25

In Bocca al Lupo!

They followed Variam through a hidden paneled door that was recessed in the wall next to the main circular stairway. Catherine’s dress swished in and Variam closed the door just as the heavy clump of footsteps came up around the last curve of the main stairs. The major-domo lit a match and reached for a lamp on a shelf, then led the way down a narrow and steep set of stone steps.

Wake waited for a shout from the other side of the wall, but none came, and as he descended he tried to unravel the confusion that was fogging his mind. How did Variam know where they were? The envelope was sealed. How did he know that Faber was coming? What did Faber know? What did Brown and Strom know? How was he going to get out of this?

Variam stopped and opened a door. “Here, sir. Your room is on this floor. I will lead Madame Faber to the main floor where she can stroll along the patio, then come inside and up to her room nonchalantly, as if nothing was the matter.”

Her voice calm, almost distant, Catherine said, “Merci, Variam. I will never forget your assistance, and your discretion.” She turned to Wake. “Thank you for the wonderful conversation, Peter. It is a memory that will last my lifetime.”

Wake started to reply, but she had already begun to go down the steps again, calling back, “Come Variam, and bring that light so I do not fall. I need to take that stroll on the patio. Right now.”

Variam glanced at Wake, nodded at the door, and said, “Yes, Madame Faber. As you wish.”

The small light flickered as they moved downward in silence. Soon Catherine was lost to Wake’s view as they rounded a corner in the steps. He quietly walked down the hall of his floor, went into his room, and sat on the bed. Lifting a hand, he saw it shaking uncontrollably and tried to will it to stop, but it wouldn’t. He went to the window and looked around at the cliffs and the sea, previously magnificent in their beauty but now ghostly and ominous in the pale light.

His instincts returned and he secured the room’s lock, then reclined on the bed, trying to reason out what he was doing, but a swirl of emotions negated the workings of his usually analytical mind. Shame, fear, anger, and confusion took over. Deep breaths and slow exhales were of no use. His heart was beating as it had in the moments before past battles. He lay there, eyes staring at the ornately plastered ceiling, his mind dreading the inevitable pounding on his door, wondering what had happened with Catherine and her husband, worrying about the consequences of his weakness. Dozens of horrific scenarios flashed before him of what was to come in the morning, and for hours he lay there, senses acute, depressed over what he had done and had been about to do. His predominate emotion was anger—at himself.

“You’re an idiot, Wake,” he growled to the ceiling. “A frigging bilge-to-topmast, incredibly stupid, number-one idiot. . . .”

***

Wake’s eyes were open but heavy when he realized it was getting light outside. He saw by his watch it was six a.m. and remembered Brown saying that breakfast would start to be served at seven, “for those naval early birds who can’t break their rustic habits.”

Shaving with his hand still shaking proved to be difficult and he cut himself on the jaw, inches below the old wound on his right temple. After changing his underclothes and shirt, he tied his cravat, put on his coat and unlocked the door. Then Wake made his way to the castle’s main patio, scene of the previous night’s revelry, where a long table covered with fruit and breakfast dishes awaited.

Variam was there, as starched and inscrutable as ever. “Good morning, sir. Unfortunately you’ve missed the British naval officers. They just left. However, sir, there is still plenty of breakfast left. We have an English country breakfast, along with fruits. And some French pastries.”

Wake winced at the last and checked Variam’s eyes, but they revealed nothing. Wake moved closer. “I didn’t get a chance to say thank you last night, Variam. I am now.”

“It is the duty of a major-domo to make his master’s house tranquil, sir. I was merely fulfilling my duty.”

“And that duty includes briefing your master on last night’s events?”

“Of course, sir. But last night the order was reversed. The consul general briefed me on the situation and directed that I assist you and the lady.”

Variam saw Wake’s face blush and anticipated the next questions. “The lady and her husband have not come downstairs yet this morning. And there was no confrontation between them last night. I believe the gentleman’s intoxication led him to pass out after walking up all those steps, sir. I helped him to his room, where the lady was already ensconced and evinced surprise upon our arrival.”

Wake abruptly remembered Faber’s challenge to Moltke. “Oh, what about the German? There was to be a duel at sunrise.”

