Chapter 16 #2
“I’d be delighted!” While Aida already adored Pippa, she was extra pleased to be able to walk with her that morning and pick
her brain about MODA. Despite her promise to Trista, she slipped her hand into her pocket and turned her phone off, reasoning
that her aide likely wouldn’t need to reach her in the ten minutes it would take to walk to Campo de’ Fiori, a stone’s throw
from the museum. “I have a question for you.” Aida held up her phone and indicated it was off, and Pippa did the same.
“Sure.”
“If you had to guess, how do you think Johannes died?”
Pippa gave a low chuckle. “Oi, ya feelin’ a bit nervous?”
“Should I be?”
“Well, I don’t exactly ’ave the answer to that, but I’ve said before, I don’t think Johannes’s death was as simple as what the coroner said. That bloke was a proper picture of ’ealth. He was a veggie, never touched a cig or even a spliff, and went joggin’ by the Tevere every mornin’.”
“But sometimes healthy people have genetic issues that no one knows about until it happens,” Aida reasoned.
Pippa shrugged. “Could be, could be. But in the weeks before ’e died, I ’eard ’im and Trista fightin’ more. And as a peace
offerin’, or at least that’s what she said when she came to pick up the tray, she started bringin’ ’im ’is afternoon tea.”
Aida stopped in her tracks. “Wait, what are you suggesting?”
Pippa put a hand on Aida’s shoulder. “I’m tellin’ ya if Trista starts offerin’ to make ya tea every day, ya might want to
steer clear of ’er kindness.”
Aida took a deep breath to stop the panic that threatened to overtake her. “What were they fighting about?”
“I don’t remember much, ’cept that Johannes didn’t like the way MODA was doin’ things, and Trista was gettin’ fed up with
’im questionin’ ’er. One day ’e told me ’e was thinkin’ of quittin’, but we didn’t finish the chat ’cause Dante arrived and
needed my ’elp with somethin’. I didn’t see Johannes for a few days, and then we got the news ’e died of a ’eart attack. We
got a few weeks off, came back a couple days before you arrived. It was all very sad and strange. I liked the bloke.”
“Was there any police investigation?”
Pippa threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, dear girl, do ya really think that MODA, with all that cash they’ve got, would
ever get investigated? ’Specially ’ere in Italia, where it’s easy to grease a palm?”
Aida knew she was right. Italy had long been listed as one of the most corrupt countries in Europe. While she had personally
only met upstanding people, she knew the country’s bureaucracy and authorities were rife with corruption. MODA often paid
for access to the sites she cataloged, but this was a deeper aspect to the story.
Pippa’s tone shifted, filled with concern. “So, what’s goin’ on? Why are ya worried?”
Aida hesitated, not sure if she should put Pippa in danger. She opened her mouth to speak and shut it again.
“Aida, you can trust me and Ilario. I don’t think there’s another soul in that ’ouse I’d say the same about, but we don’t
’ave any great loyalty to MODA beyond our fat bank accounts.”
Aida caved. She liked the idea of having an ally in the palazzo. “I have some worries about MODA that I can’t explain just
yet, but I want to find out if they are true.”
“Come on, let’s keep walkin’. Can’t ’ave ya bein’ late.” Pippa started back down the street and Aida fell into step. “Tell
me, ’ow ya gonna find out?”
“I want to search Trista’s office, but I’m unsure how to get near it. She’s always there, or she’s with me.” Aida was about
to say she had sometimes heard people talking with Trista in her office late at night—it had happened several times during
Aida’s middle-of-the-night palazzo strolls when she couldn’t sleep. She had always wondered who was with her and had come
to assume these chats were video calls Trista was having with another part of the world. But if MODA were comprised of ancient
gods, they must be able to show up at will whenever they wanted. The idea of snooping through Trista’s office suddenly seemed
even less intriguing, if that were possible.
“Ah, well, I can ’elp ya with that. Make it easy for ya to get in there.”
