Gabriel's Rapture (29 page)

Gabriel struggled and flailed before jolting awake. He tore at the bedclothes, earnestly looking for any sign of her. But there was none.

He was alone in a dark hotel room. He’d extinguished the lights before retiring, which was his first mistake. Neglecting to place the framed photograph on his nightstand was his second, for it served as a talisman against the darkness.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and placed his face in his hands. Enduring rehab all those years ago had been excruciating but nothing compared with losing Julianne. He would have suffered the nightmares and haunting memories of old sins gladly if he could hold her in his arms every night.

As he gazed with contempt at the half-empty bottle of Scotch, he felt the darkness closing in. His desperate pursuit had placed a great deal of pressure on him. When that pressure was coupled with a striking sense of loss, it made it almost impossible for him to function at a high level without some kind of crutch.

Every day the drinks grew larger. Every day he realized that he needed to do something before he became trapped by his old coping mechanisms and ruined his future. He knew that if he didn’t do something, quickly, he’d relapse.

Impulsively, he made two telephone calls before gathering his belongings and shoving them into his suitcase. Then he directed the concierge to secure him a cab that would take him to the airport. He didn’t bother to ensure that his appearance was neat and professional. In fact, he didn’t bother looking into the mirror at all, for he knew that what he saw would disgust him.

Many hours later, he arrived in Florence and checked into the Gallery Hotel Art. It had been short notice, but he’d persuaded the manager to give him the same suite in which he and Julia had consummated their relationship. It was either that or a rehabilitation program, and he was convinced his connection to her would prove far more redemptive.

As he walked into the room, he half-expected to see her, or at least, signs of her. A pair of tangerine stilettos carelessly kicked off under a coffee table. A taffeta dress pooled on the floor next to a blank wall. A pair of seamed black stockings strewn across an unmade bed.

But of course, he saw none of those things.

After a relatively restful sleep and a shower, Gabriel contacted his old friend
Dottore
Vitali at the Uffizi Gallery and met him for dinner. They spoke of Harvard’s new chair of Dante Studies. They spoke of Giuseppe Pacciani and Gabriel was marginally gratified to learn that although Giuseppe had been offered a campus interview while Gabriel had not, Giuseppe’s lecture had been regarded as poor by the Harvard faculty. It was cold comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

The next day Gabriel sought to distract himself from his troubles by engaging in pleasurable activities—breakfast on a piazza, a walk along the Arno, a lengthy afternoon at his tailor’s in which he ordered a hand-made black wool suit, and an hour or so spent looking for the perfect pair of shoes to match his finery. His tailor joked that the suit was so fine Gabriel could be married in it. The tailor had laughed, until Gabriel held up his left hand and showed him his ring.

“I’m newly married,” he explained, much to the tailor’s surprise.

No matter where Gabriel walked in the city of Florence, he was assaulted with memories of her. He would stand on the Ponte Santa Trinita, hugging the sweet and sour feelings tightly to his chest, knowing that they were preferable to chemical alternatives.

Late one evening, slightly drunk, he wandered by the Duomo, retracing the path he’d taken with Julianne months earlier. Tortured by his memory of her face when she accused him of fucking her, he stumbled across a familiar looking beggar, who sat in the shade of Brunelleschi’s dome.

Gabriel approached him.

“Just a few coins for an old man,” the beggar cried in Italian.

Gabriel grew closer, eying the man suspiciously. The scent of unwashed flesh and alcohol assailed him, but he grew closer still. Recognizing the beggar as the same man who’d inspired Julia’s charity back in December, Gabriel stopped, swaying on his feet.

He felt for his wallet. Without bothering to look at the denominations, he withdrew several bills and held them in front of the man.

“I saw you last December. Yet, you’re still here.” Gabriel’s Italian was only slightly accusatory.

The man eyed the money hungrily. “I’m here every day. Even Christmas.”

Gabriel dangled the Euros closer to the man. “My
fidanzata
gave you money. You called her an angel. Do you remember?”

The man smiled toothlessly and shook his head, never allowing his eyes to leave the cash.

“There are many angels in Firenze, but more in Assisi. I think God favors the beggars there. But this is my home.” The man hesitantly held out his hand, uncertain that Gabriel would actually give him the money.

