She left as fast as possible, infuriated. It was her right to feel exasperated.
If she’d stayed a few moments longer, not gone to the door so quickly, so far from the bar, so far from Rafael, if, if, if… probably she would have heard him. A timid, faint ‘I can’t.’
The editor of international politics of the Times, more sought after than she would have liked, soon found reasons to forget Father Rafael, who returned to Rome. And if, at rare times, she remembered the conversation that had occurred in that bar in Whitehall, while Chelsea was playing some team, it didn’t matter to her. The same God Rafael believed in created an opportunity in the form of an Italian Adonis. Apparently she was attracted to Italians. He was a London correspondent for Corriere della Sera, made regular appearances on RAI, was thirty-two years old like Sarah, and had a body that would make Eros green with envy. He only had eyes for her from the first second he saw her at a lunch for journalists at the Italian embassy.
It should be said that Sarah avoided this Adonis from the south of Europe at first. But soon the Italian showed a genuine interest and agreeable conversation far beyond his playboy appearance. A native of Ascoli, his name was Francesco. To tell the truth, his sculpted beauty was the reason Sarah agreed to a date. An opportunity for Francesco to show what he was worth and if he was worth it. After this first date came a second. On the third their commitment was sealed with a passionate kiss on the steps of her house in Kensington, and others followed with greater intensity in her bedroom.
In the days that followed, things progressed naturally. More dates, more conversations, more kisses, and more. Francesco seemed captivated by Sarah’s directness. There was no role-playing or cover-ups. She was always herself, Sarah, authentic, on the telephone in the office, ordering something in a restaurant, kissing in her room. There was no one but her in his eyes, and he adored this.
‘Listen, those books are not bad. I see why you’re a celebrity.’
‘You read them?’ Sarah asked with feigned shock. ‘Who gave you permission?’
‘I needed to know if I was going to introduce an anti-Catholic to my mother,’ Francesco replied, then, seriously, ‘They put me at ease.’
‘They’re books about men, not about religion,’ Sarah explained.
‘Yes, in fact I think my mom would agree with you on some points. We could drop by Ascoli on your book tour. What do you think?’
‘Don’t you think that’s a little premature?’ Sarah argued.
‘Not for me. Take the time you need to promote your book. Don’t rush. When you’re free we can detour to the northeast.’
‘It’s only a conference on La Feltrinelli of the Largo di Torre Argentina,’ Sarah said as she considered the invitation.
Francesco leaned over her. ‘You’re a very appealing heretic.’
‘Do you want to carry me to bed, my bad boy?’ Sarah smiled with desire.
‘Would you let me?’ Francesco chose to sound like an innocent boy.
‘I would. I do…’ Sarah said. ‘I don’t know if your mother would let you.’ She threw herself against him.
‘Oh, do you want war?’
A little struggle began with pillows and deep kisses. ‘You’re going to pay for this,’ Francesco teased.
‘Will it be very expensive?’ Sarah provoked him.
When the hostilities were over and they lay in bed, out of breath, on their backs, sweating, they smiled.
‘I love you,’ Francesco said.
His words were like a bullet, wiping her smile away. She had no reply. At least not at the moment. Francesco was not just a pretty face, it seemed. He looked at her for a while and changed the subject, paying no attention to the uncomfortable silence.
‘You still haven’t told me who the bishop or cardinal is who’s bringing you these stories,’ he said, half joking and half seriously.
‘A woman never tells.’ She regarded him pensively. She thought about Rafael again.
7
Ben Isaac was doing everything to save his marriage. Myriam had lost her patience and given him an ultimatum. The business or her. That was the reason he agreed to go on a cruise when his business was in such a precarious state. His son, also named Ben, would take care of things for a month. Little Ben, twenty-seven years old, had worked administering the business for a long time, but always under the attentive, appraising eye of his father. This time was different. His father was on board a ship with his mother, relaxing in the Mediterranean. Young Ben made a nightly report of what had happened during the day. His mother tolerated this discussion as long as it didn’t take more than fifteen minutes. Ben Isaac took advantage of it to counsel his son. He wasn’t a good husband, or father, but nobody beat him at his game. He thought his business affairs would be lighter as he got older, but he had deceived himself. His objectives had changed. First he wanted the best for its own sake, then for Myriam, then for his son, and now he simply wanted to leave a magnificent legacy, immune to rough times or bad decisions. ‘When you die, you leave everything,’ Myriam warned him. ‘You can’t take it with you.’
The cruise could not be happening at a worse time. The negotiations with his Israeli counterparts were at a crucial stage, and little Ben had to conclude the deal. It was a crucial test for the boy.
He’d boarded MS Voyager of the Seas, an enormous ship with fifteen decks and more than a thousand passengers. They called it a floating hotel, and they weren’t wrong. It had a casino, a spa, a marriage chapel, ice- skating rink, cinema, theater, shopping center, everything to make the travelers forget they were at sea and not on land.
Ben Isaac could have bought his own ship and crew and sailed where he wanted, but Myriam was inflexible. She wanted to take a cruise like a normal married couple. Arguing with her was not an option. He reserved five cabins on deck 14 and occupied the middle one in order to avoid unpleasant neighbors. Of course, he decided not to tell Myriam this detail. Ben Isaac was like that. He gave in to a certain point, and then arranged things his way. He tried to spare Myriam everything. Business problems, his son’s accidents, her brother’s detoxification cure, her father’s lovers. He permitted nothing to inconvenience her, kept her enclosed in a glass dome. This created other problems, such as a lack of attention, long absences, and a lack of affection. Myriam rebelled and Ben Isaac gave in to her, adapting to the new reality. That was always the secret of his success.
So we find him reading the paper at table 205 in the restaurant on deck 14. Myriam was in the gymnasium swimming, and would join him shortly. Mornings were always the same since they’d boarded the ship. And Ben Isaac, exiled in London since childhood, where he made his fortune, didn’t care. If Myriam was happy, so was he. If he got news of the business only at night, then so be it. That was the price he had to pay for innumerable lonely nights. Myriam deserved this sacrifice.
The waiter brought his coffee.
‘Good morning, Dr. Isaac. How are you today?’ A genuine smile crossed his face.
‘Good morning, Sigma. Very well, thank you.’
Sigma was from the Philippines and an excellent waiter, in Ben Isaac’s opinion.
‘Are you only going to have coffee?’
‘Yes, just coffee. I’m not hungry before ten.’
‘Certainly, Dr. Isaac. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call me. I hope you have a very nice day.’
‘Thank you, Sigma.’
Ben Isaac continued to read the Financial Times out of professional interest. No other reading gave him more pleasure. Analyzing the market, reading between the lines, evaluating investment opportunities. One page alone could turn into millions of dollars of income. For this reason he advised little Ben to subscribe and read this paper carefully.
He lifted the coffee cup and drank a little. Black, strong, without sugar. What better way to face the day? Only when he set the cup back down did he notice a small envelope at the edge of the saucer. How strange. Sigma had not mentioned it. He lay the paper down on the table with the intention of returning to his reading and opened the envelope. There was a small piece of cream-colored paper inside.
