I can hear the chimes,
Ringing for you for me.
I can see your eyes,
Your hands joining with me.
I can feel it's time,
It's time for the world to hear,
Neue Regel is here. ~Neue Regel, Queensrÿche
.
Capitolo XIV:
-Vita di diamante: prima fase-
Vescovile Hospital, Rome, Italy—6, January 1997
It was only a little past 5:30 in the morning, and the Medical Director was of the first to enter his family establishment; Vescovile Hospital. The wake of the winter solstice could not help but cloak the sky in a seemingly ceaseless nocturne hue, and aphyllous trees danced with the accompanying chill. Money offered the director the means and the security to provide himself with warmth against a record breaking cold 1997, but more than that, his impassioned nature provisioned within him an internal furnace to which required no further aid.
Upon entering the building, this prismatic nature blossomed for love of his work, and not due to having escaped the cold. In fact, there was pep in his step as he paced the freshly waxed halls of the hospital; eager today of all days to make his rounds.
But there was more.
The director had good reason for his exceptionally high spirits. Although he was generally considered the beacon of hope and positivity to his fellow coworkers, today was a good day. Indeed, even the break of day at 6:45AM later this morning would be in awe of this man's vitality on this day, as he had walked cheerily past the squared archways of the automated doors.
The reason for his enthusiasm was well founded, extremely well. No one needed to share his occupation to sympathize. This hospital he directed was not only privately funded, but it was understaffed, and in all honesty, suffered a horrible reputation. He did all that he could, at least on his part, to give the hospital a bit of a better reputation through his treatment of the patients—but he of course could not speak for all the other employees.
Still, he and his team did their best. There were a few other employees he had an eye on, but he was sure that given how understaffed they were…the staff, and RNs especially, may not be able to help the burnout, and all that was associated with it.
But now, he had no doubt that new, great beginnings were on the verge. It was embarrassing to even acknowledge the total count of the hospital's staff, many a surgeon had to tough out an operation on his own, often performing the duties of an anesthesiologist on top of it! There were certainly risks involved, but at the same time, they also served an underdeveloped area of Rome. In all the vicinal villages, this was the first hospital a patient would be sent. It was better than nothing, especially considering the large number of patients taken in due to gang violence. It goes without saying, this also brought in some shady figures and undesirables.
This wasn't a cause for concern for the director; it neither scared him off his feet nor gave him reason to lose hope—he believed in the inherent good of all men. He wasn't aware of it, even at the age of 43, but he was prone to even treating his enemies as friends—often completely oblivious to the fact that they were potential enemies!
Now however…the heavens were smiling down upon him for all his hard work and positive outlooks. It must be, he had figured. He was almost floored from his swivel chair the day one of his fellow colleagues, a female surgeon in her mid-30s, Dr. Viviana Ugoni, informed him of a letter of recommendation from one of the most well-known, prestigious medical schools in the country. The letter was written to them regarding an aspiring, would be physician, who had only freshly obtained his residency and was looking to transfer to their hospital from the university hospital which he had spent most of the entirety of his doctorates.
Their hospital. Not any of the other well to do and, surely, more state of art, fitting hospitals for the young doctor. But their hospital. It was as though mana was raining from the heavens!
It was completely unheard of. Not only was the letter of recommendation phenomenal, but the man also had 11 references—All doctors—but he hardly needed it! The letter spoke for itself!
His nerves were so shot the day he had read over the letter, his 5 cups of coffee certainly didn't help him. The letter stated that this man was recognized and awarded by the city when he was only 14 years old for his volunteer work at an understaffed, poorly served, Catholic elderly home. After noticing that key detail, the director connected in his head that this man from the start of his medical career obviously had a noble drive to serve those who needed it most.
It made sense therefore, why this man wanted to work here. In all honestly, it moved the director. He dreamed about his interview with him, expecting to find a kindred humanitarian like himself. He was dying to put a face to the name on paper… Dr. Gaius Ennio Ferrante.
His forename was a rare one in Italy, though obviously Latin. It wasn't everyday parents boldly thought to give their child the name of Caesar. The surname Ferrante, however, was indeed Italian, and the director, a passionate man of his country's history, as well as its forebears, hoped to speak heritage with this candidate.
He was young too, only having just turned 30, no doubt he had jump started through college and med school to be a doctor already. Clearly, given how young he volunteered as well, this man knew no such thing as wasting time. His IQ was also boldly written in the letter—he was considered a genius and prodigy, by all counts. He had the highest marks even considering the competition at his college and medical school, but he was absolutely well rounded.
It mattered not if it arithmetic, biology, chemistry, psychology, philosophy, entrepreneurship, or English (to which he apparently spoke fluently), he averaged a high A in all, if not 100-point averages. He had a couple involvements in school clubs to which he was voted chairmen, and he was even involved in a couple of the sports—soccer and bocce he seemed to favor. And, like all men of culture and class, he enjoyed golf as well!
Really, it was hard to imagine this man as a person, as the letter seemed to cover his scholarly career from a teen on up through adulthood. It appeared that the nature of his work never strayed from scientific/medical. Aside the early volunteer work, all others were done through clinical exposure during his residency, and before that, volunteer work through running his school's open lab. He was certainly a man of science and medicine, clearly passionate for it. But it would appear, at least in writing, that his personable nature saw no greater fit for himself than that of a physician. The man was destined to be—and a great one at that!
Now the moment was finally approaching, it was drawing near 9:45AM, the appointment they'd set for their interview. The director himself had called this Dr. Ferrante about five days ago, he made it clear that he wasn't trying to draw out this process. The doctor seemed unbothered by it, willing to go with what he said, with his low tone marked by sophistication.
The director needed only his assistant, Dr. Ugoni. It may have seemed strange, especially given the field. But again, staff was limited, and the director wanted to avoid pulling other staff from their vital duties. It was the biggest reason that, on the daily, he relied heavily on Dr. Ugoni's company. Unfortunately, she wasn't much for lively company. Quite opposite from the director, Ugoni often carried an aura of negativity around her, and she wore it like a tattoo, almost always making negative comments and sarcastic jives at herself and others, speaking loudly for her pessimistic outlook on life. It was honestly hard to say why she were a doctor. Was this attitude present with her at birth, or was something acquired through her work?
In any case, the director was hoping, that during this interview, Ugoni would not scare Dr. Ferrante away.
So when he walked into the designated meeting room—the board room—at 9:30AM, he was almost shocked to only find Dr. Ugoni, seated at the wide table.
"W-where's the new doctor?!" He exclaimed while his eyes darted from her nonchalant expression over thick framed glasses to the burgundy table with containers of sweets splattered here and there. Upon one of the adjacent walls hung a large portrait of his grandfather, the founder of Vescovile. Although the third-generation director often gazed upon his portrait with pride, his handsome visage was hardly the focus.
