To Caterina, it seemed like the moment of stupor in a Rossini opera, just before the ensemble that brought the act to a rousing finale. Would their voices join in one by one? What duets would be formed? Tercets? Would she sing a duet with Roseanna? She scorned the tenor.
“Dottoressa,” Moretti said, who also had moved to the side of the trunk, “I think it would be right for you to see to opening these bags.”
There was a long silence while the cousins considered the statement. Stievani nodded, and Scapinelli said, very reluctantly, “Va bene.”
Caterina walked over to the desk and set the document, facedown, on the surface, then went back to the trunk. She leaned inside and, two by two, carried the bags over and placed them at the other end of the table.
“You’re sure you want me to open them, Dottore?” she asked Moretti, also using the formal lei. The three men had another silent conference, and when no objection was proposed she picked up the first bag. The leather was dry and hard, unpleasant to her hand. With some difficulty Caterina untied the stiff knot that held the leather strings together and used the backs of her fingers to pry open the mouth of the bag.
She was suddenly overwhelmed by a reluctance to know what was in the bag and an even stronger repugnance to touch whatever it was. She handed the bag to Moretti. He reached inside, and his fingers delicately removed a slip of paper with a few words written on it in faded ink. He looked at the paper and, gasping, stood rooted to the spot.
Scapinelli, immune to presentiments or surprise, grabbed the bag from him and stuffed his fingers inside. A second later his fingers emerged holding a long, thin sliver that Caterina at first thought might be a decorative silver pin of some sort, tarnished with age.
Scapinelli put it into the palm of his other hand and studied it. “What the hell is this?” he demanded, quite as if everyone else in the room were agreed to keep the information from him.
After long moments, Moretti broke the silence. “It’s the finger of Saint Cyril of Alexandria,” he said, holding the tiny scrap of paper toward Scapinelli. In a voice made low by reverence, he whispered, “Pillar of Faith and Seal of all the Fathers.”
Scapinelli turned to him and shouted, “What? Seal of what? It’s a bone, for the love of God. Can’t you see it? It’s a piece of bone.”
Moretti reached out and took it from Scapinelli’s hand. He removed his handkerchief and wrapped the tiny bone reverently, then, holding the handkerchief in his hand, he made the sign of the cross, touching his body in four places with the cloth.
Caterina thought of a time, it must have been twenty years ago, when she had been returning to Venice on an overnight train. Luckily, her compartment held only three people, she and a young couple. At about ten, Caterina had gone to use the toilet and, finding a long line of people waiting to use it, she had been away from the compartment for at least twenty minutes. When she got back, the door was closed and the light turned off. She slid back the door, thinking how lucky she was to have three empty seats on which she could stretch out and sleep, when the light from the corridor flashed across the naked bodies of the young people, linked in lovemaking on the seat opposite hers.
She felt the same shame when she caught a glimpse of the expression on Dottor Moretti’s face, for there she read an emotion so intense that no one had the right to observe it. She looked away, allowed a moment to pass, and handed him the second bag. The paper described it as the fingernail of Saint Peter Chrysologus. And so it went until the six bags had been opened and the papers extracted. And each time Moretti handled the piece of dried flesh or nail or the bloodstained tissues with a reverence from which even the cousins were forced to avert their eyes.
When the bags were on the table, the document placed beside it, Caterina turned away from Moretti, who was leaning over them, his hands propped on either side of them, his head bowed. Addressing Scapinelli, she said, “I don’t see any sense in disputing any of this. His wishes are clear. You each get half of what’s in those bags.”
A cunning look flashed across Scapinelli’s eyes and he said, “Aren’t those things always surrounded by gold and jewels? What happened to them?” Suspicion seeped into his voice as he spoke, and the final words were all but an accusation of theft.
“Signora Salvi was with me when I found them.”
Roseanna nodded.
“I called Dottor Moretti, with her here, as soon as I read the first sentence.” Then, more forcefully, “No one’s stolen anything.”
“Then where did the gold and jewels go?”
“I doubt there were any,” Caterina said.
“There always was,” Scapinelli said with the insistence the ignorant always use when defending a position.
“Maybe he didn’t want there to be any gold. Or diamonds. Or emeralds,” Caterina suggested.
Stievani broke in here to ask, “What do you mean?”
“Maybe he wanted to leave only a spiritual gift to his cousins.”
“Then what did he do with the money?” Scapinelli demanded, quite as if he thought she knew and was refusing to tell him.
“The money went for the relics,” Caterina said. “That’s what had value.”
Waving his hand at the bags, Stievani said, “It’s only a mess of bones and rags.”
Moretti pushed himself away from the table and took a step toward Stievani. “You fool,” he said in a tight voice. He raised his hands but lowered them slowly to his sides.
Caterina surprised herself by laughing. “Fool,” she said, and laughed again.
Moretti turned his glance on her, and she wondered what had happened to Andrea. “He believed,” Moretti said. “He knew what they were worth. More than gold. More than diamonds.”
“And if he didn’t believe?” she asked Dottor Moretti. “If he thought they were just pieces of pig’s bone and dirty handkerchiefs? What better way to free himself of the blood money he was given?” The cousins seemed to begin to understand, but she didn’t want them to get off free, so she asked, “And how better to pay back the cousins who refused to help him than by giving them things that had no value except that put on them by faith?”
“But he must have believed,” Moretti said, almost shouting. “He must have believed these were the Jewels of Paradise.” He turned back to the table and ran his hand over the first of the leather bags.
Caterina, who had once thought of his hand running over skin of a different type, shivered at the sight. “But maybe he didn’t believe, Dottore. You’re an intelligent man, so you have to know that’s possible. Maybe he bought them knowing they were trash. And maybe he wanted that. Maybe it was time to pay everyone back. He was dying, remember, and he must have known that, so he didn’t need money any more. And he didn’t need the habits of a lifetime of patience.” She stopped then, already ashamed of some of the things she’d said and of the desire that had animated her in saying them. But she gave in to temptation and turned to the cousins. “You’ve got your Jewels.” Then to Moretti: “And you’ve got your Paradise.”
She walked over and picked up her bag. She opened it and took out the keys, all of them. She put them on the table and turned toward the door.
“You can’t leave,” Scapinelli said. “Your work isn’t finished. There might be other things.”
“I’m not working hard enough for you, Signor Scapinelli, remember?” From his expression, she saw he understood. “So find yourself another researcher, why don’t you?” Then, because she felt like saying it, she added, “Ask your son to help.”
She went to the door and did not turn around. She heard Roseanna’s footsteps coming after her: click, click, click, just like her typing. She waited in the corridor. They went down the steps one after the other. In the calle, they felt that the warmth had increased.