Rococo (28 page)

“Yeah, and they take pictures of their dead in caskets too, but that doesn’t make it civilized. I don’t like the statues to be so real, the eyes follow you around the room. There’s so much stuff in our religion that scares me.”

“That’s the point,” I remind her. “Keeps us in line.”

As I place Lucia on the ground, her foot falls off.

“It’s broken!” Toot exclaims.

I lay the statue down on its back and check the foot. The suede boot she was wearing has fallen off, and it looks as though her foot, inside a long stocking, is damaged. I carefully remove the stocking. There is a seam around the ankle, as though the foot has been repaired before.

“They sold you damaged goods,” Toot says.

“Wait a minute. There’s something in the leg.” I gently shake the statue, and something rattles. I stand Lucia up and hear a soft bang against the floor. I lift her up gently, and out slides a thin, white marble sculpture.

“What the hell is that?” Toot comes closer to look.

I examine the small statue. It’s a long flute of polished marble with faint gold veins and an orb in the center. There are no etchings or carvings. It’s sleek and modern. “It’s the Blessed Mother,” I tell her. “See?” I point out the veil, the robe, the orb, which represents the baby Jesus.

“Well, it won’t work in my house,” Toot announces. “I have real rosary beads on my Saint Theresa. You keep it.”

No one has seen Capri since she moved back home. Aurelia is not likely to allow me into the house, so I asked Christina, a neutral party, to take a run over there to see how she’s doing. Rufus, Pedro, and I are having lunch at the Tic-Tock, waiting for Chris. She’s late, which is not a good sign.

“Pedro, stop beating yourself up,” I tell him. “You fell in love. That’s not a crime.”

“It wasn’t right. At first, when Capri and I were together, it was bliss. Then, as the reality of her mother’s hatred set in, she withdrew. It became too difficult. She started to question what she was feeling. And then it was over.”

“It’s crazy.” Rufus shakes his head. “Provincial town. Italian control.”

I bristle. “Oh, the Irish have no rough edges, I take it?”

“Rough edges, yes. But not a general prejudice toward others.”

“You have to understand that Aurelia is not familiar with Mexico and its people, except for a brief pit stop in Cabo San Lucas on a day trip when she and Sy were vacationing in southern California. I think, in time, she would have come around.”

“You’re dreaming,” Pedro says, looking away.

“The worst thing Capri did was go home. That made it look like she agreed with Aurelia. She should have stood her ground.” I tap the table for emphasis.

“Was she this way when you were with her?”

“Pedro, I was never
with
Capri. We’re platonic friends who pretended to be boyfriend and girlfriend. Kind of like Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney.”

“Deep down, Aurelia knew that you weren’t husband material.” Rufus stirs his coffee and looks at me.

“Right.” I agree with him, but I’m insulted. “It’s not that I’m incapable of love, it’s just that Capri is like a sister to me.” I sound awfully defensive, so I take a breath.

“Nobody said you were incapable of love. We all know you’re a passionate guy. I’ve seen you mix paint.”

Christina pulls up in front of the diner. Rufus watches her get out of the car; he raises one eyebrow ever so slightly and doesn’t take his eyes off of her until she’s inside the diner. I wonder if Rufus told her about Ann. Maybe I should say something to Christina later. Christina squeezes into the booth next to me. “What happened?” I ask her.

“We had a cup of coffee and she gave me this.” Christina gives Pedro an envelope. Pedro’s eyes light up. He really is quite attractive when he’s not depressed.

“Excuse me.” Pedro takes the letter and goes outside. Through the window, we watch as he lights a cigarette, then opens the letter and reads.

“How is Capri, really?” I ask Christina.

“Aurelia is not budging. And Capri thinks if she follows her heart, it will kill her mother.”

Rufus pats Christina’s hand and goes outside to talk to Pedro.

“Have you told Rufus about the money?”

“No. I don’t have the guts yet. I keep hoping somebody will come through.”

“He’s probably dealt with this sort of thing before.”

The waitress freshens up my coffee. I pour some cream into the cup. “You like him a lot, don’t you?”

“Who?”

“Mr. McSherry.”

She smiles. “He’s interesting.”

“Be careful.”

Christina takes a moment to watch Rufus and Pedro outside. Then she answers me. “I will.”