Dr. Ugoni adjusted her frames, pushing them back up the bridge of her nose. She was clearly ready to speak, but she always dragged out her words very slowly and deliberately. And each time she spoke was like trying to pry open a clam. She favored silence most always.
"…He's here, but I told him to wait out in the lobby since you hadn't arrived as of yet." She enunciated in her classic drawl.
"Dear God! The lobby! He's going to see what a mess it is out there already…! Bring him in, please! N-no— I will!" He darted back out of the room; he knew better than to ask her to retrieve him because that would take another five minutes.
What he found in the middle of the lobby, standing, not seated, was a man who simply looked like he did not belong in this world. He was picturesque, his physique like that of a gladiator, and his face…more beautiful than any painting produced within the Renaissance. Dr. Gaius Ennio Ferrante…so magnificent, perhaps he truly was a reincarnated Caesar to possess such masculine physique and well-cut facial features.
He's gorgeous…what a gorgeous man… the director thought this only briefly. There was a moment of envy for the man's looks, but his excitement to meet the man finally did not hold him for long.
"Dr. Ferrante…?" He asked, almost uncertain this deity could be an earthly man, even if he were at the age when all men blossom.
It almost seemed the doctor turned to face him slowly, but it was likely a trick of the director's imagination—he felt to be in a trance…just watching. But watching was most unwise, for it seemed to threaten the director to be plunged into a world of sadness and envy that for whatever reason could be made, lingered ever and always at the pit of his soul. Just watching this beautiful man was enough to unearth all which the director successfully repressed for a number of years.
A wide and sincere smile lit across the doctor's face perfectly, every mark of the cheek and dimple aligned symmetrically. Like the director, this man also had thick, dark hair, though the director's was at least a foot longer, always tied into a low ponytail to ensure his professional image. The doctor was so gorgeous, he didn't even need lengthy hair to compliment him, though it looked to be greased back and somewhat relaxed, the curled ends reaching down the nape of his neck.
His attire was a well-polished, gingham suit, with a double-breasted jacket. His large black loafers looked freshly shined, the whole demeanor smelled of money so much that the director almost felt his fingers rubbing together. And when the doctor caught his eye, he was almost done in by what he saw.
His eyes glistened and indeed, bore the resemblance of emeralds. He had never seen such powerful, perfect green eyes in his entire life, the type of eyes that from several feet away, could burn into your soul.
And his voice upon his reply…his voice was far more low, gruff, yet smooth all at once in person than over the phone. His voice rolled out of beautifully carved lips, so soft and luscious.
"Sì?" He had replied, but it hardly stuck as a question—it was an expectation.
The director now almost flung himself headfirst out of the archway and he wouldn't mind plummeting into the other man out of pure happiness. He already knew that he had every intention of hiring him on the spot, although he knew that before he met him as well.
"My goodness!" He exclaimed as he almost tripped over the niche in the doorway, "Dr. Ferrante! It's so good to meet you now," He thrust his hand eagerly to the doctor, who was now breathing distance from him. This type of formality and proximity was appropriate for both genders in Italy, and maybe it would have been best in this situation to not be so directly in his bubble, but it couldn't be helped. The director already regarded Dr. Ferrante as an intimate, but not only that…this was also his way of ascertaining the proof of the man's existence.
Ferrante took his hand firmly, paid his own formalities, and there was a shake and a pat on the back initiated by the director, who then also introduced himself.
"It's Lucio Battisti, whom you spoke with last week." He wasted no time in the lobby further however, though he would have been perfectly fine to. He directed him right away back to the board room where the interview would be conducted.
As they walked ever so close, the now introduced Dr. Battisti could not help but notice the clean, fresh smell of Dr. Ferrante. It smelled…natural. Clean and earth sodden while not dirty. Like the smell of the ozone after a long rain, and there which one realizes peace, if only momentarily. He was a breath of fresh air.
He was all too happy to get back to the meeting room and for them both to have a seat. He positioned Dr. Ferrante at the head of the table, with him and Dr. Ugoni, still seated at the same spot she originally was, on either side of him. Already, Dr. Ferrante looked to be of the highest authority, rather than the one being interviewed.
"Ah! Now I can give you a proper introduction! Once again, I am Dr. Lucio Battisti, and I am the Medical Director of Vescovile. In addition to this role, I am also the Lead Physician, as well as one of our board members—my grandfather was the founder of this hospital." He sat erect, perhaps too much so in the hardly concealed excitement, and after his last statement, signaled to the portrait upon the wall.
Dr. Ferrante regarded him and the portrait coolly with a slight smile on his face, though its presence on the wall didn't pique his interest as much as the painting of The Wild Hunt. Always a magnificent piece, apt for any setting, except healthcare. Not so much for its inherently bleak atmosphere, as for its ill omens. Regarding it, he sat up straight, though not nearly as much as Dr. Battisti. Refocusing his attention, he stared into his eyes with confidence, and it wasn't taken arrogantly in the slightest by the director.
He further articulated, "You don't need to call me "Dr," however, I always ask those closest to me on my team to drop the formalities. You can call me by my name, or my surname; it doesn't matter."
Now the established Dr. Ferrante, replied to him with hooded eyes, "In that case, I would have to ask that you drop the formalities with myself as well."
"No! No, no! You worked hard for your doctorates, Dr. Ferrante! You've only just earned that formality; I'd sooner die before not addressing you as such!" And Battisti surely meant it, he'd practically lurched over the table toward Ferrante, if it were possible to be any closer.
Ferrante reclined his face, chuckled with closed eyes, before he opened only one, winking at the director. "Surely the same is applied to you, Dr. Battisti."
The charm and grace in his gesture now brought Dr. Battisti to flush crimson and his lips slightly parted, but he had a big smile on his face at the same time. "Oh! Oh, oh…! Oh, how flattering…I suppose if you insist like that…" He scratched his head, looking rather smug in Ferrante's presence. They were obviously going to get along all too well.
Dr. Ugoni on the other hand, regarded these flirtations with a frown as she held all of Dr. Ferrante's credentials in her hand, as well as the application, wondering when they would truly get on with the interview process. Any other woman in her position would have been flustered to see the suavity of Dr. Ferrante's gestures let alone his looks, yet Ugoni's libido was exactly as dry and lifeless as she came across. A plain woman with short, curly black hair, she had the potential to be attractive had she paid more heed to her looks and smiled more or possessed even a sliver of a personality.
"Dr. Battisti…" her voice dragged, black and gloomy like Poe's raven.