“How can you do that?”
“She usually ’as a spot of decaf tea at night before she kips. I can make sure she’ll really sleep.”
Aida didn’t want to know any more details.
Jumping out of the way of a passing Vespa, Pippa continued, “When do ya want to do it?”
Aida hesitated. What did she really think she’d find in Trista’s office? And what would she do once she found it? She wasn’t sure she wanted to be so quickly out of a job. Or in jail. And if she was looking for information about a database, she needed Yumi’s help.
“Not just yet. I’ll let you know soon.” Campo de’ Fiori loomed ahead at the end of the street, its white-capped market tents
glowing in the morning sunshine.
“Right, then. You just give me the sign, and that night she’ll be sleepin’ like a baby.” Pippa pulled her phone out of her
pocket and flipped it back on. “Ahh, my artichokes.” She gave Aida a little salute, then headed past several vendors with
cheap tourist trinkets toward a stall laden with vegetables.
Aida turned on her phone and headed toward Palazzo Spada, just a few streets away. She paused to take photos of Giulio Mazzoni’s
stucco sculptures of Roman heroes and emperors, as well as the facade of the opposing building across the piazzetta, and a beautiful fountain adorned with a nymph with arms crossed over her breasts and a lion spewing water into a scalloped
basin.
She spent the next two hours in a sleepy haze, voice cataloging the collection of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century paintings.
She felt blind to the beauty of the immense main hall with its statues and ceiling-to-floor arrangement of paintings. The
rooms were filled with works by Guido Reni, Titian, Jan Brueghel the Elder, Guercino, Rubens, Dürer, Artemisia Gentileschi,
Caravaggio, and others, but she would have to return to truly appreciate the beauty of the objects before her.
For the first time in her work at MODA, she was slogging through a job, rather than doing something she loved. Part of it
was fatigue, but most of it was a heavy haze of worry about what she was supposed to do with the knowledge handed to her by
the ancient Greek goddess Sophrosyne, who, up until yesterday, Aida thought was a myth.
But when she came to the most important feature of Palazzo Spada, the optical illusion added by Borromini to the courtyard over a hundred years after it was built in 1540, Aida perked up a bit.
She stared down into the forced perspective gallery of columns toward the statue of Pompey the Great, trying to work out the trick of it.
The statue looked far away—the length of two bowling lanes—and one sensed that it was a big piece of art.
But she knew it wasn’t, that instead, it was merely thirty feet away, and the statue was only slightly higher than her knee.
She was about to begin recording her impressions when an abrupt Zen came over her, an unusual calmness and connection with
herself. She was no longer tired, and instead was alert yet placid. She could gaze upon this halcyon scene for hours and be
perfectly content.
“Marvelous, isn’t it?”
Aida turned toward the voice, intrigued at her lack of alarm at the sudden sound in the quiet courtyard. She’d heard no crunch
of gravel signaling another soul crossing the expanse to reach her.
Disa stood a few feet away, adorned in a tailored jacket in ecru wool bouclé, stunning on its own but made even more so by
the glossy black trompe l’oeil snake that formed the jacket’s collar, its mouth latched onto its body a few inches from the
end of its tail. Her black crop pants were simple by comparison. Her long black hair was smoothly twisted with a white ribbon
and styled in an intricate updo, the strands artfully pinned in place.
Aida was aware that she should be alarmed at the sudden appearance of this woman, who she now knew was the goddess Discordia,
but she wasn’t. Sophie’s spell really did work. Maybe too well. A bit of surprise would be wise, she thought to herself.
“Oh, Disa! You startled me,” she said with an awkward chuckle that she hoped only lent to the deception. This time, she couldn’t
help but comment on the woman’s wild outfit. “Is that jacket . . . Schiaparelli?” Aida had long admired the fashion house’s
work, famous for its outlandish designs.
“It is.” Disa flashed her a rare smile. Only then did Aida realize the white ribbon in her hair wasn’t a simple accessory
but another snake, its tiny head clasped to the goddess’s ear like an earring.
