and this always sounded like a delicious drink to me. I couldn't of course be seen going into a saloon, but if you have the ingredients on hand?” He raises an Italian eyebrow.
Antoinette has a wicked gleam in her eye. “Mint juleps aren't exactly a New Orleans tradition; they're more of a plantation drink. But I'll go you one better, Father,” she says, and disappears into the house. Ten minutes later she emerges with two Sazeracs in highball glasses.
The cardinal sips carefully and smiles. “Yes,” he says. “Very good.”
“It's a Sazerac,” Antoinette says. “Homemade. None of this store-bought stuff. From scratch. Here, let me take a sip ⦔
“Antoinette ⦔ I say.
“I said a taste. Don't be paranoid, Ned. It's not going to hurt anything.” She takes a demure sip out of my glass and hands it back to me. “Not bad,” she says. “Needs something, though ⦔
“No,” the cardinal says enthusiastically, “this is excellent!” and to prove the point, he downs two more.
When he rises to go at last, he is a little tipsy, his cheeks shining red in the twilight. The chauffeur is asleep in the car.
“Thank you both for a very pleasant afternoon,” he says. He shakes my hand and kisses Antoinette on the forehead, but as he turns to go, she whispers something in his ear.
“Yes, of course,” he says with the air of a man who has been reminded of something important.
Antoinette comes over and takes my arm, and we both kneel together on the flagstones and the fallen leaves of the courtyard. The cardinal raises his hand, makes the sign of the cross over us, and intones a brief blessing.
“The hardest thing is to find happiness in this world,” he says. “But the recipe is simple. We tend to our goats, so to speak; we take our
children by the hand. And as the Scripture says, we walk humbly with our God. Be happy, my children.”
Then, with a flourish of cloak, he is gone into the dusk.
Later Antoinette and I lie drowsing together in the big bed, talking quietly of the future. My hand is pressed to her belly, but the baby will not kick for us tonight.
“So what did you think of the cardinal's recipe for happiness?” she says to me.
“Everybody's got their own version,” I say. “A ghost once told me that happiness consists of finding out where you belong and going there.”
“Hmm. And where do you belong?”
But I don't answer. And soon we are asleep in each other's arms.