“OLOF has turned into the Broken Hearts Club of central New Jersey. As far as I’m concerned, they already have two members too many.”

Christina shakes her head and studies the menu like a complex theorem. I know her well enough not to say another word.

The morning light streams through the main doors of the church, which are propped open as we work inside. The scaffolding makes the empty church feel like a large train station; and without the flow of people, it seems to have no purpose.

Rufus has prepped the walls of the church to paint the frescoes. There are a series of stripes on the wall where he has tested his paints—a rainbow of soft gold, ruby red, magenta, and moss green, and a small white cloud. It looks lonely on the expanse of the dingy wall. I close my eyes and imagine the grandeur of what his fresco might have been.

Rufus has begun to sketch onto the finished, smooth plaster walls. I see the outline of the countryside of Portugal, and what look to be angels in the heavens.

Pedro returned to the warehouse in Brooklyn to pour the glass for the new windows. He uses actual silver in the molten glass to give a rippled, iridescent effect. Before he left, I almost asked him if there was a way to make the windows more cheaply but thought better of it. What would I do if a client told me I couldn’t use fabric from Scalamandré?

We have two days until payday, when we will officially run out of money. I’ve prayed to Saint Anthony, Saint Theresa, and Saint Jude, who handles hopeless cases. So far, no magic money has appeared. I have a few meetings later today to try and raise the funds, but they are long shots.

To keep my mind off the inevitable, I reupholster the altar chairs myself. I found a wonderful cut velvet that I’m lining with muslin. Rufus has gone out to the truck for more spackle for the grotto wall.

“Bartolomeo!” Aurelia stands at the back of the church. She spots me and marches angrily down the aisle. She throws a letter in my face. “She left with that Mexican.”

“What are you talking about? Pedro is in Brooklyn working on the windows.”

“No, he isn’t. He’s off getting married to my daughter somewhere. Read it.” I scan the letter, written by Pedro. Carefully, briefly, and respectfully, he tells Aurelia that he can’t live without Capri.

“I’m sorry, Aurelia.”

“Not as sorry as I am.”

“No, I’m sorry you’re determined to ruin Capri’s life. I wish you’d take a couple of minutes and hold up a mirror. You would see how ridiculous you are.”

“How dare you?” Aurelia puts her hands on her hips. When I was a boy, she was so tall she scared me. Now she seems like just another little old Italian lady in low-heeled pumps.

I put my hands on
my
hips and look her straight in the eye. “I’ve known you all my life, and I had no idea what you were really made of. I thought you were a humble Catholic girl who married for love and got lucky when it came to money. But you’re a controlling woman whose generosity comes at a price. You can’t see how good and decent Pedro is because when you look at him, all you see is brown skin. He’ll be a better husband than I’d ever be, than most men would ever be, not that you’ll ever see it.”

“This is not what I wanted for my daughter.”

“Yeah, but it’s what
she
wants.” I give the letter back to her. “Sy would be ashamed of you.”

“He trusted my judgment in all things,” she thunders.

“Well, he’d be really disappointed now. You want Capri to give up a chance at happiness to stay home and watch
Bonanza
with you while you eat pot pie and complain about how the church is soaking you for funds. Guess what? Capri wants more from her life, and as far as this church goes, we don’t need your money. For the first time in the history of Our Lady of Fatima, we won’t rely on the Castone Mandelbaum fortune to get us through. We’ll do just fine without The Benefactor.” Aurelia puts her hands in the air and goes.

After a long day of fund-raising, I pull into my parking spot outside the church. The soft work lights spill out the front door of the church, making a path down the stairs to the sidewalk. I sit and look at it for a long time. All around me, the black sky nearly swallows our little town in darkness. In the distance, the streetlamps throw white light like small moons, but for the most part it is bleak. I went to my top four clients and came away with a whopping twenty thousand dollars, which will buy the baptismal trough at the base of the Wall of Water and not much more. It’s almost midnight as I climb the steps into the church with a heavy heart. I’ve been shamelessly avoiding this painful conversation with Rufus, hoping he’s so engrossed in his work that he hasn’t noticed how distraught I’ve been. I halfway expected Pedro to find out what Aurelia did, but I guess The Benefactor knew her daughter wouldn’t rush home to save the day. Capri was always generous, but never devout. At least some small good came of this renovation. Capri found true love with Pedro. It almost makes the whole mess worth it.

