Fanatics (29 page)

“I do apologize, Mr. Havelock, for failing to provide your afternoon refreshment,” Mrs. Stoppini said, a little flustered. “I was reading in my room and must have dozed off. I slept the afternoon away!” There was a moment’s silence as Mrs. Stoppini composed herself. “I shall have tea ready in seventeen minutes.”

Mrs. Stoppini didn’t seem upset when we told her about the library window. “I didn’t realize the wind was that strong” was all she said.

She told us she’d call a glazier to have it repaired as soon as possible. She’d also contact the shipping company to pick up the crate, which Raphaella and I had carried to the foyer
at the front of the house. After a quick cup of tea Raphaella and I returned to the library and got to work putting the place back in order.

“Let’s take a break,” I suggested after an hour or so. I led Raphaella to the chairs by the fireplace. “I’ve been thinking,” I said.

Throughout the afternoon something had been scratching away at the back of my mind, like a mouse in the attic. I had been reviewing the battle with Savonarola’s ghost. Not that I had wanted to. I couldn’t help it. But there was something I couldn’t explain. It seemed that when the spectre was about to burn Raphaella, somehow she had warded him off. How?

“You can’t. You know you can’t,” she had said. She had been desperate and terrified, but she had uttered those words with something like confidence. What prohibition would someone like Savonarola recognize, no matter how much he thought Raphaella deserved to be burned alive? I could think of only one. It was an unbreakable rule that had applied through the ages to condemned witches and female prisoners bound for execution. As an ordained priest, Savonarola had been obliged to follow it.

“You persuaded him not to kill you,” I said.

Raphaella nodded. Her eyebrows rose.

The library was silent for a moment.

“Is it true?” I asked.

“He would have known if I’d been lying.”

I felt the world shift under me.

Raphaella smiled tentatively. “So what do you think?”

“I think that next to you, this is the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Her smile widened. “I knew you’d say that.”

She came and sat on my lap and snuggled close, her head under my chin.

“Well, we’re all set, aren’t we?” she said. “We have no money, no place to live, and a baby girl on the way.”

I didn’t ask how she knew it was a girl.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, still reeling a little from the events and the news of the previous day, I walked downtown, planning to have a coffee at the Half Moon and then drop in at the Demeter and see Raphaella.

She and I were entering a new phase of our life sooner than we had planned. People we knew would soon be abuzz with gossip. Critics would tsk and complain that we were too young and irresponsible. Children bringing up a child, they’d declare. Ruining their future. I didn’t care what uncharitable opinions they’d spit out. Raphaella
was
my future.

“What happened to your face?” Marco asked when I sat down at the end of the coffee bar near the kitchen.

“It’s a long story.”

He nodded. “Understood. A latte, then?”

“A macchiato today, please, Marco.”

He smirked. “I see the Corbizzi family’s having an effect on you.”

I drank the coffee, chatting with Marco as he made a mini-pizza from scratch. Who ordered a pizza at 9:30 in the
morning? I wondered as he repeatedly tossed the dough into the air, spinning it into shape.

“Hear about that business over at Geneva Park a while ago?” he asked.

I fibbed. I was getting tired of pretending, but the cops had made the publication ban clear. “I don’t think so.”

“ ’Parently some guy went berserk with a rake or shovel or something. Started wailing on a guy he didn’t even know. They hauled him away in a straitjacket.”

“Oh, yeah. I think I remember now,” I replied.

Marco’s remarks proved the cops’ and spies’ disinformation campaign was working. Now I knew why I had never been asked to make a formal statement the day I met with the three inspectors. My fight with the leader of the Severn Ten—Eleven—had never happened.

“Prob’ly a disgruntled employee like you hear about on
TV
all the time. He was with an outfit that took care of the lawns and flowers. That’s what you get for hiring outsiders,” Marco concluded, crumbling mozzarella over the pizza. He was always put out if people from outside the community were contracted.

“I heard they took him straight to the loony bin at Penetang. They say he escaped from there six months ago and was living in the woods.”

Orillia. Where a story was never accurate for long. I couldn’t resist.

“Must have been hard landing a job with a landscaping company from outside of town if he had been living in the trees.”

