Chapter 54 Loretta
L ORETTA
Loretta lies in the dark and waits. Soon Alberto’s snoring. He never wakes once he’s asleep. Both of the children are out. Rocco has taken Sophie to the cinema at the Lido, and Marina is out with friends. The coast is clear.
Quietly, she dresses in the dark and slips out of the apartment, taking her coat, headscarf and gloves from the hatstand by the front door before she leaves.
The hotel is silent, the hum of the bar heater along the walls of the hallway the only noise. She avoids the eyes of il Papa.
Downstairs, she applies lipstick, gives her hair a quick going over with spray and dabs perfume on her wrists. She looks at herself in the mirror; her skin’s glowing. The adrenaline rush has made her look younger.
You deserve this , she tells herself. You deserve to have passion.
Her insides are dancing.
The streets of San Marco are abandoned – everyone’s at the lagoon for New Year’s. Flavia’s hotel is far enough away for Loretta not to be friends with the owners but close enough to be within walking distance. The clouds are full of promise for rain, not an ideal night for fireworks. She hurries, walking fast to beat the predicted downpour.
This evening’s dinner service felt interminable. She was so jittery that she was almost twitching in front of the guests. Alberto was in such a joyful mood, walking between the tables wishing every diner ‘buon anno!’
Loretta might be the face of the hotel, but Alberto is its heartbeat. Even this week, when he’s officially been off work, his presence at mealtimes continues to make Il Cuore what it is.
It felt like it took an age for the clean-up to be over and their evening shows to be watched, for their showers to be taken and for Alberto to finally, finally fall asleep.
Loretta can’t remember the last time she walked these streets alone at night. Without the flavour and colour of the day, San Marco’s beauty in the dark is more of an echo than a shout. She loves this district, this city, she loves it deep in her bones.
People are shocked when they hear she’s never lived anywhere else except at Il Cuore from the day she was born, but she wouldn’t have it any other way. How lucky she is to have lived a life with the water as much a part of her as the blood running through her veins. She knows every building, every piazza, like she knows her own body. Venice is in her skin.
She turns a corner and walks past Chiesa di Santo Stefano, the huge stone church where the twins were baptised, and she’s hit with a memory so powerful it knocks the wind out of her: Alberto standing on the pavement where she now walks, juggling a twin in each arm and beaming at her.
‘Loretta!’ he’d called out to her as their family and friends flowed out onto the church steps after the service. He planted a fat kiss on Rocco and Marina’s chubby cheeks.
The twins were three months old, in matching satin bonnets and billowing white gowns. Both of them were delighted to be bounced around on their papà’s hips on that sunny spring day.
‘Look what you gave me! Which man could ever ask for more?’ He laughed with unbridled joy.
Loretta looks away from the church and hurries on towards the hotel where Flavia waits.
As she crosses over a footbridge, a neon sign from Ristorante Sale e Pepe catches her eye. It was a newly opened restaurant when Alberto brought her here, the talk of the town with three Michelin stars and a celebrity chef who hailed from Naples. It was hard to get into, but Alberto had booked well in advance.
She remembers him sitting opposite her at one of its terrace tables, celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. He had greased back his thinning hair and placed a rose in the buttonhole of his suit jacket. She’d laughed and asked if he was hoping to meet someone new with all the effort he was putting in.
He laughed back. ‘When you’re married to the most beautiful woman in Italy, perhaps in the world, and you look like a slapped arse ninety-nine per cent of the time, then for one per cent of the time you should make an effort.’
Holding her hand across the candlelit table that night, he looked earnestly into her eyes. ‘When we met, you asked me if I was prepared to marry a broken woman and I said yes. I told you I would help you mend. I promised to make you happy. Have I made you happy, Loretta? Have I helped you mend?’
What had she answered? She can’t remember the exact words she used. She knows that when she answered she was thinking of Flavia and her heart ached.
Loretta’s walking slows down. This city she loves is a reflection of the life she’s made with Alberto. He’s everywhere, he’s part of the fabric of Venice – the gardens where they’ve taken the children, the schools they’ve been parents at, the markets where they do business, the cafes where they eat and the churches where they pray. He’s been by her side, as solid as a rock, through financial hardship; he was her strength when she buried her adored parents; he was the one they all leaned on to pick up the pieces when their children’s hearts were broken through failed relationships. It’s always been Alberto. He’s been happy to let her shine and take the spotlight, never jealous or threatened. He’s accepted her and never judged her, even when she told him on their first blind date that she was a gay woman in need of a husband.
Alberto was a simple man looking for a wife to love, and he never asked anything of her except for her to make a home with him. The last few days she’s convinced herself that her marriage is a sham. It’s not. It’s the most honest marriage of anyone she knows.
