BLUE SHIELD WITH BLACK AND WHITE STRIPES, OAK GARLAND
1.
Pisano hoped the papers would call him a hero. He had been the first to rush into the bombed-out room, followed quickly by firemen. To his horror, there were two people lying inert on the floor. No one was supposed to be here! And what was worse was that he saw the person on top was the American. He went to him, rolled him gently over. Michael’s body was shielding that of … “Dio mio!” he shouted. “Get a doctor!”
It is all my fault, he thought, while at the same time coming up with many ways to deny his involvement should it ever come to light.
He thought the Americans were dead, but to his infinite relief the woman sat up as they kneeled over her.
“Michael,” she said, reaching for her husband, grabbing his hand.
For what seemed like a thousand years, he didn’t move.
And then, thanks to the infinite grace of the Madonna, whose name Pisano swore he would never take in vain again, the stupid American’s eyes opened.
2.
Once again resting under the frescoed gaze of the sufferers of the Black Death, Scottie made Michael tell her the whole plan. Everything. He told her all about the Dark Arts, that he was sent to sway the election, that he was supposed to arm a militia in case of a Communist victory, and that he had planned to be the only casualty of the false flag attack by Minaccia Rossa.
“So you were leaving me to raise our child alone?”
“I hoped you would remarry. One of those Social Register types.”
“Eew,” she said.
They were checked over, and found to be miraculously unhurt, with the exception of some tiny pieces of window glass in Michael’s back.
Ugo Rosini denounced Minaccia Rossa as a violent fringe group, and was photographed bringing flowers to Michael and Scottie in the hospital.
Michael had mixed feelings when he received flowers from Ambassador Luce addressed “to a true American.”
3.
“I thought life would be easier for you without me,” Michael told Scottie when she asked him to move back into the apartment with her and Ecco.
“We’re going to have to figure this out day by day,” she said. “Today, I want you here.”
“But don’t you want to return to the U.S. to have the baby?”
“There’s time,” she said, and left it at that. He moved into the guest room. He was surprised the first day she came to his room in the morning with the newspapers and a basket of rolls and butter and got in bed with him, but after that it became their new morning routine, to lie next to each other, Ecco on their feet, and go over the news, the gossip and the movie listings.
“Gina Lollobrigida’s in a new version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame,” she said.
“You could be in that one,” he said, patting her tummy. “You could play Quasimodo, except the tragedy is that the hump is on your front.”
She swatted him with the paper.
They went back to work together at the Ford office. It made sense that she be the one to get out and talk to people, get a feel for what was happening with the election. She was just better at it. She also helped him draw moral lines. No more Dark Arts. Michael focused on the bureaucratic aspects of the job that gave him a sense of making order from chaos. He had taken the cash that Duncan sent from Rome for Vestri and other shadowy purposes and stashed it. He told himself it wasn’t theft—it was just safekeeping. He knew the Agency did not—could not—keep track of where it went.
He had promised to give Pisano the map that indicated where the arms cache was hidden, but after talking to Scottie he burned it. Pisano was angry, but what could he do? They were both operating outside of all laws.
Scottie talked to everyone. She had a real feel for the job, he had to admit. Her reports made you feel like you were on the ground, living in the culture. She was an excellent intelligence officer, if without any counterintelligence instincts. Michael liked it that way.
They were a good team.
4.
A heavy envelope with the crest of the Chigi Piccolomini family arrived, addressed to Scottie. She held it for a moment, not opening it, just feeling its weight. She had caught a glimpse of Carlo and Franca one day coming out of San Domenico with Ilaria, but she had stepped into a doorway, unwilling to intrude. They looked happy, she thought. Finally she opened the envelope, and there was a short note from Carlo: Franca and I are going overseas for an extended trip. To show our gratitude we have left a small gift for you with Signor Banchi. Do keep an eye out for porcupines and wild boars …
Curious, Scottie wandered down to Banchi’s with Ecco. There, standing between the two enormous oxen, she found the small black mare she had ridden at Carlo’s. The mare nickered at her, and Scottie put her face against the horse’s neck.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
5.