"Goodness! We're getting out of hand here." And with that, he got himself back in check, leaning back in his seat and continuing, "Anyway, Dr. Ferrante, this here is Dr. Ugoni. She's been here almost as long as I have, and naturally, we know each other well. She shares a seat in the board beside myself, and she is a general surgeon as well—but often she is my assistant in much more than that. Such as, for one, clerical duties. You could say she's got a finger placed in every pie around here," He paused, before adding in suddenly, as if forgetting something crucial, "Oh! And you might find it strange how I just go on speaking for her, but that's because I know her so well. She's not much for words, only action. I honestly owe everything to her; I don't know how I would get on in this work without her. So yes, you'll often see us together, which might seem like a strange sight—most regard us being like night and day!" He laughed at his own joke, hoping it helped break the ice more.
Dr. Ugoni of course didn't laugh, didn't even smile at his compliments, which was kind of messed up. She simply kept watch on either Dr. Ferrante or the papers she had laid on the table, her dark eyes looking as though they were staring into last year.
Dr. Ferrante humored the director with a laugh, luckily. From there on, he gave animation in their conversations, often both men practically gesticulating into each other—sometimes their hands even brushed into each other, which only brought about a flustering situation for Battisti.
Finally, after only some lack of formality, they got back on topic, which was somewhat relieving for Ugoni.
"I have to say, Dr. Ferrante, your letter of recommendation was quite amazing. I've got so many questions for you that I don't even know where to begin..." Battisti's expression grew a bit anxious, his thick, arched brows knitted over the other slightly before he resumed, "Ah, well, for one, your volunteer experience and work ethic from such a young age stood out to me. It seems like your desire is to serve the underprivileged—I'm assuming this holds true for you to be applying here. Is it so?"
"That is exactly my motivation," Dr. Ferrante grinned, his features took on a light of reminisce, "As you know, adolescence is when we first establish the foundation of what would become our world views. Just as young children engage in 'make-believe,' play in order to subconsciously prepare themselves for adult responsibilities, I had approached the field of medicine in such a similar fashion in my childhood."
Dr. Battisti's eyes lit up to his words, he couldn't get over just how much of an interesting man he was to converse with, and so profound!
"Well put! Oh my! A psychologist as well!" Battisti beamed, but then lingered, as if on a cloud, before he caught the hawk eye of Ugoni and continued, "You know what that means here then? You've done your research on us, I'm assuming?"
This, of course, Ferrante did. He nodded, "Vescovile is understaffed. I've even run across some scathing reviews. I understand that I've only just earned my doctorates, so I'm naturally lacking the established, independent experience…nevertheless, it's my hope to not only bolster a better reputation, but to simultaneously ease the strain placed on everyone's duties."
It nearly melted Battisti's heart to hear such a thing, ever the sentimentalist. He could hardly believe that he was validating his suspicions for why this great man would want to work here. Truly, he was God sent; the hospital's Messiah.
"We would be completely honored to have you Dr. Ferrante, I have no words to express how much it would mean for me personally. If you accept, of course, I'm willing to hire you on the spot."
No sooner than he said that, Dr. Ugoni slid the thick application toward Ferrante, wordlessly.
"Oh, you would do me the honor," Dr. Ferrante contended.
A new round of shenanigans began between the men, with Battisti doing poorly to mask his smitten smiles. Now, shockingly, Dr. Ugoni spoke.
"Now, you just have to fill that out for us, and I'll be back to have a look as soon as I'm able." She said dryly, as if Ferrante's hire held no positive application to their dying practice.
Dr. Battisti shook himself from his blushing stupor before adding, "Oh yes. I'll leave you to that then, you'd never be able to finish if I kept talking to you…Oh and uh, I'm sorry if this all seems so rushed—we simply need the help and especially that of another physician."
Ferrante waved off the concerned, already filling out the first page with polished cursive—but this only dragged Battisti back into addressing him again, with exasperated idolism.
"My goodness! What lovely penmanship! Ah, of course, you did go to a Catholic school!"
Ferrante looked up at him, before smiling with a glitter in his eye, "I did."
Some more goofing ensued, and Ugoni had already left the room, watching the director now instead of Ferrante as she crept out.
The director then noticed, once again, Ferrante's birthday written on the application.
"That's right! Your birthday was on Saturday! Happy belated birthday to you!" He spoke with widened, jolly eyes.
Dr. Ferrante had just finished the page, he turned it, but not without giving the director an experienced look that had never failed to win over even the most obstinate of hearts. "Grazie."
The look didn't need to work its magic on the director, the magic was marked on him even before their meeting; it was predetermined. He then motioned to the few glass containers of sweets and chocolate.
"Please, take a handful then! You deserve it! Afterall, you know we surgeons need all the energy we can get, even if it's not considered healthy," he chuckled.
Ferrante then flashed a look that was almost as if to say, I thought you would never ask! Yet the young physician played it off with maintained modesty. Finally, he did take some, admitting to his sweet tooth.
"Y-you're just like me! I've got such a sweet tooth, good god it's horrible…" He then noticed he had already gotten to the third page, then snapped out of it, "Heavens, I'm sorry, I told you I'd leave you to that!" He raised from his seat abruptly, before the good, new doctor reassured him.
"Oh, I don't mind at all you being there. I enjoy your company." His voice lulled out slowly.
Now director Battisti regarded Ferrante as if to say, Meee?! And he would have almost said this too, but he was trying hard not to continue embarrassing himself here; he declined the temptation—but it took a lot out of him to do so. He fancied he could speak to this man all day, so charming was he.
"You're too good, Dr. Ferrante. Far too good. You have the energy of a saint—I might have mistaken you for the Pope if you weren't a doctor," shortly after saying this, he blushed anew, his effort to not embarrass himself again going out the window.
"You're quite the flatterer. I'm not all that good, trust me." Replied Ferrante, who continued his task studiously.
"See? The modesty of a priest. Anyway, I'll leave you to that now, I insist. You'll get done so much faster without me!" He had now reached the door, and then waved, "Arrivederci!"
.
8, January 1997
Needless to say, the great physician Battisti spent the rest of the day he had hired Ferrante high on life. He was always seen with a smile on his face, but now it was ear to ear, hardly looking as though it could be stretched any further. It was now Wednesday however, the wait felt horrible for him, but today was the day he would finally see Dr. Ferrante to his first day. He went to meet him now, directly.
As he strolled the halls passing all the surgical sectors, he wore his usual doctor's coat and scrubs. He passed a group of nurses, but there was one that stood out to patients and outsiders alike, let alone to Battisti. All the women, who made up the majority of the nurses, wore a more traditional nurse's frock. The dress was short sleeved, buttoned up, and modest in that it came just above the knees. In addition, they wore thick stockings to protect against the possibility of any spilling of bodily fluid. Finally, they wore matching white, medical grade shoes, simple slip-ons.
All the women looked nice dressed this way, although it was of course, on account of their tight budget, rather shabby. Only a couple nurses that he knew of looked especially charming in it, but one in particular. It was a woman of average height, at the peak age of fertility. Each day, her skinned glowed as if she were ovulating, her thinly arched eyebrows had a waxy look over her deep, low hooded woody brown eyes. Her full lips were shaped just right, not too big and not too small—she needn't lipstick to paint them, for they were always a dark pink—another sign of her roaring fertility.
