Eames rounded a corner and found himself standing in a narrow, semi-dark alley in one of Milan's oldest neighborhoods. There was barely enough space for two people to walk side by side, and he had a fleeting vision of some wild-looking Mafiosi waiting for him in the shadows of a doorway. It was fairly ridiculous, though. Eames had met his share of bad guys in his lifetime, but very few of them would have fit into the two-dimensional world of Hollywood movies.
Nonetheless, he moved carefully, following the slightly curving alley until he reached a nondescript wooden door bearing the number twelve. He rang the bell, and was somewhat surprised when about a minute later, the door was thrown open and a hulking Italian guy, with the physique of a bulldog and the thoroughly innocent face of Momma's good little boy – complete with large brown eyes, full lips and dimples –, appeared on the step.
Eames and the other stared at each other, both equally surprised.
"I'm here to see Signora Bianchi."
"Who are you?" The Italian asked suspiciously. His English was virtually flawless, which got Eames thinking that there was probably more to him than just muscles.
From inside the house, a woman's voice called something, and a moment later, a slender form appeared behind the guy on the doorstep, pushing past him to look at the unexpected visitor and ignoring his mumbled protests.
Lucia Bianchi was wearing a white summer dress and looked just like she had in Arthur's dream. There was even a large, white flower in her hair.
Magnolia, Eames remembered.
He reached out a hand, introducing himself. After a moment's hesitation, she took it, looking at him from Arthur's eyes, which was deeply disturbing.
"What brings you here, Mr. Eames?" She asked politely, but without warmth. "I don't believe I know you."
"I happen to know your brother. I would say I work with him, but that sounds like a white-collar thing, so it really wouldn't fit… maybe you could say that we are partners in crime…?"
Lucia drew in a sharp breath. She said something to the man that Eames didn't catch – mainly because it was spoken in rapid Italian – then beckoned him to step inside. She led him to a surprisingly light and spacious living area, the bodyguard (for Eames couldn't picture him as anything else) following on their heels.
Now why would a well-known, but not yet really famous Italian actress need a bodyguard? She didn't strike him as the high-strung, paranoid type, so there had to be a serious reason for it.
Lucia waved for him to sit down on a couch, before finally introducing Hulk junior. "This is Nico, my butler. Well, and bodyguard," she admitted, before leaning over, telling Nico to get coffee for them. Eames watched him leave, noticing the wary glance he sent Lucia. He was gone only a moment, before returning with a tray, carrying two steaming cups of cappuccino and a plate of biscuits. He placed the tray on the low table between them, then retreated a few steps to stand behind Lucia's chair.
This is getting a little ridiculous. Who does he think I am? The big, bad wolf?
"So… how long have you known my brother?" Lucia leant back in her chair.
"A while. Couple of years."
She was looking at him intently, her dark eyes searching his face as if trying to find some hidden truth or revelation there. Eames found himself struggling to keep the mask in place. How she did it remained a mystery to him, but there was something about Lucia's sweet, melancholy, yet dead-serious face that made him want to tell her the truth, and tell her everything. She managed to look fragile and strong at the same time, and the mixture was fascinating.
He did not want her to know, though. And much like her, Eames was a skilled actor, apt at masking and hiding his true motives and intentions. If eyes were the windows to the soul, then his windows were made of one-way glass. You could look out, but never in.
Lucia was still looking at him, watching, evaluating. She bent forward, took a sip of cappuccino, then asked: "Are you sleeping with him?"
Just a simple little question, and her voice impassive, almost disinterested, but it had the impact of a meteorite. It hit Eames completely unaware and instantly and effectively shattered his poker face.
"I… what…?"
Lucia raised her carefully plucked eyebrows, as if surprised by his reaction.
"What sort of question is that? That's not the first thing any sister would ask about her brother, is it? At least I doubt either of my sisters would. And especially not with a guy like Arthur."
"A guy like Arthur?" Lucia echoed. "Maybe your sisters don't know you as well as I know my brother, Mr. Eames."
"Considering that I have a very good relationship with all of my family, while Arthur refuses to even talk about his, including you, I somehow doubt that," Eames shot back.
"Alright then," Lucia replied, shrugging, "tell me what sort of man Arthur is… in your opinion." She raised a slender, expertly manicured hand and began to rearrange the white flowers in the large vase on the table.
"A good one, that much is for sure. Maybe not an honest, but an upright man. Hardworking, diligent, brave, careful, and fiercely loyal to his friends and most of all, his ideals. They may be a bit boring, but you could never accuse Arthur of being inconsistent."
Not to mention, of course, that like you, he is also drop-dead gorgeous and that he could make my day just by smiling at me, which – regretfully – he never does.
Lucia plucked a magnolia from the vase on the table, carefully examining its large, half-opened flower, before putting it back and looking at Eames. "That's interesting," she said dryly, "either, my brother has changed down to the very core of his being – and recently, too – or you don't know him half as well as you think you do. My money is on the latter, to tell you the truth. Oh, you're right about some parts – he is a perfectionist and determined to the point of self-destructiveness, but fitting the words ideals and Arthur into one sentence seems a little difficult. You almost managed it, though." Her smile was somewhat patronizing when she added: "He has you fooled, hasn't he?"
