The Salome Effect
By James Sajo
Copyright 2012 James Sajo
Smashwords Edition
This ebook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any other resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
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Dedication
To Susan, who helps me find my way.
Author Notes
The Salome Effect is a story about finding your way. More to the point, it is about helping someone else find their way. I never would have found my way through the process of writing this book without help. Donna Ippolito, my mentor from the Long Ridge Writers Group, led me through the labyrinth of writing and rewriting the early chapters. My good friend Ashley Blake reviewed much of the work and her suggestions made it better.
During my visits to Torino, I stayed at the Hotel Azalea. The owner, Tiziana Rosello, always treated me well. I got help from Torino's international media relations office, in particular Silvia Bertetto Gianone. I took most of my meals at the Ristorante da Peppino, where I felt like one of the family. Grazie a tutti.
By the way, if you have never visited Torino, put it on your itinerary.
And of course thanks to Susan, who has indulged me my dreams for many years.
Chapter 1
Tuesday Night
Robert Orazio never thought of himself as the kind of guy to hang out in a strip joint, but as he stepped off the bus in Piazza Castello, that’s exactly what he was about to do -- again. He had done it two or three times a week for the last few months, ever since he had met Mariana at a place called Fantasy Club.
He meandered south down Via Roma, the high-end shopping street of Torino, moving in the direction of the main train station. He enjoyed walking under the imposing arcades along the broad avenue, especially in the damp January chill. The annual light display called Luci d’Artista lined the street all the way to the station, a distance close to a mile. It was almost midnight, so the stores were closed. Only a handful of people wandered along the elegant boulevard; most were admiring the lights.
As Robert stood on the corner gazing up at the display, a very tall and very distinguished-looking gentleman approached. He wore a long coat of black wool and had a grey scarf wrapped around his neck to protect him from the crisp winter air. In his hands, clasped behind his back, he gripped a pair of leather gloves.
“Bello, no?” It was more a statement than a question.
“They’re hypnotic,” Robert replied. “I worry that standing here staring at them, I look like a fool.”
“Young man, it is the fool who does not take the time to stop and appreciate beauty.” With that, the man turned and continued his stroll.
When he was a boy, pragmatism had been driven into Robert by his Army officer father. Focus on your mission the Colonel had told him. Don’t waste effort on extra stuff.
Art, being extra stuff, was an indulgence Robert had rarely enjoyed. That was before he had met Mariana. He’d been wandering through his days, solitary, sad, and sleepless until he had found her. He still wasn’t sleeping, but was less depressed than before. In the eight weeks he had known her, she had taught him to see art not as extra, but essential. Her art school studies back in Romania weren’t much help in her work here in Italy as a stripper, but damn she was passionate about art, and her passion was infectious.
Of course, everything about Mariana stunned Robert. He thought about her every day. Like an actor rehearsing lines, he spent his idle moments practicing the conversations he hoped they would have. The practices were sometimes in his head, but other times he’d speak out loud, drawing confused looks from passers-by. He had lavished her with small gifts; a homemade CD of her favorite music, expensive chocolates, or a bit of jewelry. He had developed countless strategies on how to win her affection.
When he was with her, they talked about everything. He confided in her in a way he never had with any other woman, but even if they sat silently, he was content. He felt happy just being with her, her hand on his thigh, his resting on the back of her neck. Robert wanted to spend every day with her, every night with her, the rest of his life with her.
Robert knew it was nuts. Their relationship, if he could call it that, was exclusive to the strip club. They had never gone out as a couple. Not to dinner, not to get a coffee, not even to go to a museum. They both knew Torino had the best museum scene in Europe, offering everything from paintings to cars to Egyptian artifacts to the cinema. With her art history degree and her passion for art, he knew she’d love to go to one of those amazing museums. Tonight, he’d ask her out. Tonight he’d find out if she was even remotely as crazy about him as he was for her.
As he crossed Via Vittorio Emanuele, the smell of stale urine rammed him like a truck. He had definitely passed a border into a less elegant part of the city. He was in a neighborhood where broken windows stayed broken, where homeless men curled under worn blankets and piles of newspaper, and where a violent crime happened every day. Robert jogged to the right of the train station and resumed walking as he swerved onto the second street. As soon as he did, he saw two men lurking on either side of a car driven by a woman who looked to be in her 60’s. Based on her tight grip on the steering wheel and her wide-open eyes, she also looked scared.
One of the guys stood by the driver’s door, gesturing frantically at the woman and pointing to the rear of her car. The other hung out on the passenger side, looking almost comically suspicious. Robert had heard about this scam. One man yells that the rear tire is flat or something is wrong with the back end of the car. If the driver falls for it and gets out, the other crook either reaches in from the passenger side to grab everything he can, or jumps in and drives away.
They were so intent on ripping her off that they didn’t even notice Robert. His heart was pounding and he felt a flush of heat under his collar.
Again with the fear. Why? This is not an unidentified vehicle approaching our checkpoint in Iraq. He knew he had to focus, so Robert jerked his attention back to the now. If he lost control there was no telling what he’d do.
He really did not want to get into a hassle with these dudes. The kind of loser who would scam an innocent woman like that probably would not hesitate to mix it up with a witness. Most likely they were armed, too. Robert did not want to risk being hurt, particularly for someone he didn’t know. Have to get to the club. Have to talk to Mariana.
He noticed an empty beer bottle on the sidewalk in front of him. A light kick was just enough to send it rattling noisily along the pavement. The two thugs looked up in unison, glaring first at the bottle, then at Robert. The woman stomped on the gas, speeding away with a roar that strained the little Fiat’s engine and brought a smile to Robert’s face. She had heard about the scam, too.
He continued walking, trying to look as though he hadn’t noticed anything. The two men, still glaring, didn’t move toward him.
