Chapter 9
After checking in and receiving the key to her room, Aida turned to go toward the elevator and found Disa waiting for her.
“Good evening, Aida.”
Aida almost didn’t recognize her—Disa’s appearance was a sharp contrast to how she’d looked in Boston. She was impeccably
but strangely dressed in a wild taffeta mid-length skirt with a navy star pattern, a ribbon emblazoned with Christian Dior
on the side. Atop the skirt, she wore a white sleeveless, asymmetrical top with an external white corset. Her white boots
were half sandal, and she wore socks with them. Her hair was loose with curls that fell to her shoulders.
Look at her, so self-assured, Aida thought, her mind momentarily sidetracked. And here I am, an emotional train wreck barely holding it together. The image of Graham and Erin lip-locked flashed in her mind.
“I didn’t expect to see you so soon,” Aida managed to say, words strung together by sheer willpower.
Disa cut straight to business. “Are you ready to give your report?”
“I think so,” Aida replied, her voice wavering more than she’d like.
She wasn’t sure what that would entail. She had prepared her presentation like she would an important lecture, making sure she had her narrative and points straight, but she wasn’t even sure that was the right approach.
Trista hadn’t been helpful at all—she apparently had never been to one.
She only knew that a number of questions about the research would be asked.
“Well then, let’s get to it.” Disa turned toward the elevator.
It took a second for her words to register for Aida. Panic surged through her veins. “Wait,” she called. “I’m giving the report
right now?”
Disa paused. She looked back and raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were ready?”
“I didn’t realize that I would be doing it the moment I arrived. I thought it was tomorrow.”
“Time is short. You should be rested,” Disa said, folding her arms against her body. “You slept on the plane.”
Aida took a deep breath, shocked.
“Shut your mouth before a fly lands on your tongue,” Disa said. “The flight concierge gave me a report when you landed.”
Of course, that makes sense, Aida thought, relaxing a little.
“So, are you ready or not? Your luggage will be delivered to your room, don’t worry.”
Aida’s jaw tightened. Am I ready? Can I compartmentalize enough to get through this? But she couldn’t afford to show weakness, not now. “Lead on,” she said, forcing herself to match Disa’s tone. “I’m ready.”
She followed Disa to the private elevator, which whisked them up to the penthouse floor. While the view was not half as spectacular
as that of the hotel in Boston, the suite was even more luxuriously appointed, with hardwood details, bespoke couches, leather
chairs, plush carpets, all manner of trinkets and curiosities on the bookshelves and tables, contemporary wallpaper and artwork,
all punctuated by white flowers in vases throughout the room. Disa led her through a small bar area and a little library to
the massive living room.
“How big is this suite?” Aida asked, trying to make conversation with her gruff hostess.
“Two hundred and eight square meters.”
Aida did the math, over two thousand square feet. “Wow, that’s big,” she said. The words sounded silly as they left her mouth.
“That’s the main suite. There are six bedrooms you can connect, taking over the entire wing.” Disa gave Aida a rare smile.
“The Manor Wing has its own postal code.”
“Oh my.”
“Yes, oh my.”
Disa left her there. Aida watched her go through the library and enter a sliding door on the other side.
A butler appeared from behind Aida with a tray holding a selection of cocktails and a little bowl of nuts. He set the nuts
down on the mahogany coffee table and proceeded to describe her drink choices. Against her better judgment, Aida went for
the bourbon. She needed something stiff to calm her nerves.
Muted voices floated from the room where Disa had disappeared. Aida wished she could make out the words, but it was too much
like the cacophony of adult voices in the old Charlie Brown cartoons she had watched as a kid. Instead, she reached for her
laptop bag and pulled out her notes in an attempt to refocus her attention on the presentation she had prepared. But it was
a fruitless attempt. Between her nervousness about the report and the image emblazoned upon her mind of Graham kissing her
oldest friend, she could barely focus on the words on the screen.
The bourbon was nearly gone when the door opened and Mo appeared in the doorway. “Ahhh, my funless one. Come along.” He waved
a hand at her.
Aida cursed under her breath. She hadn’t expected him here. His biting humor was the last thing she needed.
The sliding door led to a little dining room with a circular table and eight leather low-backed chairs. Fran sat on the opposite
side with Disa two chairs away to her right. The room had a stifling, almost ritualistic aura—a discomforting contrast to
the joyful topics they were supposed to discuss.
