The Other Side of Heaven (2 page)

The lady shuddered and then caught herself, laughing with her friends, and Gwen felt an instant bond with her. The past did seem to come alive here. She felt the same way whenever she sat in a hushed library, studying old Italian poems for her master’s thesis. Sometimes, she swore she could hear the poet’s words in whispered cadences, thoughts and dreams brought back to life, if only in her mind.

Hoping to make just such a connection with her family in Santa Lucia, Gwen found herself searching the darkness again, as if somehow the answer lay hidden there, just beyond her reach.

“How old is this area, mate?” another Brit piped up. “Roman?”

“Actually, the use of the catacombs predates the Romans by many centuries.” Stefano pointed his light at a closed door. “Beyond that is a natural cave. There were no burials in there, with one exception,” he unlocked the door, “and it is the very greatest mystery of Santa Lucia.”

Gwen smiled as he continued, “Over the years, this area became filled with debris, but in clearing it out in the eighteenth century, someone found the skeleton of a man. He had been buried in the cave’s only sealed crypt, along with a plaque dating to the Middle Ages. On the plaque you will see inscribed a single word, a name.” He paused. “Please, come with me.”

A few of the tourists hurried forward, then gasped, but a Brit scoffed, “He put that there.”

Gwen moved in and craned her neck to have a look, then grinned. A carved marble plaque, preserved under glass, read simply:
STEFANO
.

“My mother claims we are descended from a medieval princess, Rozala Susanna, who was renowned for her beauty and compassion,” Stefano said. “Oddly, she was the daughter of the evil Willa of Tuscany, who was a great enemy of this church’s benefactor, Queen Adelaide.” He smiled affably and shrugged. “It is a most complicated history, and we have no idea if this Stefano came before or after Princess Rozala.” He pointed to the plaque. “I’ve made my mother crazy by also claiming him as an ancestor. So far, nobody can say I am wrong.” He glanced around, eyes twinkling.

They moved upstairs without further comment, glad for the natural light as they returned to the apse. Stefano began his closing remarks, standing at a place where the sunlight poured through the high windows, striking his head and shoulders from behind. The backlighting created a halo, a gleam against his golden hair.

Gwen enjoyed this final bit of theatrics. She was sure Stefano knew
exactly
where to stand on a sunny day.

He thanked everyone for coming, and the British tourists dutifully tipped him and then filed out of the church. Once they were gone, the young Italian women pressed ever closer.

With no easy opening, Gwen grew reluctant to wait any longer. She glanced at her watch, shocked to see she was late for her appointment with the curator. She caught Stefano’s eye and mouthed,
Grazie. Ciao
, then turned and hurried down the center aisle toward the main foyer.

A gray-haired priest passed her, followed by two elderly nuns dressed in traditional black. Gwen re-entered the foyer and inquired about her meeting.

“He just stepped out,” the ticket woman explained, “since you failed to appear at the designated time. But I believe he will return within the half hour.”

Embarrassed, Gwen checked her watch again. “Sorry, the tour started late.” The woman had already returned to selling tickets for the afternoon tour. “I’ll just wait outside,” Gwen finished quietly as she made for the exit.

Standing in the sun, she looked at her watch several more times, but realized she wasn’t waiting for the curator’s return. Stefano, she needed to talk to him before she started her research. He could be the key to everything if he were family, but the
signorinas
had been with him for nearly a quarter-hour. What was taking so long?

Suddenly, the doors opened and the girls raced down the steps, still laughing, obviously pleased with their morning – but alone.

“
Ciao, Bella
.”

Stefano, yes!
Gwen pivoted and smoothly returned his greeting.

“I am so glad you decided to visit Santa Lucia,” Stefano said in English.

“
Grazie
,” Gwen replied. “Do you mind if we speak Italian? I don’t get enough practice in LA.”

“Ah, a California girl!” Stefano’s eyes sparkled. “Of course, you must practice your Italian. But, you must also remember…
l’imperfezione è bellezza
.”

Gwen smiled, thinking he was being sweet. “
Sì
… there is beauty in imperfection, but not if I can’t make myself understood.”

He laughed. “
Bene
… so, did you enjoy my tour? We are very proud of our
chiesa
.”