“Last night Consul General Brown spoke with Bishop Ferro, who counseled the gentlemen involved in that dispute. They were dissuaded from continuing with it, but I’m afraid there is still much ill will, sir. I believe that was the initial reason for Monsieur Faber’s alcohol intake last evening. Then, as such things tend to do, one thing led to another and he began to search for his wife.”

“Where’s the German now?”

“He departed last night, sir. Quite upset with the Frenchman.”

Variam bowed deeply to the bishop of Genoa passing by, then continued his aside to Wake. “Consul General Brown will be down momentarily to greet his guests and enjoy his breakfast.” He swiveled his head as if on parade, small black eyes locking on Wake’s. “And no, sir, I cannot answer if anyone else has knowledge of last night’s events on the parapet.”

The major-domo’s demeanor was daunting to Wake, who managed to croak out, “Yes, well, again Variam, thank you for your considerable help. You’ve been very candid this morning. May I ask why?”

“You are entirely welcome for the assistance, sir. These things sometimes happen here. As for my candor . . .” A flicker of a smile crossed his face. “I was ordered to assist you all that I can, sir. It’s seems you have friends you don’t know about.”

Before Wake could ask the obvious, the Sikh executed a right-face as Bishop Ferro approached, trailed by an aide holding a plate mounded with food. Wake couldn’t get away as the bishop enthusiastically queried him, “Ah, you are the American naval man here, yes?”

“Yes, Your Excellency,” responded Wake, concerned about what Ferro had heard about him. “I am Lieutenant Peter Wake, of the American Navy.”

“Well come join us, Lieutenant Wake,” offered the bishop in good English. “These large British morning feasts require an equally large amount of time to vanquish them. I’d like some company and the opportunity to practice your language.”

Movement at the double doors in the castle wall caught Wake’s attention and he saw Catherine and her husband, escorted by Brown, enter the patio. Faber looked unsteady, Brown bemused, and Catherine serene, all of which unsettled Wake. He remembered his manners and turned to the waiting bishop. “It is my great honor to accompany you, Your Excellency. Thank you for your very kind invitation.”

Bishop Ferro spoke rapidly in Italian to the aide, then regarded Wake. “And are you a blessed Catholic, my son?”

“No, Your Excellency, but I was raised as an Episcopalian, which we were told is about as close as one can be to the Catholic teachings. Now I am a Methodist.”

“Oh, my! A Methodist. Getting even further away from us, I should think. Hmm, you know, I met a Methodist once.”

They sat down at the table, facing a beautiful peach-colored sunrise over mountains shadowed in lavender as the aide delivered a plate to Wake. He waited until they said their prayers and asked, “And did you like him, Your Excellency?”

“I did! Knew his version of the Bible very well and the original—that would be ours, my son—relatively well. Tremendous sense of humor, he had. One joke after another. Made me laugh from here,” he pointed to his ample belly.

Belatedly, Wake comprehended that the only chairs left open at the table were the two directly opposite him. But it was too late to move before Catherine and her husband took them. Faber merely grunted after sitting and morosely picked at his food. His wife smiled at the clergyman and said, “Bonjour, bonjour. Good morning to everyone. Your Excellency. And to you, Lieutenant Wake. I trust everyone slept well?”

The bishop replied with both hands held wide. “Wonderful sleep after an enchanting evening. And now we have a delicious start to a beautiful day. God is shining upon our new day. You look as if you had a night of wonderful slumber too, my dear. This coastal sea air will do a person good.”

“So do gentle dreams, Your Excellency,” she answered, as her husband belched. “You didn’t respond, Lieutenant. Did you sleep well?”

Wake thought her apparent ease in the awkward situation odd. “No, Madame Faber, actually I did not. My mind was filled with problems that precluded any rest.”

She shook her head, full of concern. “That is a shame, Lieutenant. It must have been that moon last night. They say that a beautiful moon can alter a man’s mood. That sometimes it can make them positively mad. I have heard stories of what they do under that influence.”

“Yes, Madame Faber. I think it might have done just that last night.”

Wake heard Brown announce that more food was being brought out and not to be sparse with their appetite. “Buon giorno, La Vostra Eccellenza. Bonjour, Madame. Good morning, Lieutenant Wake. What do you think of our little place here now that you’ve had an overnight stay, Lieutenant?”

