From Sand and Ash(19)

He’d known for a long time that he loved Eva, but he had never admitted to himself that he loved her the way a man loves a woman. He had never allowed himself to ruminate on the idea. He’d locked it away the moment he’d decided to marry the church and forsake all others.

“Angelo?”

Angelo dropped his fingers from his mouth as if he’d been caught with his hand in a cash register. Camillo stepped out onto the veranda and looked around, obviously expecting Eva to be out there too. When he saw that she wasn’t, he eased himself into a chair to the right of Angelo and filled his pipe as if he had all the time in the world. It wasn’t late, though Angelo and Eva had missed dinner. Everyone else was still awake inside the house, and low murmurs and tinkling laughter filtered out into the loamy air. Angelo hoped no one had noticed the length of time he and Eva had spent alone.

Camillo puffed and purred, smoke billowing from his mouth in fragrant clouds. Angelo had always loved the smell of his pipe, and he closed his eyes briefly, letting the scent mingle with the salt and the sea, the evergreens and the rain, before he exhaled and then breathed in deeply once more, savoring the aroma.

“You might be our only hope, Angelo,” Camillo said after a time. Angelo had grown drowsy in the comfortable darkness, the inevitable adrenaline crash leaving him weak and loose-limbed.

“What do you mean, Camillo?” Camillo had never allowed Angelo to call him anything else.

“You know, you could marry Eva and take her to America. You are an American citizen. And if she were your wife, you could get her out of Italy. Out of Europe. You could make sure she is safe from what is coming.”

Angelo was so stunned he could only sit, staring off into the darkness like it held a forest full of jesters, waiting to laugh at Camillo’s incredible suggestion. He sat still for so long, with his face so blank, that Camillo leaned forward and peered into his eyes.

“She would never leave you,” Angelo said finally, offering the only response that came to his mind.

“Ha!” Camillo barked softly, and puffed again, slumping back in his chair. “I knew it.”

“You knew what, Babbo?” Angelo said, slipping and calling him by Eva’s pet name.

“I knew you wouldn’t pretend with me,” he said. “You love Eva. And she loves you. You are a priest and she is a Jew.”

“And you are a poet,” Angelo said mildly, though his heart was galloping.

Camillo laughed softly. “That I am. A great poet and philosopher. That is why I smoke this pipe. It gives me the look I desire.”

“I am not a priest yet,” Angelo murmured. It was a silly thing to say. He had spent nine years in the seminary. Nine years. And now, he was in the final months of his training. His ordination had been scheduled.

“That’s like a man who is betrothed saying he is not yet married.”

It was exactly like that, and Angelo had no response. He was too honest and too shell-shocked by the whole evening to play games. Camillo was right. He couldn’t pretend. And reality was starting to penetrate the fog he’d been in.

Angelo wasn’t a stupid man. He wasn’t blind. He wasn’t deaf. He wasn’t dumb. But he’d been a fool. He’d thought he could love Eva and not be in love with her. He’d thought he could be close to her and not be too close. He’d thought he could have Eva and have God too.

And he couldn’t.

He was not the exception. He was the rule. He was not Saint George, slaying dragons for his God. He was simply Angelo Bianco, being slain by the wiliest serpent of all—Satan, flaming red, with seven heads and ten horns—which John spoke of in his Book of Revelation.

“I still want to be a priest, Camillo,” he whispered, and his chest ached at the admission, as if he were betraying Eva. He was betraying Eva. Just like he’d betrayed the church and betrayed himself. The last few hours had been the sweetest of his life, but they had not been his finest.

“I know,” Camillo said. “I know you do. That is why you are sitting out here alone instead of somewhere with Eva. That is why you’ve spent all these years treating her like a sister and letting me treat you like a son.”

“You are my family,” Angelo said, emotion rising in his chest.

“Yes. But you can still save her.” Camillo met his gaze with a frank expectation that confused Angelo all the more.

“But . . . I thought you meant . . .”

“Marriage? No. It’s illegal, first of all. Catholics can’t marry Jews, even though we’ve been marrying each other for decades in Italy. Even though Santino’s Catholic uncle married my Jewish aunt thirty years ago,” he scoffed, disgusted. But he waved his hand in the air, dismissing his derision as well as the mention of the convoluted family connection that had brought Santino and Camillo together in the first place. He continued. “And second, you’re right. Eva wouldn’t leave. It is a distinctly Jewish trait. We would rather die together than be separated from our loved ones.” He puffed his pipe, letting the silence cleanse his mental palate. “Ah, who knows? Maybe that isn’t a Jewish trait. Maybe that is a human trait.” He waved his hand again. “Regardless, I know she will not leave me to save herself.”

“I don’t understand, Camillo. What do you want me to do?” Angelo hoped Camillo could tell him exactly, give him instructions, make the path ahead straight and narrow.