Marco grunted his agreement, then used a wooden paddle to slide the pizza into the oven.

I said goodbye and left the cafe, heading for Peter Street and the Demeter. I was surprised to find Mrs. Skye behind the counter. Raphaella was supposed to be on duty. Mrs. Skye was ringing up a sale, placing jars of vitamins and supplements into the customer’s environmentally friendly shopping bag.

After the vitamin lady had shuffled out the door, Mrs. Skye leaned back on her prescription table, arms crossed on her chest, scrutinizing me.

“Raphaella will be in later,” she volunteered. “She wanted to sleep in today.”

Did Mrs. Skye know? I wondered, searching her face for clues. She must have read my mind.

“Somehow,” she drawled, but without the usual edge in her voice, “I don’t see you as a father.”

“Yeah, well, I guess we’ll both have to get used to the idea.”

Then, like a miser handing over his last penny, she said, “I suppose Raphaella could have done worse.”

“I love her, Mrs. Skye. I’m not going to apologize for that. To anybody. And I’m proud we’re going to have a baby. And I’m glad it’s a girl.”

A single tear trickled down the edge of her nose and onto her upper lip. Her face softened. This is what she looks like when she’s not mad at the world, I thought. Then I realized something.

“It
was
you.”

She swiped the tear away with the back of her hand. “What? What was me?”

“In the hospital,” I said, hardly able to believe it. “I
did
see you.”

She shrugged. “They weren’t treating your contusions properly. All those drugs they gave you, but no simple healing salve. Typical of the medical establishment.”

I felt a grin creep across my face. “Raphaella was right. You
are
warming up to me.”

“By slow degrees,” she said.

B
ETWEEN THE MANSION
and the lake, the leaves on the outer edges of the trees showed a tinge of colour—red for the maples and yellow for the willows. The air was crisp and clear, the way it is only in autumn, and the lake glowed its characteristic green under a perfect blue sky. In a few weeks, leaves would be drifting down like multicoloured snow.

Starting today I was the caretaker of the Corbizzi mansion until it was sold in the spring. Mrs. Stoppini had instructed her lawyer to piece off the coach house and a bit of ground, and to maintain both a right of way down the lane and a narrow strip giving access to the lake. My lease was extendable after the three years were up, with an option to buy if I wished—and if I ever had the money.

I was looking out the shop window across the yard to the place on the shore where I had found the
GPS
. Chief’s Island was a dark green brushstroke in the distance. Behind
me, in the light of the window, Raphaella sat in a lawnchair reading a book with lots of health-food advice for expectant mothers. Nearby, next to the spray booth, rested the second of the three pieces commissioned by Liz and Derek—the smaller of the two dressers—ready to be stained. The design for the bigger chest of drawers lay on my drafting table. Derek had kept his promise. He had been happy enough with the bookcase that he had recommended me to some friends, and I had a few new orders already.

My cell rang. I turned to see Raphaella earmark her page and take the call. She nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Stoppini,” she said, and disconnected. “The airport limo will arrive in approximately twenty-two minutes,” she announced in an uncannily Mrs. Stoppini–like voice.

“Duly noted, Miss Skye.”

All day Mrs. Stoppini had been giving us regular—and totally unnecessary—progress reports. She had called to declare that she had finished loading her steamer trunk. That the padlock had been locked. That the suitcases were packed and ready. That all of the windows in the house were closed and secured.

Raphaella and I crossed the patio and joined Mrs. Stoppini in the kitchen. Her trunk and bags stood ready by the door. She insisted on wearing her long shapeless coat and her hat—a beret-type thing that drooped over one ear—while she waited, as sharp-edged and angular as ever. Her lipstick had been applied over an even wider area today.

After apologizing that under the circumstances she was unable to offer a light refreshment, she continued, “I received welcome news from Florence yesterday. The purchase of the apartment I was seeking has been finalized and the place will
be ready for me when I arrive. I shall go there directly from Amerigo Vespucci airport. The apartment is not far from the university. It is on the third floor of a centuries-old building on the Piazza della Signoria. It is quite spacious, with a guest suite.”

“But that’s—” I cut in. The Piazza della Signoria was the city square where Savonarola had been executed.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Er, a beautiful square I heard … er, read.”