In his imagination, Gabriel could see Julia’s face as she compassionately argued the beggar’s case. She wanted to give him money even if there was a strong possibility that he’d waste the money on drink.

As Gabriel regarded the beggar, no better off than he’d been before Julia’s generosity, he was struck by the fact that she wouldn’t have hesitated to donate again and again. She would have given the man coins every day, because she thought the act of charity was never wasted. She would have lived in hope that one day the man would realize that someone cares for him and try to get help. Julia knew her kindness made her vulnerable, but she was kind anyway.

Gabriel placed the bills in the man’s hand and turned sharply on his heel, the echoes of the beggar’s joy and blessings ringing in his ears.

He wasn’t deserving of a blessing. He hadn’t committed an act of charity the way Julianne would have done it, out of compassion and kindness. He was simply doing justice to her memory, or purchasing an indulgence.

As tripped over a cobblestone, he realized what he had to do.

* * *

The next day he tried to secure the house in Umbria that he’d shared with her, but it was already occupied. So he traveled to Assisi where he checked into a small, private hotel that was simple in its furnishings and populated with pilgrims.

Gabriel had never styled himself as a pilgrim. He was far too proud for that. Nevertheless, there was something in the air in Assisi that allowed him to sleep peacefully. In fact, it had been the best sleep he’d had since leaving Julia’s arms.

He rose early the next morning and made his way to the Basilica of St. Francis. It was a place of pilgrimage for persons of all faiths, if only for its medieval frescoes and the peaceful atmosphere that pervaded it. It was no little coincidence that he found himself retracing the steps he’d taken with Julianne prior to Christmas. He’d taken her to Mass in the
Basilica superiore
or upper part of the church, and had even waited patiently while she went to confession before the Mass began.

As he wandered through the upper Basilica, admiring the images and drinking in the comforting quiet of the sanctuary, he caught a glimpse of a woman with long, brown hair disappear through a doorway. Intrigued, he decided to follow her. Despite the crowd of tourists and pilgrims, it was easy to pick her out, and so he found himself descending to the
Basilica inferiore
.

Then she vanished.

Distressed, he searched the lower church. Only when his search proved fruitless did it occur to him to descend deeper into the bowels of the Basilica toward the tomb of St. Francis. There she was, kneeling in front of the crypt. He slipped into the last row of pews and out of respect, knelt. But he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

It wasn’t Julianne. The young woman in front of him was a little fuller in the hips and wider in the shoulders and her hair was darker. But she was beautiful, and her beauty reminded him of how much he’d lost.

The room was small and primitive, a studied contrast to the wide-open and elaborately frescoed upper Basilica. Gabriel was not alone in finding that the simplicity that was St. Francis’s life and mission was more accurately reflected in the unassuming tomb. It was with such thoughts in mind that Gabriel found himself leaning against the pew in front of him and bowing his head. Before he could form the intention to do so, he began praying.

At first they were just words—desperate utterances and whispered confessions. As time wore on, his prayers took on a more repentant shape, while unbeknownst to him, the young woman lit a candle and departed.

If Gabriel’s life had been a major motion picture, an old, weathered Franciscan brother would have stumbled across him as he knelt in prayer, and seeing his distress, would show him compassion, offering spiritual guidance. But Gabriel’s life was not a motion picture. So he prayed alone.

If you had asked Gabriel afterward about what occurred in the tomb, he would have shrugged and evaded the question. Some things cannot be put into words. Some things defy language itself.

But there was a moment in his prayers in which Gabriel was confronted with the magnitude of all his failings, both moral and spiritual, while at the same time feeling the presence of One who knew the state of his soul and embraced him anyway. He was suddenly aware of what the writer Annie Dillard once referred to as the
extravagance
of grace. He thought of the love and forgiveness that had been lavished on the world and more specifically, on him, through the lives of Grace and Richard.

And Julianne, my sticky little leaf
.

The magnet for sin found something very unexpected underneath the floors of the upper Basilica. When he left the church, he was more determined than ever not to return to his old ways.

For Julia, the rest of April was a vortex of activity. There were final revisions to be made to her thesis, meetings with Katherine Picton and Nicole, and Friday nights to be spent with Paul.

