Chapter 13
The deep azure of the ancient mosaics echoed the tone of the sky as Aida stepped into the cool shadows of the Mausoleum of
Galla Placidia. It had been almost a season since London, since Luciano, but there in Ravenna, time seemed to stand still,
suspended amid the glint of glass and stone that had watched over the resting place of an emperor’s daughter for centuries.
Just as she finished recording her thoughts on the awe-inspiring beauty surrounding her, the familiar vibration of the MODA
phone disrupted the morning stillness. She signaled to the photographer to continue while she stepped outside to take the
call. The smell of the nearby ocean wafted on the breeze.
“Pronto.”
Her agent was ecstatic. “Aida, I have good news for you! Your book has made the longlist for the National Book Award!”
Aida looked around her, convinced she must be in the sights of a hidden camera. There were only the nearby brick walls of
the church complex. “Mara, is this a joke? You can’t be serious. The National Book Award? That’s ridiculous. It hasn’t even
been published yet.”
Mara was adamant. “I assure you, this is no joke. It’s possible to submit an advance copy, and we just skated in under the
deadline. The Shadows of Tuscany is a finalist.”
What Mara was saying made no sense. While she knew she was a decent storyteller, there was no way her writing was National Book Award level.
“I think I’ll have to believe this one when I see it.”
“You better start believing it. I’ve been working with Trista to arrange for you to finish early there and head back to the
palazzo to meet up with the press for interviews. A car should be there for you in half an hour.”
“Wait, meet with the press?” She was still trying to take all this in. How could she possibly be a National Book Award finalist?
Even in her wildest dreams, she hadn’t seen that coming.
“You need to get back to the palazzo and freshen up. Foreign correspondents from The Times and The Post are on their way to us now.”
The palazzo Mara was referring to was an oceanside mansion MODA had rented for her. Aida pictured the main living area, with
its expansive views of the sea, an elegant backdrop for these interviews.
“Call me afterward,” Mara said.
Aida watched her phone disconnect. Stunned, she went back into the little tomb to wrap things up with the photographer before
heading up the path to the waiting car. On the way to the palazzo, she texted Yumi to tell her the news. Aida didn’t expect
a response right away; her friend was likely still not up for her day yet.
Trista was waiting for Aida at the palazzo and quickly ushered her into her room, where a makeup artist and hairstylist were
ready to transform her. “Do I really need all this?” she asked her aide.
“This is a big moment. You want to look your best,” Trista told her. “There will be many photos.”
So Aida let herself be pampered. She was reminded of the scene in The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy was whisked to the beauty salon and all the attendants swirled around her.
Was this what it was like for celebrities readying for movie scenes or red-carpet ceremonies?
There was a perverse pleasure in all of it—that she could just lie back and let them make her beautiful.
After, Trista ushered Aida into the wardrobe. Several outfits were laid out for her, carefully selected to look great on camera.
Aida’s eyes were drawn to a pale citrus-colored suit with a darker pink chemise and matching pink shoes. When she finally
was allowed to look into the mirror, she gasped. She was sure Yumi wouldn’t even recognize her if they passed each other on
the street. The stylist had worked magic with the length her hair had grown over the past months, sweeping it into an elegant
updo that accentuated her features beautifully. Her makeup was far heavier than she liked, but it sculpted her face into a
visage of sophistication she hadn’t known she possessed.
“I feel like someone else stepped into my shoes,” she said to Trista.
Trista adjusted her collar. “Maybe they did.”
“What do you mean?”
Trista didn’t answer her. Instead, she handed her a tablet.
“What’s this?”
On it was a list of talking points for the interviews: themes from The Shadows of Tuscany, her inspirations, her writing process. As she skimmed the notes, she couldn’t help but notice the careful omission of anything
related to MODA. That wasn’t a surprise—she’d known from the start that MODA was strictly off-limits in public conversations.
But seeing it so neatly excluded still made her uneasy.
“You know the rules,” Trista reminded her, as if reading her thoughts. “The focus is on the book. Talk about your writing,
your characters, your inspirations. They’re here to discuss your creative journey, not MODA.”
“I know,” Aida said quietly. “But I know this book . . . I’m not sure I need specific talking points.”
“This is how these things work, Aida. It’s about presenting yourself as the author, the storyteller. This is to help shape the conversation so there is no need to mention how MODA helped you get here.”
