Rococo (29 page)

“Really? Do you think it’s actually that valuable?”

“It’s one of the few sculptures of his that remain. He was known as a great painter, mostly.”

“How much do you think it’s worth?”

“Two hundred thousand dollars, at least,” Eydie says. “Or more.”

“You’re joking! I’ve never been lucky in my life. I’ve never won at bingo, or guessed the right amount of jelly beans in the jar, or been the one hundredth customer at the free shopping spree at the Ben Franklin’s. This is crazy!”

“You’re going to be rich, my friend.” Eydie smiles.

I can hardly eat my dinner. Eydie chatters on about Modigliani’s life—what a handsome, temperamental cad he was, how he became a legend in the Parisian art world and a fixture in that city’s wild nightlife. All I can do is look at the statue of Little Mary and dream.

How did this stroke of luck happen to me? I always wondered what it would be like to be rich, how it would feel to know that you have so much money that work is a hobby, not a chore. I am giddy with the possibilities. There are so many things I would love to do with this money. A house on the Golfo di Genova, for starters, or a year in Hong Kong watching the local artisans make silk. Or design school in London, where I would learn how to design wall treatments to the trade. The list is endless!

“I have to get back to the city,” Eydie says after we’ve talked until midnight.

“Don’t go.”

“I have to,” she says sadly. “When do you want to bring”—she indicates the sculpture—“to town?”

“Monday morning?” I ask.

“Meet me at my apartment, and I’ll take you to the best appraiser I know at Sotheby’s.”

We stand in the doorway for what seems like minutes but is only seconds. I take Eydie in my arms and kiss her. She kisses me back, and I fill up with all sorts of emotions. I want her. This isn’t like it was with Mary Kate, who gobbled me up like an oatmeal cookie. This is grown-up stuff, complete with untapped desires and feelings.

She gently pushes me away. “Bartolomeo, this is a bad idea.” She smiles.

“Why?”

“I’m not the right person for you.”

“How do you know, if we don’t give it a chance?” I kiss her again, and this time she reciprocates with the passion I had hoped for. Her lips and skin are softer than the silk charmeuse I used to line Toot’s duvet.

“Trust me,” she says, breaking away from me. “This is a bad idea.” She opens the door and turns to me. “But I adore you,” she says with a smile. I watch her go, wishing she’d stay, but a little relieved she isn’t. I like happy endings. Always leave on a high note. How could we top that kiss?

I place the last of the clean dishes back in the cupboard. I go to the living room and put the stacking tables back in their corner. I empty the ashtrays and take them to the kitchen. As I turn out the lights and head off to bed, I think about Eydie and me. She’s probably right. We aren’t right for each other. Two artists in a romantic relationship is one too many. When we’re together, I can’t get enough of her. I’d be overbearing and smother her.

I open the window in my bedroom to let the night air swirl through. I take my pajamas out of the dresser and lay them on the bed. I wash my face, brush my teeth, and put on the night-light in the bathroom (a habit since I was a boy). As I undress, I fold my clothes neatly and put them away. I put on my pajamas and climb into bed. I lie back on the pillows and think about Eydie. I wonder if she’s thinking about me. The phone rings loudly, nearly giving me a heart attack. I reach over to answer it.

“I had to call,” Eydie says breathlessly into the phone.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Just a little stunned.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I looked up your Little Mary statue. Oh, B.”

“Don’t tell me, it’s worth less than you thought.”

“More. How does three hundred thousand dollars sound to you?”

I can’t speak.

“B? Are you there?”

“Oh, Eydie.”

“I know. This is some news, isn’t it?”

When Aurelia went to the local police to file a missing-persons report on Capri, they gently explained that a forty-year-old woman who leaves a note saying she is running off to get married does not fall into the category of “missing.” I encouraged Father Porp to go over and have a chat with her, but Aurelia threw him out of her house, just as she did anyone who tried to reason with her.

With the news from Eydie, I skip up the stairs of the church. I holler, “Rufus! Rufus?”

“I’m over here,” he shouts. I run to him.

“You know, it’s a real shame,” he says, surveying the work in progress around us. “Pedro is almost done with the windows.”

“How do you know? You’ve heard from him?”

“They’re at the warehouse in Brooklyn.” Rufus’s eyes twinkle with the news. “They got married yesterday. City hall in Manhattan.”

“Good for them.”

“So, what do you want us to do here? Wrap things up?”

“Not quite. I have a plan.”

“A plan? Did you figure out a way to keep going?”