Katherine ensured that Julia’s final draft was error free and something that she could be proud of. Then she telephoned Cecilia Marinelli in Oxford to ask her to look for Julia at Harvard in the fall.

Paul secured a studio apartment in Cambridge for her to sublet. She began working through a list of texts Katherine had suggested she read in preparation for Professor Marinelli’s seminar.

At the end of April, Julia received a very official looking letter from the Office of the Dean of Graduate Studies. Dr. Aras requested her attendance at his office in a week’s time. He assured her that their appointment had nothing to do with a disciplinary matter, and he stated that Professor Martin would also be in attendance.

With great trepidation, she trudged across campus on a Monday afternoon, clutching her L.L. Bean knapsack. She took comfort in it, in the fact that it had been her companion for almost a year. Paul had offered to accompany her, but she’d declined, arguing that she needed to face the Dean alone. Still, he’d hugged her and promised to wait for her at their favorite Starbucks.

“Thank you for coming, Miss Mitchell. How was your semester?”

Julia gazed across the desk at Dean Aras in surprise. “It was—interesting.”

The Dean nodded, his eyes shifting to meet Professor Martin’s. “I know this academic year has been challenging for you. I asked to speak with you simply to find out if you have had any other problems since the hearing.”

Julia looked between the two academics, measuring them. “What kind of problems?”

“Dean Aras is wondering if Professor Emerson bothered you at all after the hearing. Did he call or email you? Did he try to meet with you?” Professor Martin appeared friendly, but there was an undertone to his demeanor that made Julia suspicious.

“Why do you care? You got what you wanted. He left the city.”

The Dean’s expression tightened. “I’m not about to retry the case with you, Miss Mitchell. This meeting is a courtesy, an attempt to ensure that you have been able to proceed with your education free of interference. We’re trying to determine if Professor Emerson kept his word and left you alone.”

“I received an email from him a few days after the hearing. He told me to stop contacting him and that we were over. That’s what you want to hear, right?” She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice.

Professor Martin exchanged a meaningful look with the Dean. “I’m sure you’re glad to put this matter behind you.”

Julia sat silently, not bothering to answer.

“You’re free to go. Congratulations on a successful year and congratulations on being admitted to Harvard. We’ll see you at graduation.” The Dean nodded at her dismissively.

She picked up her knapsack and walked to the door. Just as her hand reached for the doorknob she stopped, turning to face the two professors.

How strange it is, she thought, that these two men, armed only with massive intellects and closets full of tweed, could wield so much power over her heart and her happiness.

“I don’t regret my relationship with Professor Emerson, even though it ended badly. Both of you were incredibly dismissive and patronizing to me throughout this entire process. I understand the importance of protecting someone who needs protection, but the only people I needed protection from was you.”

Julia gave them a withering look and exited the office.

Gabriel stayed so long in Assisi, he became a fixture at the Basilica. Every day he spent a long hour sitting by St. Francis’s crypt, thinking. Sometimes he prayed. Sometimes God seemed near and other times he seemed far away. At all times, Gabriel wished he was with Julia, although he began to realize how flawed their relationship had been—how he’d wanted to change his ways to be worthy of her when really, he should have changed because he was an insufferable ass.

He was enjoying lunch one day at the hotel when a fellow American struck up a conversation with him. The man was a physician from California, who was visiting Assisi with his wife and teenaged son.

“We’re going to Florence tomorrow, and we’ll be there for two months.”

“Doing what?” Gabriel asked, eying the gray-haired man curiously.

“We’ll be staying with the Franciscans. My wife, who is a nurse, and I will be working in a medical clinic. My son is going to be helping the homeless.”

Gabriel frowned. “You’re doing this as volunteers?”

“Yes. We wanted to do this as a family.” The man paused and looked at Gabriel intently.

“Would you consider coming with us? The Franciscans can always use more help.”

“No,” said Gabriel, stabbing a piece of beef determinedly. “I’m not Catholic.”

“Neither are we. We’re Lutherans.”

Gabriel gazed at the doctor with interest. His knowledge of Lutherans was limited almost exclusively to the writings of Garrison Keillor. (Not that he was willing to admit it.)

The doctor smiled. “We wanted to lend a hand to a good work. I wanted to encourage my son to think beyond beach vacations and video games.”