The thick black eyebrows rose. “Quite,” Mrs. Stoppini agreed. Then she continued her train of thought. “Miss Skye, Mr. Havelock, I should be most grateful if you would consent to visit me for at least a month, after I am settled and before you”—she nodded to Raphaella—“find travel inconvenient. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to escort you through some of Florence’s art museums and architectural treasures.”

She stopped. She took a deep breath.

“I shall miss you both deeply. But if I have your visit to look forward to …”

She swallowed. And blinked. Then she straightened her already rigid back and regained her composure.

“Winter in Florence is not the most clement of seasons, but … May I expect you, then, in Italy?”

Raphaella and I exchanged glances. Raphaella nodded, her chin quivering.

The grille on the kitchen wall buzzed. I got up and pressed the button to let the airport limo in. A few minutes later a black van appeared in the window and drew to a stop near the Hawk.

“Your ride is here,” I said unnecessarily.

Two burly men in blue nylon company windbreakers took charge of the trunk and the bags, then climbed back into the van. The driver made a three-point turn and waited, his engine idling.

Mrs. Stoppini was struggling to hold on to her composure. She whispered something to Raphaella, who hugged her, earning a startled look. Then Mrs. Stoppini stepped toward me, her hand extended.

“I shall hold you to your promise to visit me in Florence, Mr. Havelock.”

I shook with her but didn’t let go of the bony gloved hand. “Thanks for everything, Mrs. Stoppini. For the shop lease and the delicious lunches, and for introducing me to macchiato, and for introducing me to Professor Corbizzi’s books, and especially for teaching me that in civilized countries cappuccino is never served after twelve o’clock.”

The ghost of a smile crossed her lips. Before she could escape I wrapped my arms around her stick-like body and squeezed.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” I said.

“Indeed,” she replied. And she climbed into the waiting limo, rapped on the back of the driver’s seat, and was swept away.

We watched the van disappear around the bend in the lane.

“You didn’t say that you’d told her about the baby.”

“I didn’t. She just knew.”

“You don’t mean—”

“That she has the gift? No. I would have picked up on that. But she’s a very intelligent and observant lady.”

“I’ll miss her.”

“Not nearly as much as she’ll miss you.”

O
N THE EVENING
of October 27 it snowed—the earliest blizzard in fifty years. By the time I unlocked the shop the next morning, the storm had marched on, leaving a watery sun in a cold grey sky.

I spent an hour snow-blowing the lane and shovelling the sidewalk to the front door of the mansion, then the path between the kitchen and the shop. As I did at least twice a week, I walked through the house, checking the window latches, the faucets, the radiators in each room.

And as always I spent a few minutes in the library, whose doors were now left permanently open. At last Professor Corbizzi’s favourite room was the way Mrs. Stoppini had wanted it—stripped of every last book, rug, and article of furniture. The majority of the collection had been taken away by a dealer. The alcove books, the Savonarola medal, the priceless copy of
Compendium Revelationem
had been shipped to Ponte Santa Trinita University in Florence. Mrs. Stoppini had even asked me to “do something” about the secret cupboard, and so I had locked it one last time, disabled the mechanism holding the bookcase section in place, removed the knot from the outside cupboard, and plugged the hole with wood filler, smoothing and staining it to make it invisible. No one who was unaware of the secret would ever discover the empty cupboard.

A couple of days before the blizzard I got a letter postmarked “Firenze.”
Fanatics
had been accepted for publication, Mrs. Stoppini announced in her cramped, angular handwriting—fountain pen on thick, creamy monogrammed paper—and the book would be off the press next summer.
“I shall, of course, send copies to you and Miss Skye immediately the book is available,” she concluded. “I have taken the liberty of dedicating it to both of you. I know the late professor would concur.”

The sun had come out, filling the library with dazzling light reflected off the snow. This must have been how the room looked when Professor Corbizzi had first entered it, full of plans and ideas to fill it with books and to carry on with his work, driven by his commitment to warn his readers about fanatics who use religion as a veil for their hatred. Now that the publication ban on news about the Severn Eleven had been partially lifted, my mother was, in her own way, carrying on his work.