“Rufus, let’s just say I’ve run into some money.”

“Legal?”

“Oh yes. Legit.”

He picks up a scraper and chips away at the wall, then stops. “I’m glad. I really wanted to finish. I’ve worked on a lot of places, but this one—well, let’s just say I’m hooked on the idea of Fatima.”

“Don’t tell me RC Incorporated got under your skin?”

“Nope. Don’t sign me up yet.”

“What, then?”

“It’s her.” Rufus points to the old canvas painted by Michael Menecola. This time the Blessed Lady seems to wink at Rufus.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” He goes to his paint can and stirs. I watch him for a few moments.

“Why do you work in churches?”

He laughs. “I’m nuts. There’s nothing worse than working for Defenders of the Faith. They’re all like Aurelia. They want it majestic, but on their terms.”

“It’s so frustrating.”

“Yeah, but there’s a lot of history in these old barns.”

“But you don’t really buy the final product: salvation.”

Rufus smiles. “Oh, I believe in
that.
”

“I’ve never once heard you speak of faith. You’ve told me that dogma is for idiots. So, what’s your motivation?”

“Women.”

“Oh, come on.” I throw my head back and laugh.

“What’s yours?”

“I don’t know. Beauty, I guess.”

“Maybe we’re talking about the same thing. Any man who tells you he creates something for his own pleasure or his own ego is lying. He builds and creates and struggles for one reason and one reason only: to impress a woman.”

“You would boil down two thousand plus years of Judeo-Christian religion and the art it has inspired to impressing one woman? You
are
crazy.”

“What is more eternal than love between two people? It’s been my experience that true love never dies. How about you?”

I cough to avoid answering him.

Rufus lifts his thermos off the Communion rail and offers me a cup of coffee. He pours a cup for me. “You ever been in love?”

“I think I’m in love with Eydie!” It spills out of me like the hot coffee out of the thermos. The second it’s out of my mouth, I want to take it back.

Rufus smiles. “We all are. Any guy who’s ever met her falls a little bit in love with her.”

“What
is
it about her?”

“Eydie’s wearing the best perfume they make. It’s called ‘I don’t need you.’ That is irresistible, my friend.”

“I’m glad it’s not just me.” I sigh. “She has me by the neck.”

“No, no, you’re in good company,” Rufus assures me.

“And Christina has you. Right?”

He puts down his coffee and pauses before he speaks. “She’s an angel.”

“I think so too . . . you’re not going to hurt her, are you?”

“No,” Rufus promises.

“Good. Because she’s been through a lot.”

“I wouldn’t worry about Christina.”

“She
is
strong,” I point out.

“I’d worry about me.” He grins and takes his paintbrush, shoves it in his back pocket, and climbs the scaffolding, reminding me of Clark Gable when he climbed the ropes on the
Bounty
before declaring mutiny. How I’ll miss my friend when he is gone.

Henry Baxter at Sotheby’s recommended that Eydie and I see a gentleman at Spolti Ltd. on Park Avenue. Grayson Asquith is a Modigliani expert and would be able to give us an appraisal and a list of collectors, including museums, who might want to buy the piece. Eydie wisely told me to act as though I didn’t want to sell Little Mary in order to get the most money I can. We sit in Mr. Asquith’s office, a crowded professional lounge on the corner of East Seventy-third Street. From this second-floor window, the well-heeled Upper East Side crowd goes about their business.

Last night I could hardly sleep. After the commission to Asher Anderson, I will take the rest of the money and put it into the renovation of the church.

Eydie is stunned at my decision. She thinks I should give part to the church and keep the rest. But little Lucia dos Santos did not come this far so that I might have a second home on the Gulf of Genoa. She expects a little more of me than that. I do not want to disappoint her. Father Porp is over the moon. He can’t believe anyone would give this kind of money to our church who wasn’t swimming in it (like Aurelia).

I’ve been around people who have a lot of money, and I see how it corrupts. Rich people develop a feeling of invincibility, but none of us are exempted from the pain and suffering of life. A wealthy person thinks,
If I need a kidney, I’ll buy one; If I lose my career, I’ll coast;
or
When I’m old, I won’t need to rely on the kindness of others, I can pay someone to take care of me.
Instead of building relationships that matter, the rich man nurtures his relationship with the accountant.