“
Sì, è bellissima
… actually, I had an appointment with the curator. I’m here to do family research.”

Stefano shook his head. “So sorry. The curator is, er… he will be hours with his mistress. But, of course, I have a key to the research office. I can assist with that, too.”

He had her sign for a research pass and then led her back inside. Together, they walked toward the rear of the building and into a hallway Gwen had not seen earlier. He opened a heavily carved wooden door, which led into a modern room equipped with a handful of computers and rows of filing cabinets.

“If you don’t mind my saying,” he said with a smile, “you speak my language almost like a native.”

“Thank you. Your English is great, too.”

“You are kind, but my English is not so great, except for the tours. Otherwise, I am a novice.” Stefano spread his arms and shrugged, then pointed to a seat before the nearest computer. “Did you learn Italian through your family, or are you a linguist?”

“Both.” Gwen took a seat. “I’m also fluent in Latin and what you might call Early Italian, and I can read classical Greek.”

“Ah, you are a serious scholar, then,” he said, leaning over and touching the mouse. The computer screen lit up with a standard menu. He clicked on an icon, then motioned for her to continue.

“A scholar? Yes, I guess I’m getting close.” Gwen scrolled down, looking for something containing parish births, marriage dates, and deaths. “I would need a PhD to really do justice to that title, but everyone keeps telling me I’m becoming an eternal student, that I’m afraid to get out into the real world.”

“But you are in Santa Lucia, and they are not.”

“I know, at least that’s what I keep telling myself. For the last few weeks, I’ve been in Rome doing research at the Vatican Library, for my master’s thesis on the influences of Greek and Latin epic and tragedy on early Renaissance Italian popular poetry.”

When Stefano made no reply, she looked up and saw his expression hovering between humor, confusion, and admiration.

She grinned. “Okay, maybe I am obsessed. My sisters are always complaining about it and how I need to get on with my life.”

“But I love intelligent women,” he said. “Especially those with beautiful, blue eyes.”

She glanced away, pointing to the computer. “Getting back to business.”

“
Sì
, business.” Stefano leaned over the keyboard and clicked on several menu items. “What would you like to research? What is the family name?”

“Well.” She looked at him expectantly. “It’s DeFabio.”

“
Mio Dio!
” Stefano straightened and stared at her. “DeFabio? But that is my grandmother’s name.”

“I knew it!” Gwen’s heart raced with excitement.

Stefano gazed at the monitor as if recalling something. “My grandmother often spoke of a cousin who went to America.”

“So, that means what? We’re second or third cousins?”

“
Sì, probabilmente
… cousins. The DeFabio name is rare around here, so it is quite possible we are related.” Stefano grinned, then shrugged and kissed her on both cheeks. “Welcome to the family.”

He pulled up a chair and sat beside her, and she could see a change in him. He took her hand and patted it, looking at her protectively now, like a brother.

“Cousin Gwen, you must come for supper. My mother would not approve if I let you leave without meeting her and my––”

Stefano flinched and stopped talking, and Gwen wondered at his startled expression.

“What was that?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder. “I thought… I thought someone grabbed me.”

The floor shuddered and rolled, and Gwen’s heart leapt in fear. She was aware of a roar emanating from the ground beneath her.

Stefano shouted and fell out of his chair, tumbling to his knees.

Instinctively, Gwen dropped to the floor and grabbed his arm. “Get under the desk –
now
.”

They held on to the legs of the desk as the ground heaved, helplessly watching as computers crashed to the floor, as file cabinets swayed and toppled.

This is bad!
Gwen thought.
The shaking stopped as abruptly as it started, but she was trembling violently. She pressed her sweaty palms against her thighs and exchanged a frantic glance with Stefano. “There’ll be aftershocks. We need to get out of here fast.”

“
Sì.
Follow me.”

They scrambled to their feet. Dodging the mess on the floor, they exited the computer room and ran along the corridor. To Gwen’s horror, the earth roared back to life. She and Stefano staggered, but helped each other stay upright.

At a hallway intersection, a sharp jolt forced Gwen to the floor, Stefano falling behind. There was a huge crash. Dust wafted through the air, followed by the stale, sharp odor of mortar and stone.

