"WHAT’S WRONG?" EMILIO ASKED AS GINA STOOD TO CLEAR THE PLATES after a meal that was pleasant enough but oddly charged.
"Nothing," she said, fussing at the sink.
"Which means that something is. Even an ex-priest knows that!" Emilio said with a smile that melted away when she didn’t answer.
Considering how short a time they’d been together, the two of them had already managed to have some remarkably good arguments. They had fought over the proper way to cook rice, the correct strength of coffee and various means of brewing it, and whether artichokes were edible, Gina taking the position that they were evidence of divine beneficence while Emilio declared tree bark more appealing. His favorite thus far was a memorable and still unresolved debate that had initially ended in incredulous shouting, succeeded by outraged silence, over which was more stupefyingly boring, World Cup soccer or World Series baseball. "Baseball uniforms are ugly, too," Gina declared a week later, which started that one all over again. And then there was a really wonderful fight about the cut and color of the suit that he was to wear at their wedding. Eventually Emilio gave in on the lapels Gina liked so he could get the gray silk he preferred to the black she insisted he looked fabulous in, but only because she’d made an aesthetic concession on the baseball uniforms.
It was fun. They were both products of cultures that considered marital dispute a performance art, and they encouraged Celestina to join in for the sheer pleasure of having her yell exuberantly along with whichever adult was currently her favorite—a status, Emilio had observed, that ordinarily accrued to whoever had thwarted her second to last. But nothing had been in earnest until today, when he’d walked over for lunch, intending to help them pack for the trip to the mountains with Gina’s parents.
Emilio frowned at Gina’s back, and then glanced at the kitchen clock. A great deal had changed in the years of his absence, but little kids still loved animation. "Celestina," he said evenly, "it’s time for I Bambini." He waited until Celestina had rocketed off to her bedroom to play the day’s installment of her favorite interactive. "Let’s try this again," he suggested quietly when he and Gina were alone. "What’s wrong?"
She spun around, head up, eyes brimming, and declared in a voice as firm as her chin wasn’t, "You should go back to find Sofia!"
Stunned, Emilio gaped at her for a moment, then closed his eyes and breathed in slowly, hands resting on the tabletop. When he looked at Gina next, it was with the obsidian stare that had frightened people far better equipped to withstand his anger than she was. "Who told you?" he asked very softly.
"Don’t look at me like that," she said.
"Who told you?" he repeated even more quietly, each word separate.
"What difference does it make who told me? She’s alive. That poor woman—she’s all alone!" Gina exclaimed, starting to cry, but determined now to confront him on the very points of honor she feared he would defend. "You should go back to rescue her. She needs you. You loved her."
He might have turned to stone. "One," he said at last. "It makes a difference because I intend to kill whoever told you. Two. All we know for certain is that she was alive in 2047. Three. The Giordano Bruno won’t reach Rakhat for another seventeen years. The probability of finding her alive, having survived alone on Rakhat to the age of seventy-one, approaches zero. Four—"
"I hate it when you’re like this!"
"Four!" he said, standing now, his voice rising. "Sofia Mendes was the single most competent person I have ever met. I assure you that she would find laughable the concept of needing me, of all people, to rescue her! Five. Yes. I loved her! I also loved Anne, and D.W., and Askama. I didn’t marry any of them. Gina, look at me!" he shouted, stung that she doubted him, enraged that someone had tried to drive this wedge between them. "If Sofia Mendes miraculously walked in that door at this moment, alive, well and in the bloom of her youth, it would change nothing between you and me. Nothing!"
Gina only cried harder, glaring in wet defiance. Exasperated, he turned abruptly and walked to the kitchen desk, rummaging through the clutter for a code written on a scrap of paper.
"Who are you calling?" she asked, eyes streaming, as he activated the phone.
"The magistrate. I want him here. Now. We are getting married this afternoon. Then I am going to call the tailor and cancel the order for that damned suit. And then I am going to murder Vincenzo Giuliani and probably Daniel Iron Horse as well—"
"Why is Mamma crying?" Celestina demanded, standing in the kitchen doorway, little hands fisted, scowling at him.
