“I don’t believe Thomas would have wanted anything to do with her, and even if he had, I don’t know that I would have wanted him in her life.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Remember me telling you about that porn session I stumbled across at Thomas’s studio when he was there with the contessa?”
“God, I’d forgotten all about that.”
Marina twisted the telephone cord around her finger as she spoke. “Well, it turns out that the two of them had some sort of a little business going on. Not necessarily for money, but it was an ongoing thing. A few years ago, Sarah found a stack of photographs from those sessions.”
“Was it all porno?”
“I guess you’d call it soft porn. There was no penetration of any kind, at least not in the photos. It was
weird.
I got the feeling that it was like adults dressing up, then acting like children ... with some genitalia thrown in.”
“Now there’s a good reason to have kept Thomas away from Zoe.”
Marina sighed. “Yeah, but we both know that that wasn’t the reason I never told him about Zoe.”
“I know.” Lydia waited for Marina to go on, but there was nothing but a faint buzz on the line. After another moment, she asked, “Marina, are you there?”
“Yes, sorry, I was just thinking.”
“Go on.”
“It’s true that I didn’t want to hurt Sarah or jeopardize our relationship, at least it started out that way. But I think, in the end, I just got buried in the lies and it became too complicated to undo. As long as I could ignore it, I didn’t have to deal with it.”
“You were young, Marina. You did the best you could under the circumstances.”
“I don’t know that I did. And the age defense is lame—plenty of young people make intelligent, morally upstanding choices. Besides, now I’m pushing forty. I need to stop acting like a scared twenty-three-year-old.”
“Have you decided what you’re going to do?”
“I don’t see that I have a choice if I want to get all of this behind me. But I feel awful about putting another piece of shit on Sarah’s plate just to clean up
my
life. She’s had to deal with a lot more than I imagined. The photographs were a real blow to her.”
“How did she handle it?”
“She still seems pretty angry, and she thinks that it had something to do with his death.”
“What do you mean? I thought he was knocked off his motorbike.”
“He was, but it was a hit-and-run that was never solved. Then his studio was ransacked, and Sarah thinks they were looking for the photographs.”
“Some disgruntled customer?”
“Yeah, I know it sounds far-fetched. But according to Sarah, there were some pretty important high-roller types involved who might have wanted to get rid of the evidence.”
“Doesn’t murder seem a little extreme to you?”
“Yeah, very extreme. But maybe someone was just trying to threaten Thomas, or lay him up for a few days so they could have access to the studio. I don’t know. Maybe it was just an accident, like the police said, and no one wanted to fess up.” Marina yawned. “The thing is, it’s what Sarah believes, and I don’t see any point in debunking her theory. Maybe it gives her comfort to think that there was a reason behind his death, rather than just a senseless act of fate.”
“I suppose. Listen, you sound tired. I should let you go. When are you going to tell her about Zoe?”
“It’ll have to be tomorrow. I only have one day after that, and I should really use that to get ready for my presentation. I said I’d meet her for lunch tomorrow, then I’m going to her studio to see her work. After that, I guess.”
“Don’t you think it’s a bit strange that she’s using Thomas’s studio after all the weird things that went on there?”
Marina yawned again and stretched out on the bed. “I guess so, but she seems very settled and happy there. But any way you look at it, it’s going to be strange for me to be back there.”
CHAPTER 15
M
arina noticed that she wasn’t the only one who chose the same seat each day. The gray-haired man with the large mole on his neck was exactly two rows up and three seats to her left, and the woman who cleared her throat every few minutes until Marina wanted to scream was on the aisle a few seats to her right. Any number of people were in the same spot as on the two previous days. Human nature, she supposed. She’d considered moving to the front for a change, but after the disturbing dream she’d had in the night, she didn’t relish anyone at her back. In the dream, she’d been standing at the podium about to give her speech, when she felt a sharp pain in her back. Behind her, Sarah stood with a jagged-tipped lance, her face distorted in anger. “Go ahead,” she hissed, “say it. Say it.” When Marina didn’t respond, she jabbed her with the lance again, repeating, “Say it. Say it.” She thought Sarah meant she should begin the speech, but when she looked down at her notes, the pages were blank. Another jab of the lance had woken her, her arms wrapped around her ribs. It took a few minutes before the dread drained from her body and she was able to get out of the bed and retrieve the folder from the top of the dresser. For a moment, she convinced herself that she’d find nothing but blank sheets of paper where her speech should be, but it was all there, neatly typed, double-spaced, black and white.