“This way,” he yelled. “See the door? The garden––”

Another jolt tossed them against the wall, and Gwen heard the shattering of glass, the smashing of ceilings and walls. Terrified, she and Stefano crawled on hands and knees toward the door. A concussive burst swept over them, filling the air with tiny particles. Gwen squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath, blindly groping until she reached the door.

Hazarding a glance, she grabbed the latch, pushing and pulling, but the door was jammed. Stefano’s elbow thrust her aside and he wrenched the latch, yanking on the door as the ground pitched and rolled again.

Timbers cracked. The building groaned. A second rush of air burst through the hallway, blowing the door – and Gwen – outside.

Hitting the ground, she tumbled and came to rest on her side, stunned, seeing stars. She tried to raise her head, but dizziness overwhelmed her.

Stefano?
She felt herself drifting, tried to stay awake, tried to call his name, but the last thing she saw before everything faded was a pale blue butterfly, fluttering before her eyes.

Cold, wet, shaking, Gwen woke up, curled in the fetal position. Raindrops pelted her cheek, and she opened her eyes.

Where am I? How did I get––?

It suddenly came crashing back. Santa Lucia. Stefano. The earthquake!

Her head throbbed as she tried to remember exactly what had happened. She slowly moved her bruised limbs, checking for injuries. Other than her head, everything seemed okay, but she was soaked and covered with mud. Shivering, she realized she must have lost her sweater sometime during the chaos.

Gwen sat up and looked around as the rain softened to mist, foggy and gray. She could barely make out the rooftop of the church and the far walls of the garden.

Pain, blinding pain. She slumped down, rubbed her brow, and then gingerly felt around, discovering a big bump near her hairline. After a few miserable moments, she murmured, “I should see a doctor.”

She glanced at her watch, but couldn’t focus, then looked at the sky. It was dark and gloomy, but it wasn’t nighttime. When had the weather changed? How long was she out?

Her gaze traveled to the ground. Something was wrong, something looked really different. A memory, sharp and vivid, rushed to mind. She stared. The butterfly was nowhere to be seen, the once-lush garden bare, with rows of sprouting plants, newly turned earth heaped in between. The trees were beautiful, filled with blossoms…
in August?

Ignoring her protesting body, Gwen struggled to her feet and tried the church door, but it didn’t budge. She knocked. “Please, someone, help me. Open up.”

Gwen waited a moment, but there was silence. She was about to knock again when she heard shuffling on the other side.

“
Per favore
… let me in,” she pleaded. “Stefano, is that you? Are you okay?”

The door swung open. A small man with a short, twisted torso stared at her, then paled and used his fingers to make the sign of the cross.

“
Diabaulus!
” he shouted as he tried to push the door shut.

She forced it open, and he spun around, his speech garbled. He ran, his gait odd, pitiful.

Gwen stood shivering in the dank air. “You don’t look so great either, dude.” She’d been called some things in her time, but never “demon.” At least that’s what she thought she’d heard, although the guy’s accent sounded strange.

She warily entered the church, but, to her relief, there was no sign of “Igor.” She half expected Frankenstein’s monster to show up next and tell her how bad she looked.

“Hello? Anybody? Hello?” she whispered, not sure she actually wanted to make her presence known. From what she could see, the nave was empty, clean, the walls and windows intact, just as she remembered them from the tour, except all the pews were missing. She swore she heard this part of the church disintegrate.
What in the world…?

Gwen rushed to the main door and opened it to find the piazza also shrouded in fog. She noticed a scroll affixed to the church’s outer wall. It was beautiful, handwritten in Latin, but her vision blurred as she tried to focus on it.

Rubbing her aching temples, she heard footsteps echoing off cobblestones and turned. A priest walked toward her. “
Padre, bene
… am I glad to see you,” she said in Italian.

He raised his head, his smile of welcome draining away to a look of dismay. His gaze fixed on her chest.

Gwen glanced down at herself, realizing what he could see through her muddy, rain-soaked T-shirt. Embarrassed, she crossed her arms. “
Scusi
… I’m a mess. Please, Father, come quickly. There might be people inside who need help.”