Gina hastily wiped her eyes. "It’s nothing, cara—"
"It’s not nothing! It’s important and she deserves to understand," Emilio snapped, having understood very little of his own mangled childhood. He canceled the call and got a grip on himself. "Your mamma is afraid that I might leave her, Celestina. She thinks I could love someone else more than I love her, cara."
"But you do." Celestina looked nonplussed. "You love me best."
Gina laughed a little and turned to Emilio. "Go ahead," she said in bleary-eyed challenge, sniffing mightily. "Handle this one."
He threw her a look worthy of a pool shark calling a bank shot to the corner pocket. "You," he told Celestina with perfect aplomb, "are my very best little girl and your mamma is my very best wife." Brows up, he turned back to Gina expectantly and received a nod of ungrudging if somewhat damp commendation. Satisfied, he went back to the mess on the desk, muttering, "Which is to say, she will be my very best wife as soon as I can get the magistrate out here—"
"No," said Gina, stopping him with a hand on his arm. She leaned her head against his shoulder. "It’s all right. I needed to hear it, I guess. We can wait until September." She laughed again and lifted her head, tucking her hair behind her ears and wiping her eyes. "And don’t you dare cancel that suit!"
Wedding jitters, he thought, looking at her. She’d been uncharacteristically emotional lately and this business about Sofia had capped it all off. Cursing his hands and the braces, he took her shoulders and gingerly held her at arm’s length. "I am not Carlo, Gina. I will never leave you," he whispered, watching to see if she could believe it. He pulled her to him and sighed, thinking, It’s not like either of us is coming to this with a clean slate. Then he looked at Celestina over her mother’s shoulder and raised his voice so they could both hear him. "I love you, and I love Celestina, and I am yours forever."
"Well," said Celestina, almost six, in the ringing tones of a grande dame of seventy, "I’m certainly pleased we’ve straightened that out!"
Gina and Emilio stared at each other open-mouthed as the little girl flounced out of the kitchen and went back to her cartoons. "I never said that. Do you say that? Where does she get this stuff?" Gina asked, astounded.
Emilio was laughing. "That was really good! Don’t you recognize it? Valeria Golina—La Contessa!" he cried. "No—wait, you fell asleep on the sofa, but Celestina and I watched it last Sunday." He shook his head, extravagantly pleased that Celestina was picking up one of his own habits. "She was doing Valeria Golina. That was really good!"
IT IS DIFFICULT TO SUSTAIN HIGH DRAMA IN A HOUSEHOLD WITH CHILDREN, particularly those who have learned to do creditable Golina impressions. They spent the afternoon arguing with Celestina over the minimum number of stuffed animals (four) and maximum number of party dresses (one) necessary for a two-week holiday in the mountains. Emilio helped mainly by keeping Celestina out of Gina’s hair until Celestina’s best friend, Pia, came over to play, at which time he announced that he intended to fold all the clothes that had been laid out on the bed for packing.
"You’re very good at that," Gina observed, glancing over her shoulder at his handiwork as she rooted in a bureau drawer for underwear her mother would not be disgusted by.
"Dazzling," he agreed and added, "I used to work in the house laundry. Would you like me to come with you to the mountains?"
She straightened slowly, astonished. "And if you’re recognized?"
"I’ll wear dark glasses and a hat and gloves," he said, looking up from the suitcase.
"And a trenchcoat?" she suggested dryly. "Caro, it’s August."
"All right, what about a veil?" he asked airily, going back to the clothes. "Nothing flashy—not an embroidered silk veil hung with gold coins. Something tasteful!" There was a pause. "Silver coins, perhaps." He blew it off, laying blouses in her bag. "If I’m recognized, I’m recognized! I’ll deal with it."
They could hear the two little girls’ shrieking laughter out in the yard. The house itself seemed very still. Gina walked to the bed and sat down, watching his face. Finally, he sat next to her. "Okay," he admitted, the cockiness gone, "maybe it’s not such a great idea."
