Chapter 11 #2
to hit the holiday market. That means moving straight into copyediting and printing galleys almost immediately. They’re sure
it will be a big hit for Christmas, and they want to capitalize on that momentum.”
Aida blinked, trying to process the information. “That’s . . . incredibly fast.” Her mind flashed back to her colleague Celia,
a seasoned novelist who had once lamented how glacially slow the publishing world could be. Months, Celia had said, often more than a year between signing a contract and seeing it inch toward publication. But this was nothing like that. This was breakneck speed.
And while part of her was thrilled, another part couldn’t ignore how strange it all felt. How—and why—was this happening to
her?
“It is, but they believe the book is solid enough to move directly to the next stage. This is highly unusual, but that’s why it’s such good news! They’re convinced this will be a big book, and they’re prepared to put
significant resources behind it. I think you’ll be quite pleased with the advance they’re offering.”
Mara named a sum over seven figures, and Aida was glad she was sitting down. “Wait, how can that be?” she asked, stunned. From everything she’d read, new authors typically received far less—somewhere between $5,000 and $20,000 for a debut.
“It’s a rare opportunity, Aida. Just say you’re ready to go. The contract details will be coming over soon, and I’ll walk
you through everything. But for now, I just wanted you to know how excited they are—and how excited I am! This is huge, Aida.
Really huge.”
Aida was still reeling. “Thank you, Mara. I’m . . . I’m excited too. This is just . . . incredible.”
After a few more minutes of enthusiastic chatter and a promise from Mara to email over all the details, Aida ended the call.
She sat there for a moment, staring at her phone, the reality slowly sinking in. She had sold her book. Her book. To one of
the Big Five publishers. And they wanted it out by the holidays as a lead title. She should be overjoyed; part of her was,
but another part felt a familiar unease. Why was this happening so smoothly, so quickly? Why would MODA be so invested in
her success as a fiction writer? It didn’t quite add up, but then again, little about MODA ever did.
Later that morning, Aida met up with Felix at the entrance to the Jesuit church of Sant’Ignazio di Loyola in Campo Marzio,
not far from the Pantheon. She had been inside the Baroque church dozens of times before—its magnificent ceiling was one of
her favorites in all of Italy.
“Morning, love, you look radiant,” he told her after he gave her the customary kiss upon each cheek.
“Oh, that’s just because I may have a book deal.”
“No, you don’t. Didn’t you just finish it?” Then he realized she wasn’t joking. “Wait, you do have a deal!” He stepped back,
taking a moment to absorb the news, then stepped forward again, his hands clasping hers. “That’s fantastic, Aida,” he said,
his admiration for her evident in his tone. “Wow, there are so many good things happening for you. And you only have me to
thank for it.”
That sent Aida into laughter, which was interrupted by a spindly old priest in a black cassock who opened the door with a scowl. Felix presented his guide badge and the man ushered them in, locking the door behind them, muttering to himself.
“I’m sorry,” Aida said to him in Italian. “I didn’t hear what you said.”
“I don’t like it, this locking of the doors, keeping the people out.”
“It’s only for a day, and I’m sure the donation my employers gave the church will be worth it,” she told him.
He fixed a rheumy eye on her. “There are people out there that need guidance more than we need money. I don’t agree with the
bishop on this, no, no, I do not.”
Aida kept a smile plastered on her face. “I understand. Tomorrow, the doors will be open again, and my work will shift to
observing and interviewing tourists. But I promise we will work hard to complete our work quickly today so you can open the
doors again.”
“If you need me, I will be in the offices in the hallway.” He pointed toward a nondescript door and shuffled off.
“What a crusty old man,” Felix said once the priest had gone. “I promise you, we won’t need him.” He laid his jacket on the
back of the pew closest to the door. “Ready to get started?”
Aida nodded. She pulled her recorder from her bag and hit the record button. “Ready.”
For the next two hours, Felix went over every last detail of the church, ranging from the magnificent forced perspective ceiling
that depicted the life and work of Saint Ignatius to the fake dome—a masterful illusion that, when observed from the right
spot in the church, gave the viewer the feeling that it was real, not painted on a flat surface. Most of the scene represented
the Counter-Reformation and the Jesuits’ desire to defend the Catholic faith. Aida had done considerable research before she
visited so much of the information was not new, but Felix had a particular perspective on the life of painter Andrea Pozzo
and on the Baroque times he lived in.
“I’ve been in the church in Vienna that Pozzo painted,” Felix told her. “The dome is better executed, but it lacks the richness of the full ceiling above us.”
Aida’s neck was beginning to hurt from looking upward. She rubbed at it, but could not keep her eyes on the ground.
