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Luca wanted me to meet his wife. He insisted on it after he cleaned enough of the glass from his car for the two of us to climb in and continue the journey to Palermo. The windshield had been spared, as was the rest of the vehicle. Whoever did it could have done more damage than just breaking the side windows if they’d wanted to. Not that their point wasn’t perfectly made.
There were plenty of ways I could have reacted when I read the note they left behind: Does your wife know about you and the American whore? I could have been the cool girl and laughed in disbelief. I could have gone manic and screamed at Luca or I could have stayed silent. I chose the latter because it was becoming quite clear that I had no idea what I had gotten myself into and I just wanted to get to Palermo, get my passport, and figure out the fastest way to sell the land. Maybe Luca took my silence for complicity because after ten minutes back on the road he simply said, “You should meet my wife.”
My mouth went so dry I couldn’t swallow much less speak. I kept shifting in my seat, trying to get sand out of my bathing suit bottoms.
“I’m not really into that kind of thing,” I replied, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. Sex with near strangers on beaches, sure. Threesomes with an Italian couple, not really on the menu for me.
“That’s not what I meant.” He was looking at me now, taking his eyes off the road every so often to meet my gaze in the mirror. This was an easier conversation to have with someone’s reflection. He was nervous, maybe about whoever shattered the windows and whether they were still following us, maybe about the note and my reaction to it. I had to stop myself from caring about any of it. Luca’s wife was his problem.
“I think she can help you. She can be helpful for your situation. I didn’t mean anything strange or sexual. I would not propose that. I—I do not think of you like that.” Luca was stuttering now. “Agata is my wife. She has been my wife for a very long time, since we were eighteen, but we are not like that. We, how do you say in America... we are separate from one another?”
“Separated?”
“That is it. We haven’t lived together in a very long time, since we were practically kids. She is a professor in Palermo at the university. A brilliant woman. One of the most wonderful humans I know.” I felt a twinge of jealousy that I had no right to feel. “We got married because it was good for her. She had no family, no one to protect her, and I was her best friend. I love her. But we do not... we do not do what you and I just did.”
I was cool. I was tough. I was relieved. “What does she teach?”
“History of the women. Feminism, you call it. Focusing on Sicilian women mostly. She is one of the first professors to do extensive work on women’s stories dating all the way back to the Sicanian times through the Greco-Roman period and everything until now. She is married to her work and a very good researcher. I think she can help you with some of the things that you want to know about your great relative and whether you have rights to the land that she left you.”
“How could she know about Serafina?”
“Because she knows more about the women of this island and the women of Caltabellessa and the laws that govern women than anyone. We can meet her in Palermo if that is good for you. I am sorry you found out about her the way that you did.”
I nodded.
“We can stay at my apartment, or I can pay for you to stay in a hotel. We don’t need to do anything.”
“I appreciate that.”
“It is weird now, isn’t it? Between us?”
I sighed as we pulled onto the freeway and wished more than anything that my answer could be different.
“It’s weird now.”
—
We illegally parked on the sidewalk next to a grand baroque cathedral. When Luca grabbed my hand to lead me up the stone steps, I didn’t pull away.
“Are we going to confession?” I asked.
He spun me around to give me a hard stare, a stare so earnest I almost kissed him to apologize for my sarcasm. “You need to know that I do not regret anything, Sara.”
The church door was locked, but somehow Luca had a key.
“Seriously, why are we here?” I asked.
“Agata is doing research to restore the frescoes in this church. They have given her an office downstairs. It is closed while it is under construction but I have a key so I can check on her.”
“Maybe tomorrow would be better to see her,” I suggested through a yawn.
“She is eager to s-see us now. I texted her on our drive,” he stuttered. “It’s not always the case with her. She has good days and bad days.” Inside the entryway he turned left instead of going straight into the church, heading down a corridor of stairs to the basement crypt.
A small woman emerged from the musty darkness at the base of the stairs. Her face tattoo stopped me in my tracks. An inky black snake slithering up her left cheek. Agata’s blonde hair was in a sloppy topknot and her eyes were a startling icy blue. She wore a red silk robe and green velvet slippers with pointy toes that made a shushing sound as she slid around the room. Her head only came to Luca’s breastbone as she embraced him around the waist.
“Ciao, ciao, caro mio.”
He bowed his head and kissed the top of her hair.
