The Lost Catacomb (2 page)
“
Look,
”
she said, as she
picked up her empty mug and the basket of remaining muffins, bringing them to
the marble counter near the kitchen sink.
“
Why don
’
t I take my things up
to my room? Then maybe we can go out for some fresh air.
You did take your beta-blockers this
morning, didn
’
t
you?
”
she prodded,
anxiously twisting a lock of her hair as she spoke.
“
Of
course,
”
Elena
replied, now sipping her water slowly, her face still pale and drawn.
“
All
right.
But I think you
’
ll feel better if we
sit outside for a while.
I
’
ll be down in a few
minutes.
”
As Nicola unpacked, a strange feeling of unease came over her
as she thought of her grandmother
’
s
reaction to the letter.
What could
possibly have prompted such a peculiar response?
Did Elena think she wasn
’
t up to the task? That
she might ruin her professional reputation if she failed to determine the
precise origins of the crypt?
Or was she simply afraid that she would be lonely in Nicola
’
s absence?
Yes, that had to be the reason for Elena
’
s peculiar behavior,
Nicola decided.
It was probably
just a sign of instinctive fear at being somehow abandoned.
After all, Elena was still grieving for
her husband Tom, who had died less than a year ago, and now Nicola, her only
granddaughter, was leaving for what might prove to be an extended trip.
It was already mid-June, the start of
summer vacation, and for all she knew, she might not be returning to the United
States for several months.
Her grandmother had been recently diagnosed with a mild
cardiac arrhythmia, and though it was well controlled by medication, Nicola had
begun to worry almost obsessively, each time they parted, that it might be the
last time she would ever see her.
Nicola realized that her concern was irrational
—
that it had more to do with her own emotional
dependence on her grandmother than with the actual state of Elena's
health.
But now, given Elena's
baffling reaction to the letter, she wondered if she had been rash in accepting
the invitation without consulting her. What if something terrible happened to
her grandmother in her absence?
As far as Nicola knew, Elena had no one to rely on but
her.
Her grandmother had met and
married the handsome young Captain Tom Keating before the end of World War II,
when he was stationed in Rome, and had left everything behind when she
immigrated to the United States.
She had never spoken of her childhood or family in Italy and had never
returned to visit.
Her life up to
the point of her marriage was simply a topic that was never raised.
In fact, any time Nicola had tried
to pursue the subject, Grandpa Tom had told her to let it rest.
That there had been tragedy and great
pain. That it was best to let the past stay buried, where it was.
Now she recalled a conversation with her grandfather several
weeks before his death, as they sat outside the old farmhouse at sunset, when
he had been in an unusually confiding mood.
The sky had been streaked with barred
clouds of orange and rose as they sat on a garden bench near a bed of tall
delphinium, lupine, and wild daisies that shifted their petalled stalks in the
soft evening breeze.
Sensing that
the timing might finally be right, Nicola had broached the subject of Elena
’
s life in Italy, hoping
that maybe just this once she would glean some facts about her grandmother
’
s past.
“
I
know you
’
ve told
me to stop asking you about this countless times,
”
Nicola pleaded, a perceptible catch in her voice,
“
but can
’
t you understand how
important it is for me to know something about where I come from?
None of us is getting any younger
—
and I don
’
t just mean you and
Nonna
,
Grandpa.
I mean me as well.
”
“
Sure,
like you
’
re really
over the hill, Nicola,
”
Tom
replied, his grey eyes crinkling at the corners in amusement.
“
Seriously,
Grandpa,
”
she
persisted, laying a hand gently on his arm.
“
I
’
m almost thirty.
I have no husband. No children.
Not even a boyfriend at the moment.
I don
’
t really belong to anyone but you and
Nonna
—
and to my
career, however impressive it might seem to others.
Sometimes I feel so rootless.
It
’
s not enough for me to know that I come from a long
line of Keatings who
’
ve
lived in Connecticut for generations.
There's a whole other side of my family history that I know nothing
about.
That no one has ever shared
with me.
“
Nonna
never even speaks about Mom,
”
Nicola continued hurriedly, her voice trembling with pent-up
emotion.
“
She keeps saying that it
’
s too painful.
That the only way she can keep going is by shutting herself off from the
past and looking ahead.
Maybe that
’
s a sign of
strength.
Maybe that
’
s the only way she
’
s been able to deal
with losing her only child.
But you
’
ve told me things about
Mom from time to time, and you
’
ve
managed to cope with it.
