Second Skin (36 page)

She rose, and as Jaqui watched her, she grasped the left edge of the picture frame and pulled it toward her. Behind the portrait of Donà di Piave was a niche carved into the stone wall and, inside, an object, long and narrow, covered by a purple velvet cloth, fringed in gold. Embroidered on it were words in Latin Jaqui could not understand.

Turning around, Bernice held the object in front of her and carefully removed the velvet cloth. Jaqui gaped. She held a sword in her hand, a darkly gleaming object of iron, clearly forged centuries before the advent of stainless steel.

‘This is the sword of Donà di Piave,’ Bernice said.

And, as if drawn by magnetic force, Jaqui left her chair and reached out in wonder toward the weapon. At just that instant, Bernice lost her balance and the blade came down, slicing into the meat at the base of Jaqui’s right hand.

Strangely, she did not cry out and she did not jump. In fact, she felt no pain at all, just an odd pulsing, and looking down, she saw her hands covered in blood.

Bernice, who had dropped the sword and rushed from the room, now returned with Merthiolate, sterile gauze, and first-aid adhesive.

‘It doesn’t hurt,’ Jaqui said as if to no one in particular.

And Bernice, slipping to her knees, grasped Jaqui’s wrist, and as she painstakingly cleaned and dressed the wound, she thought,
Praise God. She is the one.

‘And your bishop agrees with your interpretation of Goethe?’

‘This is 1945,’ Bernice said to Camille Goldoni. ‘My archbishop is too busy with the war effort to care one whit about what Goethe wrote, let alone what my interpretation of his philosophy might be.’

Camille – who was Margarite’s aunt by marriage; she had died in the early 1970s – was a big-boned woman with a wide waist, fleshy arms and shoulders. She was not pretty, but her face was handsome in its way. Her decidedly mannish features were offset by the resoluteness of her demeanor and the determination in her eyes. She was also exceedingly kind, and this generosity of spirit glowed like light from a lantern.

She was with Bernice because her husband, Marco Goldoni, Enrico’s older brother, had had a stroke. This was unusual in a man of forty. As luck would have it, he had been home alone with her. It had been a Sunday. She rushed him to the hospital, and when Marco’s personal physician told her what had happened to him, she determined then and there that no one would know about it. She bribed the doctor and the two nurses she allowed into the room. She lied to Marco’s bodyguards, who had driven the couple to the hospital. The don was suffering from an acute case of food poisoning, she told them.

‘I knew that if news of Marco’s stroke got out, the family would be in serious trouble,’ Camille said now. ‘Enrico is in Venice and, in any event, Marco is the powerhouse, the connected one, the thinker and the planner.’

She was dry-eyed, having wept in the privacy of her husband’s bedside. She sat with her back very straight, at this moment conscious of all the minutiae that kept her together: her makeup, the seams in her stocking, and little more. ‘Of course, I know nothing about Marco’s affairs. As is the custom, he is scrupulous about separating his business from his personal life.’

Camille had not yet come around to the real reason for her visit. It was a simple matter for Bernice to provide comfort, but she suspected Camille was here for another purpose entirely.

‘You see, Bernice, I need to confide in someone, but I did not know who to turn to. Marco met with his
capi
every week. Most of them come to dinner once a month, but I don’t know who among these men I can trust. Who will be loyal when they hear the news? Who will seek to betray the family in its time of weakness?’

‘My dear, this sounds like an unsolvable problem.’

‘No, no. I came here to the one person I can trust without question.’

Bernice’s heart skipped a beat. Could this be the sign in the physical world she had been destined to find? She took a deep breath and waited for events to unfold.

‘Marco has been very generous, especially to this convent,’ Camille continued. ‘And we were both so grateful and thrilled when you agreed to take in our daughter. The doctors said she would never survive in the world outside, and we could never subject her to the cruelty of an institution.’ Now her emotions betrayed her, and clutching her handkerchief to her eyes, she began to cry. ‘We will never forget such kindness, Bernice.’

Bernice leaned over, stroked Camille’s cheek. ‘There, there, my dear. Marco has bestowed his own great kindness on us. After all, it is due to him that Santa Maria will be renovated – a new facade, a new wing. We are flourishing while others are struggling and dying out.’ She smiled benignly as Camille clutched her hand. ‘Besides, my dear, you and I have known each other some years. We have spent so many hours in the contemplation garden, speaking of many things while the roses grew up around us.’