Heart pounding. Hands sweating. Lips drawn tight as a drum. Breathe, man, breathe.
Robert figured they were pissed off, but hopefully not too much so. He covered three more blocks before making a left turn to double back to the club. As he crossed the street, stepping wide to avoid a pile of garbage someone had thrown there, he glanced back and saw the guys still hadn’t moved. He was safe.
The predictable rush of self-loathing hit him. Damn it, he was in the Army for ten years. Fought in Iraq and Afghanistan. He had killed for a righteous cause and easily could have jumped in and beat the crap out of those two. Why was he afraid to stand up to a couple of punks like that?
At least he had been able to prevent the crime. At least he’d prevented that one.
As he passed through the doorway of Fantasy Club, Robert stopped his personal pity party. He caught his breath, content in the knowledge that he was about to see Mariana. Time to find her. Time to feel good again.
After a brief exchange with the huge Turkish bouncer called Hassan, Robert slid past the heavy black velvet curtain and into the world he had come to know so well. A long black stage ran through the middle of the room. It was surrounded by dark red, overstuffed, fake leather chairs, where a handful of customers shuffled in their seats waiting for the next dancer. He walked around to the other side of the room and stepped up to the bar. Need to wash away that experience on the street.
Once he had a rum and Coke in hand, he turned to face the room and survey the crowd. While not huge, it was a decent turnout for a Tuesday night. Enough customers in the house for dancers to perform their evening wallet-ectomies, anyway. Girls in tight gowns and five-inch heels ambled around the room, fishing. They trolled for clients willing to pay the extra euros to head into the back room, the so-called “VIP area,” for a private dance.
Robert settled into a small booth where he controlled a clear view of the stage, the passage to the private rooms, and the club exit. He noticed that Hassan, the huge bouncer, had taken up a position between the exit and the archway leading to the VIP area.
Robert’s was an ideal spot that afforded both good observation and clear fields of fire, rules he had learned in the Army. He used his vantage point to search for Mariana. He found her sitting with her cousin next to a customer. Seems like Mariana always starts the night working with her cousin.
When Mariana saw him, she gave a slight head tilt and smile. Robert shivered with excitement, a tingle running through his body. He clenched his feet hard, curling his toes to control himself.
A well-endowed girl wearing a leopard print wrap sat down by Robert and introduced herself as Lady Elena. Her dark hair and bright eyes were almost the exact opposite of Mariana’s. She asked simple questions, giving him the chance to be polite but distant. Elena suggested they go into the back room for a more interesting conversation. Robert exhaled loudly and explained he was waiting for another girl, expecting at least a mild protest.
With a smile, she said, “Va bene, caro. She saw you walk in, so she’ll be here in a minute, I think.” Then with a squeeze a little too high on Robert’s thigh, she gave him a wink and added, “Someday, though...”
A voice over the loudspeaker announced the next dancer. The deep thumping and aggressive sounds of The Pussycat Dolls singing “Dontchya” filled the room.
“I know you like me...”
A long and lean Albanian temptress named Wild sauntered onto the stage amid cursory clapping by customers.
“I know it’s true...”
As Wild strolled around aimlessly in what could hardly be called dancing, Robert looked instead to Mariana, who was walking away from her now former customer. That poor guy didn’t know whether to talk to Mariana’s cousin or watch Wild cruise the stage.
Robert stood up, adjusted his posture, ran a hand through his hair, and smoothed out his sweater as he watched Mariana make her way slowly over to him. She was looking right at him, right through him, really. Her long golden hair was loose tonight, flowing like a river of sunshine until it landed gently on her shoulders, giving way to the emerald gown she wore. The gown was the same color as her eyes and the effect devastated Robert.
His knees felt weak and a knot formed in his gut, but he was smiling so hard his face hurt. Mariana stopped just inches from him, put a hand on his shoulder, and drew him in for the Italian greeting of one kiss on each cheek. Robert’s hand rested on her hip and he gave her a gentle squeeze, the only sign of affection he dared show. He was certain that if he ever kissed her, really kissed her, he would not be able to stop.
“Let’s sit down here. It’s a good spot,” he said.
Robert wanted her engaged in their conversation, and knew how she loved teaching him about art. “Tonight I walked down Via Roma. I looked at the lights you told me about.”
“What did you think? Aren’t they beautiful?” She turned in the chair to face him directly, keeping one hand in his. Robert, feeling her warmth, was sure he was about to explode with happiness.
“My favorite was the pattern of constellations. Each one is a little different, but all with the green, white, and red lights. I liked it.”
“Yes, Robert, but we have talked about this. What did it make you feel? What were you thinking about when you looked at them?” He wondered if she was squeezing his hand on purpose. She continued, “Did you think of anything more than little twinkling lights?”
“I was thinking about you, Mariana. Like I always do.” He hoped that bit of cliche flattery was not over the top. Just in case it was, he added, “But, yes. It made me think of reaching for something beyond myself. Some people look to the stars, to the heavens I guess, and they are inspired to be great. Or at least to be better than they are. That’s what I felt.”
She smiled. “So thinking of me, you are inspired to be better?” Robert thought she was being coy and flirtatious, but the romance of her words felt like a warm blanket on this cold night.
“Well it’s pretty cold out there. I was also thinking about getting inside fast.” She had told him once she found his sense of humor attractive. His remark, along with a smile made her laugh and punch him playfully in the chest. He loved that. He loved her.
“Buy me a drink, Mister?” she asked.
“I think that can be arranged. Will you continue with my art lessons?”
“Of course.”
He flagged down the waitress, who was easy to identify as she was the only woman in the club wearing normal clothes. Mariana continued the art discussion, as usual taking it back to her preference.
“I think the lights are wonderful, really. But nothing is as expressive and emotional as a painting.”
