stress on my name is unequivocal. “Nevertheless, it’s a long flight and I’m
certain they’ll sleep through the night. Renzo, don’t forget to take your acid-reflux medication before you snooze off. You need to get lots of sleep. You know how tired and grumpy you can be. You would not want your hard-nosed side surfacing, would you? Goodnight dear. I’ll wake you just before we land.”
Emily, smug and self-satisfied, walks away. I am denied the benefit of a reply.
I feel dishonored. Depreciated. Flattened. Ali smiles at me with empathy and asks,
“Did you know that for protection, pagans brewed a mixture of Angelica, fennel, and rosemary in one of their cauldrons?”
I remain mute, lost in Ali’s therapeutic remedy.
Losing her smile, as if clutching a deeper
thought, she adds, “I guess you need potions and spells when deception rather than truth governs relationships.”
I am stunned. I look at Ali with awe. She appears to have read my feelings. Am I that readable? She seems to possess the power to render what’s broken, unbroken. Dare I share the details of my unfaithful marriage? I remain tongue-tied.
“By the way Renzo, with sleight of hand, I placed my university business card between the pages of your book. Goodnight.”
Ali slides a sleeping mask over her eyes and curls into a ball under her blanket. Her insight and openness are a balm to my spirit. Will I have the opportunity and time to get to know her better?
Chapter 5
Marina di Gioiosa Ionica, southern Italy
A priest in a funeral home arouses no extraordinary concern but this priest is diabolic. Death follows his pervasive trails. His mission is rooted more in the temporal world, not anything to do with God’s ethereal paradise.
In a different town, more industrialized and intellectualized, any talks or caveats persisting around one particular establishment would summon the local carabinieri to investigate. However, the native military police shun this clergyman and his ‘family’-owned mortuary. The police understand how the system works and what is good for them. It is not prudent to interfere. Boundaries must be respected.
Here in the lower level of San Giovanni Camera Mortuaria (St. John Funeral Home), there is an outlet for caskets and accessories of an enviable variety. Customers can choose from low to high- quality chests of various finishes. Prices vary from inexpensive to lavish. The devil priest is standing in front of a gold-plated casket. His white-gloved hands encircle a metallic, carved, elongated crucifix. His eyes glare at the innermost depth of the casket. He begins to speak.
“You hold your nose and take our money,” says the priest kneeling before the open casket.
The priest looks inside and begins to pray.
Our Father, who art in heaven…
Intermixed with words of prayer come le accuse (accusations). The prayer morphs into a decree of death.
…hallowed be Thy name…
“We select you. Make you aristocrats. Permit you sumptuous villas. Easy escorts.”
An attendant, Stefano, stands beside the closed door to the showroom. Rather than artsy, his wrinkled shirt, oversized jacket and woolen, flap sunhat make him look battered. He shows little interest in the proceeding choosing to flip through naked pictures of women on his smart phone.
…Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us…
The priest leans into the coffin’s cavity. “How do you repay us? You call mia famiglia
(my family) amoral. We who protect you. We who give you honor. We who give you wealth.”
…and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil…
“You ignore our words. You call us common criminals. You dare side with our prosecutors.”
…for Thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever.
“You will help make our message very clear, Sindaco (mayor). We shall not be ignored. Our Code of Honor is mightier than Rome. Our Family is the rightful government. History is on side. Soon we will control the Vatican and the carabinieri. You blundered in listening to the Stregheria society. Rome will crumble. We will merge religion and political power under Mafia rule.”
A white haired, portly elder, Mayor of Marina di Gioiosa Ionica, stares with terror at his eulogist. His mouth taped. His arms and legs are broken and twisted. He has soiled himself. His living corpse is sprayed with fennel seeds to cut the stench.
His pleading is muffled and unintelligible. His face is battered and crusted with coagulated blood. His nose is grotesque. One eye is buried in folds of swollen skin. His chest is heaving in anticipation of the inevitable.
Amen.
The priest holds the black cross-shaped, crucifix in the air above him. Its stiletto blade extends eight inches below his grip. He mouths the sign of the cross, bulging his eyes wide open. With a salivating smile, he plunges the blade, as if exorcising Satan, into the heart of the man in the coffin.
In slow, practiced clerical movements, the priest turns to his crony and says,
“Stefano, put our dear friend, His Highness, on display in the piazza (public square). Let the message stink the air. I have many more last rites to arrange for our government superiors before Sunday mass and I have a meeting with don Corrado.”
“No problem, Father Alfonso, but look at this puttana (whore)”, says Stefano, extending his arm, like a smartphone selfie stick so the priest can see.
They burst into an echoing laughter to Alfonso’s “mamma mia” subsequent quip as he clutches his crotch.
Chapter 6
Marina di Gioiosa Ionica, southern Italy
The funeral home, Santo Giovanni Camera Mortuaria, is not just a terminal for body laundering. It has a war room. The command center is located in the second-level kitchenette and dining room. Here, don Corrado Lupo, capo di tutti i capi (boss of all bosses) runs his Mafia empire.
The funeral home is a block away from la chiesa di San Nicola (St. Nicholas church) where Corrado, a favored child, served as an altar boy. A tunnel, deluxe as any haute couture tower resplendent with marble, granite and paintings, connects the funeral home with the church. Mafia operations and logistics stem from here. Masses and wakes facilitate entry and passage to the war
room for special meetings of deputies from the confederated families. Infrequently, celebrations take place in the church basement with all the capi, in all their magnificent malice and manner.
Corrado, son of a renowned bricklayer who designed and constructed the church, is an old man with a fringe of grey-white hair. No doubt, he will live to be one hundred. His scalp is balding and mottled. His face is heavily lined. His gait is purposeful. The early years