Camille smiled. ‘It’s true. I remember when you were first introduced to me. Mother Superior Mary Margaret was not so old then, but she was not well. She would not relinquish her title, but instead brought you along. “Bernice will speak for me,” she said in that sandpaper voice of hers.’

Bernice nodded. ‘God forgive me, it will be a blessing, really, when she dies.’ She shook her head. ‘So much pain for one person to endure.’

‘Bernice, I must ask you. I know you are not ignorant of what the Goldoni family’s real business is. Yet you have befriended us.’

‘Of course.’ Bernice took the other woman’s palm, pressed hers against it, transmitting the charismatic warmth that was but one of her extraordinary gifts. She was a tall, slender woman with a startlingly expressive face. Someone once said that she had the eyes of a mathematician. They were analytical, observing patterns that most other people missed, in the minute movements of everyday life. She held no truck with blandness or indecision. Among the women in the neighborhood, she was widely known as being tough as a man but far more fair in her judgments. She was an ardent reader of books and human character; she did nothing arbitrarily. ‘I am a pragmatist, as the best of my kind always are,’ she said. ‘I have this flock to care for and, besides, I pray twice a day for Marco’s soul. I used to laugh and say, “Without sinners like Marco the Church would be out of business.”’ She smiled. ‘But, my dear, you must know that you and I could not be closer were we sisters.’

‘So.’ Camille arranged her hands in her lap, her fingers twisting and untwisting her damp handkerchief. ‘So.’

A soft chanting began, emanating from another part of the convent, penetrating the stone walls. The liturgical Latin seemed immensely comforting, the slow phrasing calming wildly beating hearts.

‘Camille, tell me how I can help you.’ Bernice turned her palms upward. ‘I assure you, nothing you could ask me will be a burden.’

Camille nodded, gaining courage from her friend’s words. ‘I have come here in my hour of desperation to ask for your advice.’ She looked into Bernice’s piercing blue eyes. ‘My entire family is hanging in the balance. Tell me what I should do.’

Bernice sat back. Now she knew what it was she was facing: nothing less than her destiny. She could taste it, hold it in her hand, and yet she felt curiously calm. ‘My dear, before we go further, let me say that dispensing advice is easy. Taking it is quite a different matter.’

‘Oh, Bernice, I’m here, aren’t I?’ Tears stood in the corners of Camille’s eyes. ‘You’re the one I came to. I have nowhere else to go. Whatever advice you give me I swear I will take.’

‘This is a house of God. When you take an oath, it is forever.’

Camille swallowed hard. ‘Then let it be forever.’

Bernice nodded. ‘Very well then. My advice is for us to look to Goethe. “Few men have imagination enough for reality.” Let me explain how this applies to us. You talk of custom, my dear. You tell me you know nothing of the details of your husband’s business and I believe you. In his eyes – in the eyes of all men – that is right and proper. But taking from Goethe, I strenuously disagree.

‘What I mean is that men have had their way for so long, and what has it brought us – bloodshed and war, because that is how men settle arguments. But the deaths of our sons is no way to pay for the future.’

Bernice lifted her forefinger. ‘I want you to consider something. Perhaps your husband’s illness is a sign. Three nights ago I had a vision that God stretched out His hand in the darkness and loosed a bolt of lightning. Where He directed it, I had no idea, but I do now.’

Bernice’s face was filled with the kind of divine animation depicted in her forebear. ‘This is God’s work, Camille, and we must recognize His plan in what has happened. The moment we recognize this, we turn tragedy into triumph.’

Camille shook her head. ‘I don’t understand. How could Marco’s stroke possibly be interpreted as a sign from God?’

‘Think of Goethe’s quote. Men have been bound into societies for centuries, and for centuries the world has revolved around territory and war.’

‘But that is the way the world works, Bernice. How can we do anything about it?’