Wake could see no sign of disapproval in Brown’s eyes. “Very nice home, sir. As the bishop has said, it was an enchanting evening.”

Faber grunted again, looking as if he would vomit. He stood, then fled the table, heading indoors. “I must apologize for my husband,” said Catherine with a shrug. “He is ill this morning. A minor ailment.”

Brown sat at Faber’s chair. “Yes, well he had quite a lot of excitement last night. Challenging a Prussian to a duel is a substantial demonstration of emotion. Fortunately, it was not consummated.”

Catherine was not amused at Brown’s dry wit. “Thank God—and you, Your Excellency—that more mature heads have prevailed in that matter. Dueling. In this day and age. How very silly for grown men. Who are they trying to impress?”

Brown cocked his head slightly at her. “Grown men are known to do many silly things, Madame Faber. Usually in regard to the fairer sex.”

“I am not sure what you mean by that in this context, Consul General,” Catherine replied frostily. “Perhaps my English is not adequate to understand your intent.”

“Merely a general observation about men, my dear. I agree with you about duels, by the way. Far too much violence in the world already, even here in Europe, among us supposedly civilized people. Don’t you agree, Your Excellency? You’ve just come from Spain, where sadness prevails.”

“Yes, there is too much of this senseless violence going on. Spain used to be a civilized nation devoted to the word and rule of God, but just look at her now.”

Catherine interjected. “It is like that all over Europe. We are no better than the savages in Africa. Hah, and we tell them how to behave.”

Wake tore his gaze away from Catherine and looked at the bishop beside him. “You were in Spain, sir? May I ask where?”

Brown and Catherine became involved in a conversation with the Greek assistant consul next to them, who suggested that religion might be the cause of wars. The bishop ignored the obvious slight and answered Wake. “I was at the cathedral in Sevilla, Lieutenant.”

“Really? I was there too, sir. Back in January. I met a Jesuit priest. Father Muñosa. Do you know of him?”

Bishop Ferro grinned. “Yes I do, my son.” He then leaned over and whispered. “He liked you. Described you as typical American. Unaware and unafraid. Closest man to Don Quixote he had ever met. And he said that if I ever met you to tell you he is still waiting for a letter from you. A letter that will tell a great tale. He told me you were being transferred to Genoa.”

Wake shook his head, now understanding the bishop’s friendliness. But he also wondered how much the bishop knew of the events in Sevilla. He whispered back, “When the time is right, it will be sent to him, Your Excellency. It’s a bit early yet. Things need to settle down there first.”

“Yes, I understand that. Perhaps your friends will be able to return someday, God willing.”

Surprised at how much the man knew, Wake got the feeling that the bishop’s concern was genuine. Then it struck him—was Bishop Ferro the mystery friend Variam was speaking of? He and Brown were the best of friends. Could Ferro have intervened and asked Brown to look after him? How bizarre, he thought. No, he decided, it was preposterous.

Bishop Ferro stood. “And now I regret that I must go. I have business to attend to at Rapallo, then must take that infernal train back to Genoa. Goodbye to you all. Montague, as always, it was a magnificent—and I must say, exciting—affair, and I thank you for including this old priest in the fun. Madame Faber, you are entirely correct about this continent and the violence we perpetuate. Perhaps between the two of us we can do a little to mitigate that.”

He shook Wake’s hand. “And to you, my adventurous young American friend, I will say the traditional farewell greeting of good luck to a man such as yourself.” He paused for a dramatic moment and began to walk away, shouting over his shoulder with a flourish of his hand, “In bocca al lupo!”

Brown laughed while he watched the bishop depart. “Do you know what that means, Lieutenant? It’s pretty appropriate for you.”

“No, sir. Not a clue,” said Wake, worried.

“It means ‘into the mouth of the wolf’ and it’s an Italian way of showing disdain for danger. It is said to the brave. The response is to shout ‘crepi!’ which means ‘die!’ Let’s hope that neither is prophetic, eh, Lieutenant?”

Catherine gave Wake a playful caress of her toe, which did nothing to dispel his apprehension. Overwhelmed by the thought of all he’d been through in his first three months in Europe, he sighed.

“I understand that saying entirely, sir. . . .”