”
She wiped away a tear with the back of her hand and said
softly, nearly inaudibly,
“
That
’
s all I have left of
her
—
some
second-hand memories. They
’
re
my only link, apart from some photos.
I was so young when she and Dad died.
I really don
’
t remember very much.
And I
’
m grateful for what you
’
ve shared with me.
I just wish you could do the same with
Nonna
’
s life in Italy.
”
“
Look,
Nicola,
”
he
finally answered, shifting his troubled gaze momentarily in the direction of
the setting sun.
The sky had now
turned a deep violet gray, with a few last splashes of faded pink and pale gold
painting the horizon.
“
Each of us copes
differently with tragedy.
Some
repress it, while others are able to share their feelings.
I
’
m sorry that
Nonna
and I never considered
your need to know more.
I guess we
hoped we could spare you somehow and protect you from pain.
”
He fell silent, and his eyes filled with tears as he reached
out to take her hand, enclosing it tenderly in his own.
“
I
’
m sorry that I can
’
t say more.
I made a promise to your grandmother
long ago, and I
’
ll
never break it.
Not even for you,
Nicola,
”
he said
sadly.
“
Not even for you.
”
As she walked downstairs, recalling this conversation, Nicola
wondered if the time had finally come for her to explore her family
’
s past on her own
—
not that she had
any idea where she could even begin.
Her grandmother had never told her precisely where she had lived in
Rome, what her great grandparents
’
names had been, nor even if she'd had any siblings.
“
I
can
’
t talk about
it,
cara
.
I
’
m sorry.
”
That had been Elena
’
s stock response, time
after time.
“
Maybe someday, but not now.
Please, don
’
t ask me again.
I beg you.
”
And then she would add in a
strangled voice that was barely under control,
“
There are some things it
’
s best you know nothing about.
”
For the time being, Nicola had had no choice but to accept
the fact that, apart from Elena, she essentially had no relatives at all
—
or at least none
she had ever met or would know how to locate.
Her mother, Julia, had been an only child.
Her father, Alex, had been estranged
from the family that had adopted him and had had no idea who his own birth
parents were.
Grandpa Tom himself
had been an only child.
And Elena
’
s past was
—
well, a total
blank.
If she had never missed having siblings or an extended family
until now, Nicola realized, it was simply because she had never known what it
was like to have them in the first place.
But now that she was older, nearly thirty, she had begun to wonder about
the possibility of feeling linked to something larger than the carefully
constructed professional identity she had carved out for herself
—
of what it might
be like to be part of a common history and a shared past, of something more
fully imagined and meaningful than the impersonal, intellectual context of her
work.
She hoped that someday she would find the kind of loving
relationship that her grandparents had had
—
someday when she could also come to terms with
her all too conscious fear of attachment and the likelihood, if not the
inevitability, as she now saw it, of subsequent loss.
She formed relationships far too
cautiously, she had come to realize, because it was safer that way.
After all, you couldn
’
t lose what you
’
d never risked
emotionally.
If nothing else,
the tragic death of her parents had taught her that harsh, untimely lesson
years ago.
At the moment, she was heavily invested in her career and a
few close friends, and, until now, it had seemed to be enough.
Or so she had persuaded herself on more
than one occasion.
Like Elena, she
too had always repressed what was too difficult to deal with, and, in fact,
they were more alike than she had ever cared to admit to herself when she was
younger.
She guessed that her escape into history books as a teenager
had been an unconscious compensatory gesture intended to make up for whatever
was missing within her reduced family circle, however loving it had been.
And likewise, she had come to recognize
that her professional focus on ancient Rome was, perhaps, a thinly veiled
attempt to connect with her elusive Italian heritage.
But now she was at a point where her
study of the artifacts of the past and the alternative emotional reality they
created for her could no longer ground her nor fill the recognizably lonely
gaps in her life.
Perhaps her trip to Rome would prove to be more than an
opportunity to determine the provenance of an ancient crypt and advance her
career.
Perhaps it would also
become an opportunity, however belated, for her to unearth some of the long
buried fragments of her family
’
s
past and reclaim the missing pieces of her own identity.
“
Matt, hi!
”
Nicola
said breathlessly as she slid onto the dark leather banquette at a corner table
of Las Ramblas, her favorite Village restaurant.
Its reddish brick walls were lined with
dark wooden racks of domestic and imported wines, and the lilting notes of
Spanish guitar music strummed softly in the background.
The pungent aroma of heavily spiced
gazpacho and saffron-scented paella wafted through the air from a nearby table.
“
Sorry I
’
m late,
”
she
apologized, glancing contritely at her watch.