And her hair…it was a tangle of dark, dark chocolate brown rope that slithered down her back. However, she always tied it up whenever she was at work, and many days she wore it in a high, braided ponytail. Her eyes lashes were so long, it was hard to imagine that mascara would do her any justice. So beautiful was she, that makeup in its entirety would be worn on her as if having no makeup. Her natural state was makeup. And so, she wore her uniform with a tremendous amount of immodesty that was in fact, no fault of her own. Her body was just so developed and shapely, that anything she donned looked provocative; and her sensual aura only worsened the ordeal. If the deity Venus were a woman, it would be she.
Every time Dr. Battisti passed her, he couldn't help but gaze in awe at her beauty, and on many occasions he, accursed it was in his mind, hoped to be passing her from behind, so that he could ogle—uninterrupted—her wide hips and ass. He never knew what was better however, the anterior of her body was just as well to gaze upon, even without her face to compliment the picture. Her breast were huge for her otherwise petite torso, seemingly D cups, and they always looked ready to burst from her uniform. Only her torso and waist were slim, and it curved, unaided by a corset, into a perfect hourglass frame. In this way, she was proportional, yet disproportionate—all the same, a blessing for men's eyes.
…But a blessing for Dr. Battisti's eyes like no other man, for he loved this nurse dubbed Isabella Castello. She knew nothing of this, of course, because Dr. Battisti never made a move for the sake of maintaining professionalism. This is what he told himself, but it wasn't completely true. It was also because Battisti was simply too nice of a man that it gave him some weaknesses. One of those weakness was his docile, self-sacrificing nature. More submissive than the average man, and hardly masculine, Lucio Battisti was the quintessential Mr. Nice-Guy.
This nature of his was incredibly self-defeating. At his age, he was shockingly a bachelor, and even more shocking—childless. Yet he loved Isabella for at least two and a half years since she had joined the team back in '94. He slowly began to wonder if it were worth maintaining professionalism at his age—what was more important? It was a trifling internal battle for him.
The reason for this was a simple one. Doctors ran in the line of Battisti, and he had inherited the direction of this hospital from his own father, though he often felt inferior in comparison. His father made a better director, and the hospital had a far greater reputation back in the old days, though that may have had to do with the less crime and gangs than of his personal performance. Even so, the now surviving Battisti regarded it to be a defect of his own rather than the changing socioeconomic environment.
He loved what he did, loved the field of medicine with all his soul, he was indeed, perfectly carved out for it. However, he also needed to keep the family tradition going, and without any sons, this was a problem. The right woman…it was what he needed. But things weren't like they were in the old days anymore—village lasses whose trade was in the homecare was growing fewer. For a doctor, that was a near necessity to have as a wife. The only thing that could be better or equal footing, was to take a woman who was also in the medical field, as least, so he thought. He loved his career so much that he couldn't imagine being married to someone who didn't share his passion. At the very least, she could have once been a nurse, and retired to be a housewife, or a home nurse with limited hours…
That would be his dream wife, and Isabella was that. He dreamed of scooping her up, hoarding her in his large home and assuring her she'd never have to work again a day in her life—but he thought of his hospital. Although she did have her shortcoming in her style of nursing, Isabella was still a very valuable asset. Among these shortcomings, she was known to be burned out easily. If a patient ever gave her a bad attitude, she was known, like no other, to take them to hell and back. Quite a few times, he had to speak to her about it, as it couldn't possibly help their reputation.
In this, Dr. Battisti did have a good share of masculinity. He valued hard work, his career, over romance. But now that he was past his prime, well established and with more than enough resources to provide for at least 5 children, there was absolutely no reason he didn't marry. He was indeed doing himself a huge disservice by not, and the question was presently, during the time period of and before Dr. Ferrante's initiation, gnawing at him.
But here was Dr. Battisti's tragic flaw: he continued to let these thoughts fester and would not make his move of his own will, without some outside force prompting him into action. He was never the type to take initiative with matters pertaining to himself. To his patients? Indeed, he was assertive in such matters as diagnosis and treatment, of convalescence and rehabilitation. It was in this way that he'd probably meet death in the same fashion as his poor father: a heart attack brought on from the stress of putting other's health needs before his own. And this fact gave even greater reason for why he needed a wife to take care of him.
It's moot to say therefore that Dr. Battisti was for a fact submissive in the same way a woman was. His inherent masculinity was simply misdirected, or rather, he wasn't exactly the image of the full potential of a man he could be.
When he passed Isabella then, he smiled wider, if that was even possible at this time, and she—like usual—returned it. He overheard the conversation between the women in passing, hearing the harmonic voice of Isabella and her animated gesticulations saying, "New year, new me!"
He might have wanted to linger and speak with the ladies some, but today was too good, too urgent of a day; he sped past them as if he were on call.
Isabella Castello's eyes lingered along the transitory silhouette of Dr. Battisti's nearly, but not quite, 6-foot frame, in much of a hurry than she'd ever seen him. The other couple of nurses, along with the lab worker and phlebotomist who had also just happened to pass by and join in the gossip, noticed with her.
One of the nurses nearest Isabella, a CNA specifically, then spoke, "Doc's going to be especially busy today. You heard we've got a new surgeon, right?"
"Really?" asked Isabella with piqued interest.
Their last recruit was a young LPN, about 4 months ago by the name of Marina Iannone. Although Isabella was more established than her, as she was an RN, and just a couple years older—she secretly did not care for Marina one bit. The reason for this was a rather catty one, that much Isabella could admit to herself, but in her mind, she justified it was with good reason.
Marina had an air about her that rubbed herself off as a goody-two-shoes. This was true for many nurses, and many people in the field of healthcare for that matter—but Marina especially seemed the archetypical embodiment of it. She had a high-pitched voice, spoke with proper grammar and enunciation, and worked in such a way as if she felt she were always under watch by a superior. Sometime during her probation period some three months back, she had even directed Isabella herself on proper protocol! The nerve of that!
The incident in specific, was one in which they happened to be working together handling a patient, when Marina spoke, in her stupid, mousey voice, "You know, Isabella, you don't remove your gloves properly," a small smile played on her tiny, pouty lips.
"Hm?" groaned a drowsy Isabella, who had just removed her nitrile gloves in a haste.
Isabella was removing hers, quickly but deliberately on the other hand. "You're supposed to slip in the two fingers of your bare hand under the wrist of your gloved hand, slide them off, then ball both gloves together to be disposed." She spoke, almost as if in recital.
"What are you, mimicking one of your professors from nursing school?" quipped Isabella.
Marina looked shocked, she meant to be, in truth, pointing this out to help Isabella. "O-oh…" She coughed lightly.