It’s true, this kind of money could go a long way at Scalamandré, and no one likes gold lamé more than me. Believe me. I have a moment where I envision myself flying on a plane to Italy to buy the best silks at Fortuny. But I take a deep breath and remember that I’ve managed to design gorgeous rooms regardless of budget. Besides, money spent doesn’t necessarily translate to good taste. A cheap can of paint can change the mood of your room and, thus, your attitude about life. I have found cotton velveteen for three dollars a yard that is as exquisite as the stuff that sells for seventy-five. My favorite sofa, a Georgian with carved legs, picked out of a Dumpster, was free. And it’s my favorite piece of furniture. But there are people who believe that the more they pay, the more something is worth.

When I walk along the edge of the ocean behind my house, I am the richest man in the world. I don’t need an enormous bank account to own that knowledge. I’ve come forty years living well on my means. I don’t desire to accumulate more than I can use. I don’t want my nephews coming to see me when I’m old because they’re afraid I might cut them out of their inheritance. I want them to seek me out of love, not obligation, and not because they’re expecting a check.

So many people in my family have severed their relationships over money. I find this terribly sad. Greed is insidious; it seeps into the bones of good people when they are unaware. You might think that money doesn’t matter—until you’re left out of someone’s will. I’ve seen branches of my family collapse when that happens. I’ve noticed that bitterness and anger around money give folks health problems down to their bones. No thanks. I’ll take sleeping at night over counting pennies any day of the week.

“Bartolomeo?” Eydie nudges me and whispers. “Are you listening? I just heard Asquith on the phone. They’ll give you three hundred and fifty thousand dollars for Little Mary.”

My head spins. “I can give thirty-five thousand to Asher?”

“He’ll weep at the news!” Eydie tells me. “He’ll never be able to thank you.”

“And the rest goes to Rufus to finish our church.”

“It’s your money, baby.” Eydie puts her head in her hands. “But you’re crazy.”

CHAPTER TEN

The Real Miracle of Fatima

Eydie and I celebrate the sale of Little Mary Modigliani at Valdino’s on Hudson Street in Greenwich Village with the best bottle of wine they have. Every once in a while I take the check out of my pocket to look at it. I wave to Capri and Pedro, who just came in the front door. When I knew I’d be in the city, I called to invite them to dinner to celebrate their town hall nuptials.

“It’s the refugees!” I say gaily.

“Don’t even kid. Mom sent a private investigator to talk to us,” Capri says.

She kisses me and Eydie, Pedro shakes my hand and then Eydie’s, they sit down, and I pour them each a glass of wine.

“So the P.I. hears the whole story and feels so sorry for us that he tells us he’s going to call Mother and tell her he couldn’t find us. Can you imagine?”

“Any sensible person is on the side of true love,” I tell her.

“Thank you for keeping me off the market, B. You saved me for Pedro.”

I try not to be insulted. “I’m happy for you.”

“Wait until you see Pedro’s windows,” Capri gushes.

“I’m almost done. Your nephew has been a great help,” Pedro says to me.

“I was happy to send him to you. He is talented, isn’t he?”

“He has a good eye.” Pedro smiles. “Like you.”

“I hope he has a better business sense. B is going to give all the money he made on Little Mary to the church renovation. I think he’s crazy!” Eydie pats me on the back.

“B is one of those people who will give you the shirt off his back. And if that’s not enough, he will also give you his pants.” Capri smiles.

“Enough about me and my pants,” I say impatiently. “How is married life?”

Pedro and Capri look at each other. “I was born to be with Pedro,” she says.

“Can you top that, Pedro?”

“I don’t think so. I love her very much.” Pedro takes Capri’s hand and kisses it. “But I want to make things right with Mrs. Mandelbaum. I don’t like that I came between a mother and daughter. It’s wrong.”

“She made it impossible for you to be happy. I think Aurelia is the one with the problem, and she’s the one who has to make it right.” I tap the table with a soup spoon for emphasis.

“It’s hard for her, B. It’s just been the two of us since Dad died.”

“Oh, please, Capri. Please. Your mother knows better. She is a fine person who, in a panic, said things she shouldn’t have. She owes you an apology, and you”—I look at Pedro—“a new car. She was totally out of line. Here’s a woman who suffered discrimination over her marriage to your father, and she turns around and persecutes you? Nuh-uh.”

“I would like to go and talk to her,” Pedro says.

“Take the priest. And if you know any cardinals, that’s even better.”

I roll into my driveway around 2
A.M.
Toot’s car is parked by the garage. She is fast asleep in the front seat, wearing a kerchief on her head and sunglasses. I rap on the window, and she awakens with a start. Through the glass, I see her mouth “Jesus.”

