‘So you have some money to spend on me,’ says Valentina mischievously. ‘I think tonight you can pay for dinner. It can be your punishment for behaving like some drunken teenager.’
Tom protests that he was championing the cause of vulnerable French youths against a seasoned bully, but somehow the reasoning doesn’t seem as sensible as it did last night.
Valentina squeezes the little Fiat into a gap between a Smart car and an old Ford Fiesta that looks like it’s never been washed. She links Tom’s arm and leads him through an iron gate in a long brick wall that cordons off her apartment block.
One set of stairs later, she opens the front door to her tiny apartment and instantly wishes she’d made more of an effort to tidy up.
‘Nice,’ says Tom, ‘small but very nice.’
‘Liar. It’s horrible.’ She abandons her jacket and handbag and heads straight to her treasured DeLonghi coffee machine. ‘Are all ex-priests bad liars?’
‘It’s possible,’ he concedes, standing by her settee, not sure what to do with his suitcase.
She switches on the machine and smiles at him. ‘Now we’re inside, I have something to ask you.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You need to come over here to answer it.’
Tom drops his jacket over the case and steps into the kitchen area. She puts a finger gently to his damaged lip, almost as though she’s inspecting it. ‘Is your mouth too sore to kiss me a proper hello?’
‘A proper hello?’
She doesn’t let him prevaricate any longer. She tilts her head and gently kisses him. The unharmed corner of her lips touches the unharmed corner of his. A kiss as light as the fluttering wings of a butterfly.
Neither of them close their eyes. It’s like they’re watching each other unwrap long-awaited presents.
Tom’s hands find her waist.
She lets the tip of her tongue run sensually along the length of his dry lip.
The contact is minimal but electrifying.
They press together, so close they can feel nothing but the warmth of each other.
Somewhere in the room her phone rings.
Valentina tries to ignore it.
Tom slowly kisses the side of her neck.
She goes weak at the knees.
The phone trips to the answering function. ‘This is Lieutenant Assante — Federico. I tried your cell phone and left a message. Forgive me calling your home, but we have an incident at the hospital with the woman we arrested. I really need to talk to you urgently. If you can’t reach me, it may be because I’m already leaving for the pysch unit and I don’t have hands-free in my car. Ciao.’
12
I am blessed by Her now.
Blessed by Mother.
In death She became life so that in ashes I may become spirit.
The spirit of Mother and those of my sisters are with me.
Henceforth they will always be with me and I with them.
This is how it is meant to be — how it was written — how it will always be. We are followers of the Great Books and writers of the future. Their word is our truth and our words are the truth of their tomorrows.
My sisters lead me through the darkness to Her house, to the great temple that lies at the magical confluence of three pathways in a womb-shaped clearing.
It is gated above ground and guarded below by the Galli.
I can hear drumming, dancing and chanting as we enter.
The Korybantes pound spears against shields and stir the air with their nimble steps.
A deep thumping beat flows through the bodies of all those gathered. We are touched by the unseen.
Mother has become the rhythm.
Mother the heartbeat.
She becomes the air and penetrates our skin.
She flows through our blood and our organs and makes us quiver with Her power.
My heart trembles as Her sound presses into me.
Mother is invisible, like the start of the rain.
Mother is all powerful, like the pull of the ocean.
Mother cleanses and renews us throughout our life and our death.
The sisters of the mortal world look frightened.
They should not.
Mother will care for them. Mother will transform them.
Feet apart, they stand in innocence and clumsily begin their incantations. Uncertain hands touch genitals, wombs, hearts and foreheads.
Hesitant fingers stretch to the sky and reach out to Her.
Soon She will reach out to them.
We will eat from the drum.
We will drink from the cymbal.
We will be immortal.
This is how it is written.
This is how it will be.
13
Valentina rings Federico back but only gets his voicemail.
She’s left with no choice but to head off to the hospital.
Her long-dreamt-of moment of intimacy has been ruined, and a part of her fears it may never happen again.
Work certainly has a way of screwing with your personal life.
She hangs up and turns back to Tom. ‘Sorry.’
His lip is smeared shiny red, and from the salty taste on her own lips she realises it’s blood. Her blood. The realisation is strangely exciting.
‘What’s wrong?’ He stands in a no-man’s land between before she kissed him and what happens next.
‘I have to go. Emergency at work. All that clichéd stuff.’
He smiles. ‘I understand. I guess clichés are clichés because they get said so often.’
Small talk. The moment’s certainly gone. She gathers her stuff and heads for the door, sensing a trace of awkwardness in the air.
She’s still cursing Federico as she fires up her Fiat and drives to the Policlinico.
It’s an awful place to navigate around. Most of the multi-storeyed buildings seem to be salmon-coloured with green shutters. Hilly roads open up into smart areas of lawn, and some giant palms and occasional flagpoles make the place look almost like a holiday hotel that’s seen better days.
Inside, a maze of depressingly dark corridors lead her to the psychiatric unit, where she finds Federico the Interrupter sitting in the reception area looking over notes in a pocket book.
‘Buonasera,’ grunts Valentina. ‘I hope this is every bit as urgent as you said.’
The Lieutenant looks up and is startled to see his boss in a fetching floral dress, wearing make-up and with her hair down. ‘Buonasera. I see I ruined something. Scusi. I’m afraid it is important. Our prisoner has told us her name.’
Valentina’s not impressed. ‘Oh, bene.’
‘She even wrote it in my notebook for me.’ He swivels it around so she can see.
‘Cassandra? What is this?’ She scowls at him, ‘She writes down I am Cassandra and you call me out on a Saturday night to get only a Christian name. You could have told me that on the phone, Federico.’