He grumbled something under his breath and then took her by the arm and propelled her back into the church.

“Hey, not so rough,” Gwen said, trying to pull away.

He glared at her. “
Foedus… austera…
”

She gaped.
Filthy, vexatious woman? Who rants in Latin?

The priest pulled her to a nearby room with cupboards and a large trunk. Releasing her, he rummaged through the trunk, grabbed a beige monk’s cowl, and shoved it into her arms.

Angered by his treatment, she held the ugly cowl against her body, the wool undyed and rough. “You actually want me to wear this?”

He went to a cupboard, opened it, and stared. Snatching a leather sack, he stuffed several things inside and thrust it into her hands.

“
Vos oportet ire,
” he demanded.

He wanted her to leave? But what about Stefano or the others, who might still be trapped inside? She opened her mouth to protest, but he pointed to the door.

“
Abi! Meretrix! Abi!
” he said.

His meaning was clear and very cruel – be off with you, slut!

Gwen pointed back at him. “
Absit invidia, sed vos es rabidus!
”

He reddened at the insult and she guessed no one had ever called him crazy to his face.

“
Abi! Abi!
” He grabbed her arm and forced her back to the main entrance.

“
Absum
,” she snapped.
Yeah, I’m so outta here
. “Wait, what about my purse?” she called out, but the door slammed in her face.

Taking a deep breath, Gwen sought to steady herself. She studied the sack and cowl, realizing she had only this and the clothes on her back. At least her passport and most of her cash and credit cards had been locked in the hotel safe. She shivered against the cold, deciding she’d just have to let it go, head back to her room, and get some rest. She could come back for her things tomorrow. And she’d ask to see someone other than that priest.

She pulled the cowl over her head, grateful for its warmth, itchy as it was, and then set off. Going down the church steps, her legs felt wobbly and she grabbed the railing, but slipped and fell all the way to the bottom.

The world spun as Gwen sprawled on slick cobblestones
. I’m really messed up
, she thought in misery, waiting for the dizziness to end.

Moments passed, her vertigo faded, and she fought against her aching limbs, rising slowly. The skin on her arms and legs stung, and she knew she’d get some nasty bruises out of this. Her head felt even worse, and she hoped her hotel had a doctor on call.

Limping through the piazza, Gwen wondered if she should look for a police station instead. Where was everyone? She noticed the light showing through windows was dim, probably candlelight. She stopped and glanced back toward the church, but it was lost in eerie, swirling fog. Shaking with cold and fear, her instincts warned her something was wrong. Nothing seemed familiar. Where were all the people?

“Hold on, where’s the café? This is the right spot, isn’t it?”

The building where it should have been had an open front with straw everywhere, goats and a cow tethered within.

No, she had it wrong. She was just confused.

Her head swam with pain and she stumbled into the side street leading to her hotel, then came up short and stared in disbelief. A high, unfamiliar, herringboned brick wall, the mortar broken and sprouting weeds, blocked her path. Breathing hard, she checked her surroundings. Had she taken a wrong turn?

It was getting dark, the street already deep in shadow, creepy. She heard something moving, scurrying along the ground, and shuddered.

Her heart thumped in turmoil. She had to find her hotel!

For an instant, she considered returning to the square, but then realized if she attempted to backtrack she might get more lost than she already was. She followed the wall, her fingertips brushing it for support, stumbling over rocks, broken bricks, and sticks littering the ground. Vines looped over the top of the wall, the tendrils catching at her hood. They got thicker as she moved along, grabbing, clawing, darkly overgrown.

The wall abruptly gave way to cold iron – a gate, secured with a lock.
Oh, please, please, let my hotel be on the other side.

Unnerved, Gwen looked up at the wall, twice her height and too tall to climb in the dark. She grabbed a large rock and smashed it down on the lock, hitting it again and again, arms aching, not caring if anyone heard the racket, hoping in the next moment someone would appear to help her, or arrest her.
Please, someone, anyone, come––
The lock broke under the assault, and Gwen tossed the rock aside, then quickly pushed open the gate. She froze. The fog had lifted here, the full moon bathing an empty landscape. Where was her hotel? The other buildings? A path wound away from the gate, traveling for several hundred yards until it disappeared into dark woods.