That was another thing that irritated Isabella. Marina had some type of strange allergy that was, of course, not contagious. This allergy seemed to only affect her respiratory system, and she was otherwise functionable, except that she often coughed or cleared her throat after each sentence. She drank tea during her breaks to aid her sore throat.
Isabella often wondered if it was more than an allergy and possibly a type of respiratory disease, and her suspicion was confirmed when she happened upon Marina using an inhaler. Curious as Isabella was, she often never begged the question, since she not only hadn't the slightest concern for Marina's wellbeing and rather enjoyed hearing Marina's coughing—especially when it shut her up from speaking.
And this was one of Isabella's character flaws besides her foul temper, the fact that she was rather vengeful and conniving. She was sensitive, taking Marina's good-hearted intentions as insult, and quick to perceive competition.
This was another reason Marina was on secret bad terms with Isabella. She had spotted Marina getting too close with Dr. Battisti. As mentioned, Marina enjoyed a cup of tea during her breaks, well, that wasn't enough for the little attention seeker. She had to start offering to make Dr. Battisti tea as well. And not only would she bring him tea on a platter, but she'd often bring him sweets—everybody knew the way to his heart was through cookies, chocolates, and muffins.
She had even spotted her getting especially cheeky with him, waving around her shoulder length, wavy, feathered dark blonde hair and minty blue eyes. And in this, she had permanently marked her bad favor with Isabella.
The CNA who had brought up this "new surgeon" replied now, "That's right! I already saw him too," and her cheeks flushed just a bit, but it was observable to all.
The MLT now crossed her arms, regarding the woman and teased, "Hmm. I wonder what's going on with your face."
The CNA erupted into nervous laughter, then began to hide her face by looking down. It was when the other women hassled her a bit that she came out with it.
"He's just…so gorgeous. I almost dropped my walkie when I saw him the day he was interviewed. His suit was so polished, and it fit him so well…too well." She then whispered, "He's built."
Now the phlebotomist's mouth dropped a bit and she whispered in response, "My…he sounds like a hunk…" She was stopped in the middle of them with her cart of specimen.
Now one of the young RN's assistant interjected, "I-Imagine how he'll look in his uniform then! If you catch him without the coat on, and you just see him in scrubs…!"
All the women looked around now, a hot steam of estrogen was beginning to fill the hospital hall. The energy was stifling, and no number of contraceptives were going to be able to keep these women's fertility down in the presence of this new doctor. The women regarded each of their counterparts with a collective knowledge that there was going to be some competition for his attention, perhaps even a rivalry, until they met the eyes of Isabella.
When each and all of the women regarded her, the spirit of competition was just as ephemeral as a rainbow, and its spectrum of hues faded in such a way. Their eyes averted back to their closest counterpart, as if to say, "Not any one of us can compete with her."
Yet the thought was neither truly envious nor malicious. They all respected Isabella and enjoyed her company on breaks. Despite the airy way the woman went about conversation, she was fun-loving, light-hearted, and relaxing. The world may well be crumbling, but to share just a few moments with beautiful Isabella would make the idea of impending death desirable. At her best, she was the collective embodiment of only the good in the female organism.
The enduring ice was broken now by the originally speaking nurse.
"Even if he wore the coat, the scrubs are still V-necks… you'll be able to see his collar, maybe a bit of his sternum…"
Now Isabella, who was maddingly inquisitive, asked, "How old is he, would you say…?"
"His late twenties? Early thirties? He has to be, at the least around that age to be just starting out now…" The woman replied, thoughtfully, "…But he looks like a fountain of youth!"
Only 5 years older than me then, at most… Thought Isabella, who was now on fire with salacious excitement.
All the women were gathered around the ER desk, and the receptionist sat behind it, listening to every word. She was the oldest of the women here, and she poked her nosy self into the conversation.
"Look at you all—taking that girl's every word for it; none of you have even seen him!"
Some more feminine banter and teasing ensued that didn't let up until they heard the familiar tapping of footsteps down the hall of the emergency sector. Every one of the women, including the secretary, stared down the halls to the double doors several yards ahead where the footsteps could be heard approaching.
They heard the thump of palms hitting the surface and the doors opening with their usual creak, and what they saw was a now returning Dr. Battisti, along with an unfamiliar face.
Although this other man, who was a few inches taller than even Battisti, was unfamiliar to all except one, their eyes soon registered with recognition who he was.
As Dr. Battisti and Dr. Ferrante strutted down the hall as close to each other as siblings, the crowd of nurses, the phlebotomist, the MLT, and the secretary, whose ass was now lifted out of her seat to get a good look, all huddled around each other as if invaders were incoming. Every one of their expressions was of shock, as if the life were squeezed out of them, and they all each echoed a sound effect or final word befitting the death cry they would have handed to the reaper himself.
"Ah—"
"Oh!—"
"OO!—"
"Eep—"
"!"
"Holy—"
"Ayye—"
Several of the women held onto something—bracing themselves for the moment the doctors would pass them—their walkies, badges, breast, skirt, arms, pen, and for the phlebotomist, the railing of her cart.
When finally, they had reached closer, Battisti startled them all to life.
"That's no way to be looking when we've got a new surgeon!" he beamed, then continued, looking at all their faces, "And what are you all doing standing around? I saw you all here at least 15 minutes ago! No wonder we don't get anything done around here," but he said this too, with a smile.
Unfortunately, not even one of the women showed the director proper respect. Their eyes laid in unison upon the handsome Dr. Ferrante, as if they had confused speakers.
"Forgive me," Battisti relented, noticing their attentions, "This is Dr. Gaius Ennio Ferrante, he's straight out of that prestigious medical school—La Tempia!" He then blushed, looked to Ferrante and added, "Excuse me for putting your whole government out there, Doctor."
Now Ferrante spoke for the first time, and as his lips opened, the women seemed to become even stiller, bracing to hear the voice of the man who held their infatuation.
"You couldn't help yourself, director. The fault is my own for not introducing myself first," he spoke smoothly, his masculine voice growling into quiet lulls; as sweet as the first drops of syrup off the honeycomb.
And with that, each woman strained to keep their mouths from dropping—and their panties. Isabella looked to be the most in need of resuscitation, she clung to her left breast as if to conceal the arrow of Cupid straight through the middle. But it wasn't only this shocking infatuation to account for this, it was the fact that she knew why Ferrante didn't introduce himself sooner—because he was too busy staring at her instead.
No one mentioned that he had the brightest green eyes ever before seen. Supposing the other nurse did not catch that, every other description of him was true. He was built, that was for certain, wide at the shoulders and blades, with slim, long limbs. He was long and lean; he had to have been over 6 foot, maybe even more than 6'2. What this all amounted to, was that Ferrante was nearly a foot taller than her, and perhaps that much and more for the other women gathered, who were shorter than Isabella's 5'5.
