Fanatics (12 page)

Standing there at the edge of the volcano, I quickly pieced together what was happening. My mother had been offered an assignment. Investigative journalism was her strength and—I sometimes thought—the most important thing in her life. In Afghanistan, this time. In the middle of a vicious civil war. And she wanted to accept the job. I knew her. She would sneak into the country if she had to—anything to get the story. Whatever the story was. She thrived on the adventure and, although she’d never admit it, the danger. And she was ambitious. Already well known, she was always afraid that she’d be pushed to the sidelines if she didn’t stay in the game.

“Don’t bring Garnet into this!” she yelled. “It has nothing—”

“Garnet’s already in it,” I said, stepping into the room.

My parents fell silent. My father, his face red with anger, and my mother, eyes flashing, features twisted with frustration—they seemed like total strangers, as if, while I was away, two impostors had invaded our home.

“Why should you leave me out of it?” I demanded.

“Because this is my decision,” she said quietly but firmly.

“Yeah, I guess it is, Mom. I guess you’re the only one who matters.”

“Garnet,” my father said.

There was a sticky silence in the room.

I didn’t mean that, I wanted to tell her. But I
had
meant it.

My father’s colour was returning to normal. My mother’s face softened a little. My mind was racing. How could I convince her to change her mind? Bullying her wouldn’t work. My father had already proved that.

“Can we discuss this calmly?” I asked.

“Not if—”

“Annie, please let him talk,” Dad said, throwing himself into a chair.

My mother tilted her head a little, a gesture of agreement.

“I … I have an idea,” I began, my thoughts forming quickly. “A sort of compromise.”

My father bristled. There was not going to be a compromise as far as he was concerned. I held up my hand. “Just let me say something, Dad.”

He settled back. My mother sat down slowly at her desk.

“Okay. Now, Mom, if you insist on going, I’d like to come with you. No, really,” I added, cutting her off again. “Hear me out. I’d be a help. I could carry your equipment. More important, we know that conservative Muslim men over there, not to mention the Islamists, insist that women should never go out in public unless they’re accompanied by a man—”

Mom’s face coloured with impatience.

“Their husband, or elder brother, or eldest son. I’m your son, right? So you see, I could go along. I’d always be with you, and you’d be … well, legal or whatever the word is. Besides, I’ve never had much chance to travel, so—”

My mother snapped, “It’s out of the question!”

“But why?”

“Because it isn’t—”

And she stopped.

“Safe?” my father said quietly, not so much as a hint of triumph in his voice.

The room went still again. After a moment, Mom got up and left the office. My father turned to look as the front door closed quietly.

A
S IF THE ATMOSPHERE
in the sky above the roof was tuned to the squally mood of the Havelock household, thunderstorms began to hit the town early in the evening and rolled overhead like a succession of bowling balls for most of the night.

From my balcony, where I had retreated with a book right after supper, I watched the first storm cell gathering. Dark clouds poured from the sky and a cool wind drove the daylight into hiding. I turned pages, half-concentrating, for as long as I could in the failing light, then gave up and dragged my chair back into my room just as the thunder announced itself. I read in bed for a while, then turned in for the night.

As always, the dream came indirectly, padding into my sleep like a predatory cat, taking shape as if emerging from a dark mist. In the background, thunderclaps and rapid strobelike flashes of lightning ebbed away, revealing the now familiar prison cell shrouded in darkness barely diluted by points of yellow light. There were two candles on the long table this time. The only sounds were the gasps of the prisoner and the occasional scrape of a leather sandal on the stone floor.

The victim, his back twisted under his filthy shift, his shoulders misshapen, knelt on the floor before the table, forehead on the stone, mumbling repeatedly, “
De profundis clamavi ad te domine, domine esuadi vocem meam
.”

Partially within the glow cast by the candles, their faces in the shadow of their hoods, the three men were at their places behind the table. The one in the centre was shorter than the other two, his shoulders broader, and he was in
command. He said something calmly, as if passing the time of day with his colleagues, and the jailers approached the victim. One held the leather thongs for the prisoner’s wrists, the other clutched the end of the hoisting rope. Still on his knees, the prisoner placed his elbows on the table’s edge, grunting with the pain, his hands together as in prayer.