This didn’t make any sense. She was totally messed up. Where was the rest of Santa Lucia?

Angry shouts erupted behind her. Men! Voices coming nearer, threats filling her ears.

Panicking, she ran down the path toward the forest, lungs burning, her head pounding. She hurt too much to make sense of what she was seeing, where she was going, but the rush of fear kept her running.

When she reached the trees, blackness closed in, the branches whipping her, tormenting her. It was so dark she knew if she continued she would lose the path.

Shaky, she halted and listened. The forest was empty, the night still. No one seemed to be following. She put her arms before her and felt her way through the brush, finally taking shelter under a big pine tree. Pulling the cowl closely about her, she listened to the wind, which seemed to whisper soft, ghostly words, just beyond her comprehension.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered back. “I don’t understand any of this.”

The wind sighed, but gave no answers, detached, cold, uncaring.

*

Vague sounds penetrated Gwen’s sleep. She scratched her cheek and shifted away from whatever poked her in the back. She scratched again, this time on her neck. Itchy wool. She heard hooves plodding through mud and smiled, remembering vacations spent riding horses at her uncle’s ranch in Santa Barbara.

A donkey brayed. She opened her eyes, fully awake, and scrambled onto her knees. Leaves and needles stuck to her face and hair, but she didn’t care as she dove for cover behind thick brush.

Her heart roared in her ears as she pushed aside branches and peered out.

A small troop of men moved along the path. They all wore beards, drab homespun, and dingy hats or caps. Donkeys pulled two wagons draped with canvas. Gypsies? Or were they going to some kind of medieval reenactment? They were certainly dressed for the part of peasants from nearly any era prior to 1900, but something seemed wrong. Even from a distance of six feet or so, Gwen could smell their bodies. It wasn’t the sharp, pungent odor of recent athletic exertion, but stale and intrusive.
Phew, haven’t these people ever bathed?

One of the men scratched his crotch. His hand, with its dirt-encrusted nails, lingered much longer than necessary.

Gwen’s instincts flared and she drew the hood over her head. Holding her breath, she waited for them to pass.

When the last echoes of the troop faded, Gwen checked the path. They were gone. She suddenly recalled how badly her head hurt the night before. At least she felt better now. She touched the bump on her scalp, grimaced, and then glanced around. She had no idea where she was or the direction back to Santa Lucia. Was that where those guys were headed?

“I can’t follow them,” she muttered.

No shit.
Smiling despite her unease, Gwen picked up her sack and warily stepped out. Determined to avoid any contact with the smelly men, she set off in the opposite direction. She walked for a time, seeing no one. The forest gradually opened up, the pines spaced more widely apart with less undergrowth. The fog had lifted with the night, the sun bright and nearly overhead.

Hungry and thirsty, Gwen felt relieved when she spotted a small bridge arching over a gurgling stream. She left the dirt road and knelt beside the water. After splashing her face, she patted it dry with the edge of the cowl and then breathed in the soft, warm, piney air.

Grabbing the sack, she sat down and started pulling things out. She was pleasantly surprised by what she found: some bread, a hunk of cheese, a water skein, and a clean linen shift. She chewed the coarse bread, and then tried the cheese, but found it too sharp for her taste. She took a drink, choking when she realized it was wine instead of water.

Clearing her throat, she studied the skein and smiled. “Thank you, Father,” she said. “I must’ve misjudged you, though it’s too bad this isn’t a martini.” She took a gulp. This time, she enjoyed the sensation of fruity warmth playing across her tongue, but caution prevailed. She couldn’t drink too much, not if she wanted to figure out what had happened.

Gwen shoved the remaining food and wine in her sack, moved out from under the bridge, and gazed up at the bright, empty sky. No planes. No jet trails. Nothing. She hadn’t known such stillness since the period of grounded flights in the days following 9/11. What was going on?

Suddenly, her attention was drawn to something a little farther on, just off the edge of the path, something glinting in the sun. Garbage? Or was it… something… familiar? Her mouth dropped open when she saw it was Stefano’s name badge.
My God, you’re all the way out here, too?