She had a hard time focusing on the morning’s lectures. One was a talk on creating a universal protocol for museums in the event of a catastrophe, and the other was on the history of French polish. It wasn’t just the dream that was distracting her. Time was running out, and she still hadn’t figured out where, when, or how she was going to say what she had to say to Sarah. She wanted to tell the truth, to take responsibility for her actions, but in a way that was as painless as possible for Sarah. It wasn’t realistic to think that it would be pain-free, but she didn’t want to exacerbate the hurt with a clumsy delivery. Today they would meet for lunch and then go to the studio, after which Sarah had an appointment. If Marina wasn’t able to bring it up at the studio, perhaps she’d suggest a walk the following day. She didn’t dare leave it for any later than that. Yes—out in the open, yet private. Sarah could just walk away, if that was what she needed to do.
They met just after noon at a
gastronomia
on Via Tornabuoni that was part bar, part delicatessen. According to Sarah, they made the best
panini
in town. Sure enough, a few elegantly dressed patrons stood on the sidewalk out front with sandwiches in their hands, an unusual sight in Italy, where people took their meals sitting down and at great leisure. Inside, the crowd was three deep at the counter, with people waiting patiently to place their orders. They took their places at the back of the crowd as Sarah translated the menu on the chalkboard. When it was their turn, Sarah ordered a plate of cold cuts, pecorino cheese, black olives, crusty bread, and two glasses of the house red.
They settled themselves at a small table on the perimeter of the room and ate in silence, watching the crowd, which showed no sign of letting up. Marina had forgotten how good simple food could taste.
Sarah sliced herself a piece of cheese and said, “I feel bad about throwing all that information at you last night. I thought about it after you left and realized that it must have been a bit much on top of everything else you have on your plate right now with the conference and jet lag and all.”
Marina finished her mouthful. “I’m all right. It must have been a terrible shock for you, though, finding the photos, especially after all those years.”
Sarah nodded. “Actually, I think it was better that way. If I’d found them right after he died, I think it would have been too much for me. I’d probably have killed that woman with my bare hands.”
“Do you suppose they were doing it for the money?” Marina asked, draining her glass.
“God, no. That woman has more money than she knows what to do with.”
“Really? I didn’t know that. Maybe that was part of the hold she had on Thomas.”
“No.” Sarah was adamant. “He was not interested in money. It didn’t motivate him at all. I really think it was that weird mother fixation. I think he was just doing what she wanted.” She shuddered. “I can’t even think about it.”
Sarah went to the bar and came back with an espresso for each of them. “You know”—her voice was quiet and Marina had to lean forward to hear her—“he wasn’t a bad man. I know he seemed selfish and egocentric and controlling ... and he was all those things, but he was also generous in ways that people didn’t know about.” She looked at Marina. “You remember the gypsies?”
Marina nodded. “Yes, of course.”
“Some people said that he exploited them with his photographs. And maybe he did, a little, but he was really good to them, too. He helped them in all sorts of ways. He paid their doctor bills at times, got the children out of trouble with the police ... you know how they were always getting picked up for begging. He was wonderful with the old people.”
Marina thought of Zoe and how her teacher had once reported that she had been amazing with the old folks on an outing to a senior center.
“I just don’t want you to think he was all bad after everything I said last night.”
“No, of course not. But there was something I wanted to ask you.”
Sarah looked at her. “Sure, what?”
Marina hesitated. “I don’t want to upset you, but I was wondering where Thomas was ... laid to rest.”
“It wasn’t something we’d planned for, but Thomas once told me that he wanted to be sprinkled from the top of the Duomo, so he’d blow out over the city.”
“The top of the Duomo?”
“I know. It’s weird.”