Aida nodded, flipping through the talking points again. She had expected some guidance for the interviews, but this was more
than that—a major narrative of her life was being shaped for her. She was being packaged, every detail of her public persona
meticulously controlled. She wasn’t sure this was how most authors did their interviews. It left her feeling like a puppet
on invisible strings.
The interviews were a blur. No matter what question was thrown her way, Aida had to steer the conversation back to the approved
topics, her responses already half written for her. Each time she spoke, the real Aida sank further into the background, replaced
by this polished version of herself that MODA had crafted. When the last reporter left, Aida collapsed onto the salon’s divan
and closed her eyes, exhausted. The room was finally quiet, but her thoughts were a whirlwind. She had never been less in
control of her own life.
A clap in her face startled her. “No rest for the wicked!”
She sat up with alarm and opened her eyes. Dressed in a tux as though he were going to an award ceremony, Mo settled into
a chair across from her. He was far more handsome than Aida wanted to admit.
“What are you doing here?”
His lips curved into a subtle, knowing grin. “I came to congratulate you.”
Aida raised an eyebrow. “You came to Ravenna for that?”
He cocked his head, regarding her for a moment. “So skeptical. Why is that a surprise?”
“It seems a bit out of the way, that’s all. I mean, we’re in the middle of nowhere.”
Mo made a dismissive gesture. “Nahh. Anything for you, Aida.” He slipped a hand into his jacket, retrieved a folded piece
of paper, and handed it to her.
Aida unfolded it. It was a memo from MODA that they were boosting her salary by 10 percent.
“Close your mouth, little novelist. We wouldn’t want you to swallow a fly.”
Aida reread the memo. “This . . . is . . .”
“A lot. I agree. I tried to tell them that you aren’t worth so much, but I was overridden.”
“Wow,” Aida managed, unsure what else to say.
“Wow is right. But I suppose you did manage to win the National Book Award. So, that’s another ten thousand in your pocket too.”
Aida stared at him. “The winners haven’t been announced yet.”
He stood. “Oh, of course you’ll win. I declare it.” He headed toward the door. “Don’t spend all that in one place.”
An accolade-filled month later, Aida met Felix at his apartment in the Roman Ghetto. The late spring light filtering through
the buildings seemed especially luminous to Aida. Her heart swelled with the beauty and history that surrounded her. She was
living in Rome! And her book was up for the freaking National Book Award! She tried to focus on these events, but it was hard
to ignore the little nagging part of her that told her it was all too good to be true.
Aida’s reverie completely dissipated when she reached Piazza Mattei, where a crew of men were repaving the little square with
the black sampietrini cobbles that were prevalent over most of the historic districts in the city. The piazza was empty, just a strange flat spot
in between the medieval buildings. It tugged at her .
. . Something was missing from the center of the piazza.
A fountain, she thought, although the details were hazy.
Puzzled, she walked along the edges of the construction, past the umarelli—the old men that hovered at the perimeter watching the workers—toward Felix’s building, a block past the piazza. When she
arrived, she found Felix sitting on a rickety chair beside the door, scrolling through his phone.
“I can’t get the image of a fountain out of my mind,” she said to him.
“A fountain?” Felix asked, puzzled.
“Yes. And turtles. Turtles.” She couldn’t shake the thought that there were turtles connected with the fountain that was no
longer in the piazza.
“And Bernini,” he said, furrowing his brow.
Aida threw up her hands in excitement. “Yes! Bernini made the turtles. There was a fountain in the middle of Piazza Mattei
with young boys reaching toward the top basin and the turtles on the edge.”
Felix nodded. “I remember now . . . Bernini made the turtles about a hundred years after the fountain was added.”
Aida dug into her bag for her MODA phone and pulled up her calendar. She scanned through the entries and looked for Piazza
Mattei, but nothing came up. She pulled off her scarf and wrapped it around the MODA phone to muffle the sound, then put it
in the bottom of her bag and pulled out a notebook, flipping it open.
“What on earth is that?” Felix asked, picking up the notebook. “Alien script?”
“I take it you’ve never seen shorthand?”
Felix boggled. “Shorthand? You know shorthand?”
Aida laughed and explained that her grandmother had taught shorthand in schools before it went out of vogue and had taught