From Sand and Ash(79)

18 March, 1944


Confession: Tonight, I faced my dragons. Now I’m sitting all alone in a beautiful hotel room in Rome, filling pages of stationery with my confessions, wondering if those same dragons will, in the end, slay me, or worse, slay Angelo.



Thinking about dragons has reminded me of my fourteenth birthday. Babbo hired a family of circus performers who brought in ponies and clowns and gypsies who performed tricks and read fortunes. It was all very exciting and authentic, especially the fortune-teller. She was young—maybe eighteen or nineteen—and quite beautiful, with big round breasts, a tiny waist, and huge gold loops at her ears. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I think my father was a little alarmed by the lusty gypsy, but it was the best birthday party ever, and my classmates talked about it for months afterward.

The gypsy had tarot cards and a big round ball that she pretended to look into as she foretold the future. I wanted her to tell me my fortune, but got nervous at the last moment and ran and grabbed Angelo by the hand and pulled him into her little striped tent so he could hold my hand while she told me my fate. Angelo was sixteen at that time, and he seemed so much older than the other boys. I had to beg him to come home for the party, and even then, he hung back and watched, eating cake and listening to Uncle Augusto and Babbo argue politics. He wasn’t a child anymore, and I was losing him a little at a time.

The gypsy laughed at me when I told her to proceed. I must have seemed very young and foolish. Her eyes were dark and her lips red, and I could tell she thought Angelo was very handsome. She turned over some cards—I don’t remember which ones—but her eyes kept going back to Angelo. I don’t remember what my fortune was, only that I was disappointed and unimpressed by her predictions. But then she offered to read Angelo’s cards. He started to drag me away, clearly not interested, but she stood and pushed him firmly down into the chair I had just vacated. I clutched his hand, indicating that he belonged to me, and she quirked her eyebrows disdainfully.

She told him he would have the love of a beautiful woman who would bear him many sons. I informed her he was going to be a priest. She predicted he would be a hero to many. I told her he was already a hero to me. “You will slay dragons,” she predicted grandly, ignoring me. But Angelo grew very still, and his hand tightened around mine.

“You will slay dragons, but not before they slay you,” she hissed. And Angelo bolted from his chair, dragging me from the tent.

Eva Rosselli





CHAPTER 19


THE VILLA MEDICI


It took Angelo forty minutes to walk back to the Villa Medici, and every step was rife with dread. He was afraid he would arrive and find Eva gone, that he would walk into the room and see overturned furniture and empty space. He kept imagining her door being knocked down, a squadristi of Jew hunters pulling her out into the night and whisking her away.

He didn’t trust von Essen, and his insistence that she take a room at the hotel rang hollow. By the time Angelo turned the key and let himself into her room, he was beside himself with worry.

But all was well.

Eva was asleep on the large bed, hugging the edge like she’d fallen asleep while waiting for him and simply tipped over. Her legs still hung off the side. He watched her for a moment, lightheaded with relief, before stumbling to the bathroom and gulping down mouthfuls of water to ease the ache in his chest. It was a grateful ache. A humble ache. An ache that felt like love and longing and loss, though he hadn’t lost her at all. But the ache said he could. The ache said he still might. The ache said he’d been a fool.

Eva had made use of the tub. The bathroom still smelled of steam and soap and jasmine, though he didn’t know how she managed to still carry that scent with her. The bathtub had an irresistible lure, he had to admit. He pulled off his cassock and dropped it to the floor, and immediately shed the rest of his clothes. The stench of sweat and fear was heavy on his skin, and he was desperate to remove it.

He climbed into the tub, hoping he wouldn’t wake Eva, and made the water as hot as he could, which wasn’t nearly hot enough. He scrubbed at his skin and washed his hair with the little perfumed bar of soap Eva had used and set to the side. There was a tiny tin of tooth powder and a toothbrush on the vanity, along with a shower cap and a comb, the amenities of a luxury hotel. Angelo rinsed his mouth and scrubbed at his teeth with the brush Eva must have already used, and tried not to dwell on the intimacy of the act or think about her mouth for too long. He pulled his prosthetic and his trousers back on but couldn’t stand to don his shirt or the cassock. He shook them briskly and hung them over the door instead, hoping to air them out a bit. Then he went back to watch Eva sleep.

Her position made her look like she’d collapsed, her legs hanging off the bed the way they were. She lay on her side, facing him, the white sheet draped loosely around her, but her face was turned down, baring her slim throat and shadowing her face, so still and so lovely. It made him think of the sculpture of Cecilia, the martyred saint, and he crossed the distance to the bed and knelt beside it, suddenly lightheaded with an irrational dread. He lifted her legs onto the bed, making her roll to her back. She was so limp and lifeless. Before he could stop himself, he was pressing his face to her chest, listening for her heart and running his fingertips over her mouth, feeling for her breath. For several torturous seconds he couldn’t find any signs of life. Nothing.