Felix was still going on about the ceiling. “The blur between the physical edifice and the painted world is what I find the
most miraculous. It’s as though we’re having a spiritual vision. There’s a sense of movement. Nothing in this painting is
static. It’s all wild energy. You can almost see the movement of the clouds, the force behind the avenging angel’s javelin,
the strength of the angel holding Christ’s shield.”
Aida simplified it for him. “This ceiling . . . to me it represents joy. Every time I see it, I’m filled with pure happiness.”
They stared upward together in companionable silence until the priest interrupted them to explain that he was locking up the
church while he took lunch and they would have to come back in an hour.
“The photographer will be here then, so that works out,” Aida said to Felix as they followed the priest out of the church.
“Besides, I am betting you won’t mind if I treat you to lunch.”
They found a little restaurant a block away, tucked between two ancient Roman columns that had been built into the building’s
infrastructure. Felix secured a table for them while Aida found her way to the restroom. When she returned, he was gaping
at his phone, alarm etched across his features.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“You know the Chapel of the Madonna di Vitaleta near Val d’Orcia?”
Aida reached for a thin breadstick from the cup in front of her and began to unwrap it. “Yes, remember, I recorded it not
long after I came to Italy.”
“It was destroyed this morning in an earthquake.”
She dropped the breadstick. “What?”
“I can’t believe it. It’s literally one of the most iconic Italian images. The pictures are horrible. It’s just rubble now.” He handed her his phone.
“Dio mio.” As Aida scrolled through the photos, the same grief welled up within her as when she saw the empty space where the Hatch
Shell had once stood.
“They’ll rebuild it, I’m sure. But what a tragedy,” he said.
They talked a bit more about the earthquake, and how no one was hurt, so that was a saving grace. Then Aida told Felix about
the Goethe museum.
“How odd is it that twice in one day I find that places I’ve researched are gone.”
“Coincidence, I’m sure,” Felix assured her.
Their conversation turned to other news of the day: the impeachment of Donald Trump; endless Meghan and Harry Royal Family
controversy; devastating bushfires in Australia; and the Arctic experiencing record-breaking high temperatures, pushing the
thawing of permafrost, which was releasing carbon dioxide and methane at rates faster than the earth could compensate.
“This is depressing,” Aida finally said, realizing that she didn’t want to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders
that afternoon. “It’s a dogpile of awfulness. Let’s talk about art instead.”
But underneath the discussion about the Caravaggio in one of the nearby churches, Aida couldn’t shake her sadness that places
she had cataloged were changing and disappearing.
That evening at dinner, Aida asked Trista if she had heard about the tragedy of the little Tuscan church.
“I have.” She deftly swirled her pasta with her fork.
Aida wanted to shake her. Despite Trista’s often somber appearance, she seemed curiously detached from most emotions. Aida
had grown used to these peculiarities, but sometimes, like at this moment, they just made her angry.
“It’s really awful. It’s one of the most iconic images of Italy.”
“You mean it was.” Trista sipped her wine.
Aida couldn’t stop her jaw from dropping. “You don’t care at all?”
Trista wiped at the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “It’s not that I don’t care. It’s just that it doesn’t affect me,
and I can’t do anything about it, so it does me no good to give it much thought.”
“That sounds like you don’t care.”
Trista raised an eyebrow at her but said nothing.
Aida could no longer control her exasperation. “It’s two terrible things that have happened to places we’ve cataloged. It
baffles me that it doesn’t bother you.”
“It’s a coincidence, Aida. Nothing more.” Trista set her napkin down on the table and stood up. “You shouldn’t let this get
to you so much.” She took her half-full wineglass with her when she left the room.
After she was gone, Pippa came over and refilled Aida’s wine. “She’s right about one thing, luv,” the sous-chef said to her.
“Don’t go lettin’ ’er get under yer skin.”
Aida sighed and took a big gulp of her wine. “I just don’t understand her at all. Two MODA projects gone in one day? How can
it not affect her?”
“She ain’t got no bleedin’ ’eart, that one. But listen, I reckon yer onto somethin’. Always thought there’s summat dodgy goin’
on, like there’s somethin’ rotten in the state of Denmark.” Pippa gave her a little wave good-night, then slipped off into
the kitchen.
That night, as Aida settled into bed, she tried to calm her mind by focusing on how much her life had transformed. MODA had
opened doors she’d only ever dreamed of, giving her a generous salary, a beautiful home in the heart of Rome, a new book deal,
and endless inspiration for future projects. Professionally, she had never been in a better place.
Still, a faint unease tugged at her, Pippa’s mention of Hamlet flickering in her thoughts. But for now, Aida brushed it aside. If something truly was rotten in the state of Denmark, she
wasn’t sure she wanted to know.