hopelessly lost. A Milan resident for all of her thirty-four years, she knew only the city center of Florence. Antonio, on the other hand, was a native Florentine and sped assuredly along an unfathomable route of streets and alleys.
A surprise? she wondered. Well, he’d wanted to pick the location for their long weekend together and she’d agreed. So, she told herself, sit back and enjoy the ride…. Her job had been particularly stressful in the past month; it was time to let someone else make the decisions.
Slim and blonde, with features of the north, Marissa Carrefiglio had been a runway model in her early twenties but then took up fashion design, which she loved. But three years ago her brother had quit the family business and she’d been forced to take over management of the arts and antiques operation. She wasn’t happy about it but her stern father wasn’t a man you could say no to.
Another series of sharp turns. Marissa gave an uneasy laugh at Antonio’s aggressive driving and looked away from the streets as she told him about the train ride from Milan, about news from her brother in America, about recent acquisitions at her family’s store in the Brera.
He, in turn, described a new car he was thinking of buying, a problem with the tenant in one of his properties and a gastronomic coup he’d pulled off yesterday: some white truffles he’d found at a farmers’ market near his home and had bought right out from under the nose of an obnoxious chef.
Another sharp turn and a fast change of gears. Only the low setting sun, in her eyes, gave her a clue of the direction they were traveling.
She hadn’t known Antonio very long. They’d met in Florence a month ago at a gallery off the Via Maggio, where Marissa’s company occasionally consigned art and antiques. She had just delivered several works: eighteenth-century tapestries from the famed Gobelins Manufactory in France. After they were hung, she was drawn to a dark medieval tapestry taking up a whole wall in the gallery. Woven by an anonymous artist, it depicted beautiful angels descending from heaven to fight beasts roaming the countryside, attacking the innocent.
As she stood transfixed by the gruesome scene a voice had whispered, “A nice work but there’s an obvious problem with it.”
She blinked in surprise and turned to the handsome man standing close. Marissa frowned. “Problem?”
His eyes remained fixed on the tapestry as he said, “Yes. The most beautiful angel has escaped from the scene.” He turned and smiled. “And landed on the floor beside me.”
She’d scoffed laughingly at the obvious come-on line. But he’d delivered it with such self-effacing charm that her initial reaction — to walk away — faded quickly. They struck up a conversation about art and, a half hour later, were sharing prosecco, cheese and conversation.
Antonio was muscular and trim, with thick, dark hair and brown eyes, a ready smile. He was in the computer field. She couldn’t quite understand exactly what he did — something about networks — but he must’ve been successful. He was wealthy and seemed to have a lot of free time.
They had much in common, it turned out. They’d both gone to college in Piemonte, had traveled extensively in France and shared an interest in fashion (though while she liked to design, he preferred to wear). A year younger than she, he’d never been married (she was divorced), and, like her, he only had one living parent; her mother had passed away ten years ago, and Antonio’s father, five.
Marissa found him easy to talk to. That night they’d met she’d rambled on about her life — complaining about her domineering father, her regret at leaving fashion for a boring job, and her former husband, to whom she occasionally loaned money that was never paid back. When she’d realized how moody and complaining she sounded, she’d blushed and apologized. But he hadn’t minded at all; he enjoyed hearing what she had to say, he admitted. What a departure from most of the men she dated, who focused only on her looks — and on themselves.
They’d walked along the Arno, then strolled across the Ponte Vecchio, where a young boy tried to sell him roses for his “wife.” Instead he bought her a tourist souvenir: a Lucretia Borgia poison ring. She’d laughed hard and she kissed him on the cheek.
The next week he came to visit her in the Navigli in Milan; she’d seen him twice after that on business here in Florence. This was to be their first weekend away. They were not yet lovers but Marissa knew that would soon change.
Now, on their way to the “surprise” destination, Antonio made another sharp turn down a dim residential street. The neighborhood was run-down. Marissa was troubled that he was taking this shortcut — and troubled all the more when he abruptly skidded to a stop at the curb.
What was this? she wondered.
He climbed out. “Just have an errand. I’ll be right back.” He hesitated. “You might want to leave the doors locked.” He strode to a decrepit house, looked around him and entered without knocking. Marissa noticed that he’d taken the car keys with him, which made her feel trapped. She loved to drive — her car was a silver Maserati — and she didn’t take well to the role of passenger. She decided to follow his advice and checked to make sure all the doors were locked. As she was looking at his side of the car she glanced out the window. She saw two twin boys, about ten years old, standing motionless, side by side, across the street. They stared at her, unsmiling. One whispered something. The other nodded gravely. She felt a shiver at the unnerving sight.
Then, turning back, Marissa gasped in shock. An old woman’s skull-like face stared at her, merely a foot away on the passenger side of the Audi. The woman must have been sick and near death.
Through the half-open window Marissa stammered, “Can I help you?”
Wearing dirty, torn clothing, the scrawny woman rocked unsteadily on her feet. Her yellow eyes glanced over her shoulder quickly, as if she was concerned about being seen. She then glanced at the car, which seemed familiar to her.
“Do you know Antonio?” Marissa asked, calming.
“I’m Olga. I’m the queen of the Via Magdelena. I know everyone…” A frown. “I have come to offer you my sympathies.”
“About what?”
“Why, the death of your sister, of course.”
“My sister? I don’t have a sister.”
“You’re not Lucia’s sister?”
“I don’t know a Lucia.”
The woman shook her head. “But you so resemble her.”
Marissa could hardly bear to look into the woman’s wet, jaundiced eyes.
“I’ve troubled you unnecessarily,” Olga said. “Forgive me.”
She turned away.
“Wait,” Marissa called. “Who was she, this Lucia?”
The woman paused. She leaned down and whispered, “An artist. She made dolls. I am not speaking of toys. They were works of art. She made them out of porcelain. The woman was a magician. It was as if she could capture human souls and place them in her dolls.”
“And she died?”
“Last year, yes.”
“How did you know her?”
Olga glanced one more time at the building Antonio had gone into. “Forgive me if I troubled you. I was mistaken, it seems.” She hobbled away.
Antonio returned a moment later, carrying a small, gray paper bag. He set this in the back seat. He said nothing about his errand other than to apologize that it took longer than he planned. As he dropped into the driver’s seat, Marissa looked past him to the opposite side of the street. The twins were gone.
Antonio shoved the shifter into gear and they sped away. Marissa asked him about the old woman. He blinked in surprise. He hesitated then gave a laugh. “Olga… she’s crazy. Not right in the head.”
“Do you know a Lucia?”
Antonio shook his head. “Did she say I did?”
“No. But… it seemed she was telling me about her because she recognized your car.”
“Well, as I say, she’s crazy.”
Antonio fell silent and wound his way out of town, eventually catching the A7. He then turned south onto the SS222, the famous Chiantigiana highway, which winds through the wine region between Florence and Siena.