‘On the surface, we can’t. And that is as it should be. But, Camille, as you well know, appearances are often not the whole story.’ Bernice tapped the side of her nose. ‘Secrets are best kept by women and dead men. It comes so naturally to us. A woman lies to her man every day of her life in order to ensure his happiness or to save him from grief, isn’t that so?’ She sighed. ‘Sometimes, I am convinced that God put the sweetness on our faces and into our voices for just this purpose.’

‘It’s true.’ Camille nodded. ‘In the household, a man says, “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.” But a woman’s gift is to make her lies seem like the truth.’

‘And so it has been down through the ages.’ Bernice took Camille’s hand, brought her into the same turreted room to which she would bring Jaqui a decade later. Camille sighed when she entered. It was the sound one makes when inhaling the rich perfume of the first rose of summer, expressing not only contentment but pleasure.

When she had drunk her fill of the stained glass, Bernice showed her the portrait of the nun-warrior.

‘Many years ago, in the fifteenth century,’ Bernice said, ‘a secret society was formed – a society of women called the Order of Donà di Piave. In those days, it was natural for the power of women to accumulate in places out of the light of day, in places, moreover, not subject to the daily scrutiny of men. A convent was a perfect place to maintain this power, don’t you think?

‘It was formed because those women strong enough to make the leap of faith beyond the boundaries of their sex felt it was time to take an active role in creating a future where their sons did not march off to die in war or return crippled in body and in spirit, where their daughters were not left to raise their children alone.

‘Centuries later, this society came to this country, and here it has remained, waiting for a day of rebirth. And, Camille, I very much believe that
this
is the day.’ Bernice gestured at the painting. ‘We live in a time not so dissimilar to that of Donà di Piave’s. It is an age of fear and evil.’

She put her arm around Camille’s shoulder. ‘The sign from God foretold not merely Marco’s disability, but the transference of power from his hands to yours.’

‘What?’ Camille looked aghast.

‘Listen to me closely, my dear. You came to me because you said I am the only one you can trust. Trust me now when I tell you that this is our chance to seize the power.’ She lifted a forefinger. ‘And remember what you swore before God and His intermediaries.’

Camille looked defeated. ‘But, even if what you say is true, how can I possibly do what my husband did? We live in a world dominated by men. And none more so than
la Famiglia.
Do you seriously believe any of Marco’s
capi
would listen to a word I tell them? That is, even assuming I knew what orders to give.’

‘Orders are not difficult to formulate,’ Bernice said crisply. ‘One need only think in logical sequence and everything will be made clear. Take care of one problem at a time and you find they all fall like dominoes.’ She nodded. ‘As to the rest, you are quite right, the lieutenants will follow only the orders they believe come from Marco himself – or someone he has designated.

‘Therefore, I suggest you contact Marco’s younger brother, Enrico, in Venice and urge him to come to his brother’s side.’

‘But Enrico is an exporter of fabrics. He knows nothing of Marco’s real business.’

‘Then he will learn along with you. The important thing is, up until now you have made all the right decisions. No one knows how ill Marco is and, God willing, they will never know. Enrico will become his emissary and then his mouthpiece and, finally, it will be Enrico who takes over for Marco. Only we will be making the decisions, behind the scenes, in the sanctity of the convent, and no one will ever know.’

Camille was trembling. ‘Oh, Bernice, I don’t know. The whole idea is so frightening!’

‘Of course it is. But think, my dear, what a force for good you can become! Rein in the fears for yourself. Come from a place of light and truth. Put your thoughts beyond the boundaries of home and hearth. Set your goals beyond Marco and the family. Think only of God and the dazzling opportunity He has presented you. And remember that the full resources of the Order of Donà di Piave will be at your disposal forevermore.’

After she saw Camille out, Bernice went to the kitchen and returned to the turret room with a tray of food. She pushed through another hidden door into another, more spacious room furnished as a bedchamber. Thick curtains were drawn across the two windows that overlooked the inner courtyard with its central meditation garden. Fresh flowers in glass vases festooned the room. A single lamp glowed dimly on a small wooden table beside a well-worn easy chair pulled up to the curtained window. On the other side of the room was an enormous four-poster bed made of mahogany and ebony. It was a masterful bit of carpentry, very old, and had been shipped in pieces from Europe.

Bernice stood in the room, waiting for her eyes to accommodate to the semidarkness.