The Chapel (28 page)

Anna was a woman of her word—minced as it was. Fortunately, Shelby was next in my lineup.

I mailed the first set of postcards to your children in the Padova train station and that made me miss you like crazy. You are probably in Cambridge already but I am still wishing you were here. Everyone else is already complaining about the crowds in Florence as if they thought they'd rented the whole city for a private party. I was here for all of half an hour before I had to run out and see Himself. I hope you admire a six-pack as much as I do! Mailed the Firenze postcards on my way to dinner. Missed you even more. XOXOXOXO

Shelby's sweet note soured the pleasure of my secret exile, and after a few minutes it was clear that I was on my way to spending the entire night awake, trying to formulate a genuine response that was not a lie but did not blow my cover. I shopped the minibar for a sedative, but the tininess of those rows of little nips of gin and scotch and rum did me in. It looked like a drunk's dollhouse. I emptied my suitcase and Rachel's bag, looking for one of the magazines or newspapers I had read on the airplane. All I came up with was the envelope from Matteo. Then my phone dinged with a new text. It was from T. I didn't read it. I climbed back into bed. I stuck Matteo's note into Umberto Eco, as if I might need a bookmark, and I coiled the rosary beads on the nightstand next to Mitchell's watch. That seemed all wrong. I flicked on the bedside lamp.

Suddenly, everything seemed to be out of place.

I pulled Matteo's note out of the book and read his instructions.

Hang on the neck, keeping the Holy Cross on the backbone, to be curing the lonely nights.

I turned off the light, hung the rosary around my neck, and gave the Virgin of Misericordia permission to work her magic. The beads
didn't cure my loneliness, but as I lay in the darkness, they did feel cool against my skin. After a few minutes, I reached out and finally located Mitchell's watch and slipped it back on my wrist. I was starting to feel like a medium conducting a séance, a gathering of everyone who was not there. It seemed mean not to invite T. to the party. I slapped around the duvet until I found my phone. Doing all of this in pitch blackness preserved the supernatural aspect. And then I read T.'s text.

I see Florence from the balcony

and Cambridge in the beyond.

I could clearly see something. For starters, I had seen that balcony before. I knew it came with a little single bed. T. and I were apparently sharing a room in a city where we weren't. He hadn't gone to Florence. He had downloaded the same photo that Rachel had forwarded to me from the hotel website.

T. was here.

II

I
skipped the buffet breakfast at the hotel on Thursday morning so I wouldn't run into Cheryl and feel responsible for her and the future of the NATO alliance all day long. The bar at Café Metro was jammed, but almost all of the tables were unoccupied. I sat in my dark corner near the arcade and waited for a waitress. Apparently, someone had put out a casting call for elegant middle-aged men in expensive blue blazers. There were so many plausible T.s among the comers and goers that he'd have to have worn his stethoscope for me to make a positive identification.

A young woman with a big beehive hairdo planted herself behind the crowd at the bar and started sweeping her way toward me with a fury that made me think she was often stuck doing the dirty work. She was backing up swiftly, so I stood to clear a path for her. When she felt me looming, she stopped and smiled.

She said, “
Vuoi qualcosa?
” She was dressed in a shiny black blouse, black tights, and teal-blue high heels—more Ronnie Spector than Cinderella.

I said, “
Latte macchiato?
”

She said, “
Grande?
”

I said, “
Si
.” This was going so well, I added, “
Panini?
”

She said, “
Panino?
”

I said, “
Pane?
”

She said, “
Tramezzino?
”

That made me worry we'd left snacks and headed into the entrées. I tried, “Pastry?” I pointed at the display case, hoping I wouldn't end up with a punch bowl full of tiramisu.

She said, “
Si, si. Cornetti
.”

It was roulette, but this sounded smallish. I said, “
Si, cornetti
.”

She said, “
Con crema?
”

I said, “
No, grazie
.”

She said, “
Marmellata?
”

I didn't want marmalade, but she was looking so hopeful that I nodded my assent and went back to my table. Instead of looking for T. at the bar while I waited, I scrolled through my camera's memory and found the picture of the two-euro coin Ed and I had exchanged. Two days ago, Dante had looked like a ringer for T. But the image didn't tally with my memory of him now, even when I covered up the peculiar chin. I didn't know if I should delete it or save it. Would it appreciate in value if I never saw him again?

My coffee arrived with two little knots of brioche and a pot of red-currant jam. I gave the sweet server a twenty-euro note and never saw that beehive again.

I had no new email, but I did owe a few, and as I dunked the pastry into the jam and poked around in my mailbox, it occurred to me that I was rather rich in the currency of confusion. Why not spend it?

Sweet Shelby—

How lucky I am to have met you. I will think of you every year at
this time, just when these beauties bloom in my Cambridge backyard. Grateful forever.

Rachel, my dear, dear girl—

I would rather dunk my head in the Arno than get into the middle of your business. A thousand apologies from this old girl, with love as ever.

Oh, David—

I wish I could say the right thing. Be brave like your namesake? (And might you be able to squeeze the truck into my garage? Rachel knows where I keep my car keys, and you can park me in the driveway.) My best to you.

Anna—

Thank you for the lovely note and photo. Now, please accept this coin as a token of my assurance that the photographic debt is paid. I will be happy to think that you and your sister are enjoying yourselves too much to bother taking pictures for me.

Fondly—Elizabeth Berman

B
Y TEN-THIRTY, A SERIOUS TEENAGE BOY WITH A CPOCH TAG
pinned to his chest was escorting me down a hall in the Arena Chapel visitor center, hushing me all the way. He opened the door to a conference room and pointed to an empty aisle seat. I scooted in, and he disappeared.