"You’ve got to finish the K’San project for the Jesuits. They’re leaving soon," she pointed out. "Maybe next year for the mountains?"
Head down, hair over his eyes, he probed the hurt places, judging himself. "The Society is going to release the scientific papers in October," he said, serious now. "I have been thinking that perhaps the best way to handle it really is to call a news conference. Spend a whole day, if necessary. As long as it takes. Be done with it. Answer every damned question they throw at me—"
"And then come home to your family." She reached over and took his face in her hands and looked into the dark eyes, watching the doubt and the fear recede.
"Do people still dance?" he asked suddenly. "Someday, I would like to take you dancing."
"Yes, caro," she assured him. "People still dance."
"Good," he said, and leaned forward to kiss her, but then just closed his eyes in resignation and rested his forehead against hers as the kitchen door crashed open and a tidal wave of noise rolled down the hallway toward them.
Celestina skidded to a halt at the bedroom door, hair wild and face rosy with the heat. "We’re starving!" she cried dramatically and demonstrated this by collapsing semi-gracefully into a pitiable heap at their feet.
"Note, if you will," Emilio pointed out to the dying swan’s mother, "that she made sure to fall onto the bedroom carpet, rather than the tiled floor of the hall." Celestina giggled, eyes closed.
"Will you make us macaroni and cheese again?" Pia begged Emilio, hopping up and down, hands pressed together in supplication. "Just like last time? Please, please, please. Extra soupy? With lots of milk?"
Gina smiled at her lap, shaking her head, as Emilio was borne off to the kitchen by two boisterous little girls. "Pia, call your mother," she could hear him say in his very best papa voice. "And ask if you may stay for supper. Celestina, you set the table. Lots of milk, the lady says! Why is it you can never find a cow when you need one…"
FINALLY, THE TIME CAME TO PUT CELESTINA TO BED AND, AS GINA touched off the light and tucked the child in, Emilio cleared a space to sit amid the doll-and-stuffed-animal populace. From out of nowhere, he produced a small silver box that one of the Camorra guards had purchased for him in Naples and held it up for Celestina’s perusal.
"Is it for me?" she asked, her yearning naked.
"Who else?" he asked, smiling at Gina, enjoying her obvious perplexity. "This is a magic box, you know," Emilio confided then, face grave, eyes alight, as Celestina examined the tiny, perfect flowers that decorated its lid. "You can keep words in it."
The child looked up at him, massively skeptical in the dark, and he smiled at her remarkable resemblance to her mother. "Take the top off for me, if you please," he said. He had planned to do this himself, but small precise movements were sometimes excruciatingly hard. No matter, he thought, I can adapt the act. "Now. Get ready because you have to put the top back on very quickly after I say the words." Caught up in the game, Celestina tensed and held the box to his lips. Eyes on Gina, he whispered, "Ti amo, cara," and then cried, "Quick! Get that top on!" Squealing, Celestina clamped the lid down as quickly as she could. "Whew! That was close. Now," he said, taking the box from her, "tap the top and count to ten."
"Why?"
"Why, why, why! We don’t beat this child enough," he complained to Gina, who was smiling broadly. "In my day, kids did as they were told, no questions asked."
Celestina was not impressed. "Why?" she insisted on knowing.
"To let the words know they’re supposed to stay inside," he told her in an exasperated tone: any silly would know that! "Do as you’re told. Tap the top and count to ten!" he repeated, holding the box out in what was left of a palm, balancing it on the brace strap. She no longer saw his hands, he realized. Even Pia was used to them now.
Celestina, mollified, tapped and counted. He handed the box to her. "Now, open it, and put it right next to your ear."
Small fingers pried the lid off and her oval face, the mirror of her mother’s, became still as she thrust the box into blond tangles near a golden ear sprinkled with summer freckles. "I don’t hear anything!" Celestina declared, skepticism confirmed. "I think you’re goofing me."
