JOAN OF ITALIA
Chapter 9 Scratching Sores and Scratching Backs
(AUTHOR'S NOTE: Caravaggio is a real artist of the Renaissance, but the painting Marghareta mentions is fictitious.)
Half an hour after cheering up Adam, and with her breasts decently covered once more, Joan went down into the hotel's little lobby. Luke was sitting at a table, hunched up with a wine glass, the picture of a melancholy drinker -- except that Joan spotted a Coca-cola can on the table and knew that Luke had not been imbibing anything stronger than soda. Must've had a spat with Grace, Joan thought.
She sat opposite her brother. "We have a new mission," she said. The statement was vague enough that even if somebody who knew English was eavesdropping, it wouldn't give much away.
"You mean you have," said Luke, not looking up.
"Well, of course She was talking to me, but I'm sure She meant all of us."
"Count me out."
"Why?"
"We have free will, don't we? I'm exercising it."
"But our missions have always had good ripples."
"Yeah. And I've heard Pavlov always treated his dogs well until it was time to cut their throats." Luke said sarcastically.
"Fine. It's just a matter of searching for our roots. I can do it myself."
"Sure you can. Do you read Italian?"
"Oh," moaned Joan, chagrined. The widespread use of English as a second language in Europe had distracted her from the fact that records, particularly old ones, would be in the local language. High school French would probably not be sufficient. "Do you?"
"I might be able to spell it out, based on Latin. I studied some Latin to understand scientific terminology. But I'm not interested in going on some mission without knowing the reason."
"Luke, do you know something I don't about the missions/"
"I don't KNOW anything. I've just had a change of attitude. I don't want to talk about it." He got up and walked out the door onto the Roman sidewalk. Joan decided to let him go.
She thought that she understood her brother's attitude. Grace had the most elaborate mission they had ever received: join a famine-relief organization and help out in the Third World. It meant that Luke was separated from his beloved during the day, with a possible permanent separation at the end of two weeks. He and Grace were together only in nights and evenings. Joan had no idea what Luke and Grace did in bed, and didn't want to know, but apparently it wasn't enough to compensate for the rest. But instead of blaming Grace, Luke blamed God.
"Joana?" came a feminine voice from the door. It was Marghareta.
"Bon giorno," said Joan politely.
"Hi." The Italian girl engaged in some break-the-ice chat, which sounded particularly artificial because she was probably quoting English language lessons. To Joan's relief she got down to business eventually. "Is your husband in?"
"He's resting upstairs," Joan said evasively. Adam was, in fact, chagrined over his jealousy of great artists earlier that day.
"I had something to ask him. I am taking a course in Caravaggio this fall, and I am seeking a particular painting, the DEATH OF JEZEBEL. I hear that it is in America, in some private collection, and the owner will not even give out information on the Internet. I thought your Adamo might be able to find out about it."
"I have a better idea," said Joan. "My mom is an art teacher, and she's got some connections in the art world. She might do a better job of finding your painting."
"Grazie. How can I repay you?"
"Actually -- I need some help looking at Italian documents. I'm searching for my roots."
"Le radici," Marghareta said dryly. "Aristocrats were always talking about their pedigrees, like horses, and the rest of us were tired of hearing about it. And now le Americani are doing it."
"It's different," said Joan. "In America the idea was invented by Alex Haley, an African-American. He said everybody had ancestors that they could take pride in, regardless of their status in the world. It's really a democratic idea."
"Interesting point of view," Marghareta said. "OK, I will help. But I work in the mornings -- it will have to be in afternoons."
"That's all right."
"I will come here at 13:30."
"Um, okay." She would have to ask Luke what thirteen o'clock was, when he was in a better mood. Otherwise things were going well. Her mission would progress, Marghareta would find information that she needed, and her mother would probably enjoy the detective work looking up Carry Joe or whatever that artist's name was. Good ripples all around. Why couldn't Luke see that?
TBC