“Don’t you have a key?” I help her out of the car.

“I couldn’t find it. Why are you so late?”

I ignore her question. “What are you doing here?”

“Doris and Lonnie are getting a divorce. She thinks he’s having an affair!”

“Well, he is.”

“
I
know that, but
she
doesn’t. I can’t risk my happiness. We’ve got to get the two of them back together.” Toot follows me into the house. I flip on the lights as we go back to the kitchen.

“This is insane! Why don’t you just let them divorce? You keep your house, he keeps his, and you continue this hot thing you two have without the hatchet of marriage hanging over your heads.”

“God, B, don’t you understand? It’s the thrill I’m after. It’s sick, but I
like
the cheating! And believe me, it does a world of good for Lonnie too. He cuddles and he compliments and he buys me things—it’s what I always dreamed of. Now she’ll leave him and he’ll be at loose ends and looking to me to entertain him. As long as he’s married, he has to go home sometime, which leaves me the bulk of my week to do what I please. If he’s free, he’ll be hanging around here and the starch will go right out of our relationship.”

“Calm down. You’re almost hyperventilating.”

“You would be too! I don’t want Lonnie full-time, B! I don’t want to do his laundry, set his doctor appointments, and wash his car! Help me!”

“Okay, here’s what you have to do. You have to break up with him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Cut him loose. If I know Lonnie, it will take him a month to replace Lady Sylvia with another pretty Irish lady who likes Italian men. He’ll marry number four; you lurk around in your teddy and mules, and pretty soon your hot affair is resumed.”

“Honest to God, you’re a freakin’ genius. Maybe I’ll go and see Iggy With The Asthma for a month.”

“Good idea. By the time you get back, Mr. Lonely will have a new woman, and you can make a fool of her behind her back.”

“I like this. I like this a lot.”

“Okay, do you feel better?”

“A hundred percent.”

“Good. Call him up and break his heart—first thing in the morning. Now get out. I’m tired.”

Toot gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. “You always know the right thing to do.”

The first thing I do at 9
A.M.
is go to the bank and deposit the check from Sotheby’s. The poor cashier almost faints. When I used to work behind that counter, I wondered what it would be like to have more money than you could possibly spend. Now I know. And I can’t wait to unload it for a cause I believe in.

When I drive over to the church, I notice that the streets around it are filled with cars, which is very odd since it’s not a holy day of obligation and no one called to say there was a funeral.

I pull up in a free space near the cemetery. I see Rufus’s truck parked in its usual spot. I can’t wait to tell him that Modigliani saved the day. We won’t have to let the crew go—we can finish the job.

When I walk into the church, I hear the murmur of voices. I enter the nave, and the chattering stops. There must be a hundred people here, the very same faces that filled Toot’s garage for my birthday party. This time, however, nobody’s dancing. They’re working.

Lonnie leads a line of men, including his sons, Anthony, Nicky, and Two. They pass large fieldstones to Gus Lascola, Zeke Nero, and Tulio Savastanno, who pass them on to the men of the Knights of Columbus. They look like Egyptians building the pyramids. When the stones reach the altar wall, another group of men, headed by Rufus, place them in a configuration that will become the Wall of Water.

Norman, our engineer, with the help of more parishioners, is mixing concrete in a wheelbarrow to point the stones together. Uncle Petey helps Pedro remove the wooden slats from the holes where his stained-glass windows will go. Capri stacks the wood carefully off to the side. Aunt Edith, cousin Marlene, and Nellie Fanelli polish the new stained-glass windows under Pedro’s supervision.

Christina is on the scaffolding, showing the ladies of the sodality how to paint the pillars with a striae of faux marble. Oh my God! And there is Eydie, suspended high in the air, applying gold leaf to the molding. (What is she doing here, and who called her?) Near the sacristy, Toot makes coffee and puts out Danish on a bingo table in the alcove where the Blessed Lady shrine will go. Zetta stacks cups and napkins for break time.

I feel like I’m in the middle of a dream, where everything around me is moving but my feet are rooted in the ground. My heart is bursting in my chest like the sun breaking through heavy black clouds. I am so filled with awe and love that I cannot speak. I thought renovating this church mattered only to me, that I was the only one who had the pure heart to make beautiful the place where I learned how to pray. But I see now that I was never alone.

After a few moments, Toot sees me. “Hey, everybody, he’s here! B is here!” They stop their work and look to me. When they see that I am moved beyond words, they leave their posts and walk toward me, until I am surrounded by the faithful. Christina pushes through the crowd. “Don’t be mad at me. I felt so badly for you. I didn’t want to see your dream end before the job was finished.”