“Are you going to talk about that guy Caravaggio again?” Robert asked, smiling as he did. “I mean he has been dead for something like four hundred years. Isn’t there anyone more contemporary that interests you?”
Mariana stared at him blankly. Seconds passed that felt like hours to Robert. His mind raced, desperately thinking of a way to turn his remark into a joke.
“Not the way his art does,” she began. “His images are so --” but an ear-splitting scream from the back rooms interrupted her. Mariana jumped to her feet, but Robert kept a firm grip on her hand and pulled her back to the seat. Every head in the club was turned toward the entrance to the VIP area, where Hassan had moved quicker than his bulk would promise. Even Wild had stopped dancing and was now standing behind the pole in the center of the stage, as if using it to protect her from whatever threatened from the back rooms.
A thin, wiry customer that everyone knew and almost everyone hated came out first. He was walking backwards with Hassan looming in front of him.
“I knew it was him,” Mariana said with venom in her voice. “That man is the most disgusting beast I have ever met.”
Robert agreed. In fact the few conversations he had had with the man made him refer to the guy as The Creep. Robert rested a hand on her back; his interest right now was to keep Mariana calm. “It looks like Hassan has things under control,” he told her. “You are safe here with me.” To emphasize the point, he moved his arm up around her shoulder and added, “Don’t worry.”
The Creep backed away from Hassan, moving toward the exit. He shouted unimaginably vile curses at Hassan and the girl in the back. He screamed threats at the other customers and at the world in general. Robert was impressed with Hassan’s calm approach. The big Turk’s eyes never left the Creep, his hands out in an unthreatening pose that Robert was certain could move quickly into a submission hold.
The other customers had all moved well away from the action. Most of the girls were gathered on the stage, huddled together, watching in what Robert assumed was morbid curiosity. Robert felt a strange excitement at the potential for violence, something he usually avoided at all costs. Thinking back to his encounter with the two car thieves, he chastised himself again for his fears.
As the Creep reached the thick curtain marking the exit, he pulled a switchblade from his back pocket and slashed wildly at Hassan. The big bouncer raised his left arm to deflect the blow. Two girls screamed as the Creep turned and ran out.
Hassan showed no sign that he had been injured, but Robert knew the knife had found flesh. Hassan walked calmly to the bathroom amid clapping and cheers by customers and girls alike. No one had followed him, so Robert stood up and asked Mariana to wait.
He walked into the bathroom and found the big man washing a two-inch cut on his left forearm. “You OK?” Robert asked.
“Si. Bene.”
Robert knew the bouncer used words sparingly, so didn’t press. “Hell of a job, Hassan. You are a good man, I think. If you ever need any help, let me know.”
Before Robert walked out, Hassan flashed a brief smile and said, “He’ll be back tomorrow.”
Robert saw that Mariana had joined a group of girls, including her cousin, by the bar. The club owner was talking to them explaining that for everyone’s safety the club would have to close for the rest of the night. Customers overheard and did not argue. Instead, they quickly recovered their coats and headed out the door.
As the other girls protested the owner’s decision, Mariana approached Robert and asked about Hassan. When Robert said he was fine, she told him the girls were not upset about the club closing, but about not getting paid for the night.
“I hate this job. I hate this life,” she said. Then looking into his eyes again, she added, “Thank you for being with me when all this happened. It was nice. Will you come back tomorrow?”
Robert, frustrated that his plan to ask her out been aborted, said, “Of course. I want to hear more about why you love Caravaggio.”
With a smile that Robert felt sure was genuine, she added. “It’s a date, then. See you tomorrow.” She kissed each of his cheeks and turned away before he could say anything else.
Robert walked out, thinking about how he had failed tonight. He did not tell her about his feelings. He hadn’t even gotten close to asking her out. And he had probably insulted her with that crack about Caravaggio. But she had smiled, right? It was a real smile, too. Not one she would use on a customer. Maybe, just maybe, there was something there.
As he reached the corner, Robert looked around cautiously to see if his two car thief pals lurked in the shadows. No sign of them, so Robert glanced back toward the club. He saw Mariana, her cousin, and Hassan leaving together. They crossed the street, got into a car, and drove away.
****
Chapter 2
Wednesday Morning
After nearly six hours of no sleep, Robert finally crawled out of bed. His mind raced, recalling last night’s events. The fight between Hassan and the Creep had happened too fast. The club had closed so early he hadn’t been able to tell Mariana how he felt about her. Her bright smile as she said good night had filled him with hope, but then she left with Hassan. What was that about? Did they have something going on?
As he positioned the espresso pot over the flame on the stove and plunged a spoon into the tub of strawberry yogurt, Robert considered whether Mariana could be interested in Hassan. She was too classy for him, and much too smart to get caught up in a workplace romance, especially at a strip joint. She hated the work, or so she had said. But still, she and her cousin and Hassan were smiling when they left. It had looked like they were really enjoying themselves when they got into the car.
Mariana’s cousin Miki had a wild streak. Maybe Miki and Hassan were the item. But it was Mariana in the front seat with the bouncer. What did it mean? Robert wrestled those thoughts out of his mind as he dressed and left to catch the bus for work.
When he climbed aboard the bus, he couldn’t get past a group of surly looking teenagers standing in the aisle. Concentrating hard on text messages, the kids were oblivious to Robert and unaware of anything beyond their cell phones.
The oldest, probably sixteen, wore an explosion of rebellious fashion. Spiked hair launched off his head like bright orange missiles, a tiny silver bone dangled from a chain attached to his nose, and “MOTHER” was tattooed along the back of his neck. Who knew if he had another, far less touching word scrawled below? Meanwhile, the kid pounded out text messages on a phone that cost at least 600 euros.
“Hey, make room. You kids are blocking the aisle,” boomed the driver’s voice over the loudspeaker.