“
Credo in unum deum …
”

The man at the table spoke again. The prisoner looked up, and as he did the candlelight fell upon his face, revealing sunken cheeks, thick lips, and a large hooked nose. There was no mistaking his identity.

He was the man on the medal hidden in Professor Corbizzi’s secret cupboard.

R
AIN BUCKETED DOWN
for half the night, then slackened as the storm rampaged off to the east and beyond the lake. When morning light rose in my window I was able to sleep.

But not for long. Mom called me for breakfast at the usual time. When I slouched into the kitchen, yawning and knuckling sleep from my eyes, I found my parents at the table, their faces blank and cold. I poured a coffee and dropped two slices of bread into the toaster.

The only sounds in the room were the clink of cutlery on a plate or a jam pot and me slurping down hot coffee to kick-start my brain. Mom had the local paper open to the city page. I laid my hand on her shoulder and leaned over to scan the dramatic headline shouting that the city’s third drowning victim had been found at the north end of Cumberland Beach, near Greyshott Drive. The unidentified
man was wearing sporting gear, the article said, and was unknown to locals.

“Any chance you’ll be assigned to cover that?” I asked, just to make conversation.

Mom shook her head. She didn’t do accidents. She did wars, conspiracies, naughty politicians. I took my toast to the table, sat, and spooned a dollop of Dad’s homemade strawberry jam onto my barely singed bread.

“Um,” I began, hoping to break the ice that held my parents in its grip, “do either of you know anything about Roman numerals?”

“Does,” Mom said.

“Pardon?”

“It’s ‘
Does
either of you know.’ ”

“Oh, sorry. Okay, I tries again. Does youse guys can reads Roman numerals any good?”

My father’s eyes twinkled. “Garnet, please doesn’t be sarcastic. We all gots to talk good, or people will think we ain’t been edjimicated.”

Mom let out a theatrical sigh. “I’m living with a couple of boors. Who always gang up on me.”

“I can,” Dad said. “Read Roman numerals, that is.”

“Good. I know numbers one, five, and ten, but that’s all. What’s
MCDXCV
?”

“Let’s see …” he mused, scrutinizing the ceiling. “It’s a lot.”

“It’s 1495,” Mom cut in.

“Exactly what I was going to say,” Dad added, nodding wisely.

“And one more question—Was the Italian language in 1495 pretty much the same as now?”

It was my mother who replied. “Back then, Italy wasn’t a unified nation as it is today. It was a group of small republics, duchies, and kingdoms—Venice, Milan, Naples, for example. And each area had its own dialect. Books were usually written in Latin, the language of those your father would call edjimicated. It was sort of the universal language of Europe.”

“And of the Roman Catholic Church,” Dad put in. “Which, at that time, was
the
Church.”

I had a thought. “So prayers would be said in Latin.”

Both of them nodded at once. “The mass was said in Latin, too,” Dad said.

My sleep-deprived brain was suddenly energized. I felt my excitement growing, but I did my best to sound casual.

“If I gave you a few sentences in Latin, could you translate them?”

Dad shook his head.

Mom replied, “No, but we know someone who could.”

Dad gave a look of mock confusion. “We does?”

B
EFORE
I
LEFT
for the estate and the thousands of books waiting to be catalogued I phoned Raphaella, but the call went immediately to her voicemail. I wanted to let her know that I had discovered the identity of the torture victim in my dream. “I’m pursuing a lead,” I said, “just like a detective. It has to do with language,” I added mysteriously.

I disconnected and sat down to compose a letter to Marshall Northrop, my parents’ friend in the classical studies department at York University. Mom had called him after breakfast and left a message asking for help and telling him I’d be in contact.

I had noted the title of Professor Corbizzi’s antique book on my laptop, along with the inscription on the medal, so it was a simple matter to paste the information into a letter. I explained to the prof that the medal’s words were very hard to read, but I had done my best to copy them accurately. Last, I asked him to call my cell at his convenience because there were some oral expressions I wanted to ask him to translate. I didn’t say that the words had been uttered by a man who was being tortured. In a jail cell somewhere back in history. In a dream.