She’s been focused on how much she deserves to be loved by Flavia, but what about Alberto? What does he deserve? Her heart is torn in two.
She reaches the street where Flavia’s hotel is and stops outside for a moment before she enters the hotel lobby. It’s a much larger hotel than Il Cuore. The lights are bright, there’s elevator Christmas music playing and a man and woman are behind the front desk.
She sends Flavia a text: I’m here. Then she sits and waits with her heart galloping.
She hears the lift bell ring a minute or two later and out walks Flavia with an excited look on her beautiful face. She’s dressed in lay person’s clothing. Her wavy grey-blonde hair falls over her shoulders, and her slender body is hugged by a cream cable knit sweater and dusky pink jeans. She looks like a woman in her forties, not her sixties, and Loretta’s filled with a deep visceral longing.
Flavia smiles at her and all Loretta wants to do is take her to bed.
When Flavia reaches her, they keep their distance, aware of the hotel staff watching them. Loretta’s hiding under an oversized coat and a headscarf, but she could still be easily recognisable.
‘Che bella,’ Flavia says softly, homing in on Loretta’s mouth. ‘Come upstairs?’ Her eyes are hazy and her intentions are clear.
The air is thick between the two of them.
Loretta gulps. ‘I can’t do this, I’m sorry.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I came to tell you that I can’t cheat on my husband.’ The words feel caught in her throat.
‘But I thought you wanted this? The other day at the church ... your text messages.’
Loretta looks away from her, unable to maintain eye contact and stay strong. ‘I want you, I do. But I can’t.’
‘One night, Loretta.’ Flavia’s voice wobbles. ‘Give me one night. That’s all. I can leave tomorrow, first thing.’
Loretta shakes her head. ‘I can’t, amore.’
Flavia blinks away tears. ‘I understand.’
‘You don’t hate me?’
‘How could I ever hate you?’ Flavia whispers. ‘Will you at least come for a walk with me if you won’t come upstairs?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let me get my coat.’
Flavia returns in a grey knitted beanie and woollen coat, and Loretta’s stomach flips upon seeing her again. It’s all she can do not to reach out for her.
Together the women leave the hotel, walking a respectable distance apart. The rain has held off and they find a bench further up the street, overlooking a small canal. A streetlamp above them illuminates the water. They sit close together.
‘Can I hold your hand at least?’ Flavia asks.
Loretta shakes her head and keeps her hands inside her coat pockets.
Flavia sighs. ‘Are you going to explain this change of heart to me?’
Loretta stares at the water lapping against the apartment block on the opposite side of the canal. ‘Can we just leave it at I love you, but I’m married?’
‘We can.’
They sit in silence for a while.
‘Do you still sing?’ The steam that Flavia breathes glows in the dark night.
‘No. Not since we broke up really. I left the choir when you left.’
‘That makes me sad to hear. Your voice is so beautiful.’
Loretta’s cheeks warm at the compliment. ‘Alberto loves to sing. He’s filled our home with music. It’s enough.’
‘You don’t sing together?’
‘No. Never.’ She swallows. ‘Do you still sing?’
Flavia lets out a giggle. ‘I’m a nun, cara. Of course I sing. We sing every day.’
‘I always loved your voice.’ Loretta still doesn’t trust herself to look at her and not kiss her. So she reaches for her medallion inside her top.
‘Is that the pendant of the Madonna your nonna gave you? You still have that?’ Flavia asks.
‘Of course I do.’ Loretta pulls it out to show her.
‘Oh, Loretta, you still carry my ring. And this is your wedding ring?’ Flavia holds the chain in her hand, her breath hot near Loretta’s neck.
Loretta nods. ‘My fingers are swollen. I can’t wear rings any more.’
Flavia examines the medallion. ‘I remember this pendant so clearly. It hasn’t changed and neither have you. Whenever you were nervous, you’d reach for it and you still do.’
‘The Madonna brings me comfort.’
Flavia lets go of the pendant and, turning to face the water again, lets out a long sigh. ‘Can I ask you something? Do you ever wonder if it’s even true?’
‘If what’s true?’ Loretta says.
‘The Madonna. The annunciation, the virgin birth, all of it.’
‘What are you talking about? Of course it’s true.’
‘Is it, though?’ Flavia stretches her legs out long, and Loretta’s drawn to their shapeliness. The desire inside her intensifies.
‘Do you know what happened to girls in Jesus’ time who became pregnant out of wedlock?’ Flavia asks, drawing Loretta back to the conversation about the Madonna. ‘They were stoned to death. I mean, what would you do if you were Mary’s mother, and it became obvious your daughter was pregnant and the man she was betrothed to swore the baby wasn’t his?’
Loretta winces at Flavia’s casual use of ‘Mary’, like she’s any regular person, not the Blessed Virgin. She clutches the pendant and stays silent.
