Father Panic's Opera Macabre (2 page)

The girl's short legs stuck out slightly in the air. She appeared to be playing with a puppet in the shape of a man, made from sticks and string. She held her hand out and walked the puppet back and forth and in tight circles on the grey stone balustrade. Her head bobbed rhythmically and her lips moved as if she were talking or singing quietly to herself as she played.

Neil didn't want to frighten her so he smiled broadly to convey his friendliness. As he got closer he could hear her voice-it was surprisingly harsh, and she spoke in a language he didn't recognize. It sounded tangled, vaguely Slavic. With each step he took toward her, the tempo and volume of her speaking ratcheted up, as if she were narrating his harmless movements into an event of absurd tension and melodrama. It was the kind of silly thing that a dreamy child would do.

She wore a black skirt that came down to her ankles and heavy black shoes that looked too large for her feet. A man's plaid outdoors shirt hung loosely like a light jacket over her grimy sweatshirt. In the declining sun her hair appeared reddish-blonde, but it was matted in a thick frizzy clump. The sun was just above and behind her, almost directly in his line of vision, so it wasn't until Neil came within fifteen feet of her that he realized she was not a child at all. Far from it, she had to be at least forty-probably older. Several of her teeth were missing, the others stained or chipped. She had blotchy red cheeks, the skin around her mouth was lined and the flesh beneath her hooded eyes was purplish and sunken. But it was the crazed look of gleeful malice in those eyes that most disturbed Neil. His smile quickly faded away.

The woman's plump stubby fingers worked the sticks faster, making the puppet dance and jump wildly. She bounced up and down on her perch, and her voice was a loud mad rant. Neil said something in Italian but it had no effect on her. The poor woman probably suffered from some mental illness or defect, perhaps genetic in origin. He felt very uncomfortable in her presence and didn't know what to do next.

The puppet distracted him. In spite of his own reluctance, Neil found himself moving closer to peer at it. The stick figure was a little over a foot in height and had been fashioned as a human skeleton. But the bones and details were so well done that Neil realized it couldn't be made out of carved sticks, it had to be manufactured. Then he noticed the naturally misshapen skull, the toothless jaw, the tiny leathery pieces that might be tendons or gristle, and the dull brownish stains in certain parts of the bones.

The woman was laughing raucously, but then she suddenly froze in silence, as if a switch had been turned. Her eyes were staring blankly past Neil. Before he had time to react, she hopped off the balustrade and scurried away from him, around the side of the house and out of sight, the gruesome puppet dangling from her hand.

Mechanical Fix

From the way the dwarf suddenly halted her strange act and stared past him, Neil knew that someone else had appeared. He turned back toward the house and was relieved to see a young woman standing alone at the top of the stone steps by the front door. Neil turned on the friendly smile again. In a relatively isolated spot like this he expected to be met with some caution or even unfriendliness. The dwarf had already unsettled him a bit, so he wanted to appear as harmless and unthreatening as he actually was. He held his arms out and opened his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

The woman came down to the bottom of the steps, and Neil stopped a few yards from her. She looked refreshingly normal in black designer jeans, a long-sleeved white blouse, stylish sunglasses and sandals. She didn't seem at all concerned, but merely perplexed by his presence.

Neil quickly explained the situation, pointing to his car. She nodded her head slowly while he spoke, as if she could not quite grasp his point. But then she stifled a big yawn and smiled sheepishly at him, and Neil realized that he had probably awakened her from an afternoon nap. He apologized for disturbing her, repeating that unfortunately his car could go no farther without water. He added that he would also be grateful for directions to the nearest town where he could find a room for the night. Now the woman seemed to be more awake and she gave a brief nod of comprehension.

"Si, si. Acqua."

"Si, grazie."

"I can tell from your pronunciation that you're an American," she then said in smooth, lightly accented English. "Am I right?"

"Ah, you speak English. Yes, you're right, I am American. I'm living in Rome for a year, as part of my work. I took some time off to drive around and explore the countryside. My name is Neil O'Netty, by the way."

"I'm Marisa Panic," she replied, pronouncing her last name Pahn-ik. "I'm pleased to meet you."

"And you." Neil gently shook her offered hand, which felt pleasantly cool and dry. "When I first came around the bend and saw the house, I was afraid there might not be anyone at home."

"Oh, we're always here. Onetti? That's Italian."

"O'Netty with a y," Neil explained. "It's Irish, but I am Italian on my mother's side, which is how I got a headstart on the language."

"I see. You do speak it well. And I think you're from Massachusetts. Somewhere in the Boston area?"

"Right again." Neil laughed. "Southie, then Medford."

"It's not that you have a very strong accent," Marisa told him. "But I spent a year at B.U. on a student exchange program."

"Aha." Neil was delighted. It had been a while now since he'd had a chance to converse in his own language.

It felt comfortable and relaxing, like getting into his favorite old clothes. "Well, I think your English sounds better than my Italian."

"Thank you." She smiled. "I don't get to use it much here."

Neil found her very attractive. Marisa's skin was milky white, with a faint rosy glow, and she had long cascading waves of very fine black hair that was not glossy but had a rich, subdued luster, like polished natural jet. She was about 5'6" tall and her body was sleek but gloriously voluptuous. Neil wondered what color her eyes were- even through the sunglasses, he could see flashes of light in them.

"Are you still studying?" he asked.

"No, I finished last year. The University of Parma."

"Really? Parma is one of the cities I plan to visit while I'm here." It was true. He loved The Charterhouse of Parma, and Stendhal had, in a way, been an inspiration and a small factor in Neil's recent success.