The boy glared at Robert and with a barely audible curse of “terrone,” dismissed him as an ignorant redneck. With a know-it-all smirk, he then eased back a few inches, just enough to let Robert go by.
Robert flopped into a seat and peered out the window as the bus lumbered across the bridge and over the frozen river. He was glad the driver unclogged the teenager blockage, but very much wanted to beat the crap out of that spoiled rotten rich kid.
Instead, he pressed the call button alerting the driver to make the next stop, on Via Palermo. He tightened his scarf and coat against the chill, then set out toward the office, a walk of three blocks.
The bus stop sat adjacent to one of the hundreds of construction sites in the city. In this case, workers were assembling a station on the new subway line. The hole had a circumference of at least one hundred meters, although Robert couldn’t get close enough to see how deep it was. It reminded him of the crater left by that massive roadside bomb in Mosul. Only here, nobody was dying.
A single tall crane hovered overhead, carrying material into the cavity like a steel stork delivering babies. Trucks rolled in and out of the site, which was surrounded by a fluorescent orange protective fence marking the area off limits to the people it inconvenienced.
“Damn construction. It never ends.” The man got no reply from Robert as he passed, just a head nod to acknowledge the wisdom.
In February of 2006, the Winter Olympics had thrust Torino onto the world stage and the world liked what it saw. The Games had come and gone, but since then an endless flood of new construction projects inundated almost every neighborhood.
Robert thought back on those Olympics. The Games were what had first brought him here. He had taken twenty days leave from the paratrooper base in Vicenza just before his last deployment to Iraq. After seeing the city, Robert had resolved to get out of the Army and move to Torino, which he did just over a year and a half later.
Luckily, he landed a job teaching at Main Street English School. At first, he enjoyed the small-group format of the lessons, but then began to spend more time handling administrative tasks than teaching. That was too bad, since his students were frequently interesting, usually fun, and often from a higher tier of Torino society. Now he was office director, and his teaching was limited to one class at a time. At least his boss over in Verona was happy with Robert’s work.
His current class was now in the third of their seven-week course in advanced English called “Intense Conversations.” He already liked two of the men, one a cop and the other a chocolate-maker. If the second one made doughnuts instead, it would have been a perfect match.
A sudden loud bang caused Robert to drop to the ground, taking cover. For an instant, he had no idea where he was or what had happened. Visually clearing 5 meters for security and 25 meters for hostile combatants was reflex. Then, as if waking from a dream, he realized the noise was construction-site din. There were no hostiles, and security was not an issue.
He stood up, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed his reaction. The few pedestrians nearby went about their business and paid Robert no heed, either deliberately avoiding eye contact or suddenly crossing to the other side of the street. In spite of the brisk air, his palms tingled with sweat and he could feel his heart pound against his ribs. Robert’s stomach felt like it was about to burst.
He ducked into the corner bar and heard the familiar whir of the bean grinder. Two elderly men were discussing the latest political scandal as they finished their caffe corretto -- an espresso “corrected” with a shot of grappa. Hoping to keep his wits about him at least a little while this morning, Robert ordered his espresso plain.
During the minute or so before the barista placed the small cup in front of him, Robert struggled to catch his breath. As usual, the spoon provided to stir in the sugar had been dipped in chocolate. Robert smiled at this tiny act of luxury, and immediately felt better.
“Grazie,” he said.
Even though he had been stopping here pretty much four times each week for more than a year, Robert still found little else to say to the eager young woman who served his coffee. He felt detached, and saw no point speaking to her beyond the business transaction. He left the bar recovered from his latest episode, but with the knowledge that he was not quite right. They were hitting him more often now.
Once settled into his classroom, Robert asked each student to describe something important from work. As usual, the vivacious chocolate-maker Costantino Gubone grabbed the opportunity to speak first.
“Sadly, I am absent from our classes next week. But I must be adding I am most excited to travel to the Sri Lanka. The chocolate-makers of Torino have collected almost 2 millions of euros for, ah...I mean to help with repairs from the hurricane that caused the damages in Sri Lanka last fall. Unfortunately, much of the cacao crop was destroyed, so we have an interest in the helping.”
Robert gently corrected Costantino’s phrasing of the sum of money and verb conjugation. Then he complimented the chocolate-makers for their generosity. The other students nodded in agreement. One commented what a tragedy it would be if Torino’s chocolate industry came on hard times.
Another student, the cop named Enrico, joined the discussion, “What would truly be the most biggest tragedy is if both the chocolate and the wine markets suffered problems.” Enrico slipped into Italian to add, “I don’t know if I would survive without my after dinner truffle and glass of Barolo.”
Robert liked this police captain.
Gianfranco volunteered that he preferred a glass of Barbera d’Alba with his chocolate. “The lighter flavor of a Barbera does not compete with the chocolate, but adds to it.”
Robert noted with some amusement that as the discussion moved from work to the table, students reverted from speaking English to Italian. Clearly, only Italian could adequately describe something as sacred as dining and drinking.
Though he very much enjoyed learning about the nuances of pairing dark chocolate with hearty red wine, Robert tried to regain control of the class. “Who else can share something from their work? In English?”
Paula, a student who had something to do with art restoration, stood up. “At the Art Conservation and Restoration Center in Venaria Reale, we have completed a very important restoration project of a most famous painting in the world,” she said with obvious pride. “It is a magnificent work by the Italian master Caravaggio. The painting is called Salome with the Head of St. John the Baptist. We have finished the restoration only on yesterday, and next week it will be taken to Verona for a temporary exhibit before it returns to the London Gallery.”
Robert barely heard a thing after she had mentioned Caravaggio. He immediately thought of Mariana, and plans to somehow get her to see that painting bounced around in his head like balls in a bingo machine. Tonight, at the club, he’d make her very happy.
Paula’s voice brought Robert back. “The transport of the painting will be next week, under very tight security.” She smiled at Enrico Musso, the police captain. Robert thought they looked at each other with a little too much contentment.