‘Isn’t it possible,’ Flavia says, ‘living in an era where the obsession among Jews was the impending arrival of a Messiah, that a devout Jewish mother, familiar with scripture and trying to protect her daughter from certain death, would call this pregnancy a miracle, a gift from God, and convince her daughter that this is what it was?’
Loretta looks hard into Flavia’s eyes. She’s not joking. Loretta can’t quite believe what she’s hearing. ‘Where’s this coming from? I don’t understand what’s happening.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Flavia bites her lip. ‘I know this is hard for you to hear. I remember well how deep your devotion to Mary was. But I need to share my doubts with someone, and I can’t speak to any of the sisters at the convent, obviously.’
‘I didn’t know you had any doubts.’
‘I’m crippled by them.’
‘But, cara, what you’re saying about the Blessed Virgin doesn’t even make sense. The Angel Gabriel came to Saint Joseph in a dream and told him it was God’s baby. It wasn’t just the Madonna who said so.’
Flavia clears her throat. ‘Isn’t it possible that Joseph, who by all accounts was a good and decent man, took pity on Mary and agreed to this story and to say he was the father to save her life?’
‘So everyone’s lying? The Blessed Virgin, Saint Anne, Saint Joseph?’ Loretta scoffs. ‘Who was the father, then? If you’re saying the virgin birth was a lie and that it wasn’t Saint Joseph’s baby either, then who was the father?’
‘I don’t know. Back then, girls were married by the time they were fourteen at the latest, which would have made Mary twelve or thirteen when she fell pregnant. Maybe it was her own father, or another relative, a soldier. It could’ve been anyone.’ Flavia sounds as if she’s talking about characters on a television show, not the blessed event of the immaculate conception. ‘Whoever the father was, though, Mary wasn’t at an age where she would have wanted to have sex.’
Flavia stops talking as a young couple walk past, rugged up in coats and hand in hand, talking to each other in German.
Loretta waits for them to be out of earshot before she speaks. ‘Are you suggesting that the Mother of God was raped ?’ Her mouth is quite suddenly dry. She finds it hard to believe she started out this evening thinking she’d be in Flavia’s bed and instead they’re out here on a cold bench in the dark arguing about theology.
‘I think it’s a plausible explanation,’ Flavia replies. ‘More plausible, at least, than the story the church has come up with.’
Loretta shakes her head in disbelief. ‘How can you say these things? How can you even think them? Of course the Madonna was a virgin, that’s what makes her holy! You’re a nun and you don’t believe such a miracle is possible?’
Flavia takes a while to answer. Her eyes search Loretta’s. ‘What if there’s no miracle? What if instead of a miracle, our entire religion was founded on a lie? What if I left our life together, our beautiful perfect life’—her voice breaks—‘for something that’s not even real?’
Loretta’s heart softens. ‘Oh, Flavia. You didn’t waste your life. You’ve been in service to God. There’s no higher calling.’
‘I just don’t know.’ Flavia begins to cry. ‘A couple of months ago it dawned on me that I was living a lie. That none of it was real.’
‘None of it?’ Loretta asks her gently.
Flavia nods. ‘Once I questioned one thing, I started to question everything. The more I read, the less I believed.’
‘You’re reading rubbish! You were chosen by God. You told me yourself how powerful and persistent that calling was until you could no longer ignore it. Don’t you remember?’
‘The more I think about it, the more I think that was me being fanciful.’
‘You think you imagined a calling that made you leave everything behind and join the convent?’
Flavia nods again.
‘Do you believe Jesus even existed?’ Loretta’s so shocked, the words are hard to get out.
‘I believe he lived in the time the Bible says he did and that he died by crucifixion in his early thirties.’ Flavia sounds so cold, so analytical, when discussing the Lord. ‘It’s not disputed that he had a big following once he began to preach publicly, and that the momentum swelled after he died. Those are the facts.’
‘Facts? What about faith ? What about the resurrection?’
Flavia doesn’t blink. ‘No.’
‘What happened to you?’ Loretta says softly.
‘I think what happened to me,’ Flavia says through her tears, ‘is that I was so deeply indoctrinated, I devoted my whole life to a fictional story.’
Loretta stares out at the water. The silence between them lingers. After a while she says, ‘What will you do? Will you leave the convent?’
‘The convent is the only life I know. The Vatican is my home. I don’t have the fortitude to start all over again on my own. The only way I would leave is if I had someone to start a new life with.’ She pauses. ‘If I had you.’
She looks at Loretta hopefully and Loretta understands then that Flavia’s homecoming has absolutely nothing to do with their love. Flavia’s home because she’s running away. Flavia’s home because she’s lost. And she’s looking for someone to save her.