“
No
problem,
”
Matt
answered, leaning over to give her a quick peck on the cheek.
The burnished glow from the
bronzed-glass candle holders on the table illuminated the sculpted planes of
his handsome face and green-flecked eyes.
“
I figured you
’
d be here soon, so I took the liberty of ordering the usual
—
Hoegaarden
and some
tapas
,
”
he
said, as a waitress set down two frothy mugs of beer and a platter of assorted
appetizers.
Nicola had met Matt Osborne as an undergraduate, and the
two had maintained a close friendship over the years, despite the heavy demands
of their respective professions.
Unlike Nicola, however, Matt had taken a double major, and his degrees
in journalism and art history had propelled him into a successful career as a
syndicated art columnist for several major national newspapers.
“
Cheers,
Nicola,
”
he
said, raising his glass mug and clinking it with hers.
“
Glad you could make it.
I wanted to run my latest project by
you since I know you
’
ll be in Rome for the next few weeks, and I might need to
brainstorm with you by phone at some point.
”
“
This
sounds intriguing,
”
she
said, as she speared a spiced olive and chewed it thoughtfully.
“
What are you up to this time?
”
“
Well,
”
Matt
began,
“
I
’
ve begun to investigate some new angles to tracing the
location of stolen artwork from World War II.
It seems that there are missing items
that may have been expropriated from the Jewish communities of Greece during
the German occupation.
We know that
Swiss banks and art dealers helped fence so-called mainstream European art for
the Nazis, and now we
’
re trying to figure out what happened to artifacts of Greek
provenance.
”
“
Is that
the majestic
‘
we,
’
Matt?
”
Nicola
teased, her gray eyes glinting mischievously.
“
Or do you have a collaborator, this time?
”
“
Actually I
do.
His name is Demetrios, a
colleague from Athens. I met him at that journalism conference I told you
about, several months ago, and we've been in contact ever since.
”
He paused to take another sip of his beer, his face alit
with barely suppressed excitement.
“
Anyway,
”
he
continued,
“
since the Jewish communities of Greece were descended
primarily from Sephardic groups that fled the Iberian Peninsula during the
Inquisition, we have reason to believe that there may also be artifacts of
Spanish or Portuguese origin among the stolen objects.
No one has ever thought of exploring
this angle before, so there's potential for a really major scoop.
”
“
Wow!
”
said
Nicola as she set her mug down with an audible thud.
“
That
’
s
incredible! This could be the story of your career.
”
“
I
certainly hope so,
”
Matt
replied with a boyish grin.
“
Anyway, I
’
ve started
with survivor testimonials and related documentation at the Holocaust museum in
Washington, and I
’
ll see what Demetrios uncovers in Athens.
I may need to join him there, at
some point, to go over archival materials.
”
He paused for a moment and ran his hand nervously through
his thick straw-colored hair.
“
Actually,
”
he said,
“
there
’
s another
reason why I wanted to see you before you leave for Rome.
Besides to discuss my project.
And please hear me out, Nicola.
“
I know we
’
ve been
good friends for many years,
”
he
continued, choosing his words carefully,
“
but lately . . . well, lately I
’
ve begun
to wonder if maybe we could take our relationship in another direction.
I think we
’
re both at
a point in our lives
—
or at least I am
—
where we
’
ve achieved professional success and are now ready to find
someone special to share it with and build a future.
”
Her grey eyes widened perceptibly and her fork dropped,
clattering noisily onto the table.
She pushed it aside and then began to toy with it anxiously.
“
I realize
I
’
ve shocked
you,
”
he
said apologetically, a genuine look of concern shadowing his face.
“
But maybe you can give it some thought.
We have so much in common, Nicola.
So much going for us.
Maybe while you
’
re away
you can get some perspective on what we have together.
It
’
s been a relationship of such long duration, which, I
think, speaks for itself.
”
She took a deep breath and felt herself flush
awkwardly.
“
I don
’
t know
what to say, Matt.
I
’
m . . . I
’
m very
flattered,
”
she
stammered.
“
But . . .
I just wasn
’
t expecting this.
I guess I
’
ve always thought of you, simply, as one of my best
friends.
”
“
No
pressure,
”
he
said as he reached out and touched her cheek gently.
“
Just give it some thought.
And if you decide that all you want is
to continue the status quo, that
’
s fine with me too.
Don
’
t be embarrassed to say
‘
no.
’
We
’
ll still
be friends, Nicola.
Good friends, I
promise.
Always.
”