I sent off the email, then walked down Matchedash Street to Mississauga and over to the Half Moon Cafe. Nodding to Marco, I took a table near the bar. The mid-morning crowd was thin, the cafe fairly quiet, except for a table of women who were chirping away enthusiastically, coloured shopping bags at their feet and crumb-sprinkled plates next to their empty cups and mugs. Beside a trio of men in suits, their table strewn with pamphlets and papers, Evvie McFadden was reading a book, on her break, I guessed, from the Magus Bookstore a few doors down. I waved when she raised her head. I had known Evvie since grade one, when I had been in love with her for a week or so.

Marco appeared with my latte and two tiny pastries, each dusted with powdered sugar and topped with a dab of chocolate.

“How did you know what I was going to order?”

The parentheses appeared briefly at the corners of his smile. “I took a wild guess,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag.

“Thanks, Marco.” I nodded toward the back. “Who are the suits? I don’t recognize any of them.”

“Dunno. They’re with Geneva Park, they said. Some conference or other.”

“I think I heard about that. Raphaella mentioned her production might get to perform out there. By the way, thanks for connecting me with Mrs. Stoppini.”

Marco waved his hand as if swatting a fly. “Don’t mention it. Everything workin’ out okay?”

“Couldn’t be better. I have the shop set up and operational.” I kept in mind my promise to Mrs. Stoppini not to disclose any details about my contract and didn’t say anymore.

“Great,” he replied.

“Marco, you said the professor was a distant cousin. Can you tell me anything about him?”

Marco settled back in his chair and rested an ankle on the opposite knee. “When I asked around the clan for his phone number I ran into a few road blocks. Nobody had much to say about him, which is rare in our family, where everybody butts into everybody else’s business, and where a dinner party is like a football match with everybody talking at once. But my aunt Isabella, she was married to … well, never mind the details. Anyways, she seemed to know a lot about the prof and was happy to talk to me.”

I sipped my latte and waited. Marco’s pause was my cue to prompt him for details. He loved to gossip, and he passed on information with a storyteller’s gift for drama and a comedian’s sense of timing. I popped one of the pastries
into my mouth, chewed, swallowed, and raised my eyebrows to encourage him.

“See,” he went on, “our family has two lines, the Bianchis and the Corbizzis. How they mingled up with each other I got no idea. Nobody seems to know when it happened. Prob’ly a love affair somewhere along the road. Who can say? The Bianchis were Calabrian farmers, dirt poor and rough around the edges. The Corbizzis were Florentine merchants, minor nobility—they think they still are—and naturally they’re snobs. Look down on the Bianchis like a queen looks at the maid who cleans her bathroom. During World War II the Corbizzis sided with the Fascists. But Aunt Isabella says Eduardo Corbizzi—that’s the prof—wasn’t like the rest of them. He broke from his clan. He also refused the family money, struck off on his own, got an education, and became a scholar. Then he left Italy—a mortal sin among the Corbizzis. He was a real radical. Quit the Church at fifteen, didn’t believe in marriage. That’s what Isabella said.”

I thought about what Marco had told me. Whatever embellishments he or his aunt might have added, it fit with the little I had learned from Mrs. Stoppini. It explained her relationship with the prof, for one thing. She and the prof had been a couple but had never married in a church or at city hall. The prof was estranged from his family, a recluse, a man who held unusual opinions. Mrs. Stoppini had hinted as much when she explained that he hadn’t fit in very well at the University of Toronto. She had also indicated that he had become obsessed with his work toward the end of his life.

“Interesting guy,” I commented.

Marco leaned forward, elbows on the table, and dropped his voice. “Aunt Isabella said the prof was into some pretty weird stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Something to do with religion. She wouldn’t go into detail. I don’t know—maybe she was exaggerating. She’s a Bianchi, after all. Thinks the Corbizzis haven’t noticed that the world has changed. Funny thing is, from what she said, the prof prob’ly would’ve agreed with her.”

“So, Marco,” I said mischievously, “you’re a Grenoble, not a Corbizzi or a Bianchi. How did that happen?”