Her days now began with a ride. Michael was anxious about her falling off, but Scottie reassured him that she and the little mare took leisurely strolls that allowed her to meet and chat with country people, who often invited her in for a coffee, a glass of wine or, in the case of a shepherdess, a wedge of freshly made pecorino. Being atop a horse gave her a different perspective on the landscape and the people who lived in harmony with it. She dismounted to join the vendemmia, or grape harvest, greeted mushroom hunters under the oaks, and chatted with old women gathering chestnuts in the forests. The horse-crazy little girl who had fought for blue ribbons and acceptance was still inside her, but was now just one part of a different Scottie who saw the mare as a way to connect with the world rather than conquer it.
6.
Michael finally made good on his promise to teach her to cook. They began one Saturday morning with his sfogliatelle recipe. He described the laborious process of creating fine pastry, layer by layer. “Your turn,” he said, pushing the sack of flour toward her.
“Not even going to try,” she said, pouring some grappa into his orange juice.
“What are you doing?”
“Evening the score. If you make pastry like that, I’m never going to measure up. Plus, I’ve never seen you drunk.”
“I don’t like to lose control.”
“I noticed. Maybe you should, once.”
“Why?”
She poured a hefty splash of liquor into his coffee as well. He made a face, but downed the coffee. “What about you?”
“One of us should stay alert,” she said. “To defend us in case of invasion. And I think it should be the pregnant lady.” She struck a karate-chop pose.
“That is terrifying.”
He showed her how to roll out sheets of fresh pasta as she poured him champagne, and then he demonstrated how to sear a steak while she poured him red wine.
“Hey, the meat’s not gray inside,” she said. “And so tender. Who knew?” She pushed her plate back. “Why should I learn all this if you’re already so good at it?”
“Everyone should know how to cook.”
“Well, I think everyone should know how to dance.” She put on a Duke Ellington record and they danced in their bare feet. He was drunk, loose, laughing in a way she hadn’t seen before. His face was finally relaxed. She taught him to Lindy hop, swing, jitterbug and boogie-woogie. They whirled around the room until they fell onto the sofa, dizzy and panting.
“You’re good. The first man who didn’t crush my toes,” she said.
“It’s because of my feet. Are these not the loveliest feet you’ve ever seen?” He lifted his feet for her to admire.
“They look like feet to me.”
“No, no. Look closer. Look at the curve of the arch, the shape of that toe.”
She was laughing. “I’m sorry, but feet are pretty much feet. They keep us upright, but they’re not really much to look at.”
“Are you kidding me?” he said, weaving over to the bookcase and returning, mock serious, with a volume on Michelangelo. He opened to the Pietà. “Do you not see the resemblance?”
She made a show of studying the photo of the marble statue and then his feet, using a cocktail stirrer as a lorgnette. “I suppose they are a little Christlike, now that you point it out.”
“Right?!”
“Quite possibly your feet are prettier than Miss America.”
“Let’s not exaggerate,” he said. “Let’s just agree they’re perfect.”
* * *
“Hey, want to go see the new Sophia Loren tonight?” she asked the next morning as he was getting dressed. “La fortuna di essere donna. The luck to be a woman? Lucky woman?”
“Actually, I have to go to Rome.” He had been feeling slightly hungover as he attempted to tie his tie in the mirror on the door of the armoire, but now he was suddenly sober. He went over and sat on the bed next to her. He had been putting it off, but there were reports he had to deliver. He wasn’t even sure if Duncan was free that night, but he knew what the word “Rome” would mean to Scottie. He was anxious, unsure of what she would say.
She stared at him for a long beat, her face frozen, then forced a smile. “Have fun,” she said.
“You don’t … mind?”
“It’s not what I expected when I said ‘I do.’ But at least I know.” She got out of the bed. “I’ll miss you. But I mean it, have fun.”
He felt terrible. “What will you do tonight? Go to the movies without me?”
She stopped in the doorway, the emerald green silk pajamas he had bought her glowing in the morning sun.
“I might call Ugo Rosini.”
Alarm shot through him, and yes, jealousy. “We’re trying to defeat him in the election, remember?”
“All the more reason to get close to him.”
Michael was silent.
“This isn’t easy,” she said at last.
“No,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Wear the blue suit. You look really handsome in that one.”
She padded away, the dog trailing behind her.