Robert asked if she personally worked on the painting. No, she helped with logistics at the Center, not actually in restoration. Her job was delivering the work to Verona. She added that a team of restorers had labored together under the watchful control of the famous and controversial Laboratory Director, who was best known for her restoration of Da Vinci’s Last Supper more than thirty years ago.
Robert absent-mindedly mentioned he knew someone who worked at the Conservation and Restoration Center. “I don’t really know him. We met once or twice is all. In fact, I don’t know his name. He’s a thin, wiry man about 35 or 40 years old. He doesn’t strike me as the type to restore art, but he told me that’s where he works.”
Paula paused for a moment. Robert, seeing her recoil slightly, regretted mentioning The Creep. “If it is the man I am thinking, he is not a restorer at all,” she said. Her face wrinkled up as if she smelled something rotten. “He is something of a -- I think your word is handyman.”
Robert cursed himself for having mentioned another strip club client. It was clear from her reaction she knew whom he was talking about, so he tried to play down the relationship. “Well, as I said, I don’t really know him at all,” he offered, “but he led me to believe he did something more substantial there.”
Her reply was terse. “No. Absolutely not.”
Robert hoped she would forget the exchange, and quickly suggested the class take a ten-minute break.
The students filed out of the room, all five reaching for cigarettes and lighters as they left. Robert noticed Paula and Captain Musso standing to one side, talking closely. Hopefully she didn’t know anything about the Creep and his strip club antics. Why would she?
The thought of Fantasy Club brought Robert back to Mariana again. He was in rapid planning mode. Ideas of how to take her to Verona competed in his head. As each new thought rolled into his thinking, it was either included in his plan or was dismissed.
His objective was clear. He had to get her to see that Caravaggio painting. She’d be so grateful. She’d understand that she truly meant something to him.
The exhibit was in Verona, only a few hours away by train, less by car. They could go by train so they could concentrate on each other rather than the road. Pay the extra twenty percent for first class seats? Of course.
They would visit on a day she did not have to work. The best choice was probably a Sunday, since museums were generally closed Mondays. After a walk through the show, they’d stop for a candlelit dinner, then catch the train back home.
Her anticipation would be so intense and the excitement of standing in front of one of the most famous works by her favorite artist would be palpable. He’d have to find out more about the painting before he saw her tonight. What was it again? Right -- something to do with somebody called Salome.
After visiting the exhibit and eating dinner, she’d be exhausted by the end of the day. She might even fall asleep on the train, resting her head affectionately on his shoulder. It would be late when they got back to Torino, and neither of them would have anything to do early Monday morning. An invitation to her apartment would not be out of the question.
Robert smiled. It was the perfect plan.
****
Chapter 3
Wednesday Afternoon
Enrico Musso had wanted to spend more time with Paula after English class. They’d had an interesting conversation during the break. Interesting and quite a coincidence, too. She said the guy their teacher had mentioned, the one she worked with and detested, frequently bragged about being a regular at strip clubs.
The meeting Enrico had to rush to attend was about strip clubs, so a longer conversation with Paula might have given him some useful information. But this was an important meeting, and he couldn’t be late.
He climbed the steps of the Questura with his old friend and fellow police captain, Michele Rizzole. Enrico loved the baroque architecture of this grand old building. The flamboyant style, the scrolls and curves along the upper facade, and the enormous arched windows imbued the structure with an air of power and authority diluted just enough with a sense of humor. Not today, though. Walking into police headquarters today made his stomach hurt, because he knew what was going to happen.
“I despise meetings with our Vice Questore,” he told his friend.
Clearly, Michele was of a like mind. “Si, d’accordo. I hate listening to that political hack with no police experience telling us how to do our job.”
The Vice Questore, the honorable Arnaldo Volpe, was an attorney who knew very well how to cozy up to politicians, but had no idea how to do anything about crime. The meeting Enrico and all other precinct captains from the city were about to endure would surely provide further evidence of that fact. No doubt the point was to discuss the latest blitz the VQ had put together to eliminate crime where little existed.
Michele, as if reading Enrico’s thoughts, added, “Volpe has made quite a name for himself. These elaborate raids win him plenty of publicity. But they don’t really help fight crime, do they?”
Real cops, those with street knowledge, the ones who understood what actually was happening in the city, had never been invited to participate in planning the raids. Neither were they asked for recommendations on where such a police operation would make any kind of real difference. In the past, Enrico had failed to disguise his opposition to the raids. His impatience put him at loggerheads with Vice Questore Volpe.
“The sweeps are designed to show maximum police presence, meet minimum opposition, and provide high numbers for arrest statistics.” Enrico knew he sounded more than a little bit like a press release, so added, “They also offer as many photo opportunities for the VQ as possible, since he manages to include a battalion-sized team of journalists whenever we do his work.”
As the men passed through the magnificent front door of the building, they displayed entrance passes to a bored and overweight guard, then turned left down the hall toward the conference center.
The three most recent busts had rounded up somewhere in the neighborhood of one hundred undocumented immigrants, hauled in a similar number of homeless, and put a stop to citizens riding public transportation without a ticket. That last major crime problem was solved for at most two or three days.
“Almost every person detained in the last few raids was released within 24 hours,” Enrico continued with a whisper. He just couldn’t see the point. Nor was the latest effort -- a move to clean up strip clubs in the city -- likely to make any difference in serious crime.
“Enrico, wait. I must speak with you before our meeting.” The Vice Questore, in spite of his not insignificant girth, slithered out of a small alcove as Enrico approached.
Enrico stopped, hoping Volpe hadn’t heard his last comment. “Good day, Vice Questore Volpe, what can I do for you?”