“Screw the diocese!” Gus Lascola pipes up. “We don’t need their money.” Everyone cheers.

I wipe my tears on my sleeve. “What are you looking at? Get back to work!”

Laughter fills the church like music. As the teams return to their tasks, Rufus puts his arms around me and gives me a hug. “Come and help with the wall. I want to make sure we do it right.” But it doesn’t matter what I think. Everything is more than right.

Rufus has hung clean muslin drapes on rods in front of the frescoes so prying eyes will not see them until they are dry. It has been a week since everyone pitched in to finish construction. I agreed to give Rufus the church to himself so he could complete the frescoes.

Like me, Rufus has a streak of the temperamental artist in him, and
he
alone decided when he would unveil his work. Between the money from the sale of Little Mary and the help of the parishioners, we had enough funds left over to replace the front steps and renovate the church plaza, which we had not budgeted initially. I was able to extend the black-and-white checked marble floor from the foyer throughout the nave. As eager as I was to see the frescoes (I suppose I could pull rank as The Benefactor), I didn’t ask, out of respect for a man who has become a good friend.

As I walk down the side aisles, I can see the vivid tones of the murals through the flimsy muslin. How marvelous these bright colors are against the black-and-white checked marble floor (à la Westminster Cathedral) in the nave and foyer.

Rufus has been working day and night. He approached the frescoes like a Renaissance artist. He used traditional dry paint pigment and then painted every inch of the wall himself.

I go to the sacristy. There are three dress bags marked
LUCIA, FRANCISCO,
and
JACINTA
with a note attached.

CLOTHES FOR THE FATIMA KIDS. FROM AUNT EDITH.

I open the bags. The outfits for the statues are the same design as the originals, except that instead of being made from burlap and cotton, they’ve been redone in velvet. Tiny Francisco now sports beading on his shepherd’s cap. These poor Portuguese sheepherders have become Italian American icons.

“Okay, B,” Rufus says when he meets me in the sacristy. “It’s just us for the first official tour of the frescoes. Now, if you don’t like something, you’ll tell me, right?”

“Rufus.” He turns and looks at me. “You’re nervous.”

His face bursts into a grin. “I guess I am.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. It means you care. This is like when Michelangelo”—I point to Rufus—“sweated bullets when Pope Leo”—I put my hand on my chest—“came through Saint Pete’s to see the Sistine Chapel for the first time. It was a genuine tension convention.”

Rufus puts out his cigarette and opens the side door of the church. “Let’s enter from the front.” I follow him outside, and he doesn’t say a word as we climb the steps. We enter the foyer. “Here we are,” he says as he flings open the door. I go in first.

The first thing that strikes me is the intense butter-yellow morning light shining through glass ceiling; it fills the church like an open field in summer. I catch my breath. The pits and shadows and Gothic somberness of the old place is gone, replaced by this heavenly light. The new pews of polished cherrywood with gold velvet seats and matching kneelers add to the spacious feeling of the church. The clean, soft sound of water cascading down the rock wall brings nature indoors.

The craftsmanship is breathtaking. I have never seen anything like it.

“You have to see the altar,” says Rufus.

I follow him up the main aisle, inhaling the sweet smells of oil paint and plaster—the smell of something new. The altar is a simple oval Quaker cherrywood table. Hanging from a piano wire, just a few feet above it, is Monica Vitti’s chandelier. I knew I would find the perfect place for this glittering jewel, and here it is.

“Look at the stained-glass windows. Pedro made them rustic on purpose. I wanted the feeling you have in the village churches of Mexico. See the shards of color baked into the glass? That’s an old technique from Spain. It gives dimension, makes the images almost dance in the light.” Rufus points out the symbols of local life: the fish, the boat, the hammer and nails.

“Wonderful. No one will miss Saint Rose of Lima, who used to stand there in her window and look at you like she wished you were dead.”

“Oh no, the messages of guilt and shame are gone now,” Rufus promises. “This is all about rebirth and renewal. Just like you envisioned.”

I follow Rufus to the Wall of Water. I touch the water as it flows over the rock wall like a sheet of sparkling rain.

“Step back,” Rufus instructs me. “Can you see what we carved on the rock under the water?”

I see the word “
Credo
” in simple script. “I believe,” I say. Looking up at the Wall of Water, we are as small as the base stones that make the baptismal font. I feel like I’m at the foot of a mountain waterfall.