“Thank you for the invitation, but I must decline.” Gabriel was firm in his response, and so the doctor changed the subject.

Later that evening, Gabriel stared out the window of his simple hotel room, thinking as he always did about Julia.

She wouldn’t have said no. She would have gone
.

As ever, he was reminded of the divide between her generosity and his selfishness. A divide that, even after spending so many months with her, was yet to be breached.

* * *

Two weeks later, Gabriel stood in front of the monument to Dante in Santa Croce. He’d joined the Lutherans in their trip to Florence and become one of the Franciscans’ most troublesome volunteers. He served meals to the poor but was horrified by the quality of food on offer, so he wrote a check to hire a caterer to make the meals. He went with the other volunteers as they gave toiletries and clean clothing to homeless people, but he was so troubled by the lack of cleanliness of the men and women that he wrote a check to construct washrooms and shower facilities for the homeless at the Franciscan mission.

In short, by the time Gabriel had seen every aspect of the Franciscans’ work with the poor, he’d endeavored to change everything and agreed to finance the changes himself. Then he paid a few visits to some wealthy Florentine families, who he knew through his academic life, asking them to support the Franciscans as they helped the poor of Florence. Their donations would ensure a steady stream of revenue for years to come.

As he stood in front of the Dante memorial, he was struck by a sudden kinship with his favorite poet. Dante had been exiled from Florence. Even though the city eventually forgave him and allowed a memorial to be placed in his honor in the Basilica, he was buried in Ravenna. In a strange twist of fate, Gabriel now knew what it was like to be exiled from his job, his city, and his home, for Julianne’s arms would always be his home. Even though he was forced into exile.

The memorials around him reminded him of his own mortality. If he was lucky, he’d have a long life, but many people such as Grace had their lives cut short. He could be hit by a car, or contract cancer, or have a heart attack. Suddenly, his time on earth seemed very short and very precious.

Since he’d left Assisi, he’d tried to assuage his guilt and loneliness by doing good works. Volunteering with the Franciscans was certainly a step in that direction. But what about making amends with Paulina? It was far too late to make his peace with Grace, or Maia, or his biological mother and father.

What about Julianne?

Gabriel stared at the figure of a despairing woman who leaned on what looked like Dante’s casket. He’d accepted his exile, but that didn’t mean he’d refrained from writing letter after letter to her, letters that were never sent.

* * *

Cemeteries had a stillness all their own. Even cemeteries located in busy urban centers possessed this stillness—an unearthly quiet that clings to the air.

Walking through the cemetery, Gabriel couldn’t pretend that he was strolling in a park. The sparse trees that peppered the landscape were not teeming with singing birds. The grass, though green and very well kept, was not alive with squirrels or the occasional urban rabbit, playing with his brothers or looking for food.

He saw the stone angels in the distance, their twin forms standing like tall sentries among the other monuments. They were made of marble, not granite, their skin white and pale and perfect. The angels faced away from him, their wings spread wide. It was easier for him to stand behind the monument. He couldn’t see the name etched in stone. He could stay there forever, a few feet away, and never approach. But that would be cowardly.

He inhaled deeply, his sapphire eyes shut tightly, as he said a silent prayer. Then he walked a half circuit around the monument, stopping in front of the marker.

He removed a pristine handkerchief from his trouser pocket. An onlooker might have guessed that he had need of it for sweat or tears, but he didn’t. He leaned forward and with a gentle hand swept the white linen over the black stone. The dirt came away easily. He would need to tend the rose bushes that had begun to encroach upon the letters. He made a mental note to hire a gardener.

He placed flowers in front of the stone, his mouth moving as if he were whispering. But he wasn’t. The grave, of course, was empty.

A tear or two clouded his vision, followed by their brothers, and soon his face was wet with their rain. He didn’t bother to wipe them away as he lifted his face to gaze upon the angels, the souls of silent, marble compassion.

He asked for forgiveness. He expressed his guilt, a guilt he knew would ache for the rest of his life. He didn’t ask for his burden to be removed, for it seemed to him to be part of the consequences of his actions. Or rather, the consequences of what he failed to do for a mother and their child.

He reached into his pocket to retrieve his cell phone and dialed a number from the iPhone’s memory.

“Hello?”

“Paulina. I need to see you.”