Modesty was not something that came natural to Isabella, who worked hard to maintain her own sexuality. As such, she possessed a body count that was admirable considering her looks and vitality—just 5 men at age 25. So as her eyes lowered down the new doctor's body, she did so with just one, extended thought: I'm going to sleep with him. I don't know how…or when…but it's going to happen.
But this thought wasn't a wanton one; it wasn't that she was setting a conquest in her mind. It struck her as feminine intuition provided to her by both Venus and Luna. The thought was a divine one, struck in her mind as if this would be her Fate, whether she tried to fight or go along with it.
When her eyes trailed back up to his face, his eyes appeared as though they had just finished their own journey up and down her body as well. Perhaps he felt the same as her, but that his thought was indeed, the Martian conquest counterpart. It struck her this way too, when she could see the hungry determination in his jade eyes.
She could have fallen to her feet if she'd let herself, but she knew her way around men as well—she kissed more than she'd slept with. She knew the rules of the games between men and women; she decided now was the time to take her leave, using the excuse that it was time to get back to work.
She feigned this as a lack of interest, especially when comparing the stolid looks of the other women. She paced back up the hall, playing herself as eager to wait on her usual patients of the day. This was a part of her plan of course; Dr. Ferrante didn't have a chance to see her figure from behind, so she flaunted her feathers like a peacock, giving him every opportunity to have a look.
She heeded the words of her late maternal grandmother however, who possessed the same vivacity as Isabella. Never look back at them. Though the urge was strong, this, she did not do.
The feminine spell worked its magic, and Ferrante was indeed watching her walk away, but it didn't last long, because a new power then rose in the realm. Thankfully, Isabella could not see this, or her day might have been spoiled. The thing that now averted Ferrante's attention, was none other than Marina Iannone coming out of the opposite hall and passing the ignorant Isabella.
She too, spotted immediately Dr. Ferrante who was already looking in her direction thanks to Isabella, and in this way, the latter nurse worked to Marina's benefit—for their eyes now met and locked on. Marina was pale, and as mentioned, possessed blonde hair and blue eyes, which as we all know of Dr. Ferrante, was his weakness. Not only that, but Marina was a bit younger, just 22, and only an inch shorter than Isabella. Her body type was slim and petite, shapely B cups and round, built glutes that were neither too small nor too big. She had her own slight hourglass, though it was not of course as pronounced as Isabella's.
As she came closer to the crowd, along with the two doctors, she let her face fall to the floor, and she felt a blush spread across her chest.
"Why, hello there, Dr. Battisti!" she exclaimed in her sing-song voice, "Is this the new surgeon?" She said all this, in her best attempt at confidence in the face of Ferrante's gaze that she felt to be almost intimidating.
"Ohh yes, Marina! This is indeed Dr. Ferrante!"
Remembering custom and formality, Marina then extended her hand to the new doctor, but not without coughing twice into her elbow.
Dr. Ferrante took it, but his shake lingered a bit too long, so Marina felt her blush travel up her chest to her neck. She was the first to let it fall.
"Good to meet you," she said quietly, almost breathlessly, and it wasn't due to her respiratory ailment. She looked instead now to Battisti, her only savior in this nerve-racking situation. Her heart began to hammer as she felt Ferrante's glare while even having directed her attention to Battisti.
"Are you two on your way to do your rounds together? How nice!" She coughed again.
"You're ever sharp! And honestly, speaking of that, we've got to be going. I've got too much to show him."
Marina was relieved to hear this, especially when considering that Ferrante's glare never ceased even with Battisti as the new speaker. She gulped, gripped her skirt at her knees and replied, "I do as well! Good luck to you both, Dr. Battisti and Dr. Ferrante!" and she was from there, all too quick to scurry away like a mouse from a snake. Indeed, Ferrante's presence seemed to choke the life out of her like a serpent wringing her neck and crushing her rib cage. The pressure in her lungs even, were steadily increasing; new sputum found way into her throat, and she fell into a fit of wheezing, luckily, as she was already down the hall and out of the notice of all.
And with her departure, Battisti's and Ferrante's was next, and all the women, after watching the two doctors disappear from the halls, then looked up and at one another and followed suit. Each woman looked as though her vitality had been robbed, quite fittingly from Dr. Ferrante. The last of them to depart was the phlebotomist, who humorously enough, was dead pallor, and seemingly weak on the knees. The cart of blood samples from her early morning of work began to appear as though she had collected them from herself rather than of the patients.
.
Dr. Gaius Ennio Ferrante, who we all otherwise know only as Cioccolata, did not begin his career now in an attempt to build his portfolio in clinicide. What he did do from the very start was save lives. And this, he had accomplished far better than murder. Under the brief supervision of Dr. Battisti, Ferrante proved he was perfectly capable in the dexterity, fine motor skills, and ability to work under pressure that was required of a surgeon.
As far as it went with how he dealt with patients, it quite reminded Battisti of a similar style to that of his father, which impressed him. He had learned all his techniques from his father, and of course, while Ferrante was not completely identical, he was very charming and seemed to easily coax and relax them into surgery—if that was what was required to cure them of whatever affliction. His handling of patients was in a word, exceptional. He possessed a magnanimous air that patients (and staff alike) seemed to swoon over, especially if they were females.
On that note…When Battisti observed Ferrante with female patients, he had a slightly different temperament with them, not that he was at all unkind toward the males. With females he wore a front of grace and seemed to be somewhat flirtatious, looking to give them compliments even if it were the slightest thing such as commenting on the lucidity of their cuticles. It goes without saying, women are especially fond of a man who notices the little details they put in their appearances, and not once did Battisti not observe a flush over their features.
He did a proper evaluation of patients before diagnosing, he read over charts at top speed; it was unthinkable how he absorbed the information so fast—but clearly, his mind was shrewd. His work style was very problem and solution based, and physician centered.
As far as the situation regarding the hospital was concerned, Ferrante was truly a godsend just as Battisti suspected.
He relieved the pressure for other doctors, and he was full of energy—he did laps around all the other physicians as far as how many rounds and patients he conducted/saw per day. In all honestly, Ferrante struck him as a tireless workaholic, so much so that it only grew Battisti's fondness for the man, transforming that very fondness overnight into a paternal love—one that was so powerful in the absence of any genuine children of his own.
With all these considerations, it wasn't long before Battisti therefore trusted in his ability and judgement and granted him full independence which he was exceedingly happy to supply. Mistakes were expected of new doctors, even after their residency, but Ferrante was flawless to the point that his genius status was quite evident.
On the days that Battisti could run his rounds in the company of Ferrante was his greatest ones, and he sought to do at least a couple rounds a day with his dear Ferrante. His probation period and 90-day review were ones Battisti conducted with joy; it truly felt like the happiest days of his career, and he was struck by how emotional he was on this matter. Ferrante's whole aspect gave him a hope and confidence for himself which he did not know much of in his own personal life and affairs.