“It’s stunning.” Aida looked back at Borromini’s Perspective, marveling at how she stood between two things that were not as they seemed. And I am not what I seem, she thought, grateful for the calm Sophie had given her. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I’m in the city visiting my sister who’s down on her luck. I had some free time, and I thought I would see how your work
is going.”
Aida didn’t believe her. Perhaps the goddess suspected Aida knew more than she should. “I wondered why you weren’t in London.
I had no idea we’d exchanged locations.” She emitted another forced laugh. “The work is going well. I’m always in awe of the
genius of the Renaissance artists. And Borromini was one of the best. For someone whose life was full of darkness, he left
us so much beauty,” she said, referring to the artist’s bipolar disorder, which eventually led to his suicide.
“His chaos was his best feature,” Disa said, looking toward Pompey in the false distance. “It was the source of his genius.”
Any doubts that Aida had about Disa’s deism disappeared with that remark. Of course, Discordia would appreciate Borromini’s
eternal conflict. She was a being who thrived on the unpredictable and who reveled in bloodshed and strife. Aida’s memory
of the myths wasn’t as strong as Luciano’s, but she knew some of them, including the story of the golden apples.
The apples! The bowl on the table in the Boston hotel where she’d had the MODA interview—on top of the pile of apples had
been a single golden one. The Apple of Discord. Calm from the aegis tamped down any emotion tied to that realization.
Disa left Aida’s side and undid the rope that blocked visitors from walking down the colonnade. She strode toward the statue.
Aida watched, her mind swirling with the story of Discordia, the goddess who was not invited to the wedding of Peleus and Thetis.
Furious, she went anyway and threw a golden apple inscribed “To the Fairest” among a crowd of attending goddesses.
What ensued was a battle between Hera, Aphrodite, and Athena over the apple that not only disrupted the wedding but also brought about the Trojan War.
Disa reached the statue, her elegant silhouette towering above the stone helmet of Pompey. She looked like a giant. “This
is the best of his brilliance, captured in this illusion.” Although she appeared very far away, she was close enough that
she had no need to raise her voice.
Aida pulled her MODA phone from her pocket and lifted it to take a photo.
Disa’s visage transformed into anger. “Don’t. I didn’t give you permission to capture my image.”
Aida had half assumed she wouldn’t be able to get away with taking a photo of the goddess, but it was the most natural reaction
to such a scene. Any other person would have been delighted to have their photo taken in such a context.
“I’m so sorry,” Aida said, hoping she sounded contrite. “I didn’t take it, I promise.”
Disa left the statue’s side and walked toward Aida, her giant form growing smaller and smaller until she was at the gallery
entrance and her height returned to normal.
“That reminds me,” she said as she neared. “Trista tells me you’ve been having problems with your phone. Should we have it
replaced?”
Aida marveled at how normal her heart was beating in the face of such direct confrontation about her phone. She should have
known Trista would bring it to her superiors’ attention. “No, I think it’s more of a connectivity issue. The signal’s been
spotty when I’m moving around, and sometimes the reception cuts out completely in certain areas. Plus, I’ve noticed the sound
randomly mutes when the connection is bad.” She made an effort to look pained. “I apologize if I’ve caused any concern.”
“Not concern. But being available is part of the agreement you signed.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll be more attentive.”
Disa nodded. “Good. Although, I commend you for bringing some mayhem into Trista’s life. That woman is such a bore.” Without saying goodbye, she turned and walked back across the courtyard toward the entrance.
Aida could feel Sophie’s calm sliding away, leaving her shaking and her heart beating so hard she needed to sit down on the
nearby edge of a planter. She immediately texted Yumi to tell her that she would no longer be able to get away with turning
off her MODA phone.
What will we do? I have so much to tell you.
It seemed an interminable wait for Yumi’s return text.
Don’t worry, I’ll figure something out.