Pulling back into the alcove, Volpe stood uncomfortably close while maintaining his grip on Enrico’s left arm. He spoke in a hushed but threatening tone, almost spitting the first few words. “As you know, Enrico, our next sweep will purge the city of prostitution and drugs in strip clubs. Your precinct has the most clubs and therefore the biggest problem.”
Waiting for the VQ to continue, Enrico didn’t mention his precinct also was responsible for the largest geographical area and had the fewest patrolmen on staff. Those were old arguments he’d yet to win.
“You should be clear in my intent, Enrico.” Leaning close, Volpe reeked of his lunch, some kind of fish. “I expect maximum arrests. Make no mistake, your future as a policeman depends on this.” He released Enrico’s arm and flashed a frighteningly insincere smile.
“Of course, we will do everything we can within the limits of the law, sir. My men are always ready to do what is right.”
“I sometimes wonder, Enrico, if we share the same opinion of what is right.” With that, the VQ turned his huge body and waddled away.
Enrico caught up with his friend and they continued silently toward the double doors at the end of the corridor. He felt stained. Even after an encounter that brief, he’d have to take a shower when he got back to the office.
As they entered the large auditorium, another sergeant stopped the two captains to ask for identification. “Sorry, sirs. I know who you are, but you know how he is with his meetings.”
Enrico smiled. “Don’t worry about it Sergeant. Just be thankful that once it starts you get to stay outside these doors.” He noticed as he walked into the cavernous room that he could see his breath. “The heat is on the strip clubs, but definitely not in here.”
He did appreciate the irony of the media dubbing the raids Super Sweeps. Scopa meant “sweep,” or “sex” depending on the context. Given the nature of the raids and the screwing taxpayers were taking, Super Scopa was just right.
The pattern was for the Vice Questore to inform precinct captains of the next target about three weeks in advance. Then, in a bombastic and time-wasting meeting like this one, tactical details and guidance were explained. Finally, about twenty-four hours before the operation, captains were given the exact time and date for the sweep. They were not authorized to discuss anything, not even the target, with anyone in their command until they had received that 24-hour notice.
Michele started up again. “One thing planners seem to get right is not trusting us with too many advance details.”
Enrico knew any early knowledge of these sweeps would result in widespread cases of the flu, the sudden death of an aunt or uncle out of town, or unexpected car trouble among many of the rank and file in the Torino police force.
Michele added, “Cazzo, if I weren’t a captain, I’d probably call in sick myself.”
The Vice Questore had described strip clubs as hives of drug sales and prostitution. There was little evidence of that. In fact, illegal drug traffic at the Murrazi nightclubs along the river was a much bigger problem. Meanwhile, prostitutes openly walked the streets in the southern end of the city. Resources would be better placed elsewhere, but Volpe had convinced the mayor there was a problem, so the Super Scopa was on.
The point of this meeting was to give captains their final instructions. Then, in another week or so, they’d get the order to move.
Stepping farther into the auditorium, Enrico expected the worst and found no disappointment. A long table draped with the flag of the city ran across the stage. Five plush leather chairs waited behind nameplates reserving spots for the Vice Questore and his planning team. The largest chair (barely large enough, Enrico noted) was for the VQ. A podium stood to the left of the table, ready for the impassioned speech Volpe would no doubt deliver shortly.
Folding metal chairs on the auditorium floor marked seating for everyone else. Enrico grabbed two of them along the outside aisle, close to the exit. “No strip clubs in your area,” he told his friend. “You’ll have little to do with this sweep, you lucky bastard.” Michele’s precinct east of the Po River was a plush neighborhood, with no strolling streetwalkers or drug dealers.
“You’re right,” Michele said, wagging a thumb at the stage and rolling his eyes. “You’ll be much busier than me, whenever this thing happens, Enrico.” Playfully, he added, “What is it you guys do in your neighborhood, anyway? Your precinct by the train station is a mess.”
Enrico smiled at his old friend. “And you’ll have to come in for the witching hour, calling in most of your staff to do nothing but watch it all on TV.” He added, “Unless you want to augment my guys with some of yours?”
Before Michele could respond, Vice Questore Volpe and his entourage assaulted the stage, taking their positions with the precision of school children in the cafeteria. Volpe stepped dramatically to the podium. After fumbling around for a moment, he clicked on the microphone.
“Gentlemen and ladies, welcome. Today will be a short meeting, only enough to elaborate on the sweep of strip clubs in our city.”
Enrico exhaled heavily. Experience told him they’d be there at least an hour.
“Before I turn the microphone over to Deputy Fontanelli, I want to make two points known to you. First, we will rid our city of this vermin, this filth, this ... this blight! The whores and sluts working strip clubs entice our citizens and draw them into a world of drugs and evil!” He pounded the podium with his fist. “It is our sacred duty to put an end to it!”
“My second announcement is that I have instructed Captain Rizzole to provide me a detail of his best men. As his precinct is not stained by this illicit activity, his men will not be so busy on the night in question. The detail works directly for me starting tomorrow.”
Enrico looked at his friend in disbelief. So much for getting any help from Michele Rizzole’s troops. Michele could only manage a shrug.
The Vice Questore relinquished the microphone to the so-called “brains” of the planning staff. As Deputy Fontanelli described how the sweeps would work, Enrico tried to imagine a more miserable night, but couldn’t come up with anything.
His head ached just thinking about it. He’d have to lead one of the raids, storming into a club late at night. Fontanelli’s guidance included making plenty of noise, searching customers, arresting all the girls, and hauling everyone down to the station. In other words, generally create plenty of confusion without solving any serious crime. Porca miseria, they’d be talking for years about the freaks in the holding cells.
Picturing those freaks reminded him of his conversation with Paula that morning. Her coworker was something horrible and disgusting, always bragging about his exploits at strip clubs. It was the only thing the guy ever talked about, apparently. Paula was very surprised that their teacher knew him.
