THE BATON

‘That place was amazing,’ Mack said, keying her order into the vending machine. They were in the public lounge at the Cittadella Ospitalità, which was deserted but for them.

‘I got kicked off my tour before I even figured out what they meant by Lower and Upper Basilica. I thought it was just, you know, H-shaped or something.’

The machine sputtered Mack’s ginseng cappuccino into a flimsy plastic cup.

‘But,’ she said, ‘they fucking built another church on top of the first. Double-decker basilica. That was so badass. Your turn.’ She removed her drink from the receptacle of the machine. ‘You got kicked off your tour?’

‘There were nine others on it, so it’s not as bad as if it’d been a one-on-one.’

‘That’d be an achievement.’

‘Probably need your TOÄD t-shirt to pull that off.’ He pointed to her cup. ‘Can I try that?’

‘It’s coffee.’

‘I know.’

‘You don’t drink coffee.’

‘I know, but I keep seeing ginseng caffé everywhere. I’m curious.’

Mack shrugged, passed him the cup and narrowed her eyes.

‘Motta doesn’t drink coffee,’ he said. ‘Says if you don’t have the energy to get through a day without caffeine you’re in the wrong job.’ He took a sip, could hardly taste the coffee. ‘Warm fluff with a hint of … Chinatown?’

‘Keep it. I’ll get another.’

He swallowed the rest in a single gulp, not enjoying it but not hating it either. ‘It was probably a blessing, getting kicked off. As a lone wolf I could snap photos with my phone without getting snapped myself. Then I came back here and asked the guy at reception what he knew about Giuseppe. I figured: he works at this religious retreat, right, they’ve got this massive library, he can point me in the right direction. But he said, “Who?” I’m like, “San Giuseppe da Copertino? He only lived in Assisi for fourteen years!” And he’s like, “No.” And I’m like, “What do you mean, No?” And he’s like, “I think you’re wrong. He was from down south. He never lived here.”’

‘Sunday School standards must be slipping. He did live here though, eh?’

‘Yes!’

‘Is it the guy on reception now, babe?’ She pointed through the wall.

‘I think so,’ he said.

‘I’ll ask him.’

‘No.’ He reached out to stop her, but she danced away from his hand. ‘What’s the point?’

She stopped, hands on hips, sneakers pressed together. ‘Either there were some serious crossed wires or dude needs to learn.’ She moved one foot back, about to run for it, then tilted her head to the side. ‘I didn’t see any Giuseppes in the icon stores,’ she said. ‘It was like, eighty percent Francis, maybe fifteen percent Jesus and Mary mopped up the rest.’

Duncan swept forward and put his arm around her, as if she was a frazzled server on her first shift, and guided her back toward the vending machine. ‘You saw that one fresco of Francis levitating in the Upper Basilica? It was just about the only scene not featured on a postcard. Maybe levitation and everything else Giuseppe did, is said to have done, is too fantastic. Too challenging.’

‘Didn’t Saint Francis have stigmata?’

‘And he fucking spoke to birds.’ He laughed, and let her peel loose and sit on one of the couches. He slumped down next to her. ‘Are we in the midst of a Dan Brown conspiracy of the modern world to suppress the miraculous deeds of a simple southern friar?’

‘Conspiracy theories are the refuge of the disempowered.’

‘Hey, I can handle passing on the baton. You ladies, be my guest.’

‘You’d need to find another assistant?’

‘Mine wasn’t really working out.’

‘Bitch, I got you on that tour this morning. I bet Uffy wouldn’t be zero from four.’

‘It’s not that bad.’

‘Okay, so maybe you got what you needed in Copertino?’

‘Yeah. I mean, his sanctuary was closed for repairs but that wasn’t a big deal.’

‘And then we went to Martina Franca and got stood up.’

‘And nearly killed.’

‘And nearly killed. Then, oh man, my memory is shot.’

‘Well, we did okay in Montescaglioso, Matera and Altamura, but that was kind of just shooting coverage. Giuseppe never lived in those places.’

‘Which brings us to you getting kicked off your tour here.’

‘Don’t forget us skipping Naples.’

‘You know what? I did. So maybe you’re one from four. You still suck at this.’

‘I do, I do.’

‘But you seem, I don’t know, okay with it? More okay?’

‘The more I see, the more I know this film can only work if Motta doesn’t even try for historical realism. I mean, you’ve got to give set designers something to go on. But the best scene in Assisi is probably Giuseppe sneaking into Saint Francis’s crypt at night, though that’d require him digging through solid rock because no one at the time knew exactly where Francis’s body was hidden.’

‘Does have a Shawshank vibe.’

‘You got plans tonight?’ he asked.

‘I saw this cute place on the edge of the Piazza del Comune.’

‘Sounds nice. I think I’ll stay here. Get started on pulling a lookbook together. Something I can show Motta on a tablet in Rome. Do my best to paper over the massive cracks in my location scouting.’

Mack crumpled her cup and tossed it in the silver receptacle. ‘Don’t forget about the flowers.’

‘Huh?’

‘Mille Fiori.’

‘Yeah, but Giuseppe comes first. I was thinking we bug out early tomorrow. Maybe seven-thirty? So we get to Pietrarubbia around ten.’

‘You’re the boss, babe.’