Eames was by now starting to get a little tired of her attitude. "You don't have very much faith in him, do you?"
Lucia tilted her head to the side, apparently searching for an answer to that question. "Faith…? I guess I just know what I can and can't expect from him, Mr. Eames. Loyalty? Yes. Brotherly affection? Maybe. High moral values? Definitely not. Yes, Arthur cares for me. Always has. And despite everything else he's done, he's tried to keep me safe. But that alone isn't enough to make him a good person." She shook her head, looking almost sad. "The picture you painted of him… it's beautiful. But it just isn't right. Maybe there still is that side of him, hidden beneath all the other layers, but the boy I knew, the boy I once loved, is gone."
"Tell me about him," Eames said, unable to resist the fascination her words held for him.
"Why should I? I don't even know who you are. You might be his friend, or his mortal enemy. If I tell you, what will you do with that knowledge…? What purpose does it serve?"
"I want to understand him."
"Don't. Don't even try. It's frustrating. Arthur's an enigma, not a problem to be solved." She paused, her large, melancholy eyes resting on his face. There was a strange tenderness in her gaze. "But you love him, don't you?"
"Suppose I said yes…" Eames returned her gaze, his poker face wavering.
Lucia sighed. "Well, I guess then I would have to pity you and call you a fool. Loving Arthur is like tending to a garden of thorns, and there is hardly ever a rose among them. And there's no way out. But if you do… then I might as well tell you."
"Please."
"It's not a very interesting, and possibly not even an uncommon story. My grandmother, Maria Bianchi, emigrated to the US after the death of her parents and sister in 1946. She was pregnant at that time, and my mother, Monica, was born in San Francisco. But my grandmother was not fond of city life, having grown up in a small Sicilian village, so she moved to rural Montana when my mother was just a few years old. She found work, built a home and settled into the community there, but she never felt quite at home. When my mother married her high-school sweetheart, who had grown up to become a successful businessman, my grandmother left America to return to Italy, seeing that her only child was happy and well settled. Arthur and I were born and raised Americans. My mother taught us some of her maternal language, but otherwise, our grandmother remained the only link we had to Europe.
Arthur is actually three years older than me, and we were quite the perfect little family. My parents are hard-working, honest, but also very conservative people. They always wanted to do things right, and they always wanted Arthur and me to have the life they imagined for us.
My father had a younger sister, Katherine. We were very close to her and she often looked after Arthur and me when we were little. She got married when we were ten and thirteen years old. Her husband, Timothy, was a jovial, good-natured man and everybody liked him. Aunt Katherine, we agreed, was very happy to have him. They had two daughters, Wendy and Rose, and now it was Arthur and me, who looked after them. Well, more often Arthur than me, because I was always occupied with drama and dancing lessons, school plays and my first, secret boyfriend. Arthur was an earnest, quiet boy, very advanced and responsible for his age. He was also an excellent student, and my parents were very proud of him. But they did not really know him. As it turned out, not even I, who was closest to him back then, really knew him.
Well, I knew that Arthur was hiding something, and had been for a while. But then, being teenagers, we all had our little secrets, and I hadn't told him about Darwin – my first boyfriend – either, mainly because I was afraid of our parents learning the truth. They would not have approved of it. After all, I was only fourteen. Arthur, however, was hiding a somewhat more shocking secret. And unfortunately, it was Aunt Katherine who found out about it first. There is something truly disconcerting to finding your husband in bed with your teenage nephew, the boy you watched grow up and helped to raise. Aunt Katherine was shocked and furious, and probably screaming her lungs out, and she had every right to be mad at her husband, but I don't think she wanted to end the fight as it did. Not with Timothy lying dead at the bottom of the stairs. Not with Arthur having committed his first murder. Now, I don't know what exactly happened that day, because I wasn't there. I don't know if it was an accident, and Arthur tried to separate the two of them, causing Timothy to stumble, or if he deliberately pushed him down the stairs. But at the end of the day, my brother had taken one life, and utterly ruined another one. He was seventeen years old.
Nothing ever was the same again after that day."
Lucia stared across the table, over the top of the flower-filled vase, as if looking into the distant past.
"Arthur left us. Timothy wasn't the only one who died that day; he took the grave, gentle, innocent boy I knew and loved with him. When I met Arthur again, he was an entirely different person. Sufficient to say that I liked his old self better. My parents never spoke another word to him. After my uncle's funeral, they never again mentioned his or Arthur's name. Aunt Katherine moved to Texas with her two little daughters. As far as I know, they are still living there. Wendy must be fifteen or sixteen now, and Rose a couple of years younger. As for Arthur and me – well, we both eventually came to Europe. I went to live with my grandmother, who is a formidable old lady, and I became what I had always wanted to be – an actress. Arthur visited many countries, but I don't think he has ever found a new home. He is restless, something of a nomad, and the company he keeps is somewhat shady." She offered him a wry look. "No offense, Mr. Eames."
"None taken," Eames replied absently. He was still trying to process the story she had told him. Cobb's mysterious hints suddenly fell into place like pieces of a grand puzzle, and other things, too, were finally starting to make sense. But the picture he got from those revelations was an unfriendly and somber one.
Oh Arthur…! No wonder you didn't want me to ask...!