of
my mind any bit more.
“Actually, my wife is four rows up, with my two kids, in the middle seats.” I recall that four is an unlucky number in some cultures. I drop my train of thought fearing Aphrodite might think me a superstitious simpleton.
“She doesn’t believe in paying for reserved seating so here I lie.”
“Well aren’t you the lucky one.”
Aphrodite makes me smile. This level of flirtation is friendly and flattering: a harmless banter that circles a cerebral core. There are no ulterior motives.
She is about to say something more but is interrupted by the airline attendant bellowing predictable pre-flight greetings and pre-flight procedures on the loud speaker that everyone, but neophytes, ignores.
Ignoring the cacophony from the sound system, Aphrodite leans toward me. I smell eucalyptus leaves. She whispers. “My name is Ali. What’s that you’re reading?” Her hot breath is paralyzing, hypnotic. My thoughts go into standby but rally with her green-light grin.
“Ali, short for Alice?”
“No, short for Allegra. I Anglicized it. It means cheerful and lively.”
Ali’s heightened intonation of the last few words draws Emily’s attention. Are those associated feelings of guilt flushing Emily’s face?
“I have been doing research on my hometown of Tarquinia, an ancient Etruscan City. This book, written by Robert Leighton, is part of an
archaeological history series charting the history of ancient sites.”
“Yes, I know it well. It contains only nine pages with references to D.H. Lawrence. The author could have improved his publication immensely by espousing more of Lawrence’s literary contributions and less detailing of medieval scholarship. I think poets surpass historians in helping us understand art treasures.”
What a delightful person. She transcends small talk masterfully with interests in writing, history, art and life. It beats chatter about clothing, footwear, designers and celebrities.
“My name is Renzo: not short, long, or American.”
“One who wears a laurel wreath. You possess a noble, exalted name. However, your other book looks like a guide on witchcraft. Are you a sorcerer, horned deity, high priest of magic?” jokes Ali.
I am charmed by the woman’s intelligence and free-spiritedness. Female assertiveness is beauty in motion.
“In my readings, I have discovered a connection between my town’s Etruscan history, art and symbols and Italian paganism which historians have interpreted as witchcraft. The most notable symbol is that of two-winged horses.”
“Now I’m intrigued,” says Ali. “I have read about the art and archaeology of Tarquinia. Did you know that D. H. Lawrence considered Etruscan art a ‘religion of life’? I can only imagine Lawrence’s carnal view of Etruscan life, love, sexuality and marriage. First, I’m visiting my extended family
in southern Calabria but then my northern trek includes a visitation to the Museo Nazionale in old Corneto, today called Tarquinia.”
I am dumbfounded. This woman is striking in body and mind: a lethal combination repugnant to many men. She excites me. I want to know more about her.
“Speaking of marriage, here comes your wife to check up on you. She looks upset.”
Ali pulls opens her blanket, covers her frame and cuddles against the fuselage of the plane as if verging on slumber.
Emily, eyes wandering, probes.
“Everything all right here? I don’t want you to worry about me and our kids, Renzo.”
Her stress on my name is unequivocal. “Nevertheless, it’s a long flight and I’m
certain they’ll sleep through the night. Renzo, don’t forget to take your acid-reflux medication before you snooze off. You need to get lots of sleep. You know how tired and grumpy you can be. You would not want your hard-nosed side surfacing, would you? Goodnight dear. I’ll wake you just before we land.”
Emily, smug and self-satisfied, walks away. I am denied the benefit of a reply.
I feel dishonored. Depreciated. Flattened. Ali smiles at me with empathy and asks,
“Did you know that for protection, pagans brewed a mixture of Angelica, fennel, and rosemary in one of their cauldrons?”
I remain mute, lost in Ali’s therapeutic remedy.
Losing her smile, as if clutching a deeper
thought, she adds, “I guess you need potions and spells when deception rather than truth governs relationships.”
I am stunned. I look at Ali with awe. She appears to have read my feelings. Am I that readable? She seems to possess the power to render what’s broken, unbroken. Dare I share the details of my unfaithful marriage? I remain tongue-tied.
“By the way Renzo, with sleight of hand, I placed my university business card between the pages of your book. Goodnight.”
Ali slides a sleeping mask over her eyes and curls into a ball under her blanket. Her insight and openness are a balm to my spirit. Will I have the opportunity and time to get to know her better?
Chapter 5
Marina di Gioiosa Ionica, southern Italy
A priest in a funeral home arouses no extraordinary concern but this priest is diabolic. Death follows his pervasive trails. His mission is rooted more in the temporal world, not anything to do with God’s ethereal paradise.
In a different town, more industrialized and intellectualized, any talks or caveats persisting around one particular establishment would summon the local carabinieri to investigate. However, the native military police shun this clergyman and his ‘family’-owned mortuary. The police understand how the system works and what is good for them. It is not prudent to interfere. Boundaries must be respected.
Here in the lower level of San Giovanni Camera Mortuaria (St. John Funeral Home), there is an outlet for caskets and accessories of an enviable variety. Customers can choose from low to high- quality chests of various finishes. Prices vary from inexpensive to lavish. The devil priest is standing in front of a gold-plated casket. His white-gloved hands encircle a metallic, carved, elongated crucifix. His eyes glare at the innermost depth of the casket. He begins to speak.
“You hold your nose and take our money,” says the priest kneeling before the open casket.
The priest looks inside and begins to pray.
Our Father, who art in heaven…
Intermixed with words of prayer come le accuse (accusations). The prayer morphs into a decree of death.
…hallowed be Thy name…
“We select you. Make you aristocrats. Permit you sumptuous villas. Easy escorts.”
An attendant, Stefano, stands beside the closed door to the showroom. Rather than artsy, his wrinkled shirt, oversized jacket and woolen, flap sunhat make him look battered. He shows little interest in the proceeding choosing to flip through naked pictures of women on his smart phone.
…Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us…
The priest leans into the coffin’s cavity. “How do you repay us? You call mia famiglia
(my family) amoral. We who protect you. We who give you honor. We who give you wealth.”
…and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil…
“You ignore our words. You call us common criminals. You dare side with our prosecutors.”
…for Thine is the kingdom, the