The Painted Altar

Chapter Thirty-Five

Image: The Arena in Verona

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Plot reminder: The narrative voice now returns to Mary. She and Lucio are in the northern Italian city of Verona after having traced the man they had believed was Ettore Lo Bianco.

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It was late afternoon by the time my father finished his story. We'd paused for some moments halfway through, just long enough to whip up a round of panini and coffees, but other than this the passing hours had been filled by the endless procession of his words. His eyes had occasionally flitted upwards to the vaulted ceiling beams, the sunlit cityscape outside the top floor window. Formulating the next sentence in his mind, searching some elusive detail. Towards the end his voice had become little more than a fragile croak, enough so to cause Lucio and I to strain our ears a little. Once finished, he sunk heavily back into his armchair, closed his eyelids for some moments, exhaled long and slow. There was a nod, as if satisfied with himself, his duty done. The story had been told; it was up to Lucio and I to make of it what we would.

"What shall we call you?" asked Lucio.

At this, the eyelids creaked themselves back open. It was difficult to discern if the question had intrigued or else confused him.

"Vincenzo or Ettore?" Lucio clarified.

My father's eyes swivelled slowly towards the window. "Out there, Ettore. You must call me only Ettore." His gaze then swept over the cluttered interior of the room. "Inside these four walls, where nobody else can hear... Well, if it would give you pleasure then yes, you could call me Vincenzo."

"But would it give you pleasure?" Lucio pressed.

He seemed to reflect on this for a moment, like someone deciding between restaurant desserts: tiramisu or death by chocolate?

"Yes," he replied eventually, left corner of lips twitching into a smile. "Yes, I think it would."

Lucio then hauled himself from the Chesterfield beside me, offered me a hand that I might do the same. "Well Vincenzo, I think it's for the best if Mary and I leave you alone for a while. All those words, all those difficult memories. You must be exhausted." He turned a questioning glance towards me. "Perhaps we could return a little later, the three of us go out for dinner somewhere..."

I could feel my father's eyes also turn in my direction; could feel them on me intensely, keenly, like the burn of the midday sun.

"If Mary would like that..."

But I had turned, was stepping wordlessly away to the hall.

*

Wordless I would remain as the lift clanked and juddered Lucio and I back to ground level. Our exit from entance hall and out into the ferocious heat of the Verona afternoon was conducted in a similar silence,  the south-flowing river beneath us as we stepped over the bridge blinding in the sun. My pace was skittish, unnecessarily hurried, Lucio struggling to keep up.