The promise in Ferrante affected Battisti in profound ways. He began wondering if his own dreams could come true, every one of them. Restoring this hospital to its former reputation and golden years, with the help of Ferrante.
Ferrante…there were friendly visions with him. Trips to the country club, playing golf together. Becoming closer associates, and hopefully too, lifelong friends. He craved having more intimacy with him; he could see their future so well. Inviting each other to their homes, sharing wine and dinner…and of course…they would know each other's future wives too.
…His wife, Isabella Battisti.
Here the curtain fell, before the director's thoughts flittered off into a new direction altogether, taking flight into rosy skies, soaring as high as Icarus. His mind became a canvas of hope, soon bearing no relation to the dim life he once knew, of career induced monotony. The negative force that was always his partner Ugoni could no longer shackle him, put a reign on his natural abundance. No, the full promise of his own character saw the open air, it felt, for the first time in his life.
Battisti became giddy some days when he fantasized on these things during his breaks, thinking how peculiar it would be to invite Ferrante to his home some years from now, knowing that all three of them work together. And no doubt, Ferrante will have taken a wife too. There was after all, a curious rumor that went on regarding this hospital when it came to romance—and it had something to do, it seemed, with why it was so understaffed.
It has been recorded even since the days of his grandfather's founding, that this hospital was known as the "Love Hospital." It seemed each year, at least a couple of the staff fell in love with one another, no matter who it was—radiologist with filing clerk, or even, one time, the BMET with one of the medical assistants! Each time this happened however, they often left the hospital—together. It seemed this environment was better suited for finding love than finding cures.
In all honestly, Battisti should have been putting his foot down on this and striving to encourage his staff to practice the same amount of professionalism that he applied to himself, which accounted for his repression of his own feelings for a fellow, mentioned staff. But again, Battisti was simply too nice, and so this too, he let go.
It was interesting for him to see the magic of the "Love Hospital" working on himself as well. But did Isabella feel the same? She was so nice herself he did not know. She did visit him often, sometimes to bring him sweets, tea or coffee, sometimes for conversation. Any other man in his right mind, who felt as he did, would have made his move for this opening she had, knowingly or not, provided a long time ago.
Then there was the newer Marina. This woman, he saw visit him even more often now than Isabella. The young LPN was a dainty, fresh female. If she had come first before Isabella, perhaps he would love her.
And Viviana Ugoni…he did once imagine if he pursued her…but he almost shuddered at the thought, which immediately filled him with shame. Ugoni was like his right hand! Perhaps it seemed most appropriate that a doctor take on another doctor, especially one who conducted business with him as well as Viviana did. But…she was just so…unattractive, truly—very sad for him to say. She was pretty, but her default aura gave her as much charm as a shad roach. He felt as though there would simply be no passion between them, albeit great partnership as they already shared.
His mind was ever settled on Isabella, as it stood. Sometimes his mind wandered off and he imagined what might happen that would rather force a romance between him and her. He was avoiding making his own move at all costs, but what if Fate decided that now was the time? Would it be that Isabella may become jealous of Marina's attentions to him? He grew flushed at the thought, and his heart skipped a beat. If Isabella ever confronted him about such a thing, he would be pressed into revealing himself…
But that was enough about good old Dr. Battisti's dreams and ambitions. The person we were all dying to know about was the other good doctor (for now), Ferrante. He had just gotten done, showing Ferrante to his very own office.
"Well, I was hoping that you wouldn't be too far from me, but…" he let his uplifted arms fall to his lap by the end of his cadence, "…it seems you'll be a bit across the way from me, I hope you don't mind."
Ferrante shook his head with a slight smile, "It's no bother, especially when we have this," he motioned to the chunky walkie within the breast pocket of his scrubs.
"Ahhh!" Battisti beamed in revived excitement, "You are too right! Feel free to communicate with me, whenever needed. You can always communicate with Marina on there as well—she's a bio-encyclopedia—just in case you forget anything or need to be brushed up when you're in the OR." He scratched his head after this, looking somewhat embarrassed or that he may have thought that he had a slip of the tongue, "Ah well—it probably won't happen to you, Doctor," he chuckled nervously.
"Hm, you shouldn't pride me too greatly, Director. It happens to the best of us."
Now Battisti seemed relieved, chuckling, "Oh goodness, yes. Especially when you're on call, or even the first patient of the day, and perhaps you've only had your first cup of coffee... Mamma Maria, it grates on your nerves!"
"I'm curious how you deal with that, myself. I have a cup on my way here," he paused, looking around with his arms crossed, his biceps making a clear, delicious outline under his doctor's coat, "By the time I'm here, I have another. And then another in late morning. Another by break time. Another by late afternoon. And another in the evening. I haven't been on call yet obviously, but that'll be another one," he laughed heartily after, and Battisti was all too happy to join in the rambunctious banter between providers.
By the time the laughing concluded, with snippets of outbursts between silence, Battisti was tearing up, then added, "Oh, don't I know. You've got to employ more methods other than the caffeine—it's why I'm so addicted to the sugar. Unfortunately, we'll be dying of the very things we save our patients from—for their benefit!"
Ferrante was now examining the simple office he was given, supplied with only, for now, the necessities. He pulled out the large, burgundy swivel chair from the professional looking, oak desk, then took a seat and seemed to be testing its durability.
After doing so, he spoke, crossing an ankle over his knee, "Hmpt. I've already employed other methods—the nurse's station, for one."
Battisti observed the slow smirk growing across Ferrante's confident features. Although Battisti was now the one standing over him, Ferrante still gave the impression as if he were the one looming over him!
"W-what do you do in the nurse's station?!" Battisti exclaimed, flustered, but then it hit him, "OH! You know about them bringing all the 'goods' do you!?"
Ferrante nodded his head knowingly, with a slick glimmer in his green eyes, "Oh yes. It's so easy too, as soon as I walk in, they practically throw their 'goods' on me." But immediately after the doctor said this, he smiled full of his white teeth, and it looked rather perverted, for he knew that anyone else listening in might have thought the subject of their conversation was not as innocent as what it truly was.
Battisti himself was such an innocent man for the most part, that it didn't even register to him. He thought about his own visits to the nurse's station, but he never tried to get any sweets out of them unless they had offered it. He confided this fact in Ferrante.
"All you have to do is give them a little sweet talk and conversation, and they'd give you anything," Although the conversation was still on sweets, Ferrante's statement was a double entendre. In truth, he had already collected a lot more than pastries and chocolate—he obtained numbers as well. Now whether Ferrante would follow through with these women was another story, a lot of this was done as proof of his conquest. It was still nice to know he had options, if he ever wanted it—what man didn't like the idea of the availability of a little late-night call?
