Frank Polizzi - Somewhere in the Stars

“Why don’t you get il conto ?”

“Yeah, let’s keep moving. Sistine Chapel, next stop.”

They tried to retrace their steps, getting lost down some of the alleys, and inexplicably found themselves back in Piazza Navona. Nick sped away and within a short time they crossed the Ponte San Angelo to Piazza San Pietro . He applied the scooter kickstand and they strolled out of the north side of the piazza to the Vatican Museum, his limp becoming more obvious. They met two guards, one in a uniform of blue, yellow and red, who stood at attention, holding a razor sharp spear and axe on a long pole and wearing a gleaming helmet with a red plume. Nick showed his U.S Counter Intelligence card to the other Swiss Guard, who wore a black beret and had a Beretta Modella 38 submachine gun strapped over a blue version of the dress uniform. He saluted Nick and Caterina as they went by.

“Things are scary, Nicky, even at the Vatican.”

“Forget the Beretta. We’ve got better things to look at. Va bene !”

“Si, andiamo .”

They went straight to the frescoes on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, glancing at the Last Judgement and other famous paintings in the adjoining rooms. Michelangelo’s depiction of the nine stories of Genesis would be enough for them. There wasn’t a person in the room, except for a sleepy guard at the entrance of the chapel. They contemplated the mix of muted colors—green, blue, yellow, red and many others, then felt the electricity between the finger of Adam and God the Creator. Caterina must have imagined touching the nude, muscular figures of men, while Nick traced the curvaceous bodies of women through his eyes and viscera.

“Why don’t we lie on our backs and take in the view of the master’s work? Just like Michelangelo did.”

“Are you pazzo , Nicky?”

“No. This is a private showing for the two of us. Il Pape himself gave me permission. Sent his personal courier to my headquarters.”

“You are a silly boy, but if it will make you happy, why not?” She turned towards the entryway and saw that the guard was still dozing.

They lay down together on the cold, polychrome inlaid marble floor and traced the scenes with their eyes long enough that the coldness crept into their bones. Nick rose and pulled Caterina up to him, kissing her on the lips.

“Nick, this is a holy place,” Caterina protested. She looked around and then kissed him on the forehead, pushing him out of the chapel.

The guard opened his eyes as they left for Caterina’s place. When they entered the apartment, they shed their outer layers of clothes and lay on the bed. They were both tired but almost telepathically came to the same thought—one more frozen frame of lovemaking to carry with them wherever their film script took them. They made up a storyline aloud, as if thinking alike. But they couldn’t come up with an ending. Nick didn’t care and just wanted to share the passion of the moment with Caterina, so alluring on the bed—her face, her body, her spirit—and the hell with happy endings because the images playing outside this room were too bleak to think about.

Nick wanted to give Caterina one perfect day in Rome to remember him by, something to erase any trace of guilt over their time together, his lust trumping love in these times or love unrecognized by these times. He was glad Caterina had not asked him to ride over to that legendary Bocca della Verità outside the Basilica di Santa Maria in Cosmedin and have to put his damn hand in the mouth, not that he believed that stupid myth about it biting your hand if you lied. But it would be just like him to be so sfortunato that the stone lips would have collapsed on his fingers from a sudden domino triggering of an unexploded bomb nearby.

The last Sunday morning of February brought in the remains of the chilling winds from the mountains that blew down Rome’s streets and alleys, and the dampness found its way into the joints of Nick’s body. The weather had been so bad, he left his Paperino in a garage under the CIC headquarters. He looked out the window of Caterina’s apartment, lit up a cigarette, and waited for her return with some items for breakfast. Lately he had been thinking about Deborah and imagined their reunion but in his gut he knew it was a knucklehead idea, considering she sent him a ‘Dear John’ letter that he had been trying to erase from memory. Too much time had passed between Deborah and him. Besides, there were other issues beyond his control, and yet he would like to see his old girlfriend again. It was as if a film about Caterina and him were spliced together in a continuous spin, only to unravel off the reel.

Nick observed the flowerless oleander trees, not a bird on a limb, as he puffed smoke out into the courtyard. Caterina had quit smoking and had no patience for the smell anymore. She tried to mask the burnt aroma with the scent of lavender twigs that had long lost their potent aroma. He began smoking heavily but was reluctant to attribute it to his edginess, yet it was there wherever he moved about in Rome. Nick tried to blame his irritation on the bad weather, which could change the mood of a saint, especially in the mezzogiorno, where the paesani, no matter how poor, at least had the warmth of the sun. Gray skies muted the light through the apartment window and were spreading shadows in unexpected directions. Nick had found Nate to be withdrawn because Rachele was locked into what his friend called her convent tomb and also upset that he hadn’t heard any news about cousin Carlo since he left for the front.

Bloody images of the war still rattled around in Nick’s brain. Then he recalled an incident that he had never mentioned to anyone, nor was he likely to. It was just after Nathan and he had first returned from Assisi with Carlo. Captain Smith had received transfer orders and ordered Nick to straighten out his office before he left, making sure all the files and reports were organized and secured away, ready to be shipped to a different location. He came across a bound report lying flat on the bottom of a file cabinet and proceeded to hang it up on the guide bar in alphabetical order. He noticed the words, BISCARI AIRFIELD, on the cover with a ‘confidential’ red stamp in several places. He realized that Biscari was in Sicily, not far away from where they had landed on Gela. The temptation was too much to resist, so he blocked the front door with the same file cabinet and scanned it, going back to the salient parts.

With growing despair he read that on July 14, 1943 there had been a skirmish between infantrymen from the Seventh Army and Italian soldiers who used machine guns and sniper fire. When it was all over, 12 Americans were wounded and 36 Italians were captured. The CO ordered his infantrymen to line the Italian prisoners up by a ravine and execute them on the spot. About a mile away an NCO from the same company replicated the execution, when the sergeant had his men march another 37 Italian soldiers away from the airfield for the purpose of interrogation. The sergeant took a sub-machine gun from one of his men and killed every Italian. Captain Compton and Sergeant West were court-martialed separately, the CO’s case being dismissed later, the NCO sentenced to the stockade. An addendum to the case stated that the captain was killed in action almost four months later and the sergeant released after a year, demoted to a private.

“Ah, Jesus Christ,” Nick shouted out. When he realized no one had heard him, he furtively put the report away and moved the file cabinet back. He sat at the captain’s desk and spun around the chair in slow motion trying to comprehend this double massacre. He realized that he had nothing to do with the slaughter of unarmed, Italian prisoners in Sicily, but at that time he also served in the Seventh Army under Patton, wearing one of the same patches on his uniform as the court-martialed soldiers. This was not something he would want to share with anyone, another bloody image for him to remember on his journey through Italy.