For his part, Enrico liked Robert Orazio, what he knew of him, at least. He respected the American’s experience as a soldier, and could sense a warrior quality that a seasoned cop could see, but most others could not. Still, twenty years on the force told Enrico that Robert was holding something back when he said he hardly knew the creepy man who worked with Paula. He’d have to talk to Orazio about that, and soon. Tomorrow. Right after class.
****
Chapter 4
Wednesday Evening
Robert shifted the bag of groceries to his left hand and reached into his pocket to grab his keys. Before he could use them, a loud “clack” sounded, indicating someone had disengaged the lock from the inside. The massive wooden door swung open without a sound. Ciro and Silvia, the young couple from across the stairwell stepped out.
“Buona sera, Robert! How are you?” Ciro, originally from Naples, was more vivacious and outgoing than any Torinese Robert knew. “You came in early last night. Is this cold weather keeping you, ah, down?” he asked with a conspiratorial wink. For some unknown reason, Ciro seemed to picture Robert as quite the playboy.
“Ciao, Ciro.” Robert hoped his neighbor had no idea of what he really did on his nights out. “No, I just finished work early, so came home.” Then Robert looked to Silvia and asked how she was.
“Busy. We still have two jobs to finish this week before going to Sestriere on our ski holiday.”
The couple was uncharacteristically entrepreneurial for young Italians. They ran an internet and information systems consulting business from their home. Doing so was, strictly speaking, illegal. But they had installed a network in the local police precinct so chances of trouble with the law were pretty slim.
“Good luck with the jobs, but better luck with the holiday,” Robert said. “How is the snow up there? I know it’s cold enough.”
“Since the Olympics, the snow is always perfect at Sestriere.”
Robert wasn’t sure if Ciro was sarcastic or serious.
“We have to go now, before February and the start of high season,” Silvia added. “Prices for everything double, can you imagine?”
Robert could. “Well, I’m upstairs to make dinner. Buona sera.”
“Robert, why not find yourself a nice girl to take care of you?” It was a strange question coming from Silvia. Ciro played the role of the charming front man for their business, pleasing customers with his personality and sense of humor. It was the hard-working Silvia who was the brains and the brawn of the operation. Suggesting a woman take a supporting role to Robert seemed out of her character.
“Tesoro, leave him alone.” Ciro grabbed her affectionately around the waist and kissed her neck. “Robert is not ready for just one girl yet. Especially since I have the best one.”
Robert smiled and thought there was one better. He turned and, as usual, took the stairs to his third floor apartment rather than the elevator. Exercise.
When he opened the door his cat Juve met him, as was her custom. Once she saw it was Robert and he carried a bag which no doubt contained her daily treat, she trotted into the kitchen to supervise the feeding operation.
“What, you think I have something for you?” He did, and promptly opened the can to spoon the foul smelling goop into her dish. “I don’t know how you can eat this crap.”
Owing to her black and white coat, Robert had named the stray after the more famous of Torino’s two soccer teams. Something like his brother in New York naming his dog Yankee. Robert smiled when he considered how unsafe that dog would be in Boston. His cat would have the same trouble in Milan.
“No chance of you going there, sweetheart,” he said as he scratched her back. Juve acknowledged his affection with a tail swish. Only one, though. She was busy eating.
“Yeah, I’m hungry, too.” Robert placed the contents of his grocery bag on the counter, folded the canvas bag and tucked it neatly back into a drawer. Then he grabbed a knife and started chopping the eggplant into small cubes.
As he prepared dinner, Robert thought back on his day. After he’d heard about the painting this morning, his mind had raced in a thousand directions. Rather than eating lunch, he’d gone on a good run to clear the voices out of his head. In a little short of an hour, he’d covered almost seven miles of urban Torino and felt much better. On his way home after work, he had stopped at the university library to get in some research on Caravaggio and the painting.
He filled a saucepan with water, put it over the flame, and considered the unruly genius named Michelangelo Merisi. He had come from the village of Caravaggio, but that was not actually his name. Same thing with an artist named Leonardo from a town near Florence called Vinci.
Caravaggio had been identified at an early age as a painter of considerable talent, and had begun his apprenticeship as a teenager. Most artists of the day painted stiff figures in cold representations of religious scenes, or portraits of their wealthy patrons.
Caravaggio had changed all that and became the first so-called modern painter. He had filled his images with realism and an honesty not seen before. The faces of his characters expressed pain, sorrow, joy, agony, or ecstasy. Sometimes the visual power of his images created such controversy he earned the ire of the Church and the jealousy of his rivals. More often, though, they had won him offers for additional work from benefactors.
No wonder Mariana was so moved by the guy’s paintings.
Robert heated up a bit of olive oil in a small frying pan. He tossed in a crushed clove of garlic and watched it sizzle before adding the cubes of eggplant. Stirring it idly, he remembered the psychological power of the painting Salome with the Head of Saint John the Baptist.
The story the painting told was interesting enough by itself. In Christian mythology, Salome was the daughter of a woman named Herodias. The ambitious Herodias got a divorce, then married her ex-husband’s half brother Herod, the ruler of Galilee in Palestine.
John the Baptist, something of a rabble-rouser in his day, condemned the marriage. Herod put John in jail, but that was not enough for Herodias and her beautiful daughter. At her mother’s bidding, Salome danced for her new stepfather, charming and seducing him until Herod promised to give her anything she wanted. What she had wanted was the head of John the Baptist, making her history’s first well-documented erotic, sensual, and dangerous woman.
Robert wondered what Mariana would ask of him if he could promise her anything. A better job? See a painting by Caravaggio? What was it that she truly wanted? Whatever it was, he knew he’d give it to her.