“Not really. People seem to get sprinkled from hilltops all the time.”
Sarah gave her a level look. “It gets weirder.”
Marina raised her eyebrows. “And ... ?”
“I couldn’t do that. I’m sure it’s against the law. But I did sprinkle his ashes all over the city.”
“What do you mean? How?”
“First, I had to ask Marcello to sift them for me.”
Marina couldn’t believe she’d heard correctly.
“What?”
“I know it sounds gross, but I wanted to sprinkle his ashes, and I couldn’t bear to deal with all the ... bits and pieces.”
Marina nodded, wondering where this was going.
“This was months after he died, after I finally got out of bed. Marcello was a rock. I don’t know what he did.” She closed her eyes and shook her head as if to ward off any unwanted images. “He just gave me a shopping bag and said it was ready to go.”
“So the ashes were in the shopping bag?”
Sarah nodded. “Yes, and it was heavy. So one night, quite late, like when Thomas used to go out in the streets, I took the bag and cut a small hole in the bottom and just walked. I went to all his favorite places, just letting the ashes sprinkle out. I finished up at the English Cemetery, which he loved and had photographed quite a bit at one time. I knew he’d be pleased to be among all those famous people.”
Sarah excused herself to use the restroom, and while Marina waited on the sidewalk in front of the shop, she began to have doubts about confessing. Sarah had worked so hard to put her life back together and seemed to have found a balance between seeing Thomas for what he was and honoring his memory. Who was she to take that away from Sarah? Maybe she could find another way around all this without telling Sarah about Zoe.
As the two women crossed the river, Marina realized that she was on the same bridge as the first evening she’d arrived, the evening she followed the girl in the red sweater. Only three days ago? It seemed that she’d relived a lifetime, and she felt suddenly weary as they walked silently through the lavender shadows of narrow streets.
Sarah pointed to a doorway with a faded black door. “Do you remember the night we walked here looking for transvestites? It was after Thomas’s opening. There was one right there in that doorway.”
Marina smiled, happy to be distracted from her thoughts. “I remember. That was quite the eye-opening night for me.”
Sarah laughed. “The look on your face that night, when you saw Marcello at the opening, it was priceless. I don’t think you’d even heard the word ‘transvestite’ before.”
“Of course I had.”
“Had not.”
“Had so.” Marina laughed, then realized that they’d arrived in Piazza Santo Spirito. “Wow, they’ve sure cleaned this up. I used to have to step over junkies whenever I came here,” she said, looking at the neatly swept sidewalks, freshly painted doorways, and carpets airing over balcony railings.
Sarah nodded. “It was quite a campaign, getting the city to step in and do something about it.” She stopped in front of a building and said, “Here we are.” Its ocher façade was mottled with patches. “I managed to get the owner to repair the front of the building, but it’s like pulling teeth to get him to paint it.”
Marina raked her fingers through her hair, pushing it off her face as she looked up at shuttered windows.
Sarah put her key in the lock. “Come on, you’ll be amazed at how different the studio looks filled with my stuff.”
The cold, gray scent of stone enveloped Marina as she stepped around the shadowy shapes of the baby carriages and bicycles that filled the small vestibule. Sarah pressed the illuminated light switch at the bottom of the stairs, and the electric meter jumped to life with an urgent ticking. Marina held tight to the iron railing as she followed Sarah up the stairs, the past and present bumping edges and corners, looking for a place to settle.
The studio was at once the same yet different. Shapes, colors, and smells assaulted Marina’s senses, colliding with memories and jockeying for the position of reality, of truth. The room was the same lofty, narrow shape, with tall windows at one end, the darkroom crouched at the other. But now, the windows were draped with a sheer, diaphanous scrim and the wall of shelving was gone, as were the photographs. A long workbench extended the full length of one wall, its surface a jumble of cans and jars stuffed with sculpting tools—plastic spray bottles covered with dried, rusty fingerprints, and mounds of clay covered with damp rags. The storage shelf below held scraps of wood, spools of heavy gauge wire, and half-assembled armatures. In the center of the room, pedestals of varying heights supported shapes cloaked in sheets.