Emilio looked indignant. "Try it again," he said, but he added, "This time, listen with your heart."
In the magical silence of a little girl’s bedroom, they all three heard his words: Ti amo, cara.
BEFORE IT WAS OVER, CELESTINA HAD ASKED FOR A DRINK OF WATER AND reminded her mother about the night-light and told Emilio she was going to keep the box under her pillow and asked for one last trip to the toilet, and then tried to initiate a discussion of monster-under-the-bed behavior that had the potential for delaying "Good night" five more minutes, but didn’t work.
Finally, pulling the door almost closed, they left Celestina with "Sweet dreams," and Gina caught her breath, feeling vacuumed of energy but happy. "You are going to be the greatest papa in world history," she said with quiet conviction, putting her arms around Emilio.
"Depend on it," he told her, but she could tell something was wrong. He made no move toward their bedroom and finally told her wryly, "You could save me a lot of embarrassment if you had a headache tonight."
She stepped back. "Your hands?" There was a small shrug and he looked away. He started to apologize, but she stopped him with a finger on his lips. "Caro, we have our whole lives for it." And to tell the truth, she’d felt faintly queasy all day anyway, so she changed the subject as they headed for the kitchen table. "Don Vincenzo told me they found another surgeon for you last May, but you wouldn’t see him. Why not, caro?" Emilio slumped into a chair opposite her, face stony, his breathing shallow. "You heal well enough now. They can do amazing things, Emilio. Re-glove the hands with artificial skin, reposition some tendons to take advantage of the nerves that weren’t cut. You’d have much better function afterward."
"I’m used to the braces." He sat up, half defiant. "Look. I’ve had enough, okay? I don’t want to start all over learning how to use my hands."
That much he had told the Father General. She waited, giving him time to say the rest himself. When he didn’t, she answered the unspoken objection, and knew she’d guessed correctly when his eyes slid away. "The phantom neuralgia won’t be any worse afterward—it might even be better."
There was no answer for a time. "I’ll think about it," he said, blinking. "Not right away. I need some time."
"Maybe after New Year’s," she suggested gently.
"Maybe," he said. "I don’t know. Maybe."
There was no rush, apart from her own desire to see him made whole, so Gina let it go. He’d had scurvy when he first came home and, for a long time, his connective tissue had simply been too fragile to permit surgery; the longer he waited, the healthier he would be and the faster he would heal. The damage to his hands was already three years old. Another six months would make no difference clinically.
The last thing they talked about before he walked back to his apartment was the arrangement he’d made with the law firm in Cleveland and the bank in Zurich, giving Gina free access to all his accounts.
"Don’t you want to wait until after the wedding?" she asked, standing in the doorway.
"Why? Are you going to run away with the money?" he replied. She could barely see him in the dark. "No, I just want you to take your parents out for dinner a few times. Someplace nice, yes? And tell them it was my idea! I want credit. A son-in-law has to think about this kind of thing."
She laughed and watched until he disappeared into the moonless night.
THEY WERE IN TOUCH DAILY WHILE GINA WAS GONE, ALTHOUGH TOWARD the end of the second week, Emilio was swamped, wrapping up the final details of the K’San programs, trying to meet his own self-imposed deadline at the end of the month. By the time she and Celestina got back to Naples, it had been a couple of days since they’d spoken. She called the minute she walked in her door, but the number was disconnected. She tried again to be sure she hadn’t touched the wrong code, then drove over to his apartment as soon as she’d brought the luggage in from the car and taken care of Celestina’s immediate needs for a toilet and lunch, telling herself all the while that what she knew must be wrong.
The main retreat house was not deserted, as she had irrationally feared, but no one she knew was in residence. The lay brother who’d taken Cosimo’s place in the refectory was Vietnamese and she couldn’t make out a word of his Italian. The door to Emilio’s apartment over the garage was locked, and the geraniums were gone from his unshuttered windows. She demanded explanations, wept, screamed, accused, and everywhere met omertà—the silence of the South. Her second daughter was nearly ten years old before Gina understood the whole of it.