This particular painting was darkly matter-of-fact, the same way some of Robert’s troops had become unemotional after too many months downrange. In the painting, Salome and the executioner are detached from the horror of the scene. Salome looks away, uninterested and wanting nothing to do with the mayhem she has caused. The executioner seems bored, as if saying, “I did my job, now pay me.”
A third figure in the painting -- an old woman in the back -- looks shocked and horrified, but she appears like a ghost compared to the others, as if those emotions aren’t real and do not belong.
Robert smiled when he realized how Mariana’s art lessons were taking hold. Before he met her, if he had seen this painting, his reaction would not have gone much farther than “Cool! They cut off that guy’s head.” He stirred the eggplant again, then dropped in a handful of capers.
Caravaggio’s inability to keep his shit together felt too familiar to Robert. The artist was in and out of trouble with the law until he died sick and alone at only 39 years old.
Robert knew he could have been a better soldier, but like Caravaggio, his drinking had gotten in the way. Now he lived with the frustration of sudden fits of fear and a lack of passion for anything other than Mariana. “I used to be much more interesting,” he said out loud. “What the hell is wrong with me?”
He reduced the heat under the eggplant and tossed a generous handful of linguini into the boiling water. Time for a glass of wine.
He opened a bottle he had found at a small winery in the village of Guarene near Alba. The winery was called Ghiomo and the owner had told Robert to open this bottle, a 2004 blend of Barbera d’Alba and Nebbiolo grapes called Ruit Hora, for a special occasion.
Tonight, at the club, he’d tell Mariana about the painting. They’d make their plans to travel to Verona together. She would understand how much he loved her. That’s a special occasion, no doubt about it.
He drained the linguini, stirred in the fried eggplant, and added a dash of truffle-flavored salt.
Then the phone rang.
****
Chapter 5
Wednesday Evening
It was Robert’s boss, Simon Mowlam, a flamboyant 50-ish Englishman.
“Robert, darling, are you sitting down?” Simon tended toward the melodramatic. In fact, he was notorious for it. Once, about six months ago, Simon had exploded in a meeting with corporate leaders from the US. His table-pounding, briefcase-throwing tantrum had been laced with language Robert hadn’t heard even in the Army.
It had been a childish and disturbing display, but it had won a salary boost for Robert and some of his colleagues. Gotta stay loyal to the man for that.
“Sure, if you say so,” Robert replied as he grabbed a fork. He started eating while he stood over the kitchen sink. “What’s up, Simon?”
“As you know, Main Street is in the midst of a massive restructuring. It’s huge, Robert. Enormous. Galactic, even. Many unfortunate souls will lose their jobs in the coming weeks.”
Simon paused for effect, but Robert knew from experience that he was not expected to participate in the conversation just yet.
“We’ll be having a meeting here in Verona on Monday afternoon,” Simon continued. “I’d like you to be here. Oh bollocks, I’m calling all of the office directors from the major cities. Francis is coming from Milan, Nigel from Florence, that cretin Martin from Naples, and of course the simply gorgeous Anabel from Rome.”
Robert had noticed that Anabel was indeed gorgeous. Still, he did not respond to Simon.
“They’ll all be here, Robert. We simply couldn’t meet without our Yank colleague, could we?”
That was Robert’s cue to answer, but a mouthful of linguini with eggplant and capers prevented him. He quickly finished his glass of the remarkable Ruit Hora, thinking he needed another right away.
“No problem, Simon. What time does it start?”
“Promptly at two, give or take 30 minutes. You know -- we are in Italy, what?”
“How long will it take? I’d like to come back home after.”
“Oh my boy, that’s quite out of the question. You must stay the night. We’ll eat horsemeat and drink Amarone until the wee hours.”
Robert was vegetarian, which Simon knew. The thought of horsemeat, even though considered a delicacy in Verona, nearly made him gag. Still, he didn’t want to argue, so said OK. He’d come up with an excuse and return to Torino Monday night anyway.
Actually, the idea of a trip to Verona pleased Robert. He had always liked it there and was a fan of Amarone wine. Plus it gave him a chance to do a bit of reconnaissance before he and Mariana made their visit to see Salome.
He’d skip the meal with Simon and the others, but check out the restaurant called Carro Armato he’d heard so much about. Last good deal in the city center, he’d been told. It sounded like the right place to take Mariana.
Verona was where Shakespeare had Romeo and Juliet living, right? Robert knew that after seeing the painting, dining in a comfortable restaurant, enjoying fabulous wine, and strolling through the elegant and romantic city, Mariana would be his.
****
Chapter 6
Wednesday Evening
“Really, Miki. I worry about what you’re doing. If I can’t talk to you about it, who can?”
Mariana and Miki were on their way to have a pizza before Hassan picked them up for work. Torino’s best pizzeria, Gennaro Esposito, was around the corner from their apartment, and dinner there had become a Wednesday ritual for the cousins.
“Don’t start again, Mari,” Miki replied. “I’m fine here. I’m surviving. You are the one who has to get over her problem.”
Miki’s reference to Mariana losing her husband and infant daughter in a car accident three years ago was an unwelcome and still painful topic. Yuri had picked up their daughter from his mother’s house and was bringing her home. A drunk ran a stop sign and smashed into the side of their car. It was...
Mariana silently counted to ten and looked at her cousin.
“Let’s talk about you first, Miki, then me,” Mariana said quietly as they walked into the pizzeria. The staff expected the two Romanian girls each week, and had begun to hold a table for them. Mariana understood putting two pretty blondes by the front window was a clever way to attract other customers. She didn’t mind, though. The service here was friendly and the pizza always great.
“Ciao ladies, and welcome again. Your usual table is ready.” The waiter, Nicola, took liberties with his hands but he also gave them free wine. “Are we drinking red or white tonight?”
“Red tonight Niko,” said Miki. “We are having a family talk, so need something strong.”
“Ah, nothing is more important nor more difficult than family, vero? Here is your wine.”