Duncan’s stomach grumbled. They both heard it, both laughed. ‘Maybe I should eat something.’

‘You think? Come on, let’s go to this restaurant. We can be efficient.’

They were not efficient. They were seated on the edge of the al fresco area, a perfect spot for people-watching. The truffle and sausage lasagne was a revelation. Each carafe of the house red was going to be the last until the next appeared. Each glass loosed a little more of what Duncan had decided to withhold. The detail of his flying dream in Martina Franca; the fact he wasn’t in his usual mansion, was doing it there inside the trullo cone. His thoughts about filming in San Marino; how Mack might need to shoot some scenes so he could be on screen. The story of the friar in the crypt of Saint Francis; the burns on Duncan’s palms from clutching the latticework.

Waiting for their desserts, Duncan’s phone began to ring.

A WhatsApp call.

From Vilma Vegas.

Just voice, no video.

‘Hello?’

‘How’s my favourite inside man?’

Mack: ‘Who is it?’

‘A friend,’ he replied.

Vilma: ‘Who are you talking to, D?’

‘A friend.’

Vilma: ‘I thought I told you to fuck your wife, Duncan Blake.’

He turned away from Mack, looking out to the piazza. ‘Don’t worry. My wife knows I’m here with this friend. They talk.’

‘Sounds twisted.’

‘It’s not. Not very anyway. It could be worse, that’s how I’m looking at it.’

‘How’s it going? The location scouting. I’m dying of curiosity.’

He was struggling to read her voice. He barely knew her, was a decade older. It’d been more than a day since her last levitation theory. When he thought about his incident with the Chromecast, he no longer saw Vilma rummaging through a bag of sex toys, just the aftermath: Kari beating on the door, the bathroom full of steam. He had been on the path to recovery. Not for a porn addiction. But a budding infatuation? Perhaps.

‘D?’ Vilma said, ‘You there?’

‘Yeah, sorry. I’m outside. And a little tanked.’

‘Good. You could stand to loosen up a notch or six.’

He laughed.

‘Just tell me you’re doing good,’ she said.

‘I’m doing good.’

‘Okay, I lied. You need to tell me a little more than that. Where are you?’

‘Assisi. The Basilica of Saint Francis is actually two churches stacked one on the other. And the insides? Bananas!’

‘Have you heard from Motta?’

‘Since I left LA? No.’

‘But you’re seeing him again, right?’

‘He’s meeting me in Rome, after he’s seen the Pope. In, like, a week?’

‘Well, you wow him then, all right? I’m getting tired of the food-service industry. And I’m not getting any younger.’

‘Write something.’ He stood and eased through the gap between two of the wrought-iron barriers that separated diners from the piazza, mouthed his apologies to Mack and signalled with his free hand he’d be back in two minutes.

Vilma: ‘Again with the writing.’

‘Look, Vilma, honestly, I don’t know if this is going to pan out for me. Even if I’m not drowning, I certainly don’t have any life preservers to toss.’

‘If I sent you something, would you read it?’

‘Yes! Do that.’

‘Save it for the plane, though, okay, D? Don’t get distracted. Read it only after you’re done with Motta. After you’ve wowed him. I know you’ll wow him. But yeah, maybe I’ll send you something for the flight back.’

‘I’d like that.’

‘It’s not just the wine talking, is it? You don’t sound tanked.’

‘I’d better get back to it, then. Total commitment to the role.’

‘Huh?’

‘Send me something, Vilma Vegas.’

‘Okay.’

‘Duncan Blake, out.’

Her splutter of embarrassment was audible even as he pulled the phone from his ear to end the call.

Back at the table: a fresh carafe of wine. Mack had both dessert plates in front of her. There was a small scoop from her panna cotta, and she was carving into his slice of rocciata Assisana, a rolled dough filled with apples, raisins and pine nuts.

‘Sorry, she said. ‘Turns out I wanted more of this. The piece I had this afternoon: mmm.’ She took a bite.

‘Be my guest.’ He refilled his wine glass.

She put her elbow on the table, twirled her dessert fork in the air. ‘You gonna tell me about your friend?’

‘From work. Sforza’s.’

‘Not the chicky with the Little Bird? In the porno?’

He’d forgotten he’d told her about this. Which was odd. Her M.O. was to relentlessly mock him about such things, never let him forget. But then she’d probably talked it out with Kari. Maybe there was no backlog of consequences waiting for him back home. Maybe it was like the way his mother stopped texting and emailing him and now just went through Kari instead. Because he was bad at replying. And wasn’t great at empathising. Kari wasn’t either, but she knew how to fake it, could live with the consequences of pretending to care. Maybe Kari needed her own Kari, had found it in Mack, which meant he was free to float in space, with only an umbilical cord, thin as three pieces of dental floss plaited together, keeping him attached to the shuttle. Those threads:

Vestigial chemistry.

Financial necessity.

Zeb.

Without them, he would be jettisoned. Maybe that’s how Zeb felt now. An alien tethered to his parents’ craft. Mildly curious about what his umbilical cord was made of, but more interested in the constellations that rose and fell behind the whiteness of the ship.

He looked at Mack, felt his way back to her question about Vilma, necked his glass of wine and stretched his vino-stained lips into a toothy smile.

‘The very same,’ he said, and reached for the carafe.