"I can tell you a couple of good places to stay, clean, not expensive," Marisa said. "And some excellent family restaurants."

"Great. Thank you."

"Are you traveling alone or with-?"

"Yes, I'm on my own."

"Let's see to your car. Then we can have some refreshments."

As they walked briskly toward the Fiat, Marisa clapped her hands sharply three or four times and called out a couple of words that Neil could not recognize. He saw a man emerge from one of the low worksheds on the nearest rise. Marisa shouted something else to him, and the man went back into the shed, reappearing a few moments later with a large plastic container and a funnel in his hands.

"What language were you speaking to him?"

"I'm not sure what you would call it," Marisa replied with a laugh. "These people have been with my family for a long time. It's some kind of local dialect from Dalmatia, I believe."

"Is your family Italian?"

"On my mother's side, like you. My father's family, well, they say if you go back far enough, they were the original Illyrians. I don't know any of that ancient history, but my grandfather and his family came here at the end of World War II, fleeing the Communists on the other side of the Adriatic. They bought this old farm, which had gone to ruin during the war."

They had arrived at Neil's car. The man came hurrying along a few seconds later. He had the rough, ruddy features and large leathery hands of somebody who had worked outdoors for decades, and he might have have been anywhere from forty to sixty years of age. His clothes were stained and torn, he had the same gnarly, raggedy appearance of the dwarf, but he was of average height and build. He ignored Neil and glanced subserviently toward Marisa as he set the plastic container and funnel down on the ground. He used a rag to remove the radiator cap, which was still hot to touch. Neil stepped closer to take a look. No liquid visible, as he feared.

Neil sat inside and turned the engine over, then got out again to hold the funnel while the man angled the bulky jug and carefully poured a small but steady stream of water into the radiator. Neil watched it swirl down through the funnel. A minute later, he could see it accumulating and moving inside as the pump circulated the liquid. The system took a lot of water, but finally the radiator was full.

"All right, now let's see," Neil said.

As soon as he put the cap on and snugged it tight, the pressure inside increased and tiny jets of water appeared in several places on the body of the radiator. Soon it was hissing audibly and the rising steam was visible in the air. The man pointed theatrically. Neil frowned.

"How far is it to the nearest town?"

"Four miles back to the road," Marisa said, "and about another eight miles from there. Your car wouldn't make that, would it?"

"I doubt it. Can I use your phone to call for a tow?"

"I'm afraid there's no telephone here," she answered with a look of apology. "My brother has a cell phone, but he's away on business until the end of the week."

"Could I trouble you to drive me to the town, and then I could make arrangements to have my car picked up?"

"My brother has the car too," Marisa replied with another look of sincere regret. "It's the only workable vehicle we have."

Neil's car was boiling out clouds of steam now. As he went to switch it off, Marisa started speaking quickly to the workman. It sounded like she was asking him something. He nodded and answered her at some length. She turned to Neil and smiled.

"He thinks the radiator is ruined."

Neil gave a short laugh. "I think he's right."

"But he thinks they can patch it up enough tomorrow so that you'll at least be able to get to town and replace it."

"Oh, that'd be great," Neil exclaimed, his spirits lifting. "Thank him for me, I'm really very grateful."

"Of course you'll stay here tonight."

"That's very kind of you. I'm sorry to impose on you like this. I hope it won't be too much of an inconvenience."

"Not at all," Marisa said, smiling brightly. "We have plenty of room, and I'm so glad to have some company for a change. Come on, get your bag, whatever you need, and we'll go inside."

The Box Room

"You mentioned something about working in Rome. What business are you in-banking, finance, technology?"

"No, nothing like that," Neil said with a smile. "I have a one-year fellowship at the American Academy. I'm doing some research for a book I'm working on. And also writing it, of course."

Marisa had slipped her arm through his as they walked. It was a common practice in many European countries, so Neil knew better than to read too much into her simple gesture. But he enjoyed the closeness and the physical contact with her.

"Ah, you're a writer."

"An author, yes."

"That's marvelous." Marisa gave his arm a little squeeze. "What kind of books do you write?"

"Historical fiction, sort of." Neil always felt a little awkward trying to explain his work. "Anyhow, I've only written three so far."

"But that's wonderful. They must be very good for you to be chosen for the Academy. It's very prestigious."

"The first two disappeared almost without a trace," Neil told her with a rueful smile. "But the last one did much better."

"What is it about, what period of history?"

"The 1590s, in Italy. It's called La Petrella and it's a retelling of the story of Beatrice Cenci and her family."

"Oh, of course. I remember that," Marisa said excitedly. "Beatrice conspired with her mother to murder her father, and she was then tortured and beheaded in public for it, even though her father had raped her. She was only about, what-fifteen years old?"

"That's right."

"It's a famous story."

"Yes, but not in America. I discovered that there hadn't been a full-length fictional treatment of it in many years, so I decided to try it. I found Beatrice by way of Nathaniel Hawthorne, who saw Guido's portrait of her in the Barberini Gallery and fell in love with her. I read Stendhal's account of the case, and many others. But my version is quite different."

"You changed the story?" Marisa asked.

"Not the facts or the incidents," Neil said. He felt that he was talking too much about something that could not really interest her. "But the feelings and motivations of the people. Beatrice is usually idealized, portrayed as an innocent, still virtually a child."

"Wasn't she?"

"I tried to make her both innocent and knowing," Neil said. "When I did more research and read some passages from the actual court documents of the case, I found it all much more uncertain and open to interpretation in different ways. There's a moral ambiguity to Beatrice, which is probably why she fascinates me."