I stand in the nave and watch Rufus sitting on scaffolding as he sands the wall where the stations of the cross will hang. I’ve seen how much he loves what he does, and it’s heartbreaking to think he won’t be able to finish his masterpiece. I look around the empty church, imagining what might have been. The dust from the plaster makes me sneeze.

“God bless you.” Rufus looks down at me.

“Rufus, I need to talk to you.”

He climbs down the ladder and meets me on the floor. “Sounds serious.”

“We’re in trouble.”

“What’s the matter?” He wipes the sweat from his face with a bandana.

“The funds have been pulled.”

“What do you mean?”

“Aurelia cut us off because she’s furious about Capri and Pedro. I went to Father, who went to the diocese. The bishop said he wouldn’t give us the money. He said the renovation was too ambitious. He told Father to paint the joint and put the pews back in and call it a day.” I have to force the words out.

“Great. What if the popes during the Renaissance had said the same thing?”

“I went to four of my biggest clients today and raised twenty thousand dollars, which buys us the baptismal font. The windows are safe because we paid for those supplies up front. I want you to finish. But we’ll have to forgo the Wall of Water. I’m sick about it, but it’s too labor-intensive. We need a big crew to pull it off, and we just can’t afford it now. It’s the most expensive item in the design.”

Rufus digs into his pocket and finds his pack of cigarettes. He offers me one. I take it. He lights his cigarette, then mine. Rufus exhales a cloud of smoke that disappears into the darkness.

I look around at my beloved church, in shambles. There are slabs of wood where the stained-glass windows used to be. A pile of rubble sits in the altar’s place. The sacristy is filled with Sheetrock, tubs of dry plaster, and cans of paint. “I’m sorry, Rufus.”

“It would’ve been something. Hey, this isn’t the first time commerce won over art, and it won’t be the last.”

Eydie’s town car pulls up in front of the Villa di Crespi on the dot of seven. I’ve prepared a lovely supper of tortellini stuffed with mushrooms in a spicy arrabiata sauce followed by a roasted rosemary chicken and a fresh escarole salad. I’ve been thinking about Eydie a lot. The crushing disappointment over the church has really depressed me, and I need to replenish my spirits with an evening of good food, expensive wine, and the company of a beautiful woman.

I greet Eydie at the door. She kisses me on both cheeks and hands me her mink. She wears winter-white wool trousers and a pink cashmere sweater. Her long black hair is separated into two pigtails, loosely braided on the ends. “My God, that’s extraordinary,” I say catching a whiff of her perfume.

“I know, I smell like cookies, don’t I?” she says, laughing. “I make my own perfume, you know. Right in my apartment. I buy the pure essence oils in Chinatown from a vendor I know. I take a drop of this and a drop of that in a base of pure alcohol. Then one day I tried a spicy Oriental mist and added a few drops of crème de cacao. That’s what you’re going gaga over,” she explains.

“I knew it!”

“And I can’t keep the men away!” She laughs.

I invite her into the living room, where I’ve set up a small table for dinner. “This is lovely,” she says, pointing to the table. I pour her a glass of wine.

“Where did you get this?” She points to the marble statue of the Blessed Mother on the mantel.

“You know the statues that Asher sent me from England? Well, one of them was defective, and inside was that little statue.”

Eydie picks it up carefully and turns it over. “This is a Modigliani.”

“What?”

“It is. Here’s his marking.” She points to it.

“How is that possible?”

“World War II, the bombings? Asher said they hid things—”

“But
inside
the statues?”

“Obviously.” Eydie is so excited, she places the statue down on the mantel and peers at it closely. “There was a story that Modigliani got so angry once in Venice that he threw a bunch of sculptures into the canal. They’re still searching the canals for them. This statue could be from that period.”

“I’ll have to return it to Asher.”

“You’ll do no such thing. You found it.”

“By accident. I paid for Lucia dos Santos, not this.”

“Don’t be an idiot. It would be generous of you to give him a finder’s fee, maybe fifteen percent of what you sell it for.”

“I don’t want to sell it. I like it.”

“I don’t blame you. Lots of people like having great art in their homes, but the museums would fight over this.”