“Please, sit down.”
Aida nervously took a seat across from Fran. Mo began to sit beside her, but Fran shook her head at the man.
“Fine.” His voice was petulant, like a child. He sat, leaving an empty chair between them.
The table in front of them was bare, save for a little box about half the size of a cell phone with a sleek black surface
and a red button.
“Now then,” Disa said, pressing the button. Then Aida understood. The box was a digital voice recorder, although it didn’t
look like any recorder Aida had ever seen. “Let us begin. We will ask you a series of questions. You will answer them to the
best of your knowledge and ability. There is no wrong answer, so you can set aside all the nervousness roiling inside you.”
“Am I that obvious?” Aida said with a little laugh. A nervous laugh because, for all of Disa’s reassurance, it did nothing
to calm her.
“Just get your snark on and you’ll be fine.” Mo leaned toward her as though he were conspiring.
Aida was not about to get her snark on in such a moment. She wished she could take a few deep breaths without it being weird. She needed to calm her pounding heart
before she had a panic attack. Staring at the black box on the table, she imagined herself with the same dark shell, able
to absorb anything that came her way.
“A reminder, Miss Reale, that you’ll not speak of this meeting with anyone else,” Fran warned. She had worn her long red hair
up high and tight on her head in an intricately braided bun. It made her look much older and somewhat severe.
“Understood.”
“Tell us what you felt when you first walked into your new home in Rome.”
Aida faltered. Was this part of the report? Or chitchat? Fran’s question was rather ambiguous. Why would her living conditions
be part of this?
“Go on,” Fran said.
“I have to admit being quite stunned. I’ve only seen such historic places when they’ve been turned into museums. I never dreamed I might find myself living in such a gorgeous palazzo.”
“You are happier here than you would be in Boston,” Mo said. It wasn’t a question.
Aida thought of Graham and his tongue in Erin’s mouth. After a moment’s hesitation, she agreed, “I am.” She was thankful they
didn’t ask her to elaborate.
They peppered her with other questions: how she got along with Trista and the rest of the staff, how she liked the food, what
it was like being in Rome and regularly speaking the language. Aida answered honestly, although she left out the part about
feeling weird about her lack of privacy and her concern about surveillance. At last, the questions shifted to her work.
“Why do you think Goethe turned to the Greeks to build his mythology of Faust?” Mo asked her.
Aida was glad she had spent so much time diving into that side of Goethe. “He believed the ancient Greeks had achieved the
perfection of humanity, and this is why they were the masters of literature and art. In his own works, he turned to the ancient
myths and depicted humanity in battle against the gods. It was his allegory for the Enlightenment.”
Fran sniffed disdainfully.
Worried that perhaps she had given some sort of incorrect answer, Aida continued in a rush. “He thought the Greeks demonstrated
their understanding of human nature through the mythology of the classical gods, and he strove to emulate this in his own
works, not just in Faust, but in poems such as ‘Prometheus’ and ‘Ganymede.’”
“Enough,” Disa said, cutting her off. “We already know what Goethe thought about the gods. Let’s move on.”
The questions bombarded her with dizzying speed, each a pointed query that dug into her meticulously prepared reports. “What
did you think the first time you saw the Tischbein painting in the Goethe museum?”
Why are they asking me this? Didn’t they read my detailed observations? She offered a rehearsed response. “It was like seeing happiness distilled into pigments and brushstrokes.”
The next question shot at her like a bolt. “What made people happy about seeing the Andy Warhol painting of Goethe?”
Her mind raced. She had reported about the blend of modern and classical aesthetics, but was that what they were after? Or
did they expect some revelation? “People found joy in Warhol’s subversion of the classical—how he breathed new life into a
cultural icon,” she said, aware that she was also questioning her own understanding of happiness with every answer.
Next, they pivoted to her time in Venice, and after forty minutes of questions, Aida wished she had a cup of coffee. She never
slept well the night before flying, and in addition to the emotions weighing upon her, the questioning was mentally exhausting.
After his initial question, Mo had been silent through the barrage from Disa and Fran but finally brought up a new inquiry.
“Were you happy in the Chapel of the Madonna di Vitaleta?”
“I was till you arrived,” she blurted out, then silently cursed herself. Why did he bring out such a sarcastic side to her?