The meaning was lost on Battisti, who instead found himself lost in a trance of pastries and how he could employ better methods to secure the energy needed for his livelihood. He broke out of his trance with an absent-minded thought, that of which he felt extremely comfortable with Ferrante to share.
"…We men do too much thinking these days. To think there was a time where the women would be securing these scant resources for us…" He broke out of it though, to catch Ferrante's curious eye, "Oh, you know, when we were all hunting and gathering. The best time to be alive!" He raised his tone in jest.
Luckily for him, and which only grew his favor with Ferrante, he returned the jest, in absolute agreement. "Without a doubt, it was. Wouldn't it be good to go back…?" There was a smile on his face, but his question seemed genuine, and his eyes reflected the reverie.
"The only way is forward, as they say." Battisti emphasized, crossing his arms gleefully. At any given time Battisti could speak of even a hint of the future, there was optimism in his entire being.
"That is what they say, don't they…?" Ferrante trailed off, tapping the edges of his nails on the desk, before seeming to fall off into an unknown thought.
It was just then, with spontaneous delight brought on by the mention of past, present and future, that Battisti recalled a topic he wanted to speak with Ferrante on since day one—lineage!
Now he made himself more comfortable in the sheer anticipation. He pulled out the brown swivel chair beside the desk, and seated himself, thereafter, spreading his legs and leaning towards the desk with boy-like delight.
"Let's talk forebears, Dr. Ferrante. Please, if you don't mind, share with me some backstory of your family tree."
That was all it took, and Ferrante's eyes beamed, pupils dilating with intrigue. It was of course, not an odd nor too personal of a question. Could an Italian man rightfully call himself an Italian if he did not take pride on ancestral legacy—anymore than they could both call themselves doctors? In fact, it seemed to be a truth of all thriving countries, where the citizens found themselves to be particularly nationalistic and culturally enlightened—and nothing less.
Ferrante leaned back in his seat, body language indicative of relaxation, yet his face and eyes betrayed this—he was excited. He dug into his trouser pocket, retrieving his efficient and slim wallet. Inside was a clip, at first appearing to be a money clip—but it was more than that.
The emblem was embroidered with authentic gold leaf, it was apparent to Battisti right away. The gold specifically, was an array of feather-like projections from a solid suit of armor in blood red hue. The visor was tilted up to reveal an empty chamber, except for the embodiment of a bright blue, iron cross. The shield beneath was checkered with the same deep blue, and atop the helmet also wore a crown of gold, and more of the slight, blue iron crosses. Finally, below the shield of the heraldry, the name of the family, "Ferrante" with almost archaic font face.
"Oh my! Oh my god!" Exclaimed Battisti, to which Ferrante seemed to bask in his reaction with delight. He continued, "T-that looks ancient! It's real, no doubt! That pedigree…I've read good things about that name in general. Was your branch knightly, perhaps?"
And here, Battisti was hurled into a torrent of enthusiastic acclaim that Dr. Ferrante held for his ancestry. He gave him a historical account of his tree as far back as the Holy Roman Empire, the wealth of his knowledge, he assured him, on account of the fact of his family's present wealth, and the fortune he had inherited. Dr. Battisti was shocked to find out that dear Dr. Ferrante was indeed, the only young man left behind by his departed father—although there were also uncles and their sons.
"Your father passed away already? But you're so young! God bless the man who planted you…How old were you…?"
Dr. Ferrante's gloating halted just then, and there appeared to be some poignancy on his features. "I was 18, and only just about to take on med-school." He replied, looking to the side and shaking his head, before jolting back into speech, "Everything was left to me."
There was a moment of silence, Battisti offered his condolences, but also new inquiries.
"I also inherited all from my dearly departed father. However, with that came the business of this practice. Your father was a paramount businessman. Why didn't you choose to inherit all his networks? What instead made you choose medicine, and follow through with going to med-school?"
Dr. Ferrante readily replied, "It's a good question. I was entered into boarding school originally under his presumption that I would also master entrepreneurship. I did, but personal inclinations left me dreaming of becoming a doctor instead."
Now it was as though Battisti was trying desperately to milk out all the juicy details. He moved closer to the man, only separated from him by the veneer of the desk, looking as though he had the milking pail ready for what would come out of Ferrante's mouth next.
"What were these 'personal inclinations?'" Battisti asked, too eagerly.
Ferrante's eyes drooped and were soon heavy lidded, he answered, "…Death seemed to follow closely behind those in my immediate family; my father, mother, but even those who worked our estate."
Battisti's once eager demeanor faltered, then sank into oblivion to hear such a morbid statement. At the mention of his mother, his spirits sank deeper.
"Your mother too?" He placed his hand on his cheek, creeping over his mouth. "I'm so sorry…"
In truth, Battisti's mother had also passed at a young age. But if his father passed at 18, when did his mother? He didn't want to ask now though, he felt he had already crossed a boundary and, at the mention of one's mother, of all people, it would be especially insulting…
But Ferrante answered the internal question. "It was late summer of 1980 when my mother passed away. Apparently not long after my school break was exhausted and was already back in school. I had no idea until that Christmas holiday, when I returned…"
Battisti's heart dropped upon hearing it. For about 3 and a half to 4 months then, and when he was only about 14, he did not know of his mother's death. Such a thing, in this country where maternal worship was laced in the cultural identity, was a travesty.
The air felt suddenly heavy with Battisti, any mention of such grave details of a mother, of all members in one's family, was to be treaded lightly. And to hear of such a fate almost broke Battisti's heart, not just with sympathy but well-deserved validation in honoring the memory of his own mother. He said a prayer in his head, closing his eyes and not prying anymore details.
But it was an intimate moment between the men, and one which came about upon Battisti's own, unintentional doing. It was Fate, and the organic flow of conversation between those with so much chemistry. It was too late to fall upon silence, for Battisti beheld in his counterpart a look of absentness, a world, a universe, a galaxy of unprocessed hurts. And in the moment, the director mistook the numb look in the man's eyes as a reason for which he found himself in the career of ultimate service to humanity. As such, his empathy was strongly stimulated, and he was moved to urge Dr. Ferrante to confide in him more, as Dr. Battisti felt to be his paternal duty as well as his karma for pressing the subject.
"That summer was a hard one for me as it was, before I found that out. But that was the final force I needed to propel me in the direction of science, which I already held a passion for. I weighed all these factors before making my decision. My father was not thrilled about it." His gaze averted thereon, and his shoulders straightened, before clearing his tone with, "I may have rushed into the decision. I fear I have made some mistakes along the way. But the ends justify the means, so they say."
Now Battisti's demeanor uplifted at the change in pace of Ferrante's; he was already so in tune with his energies. He suddenly remembered just then; the age Ferrante was at his earliest volunteer experience—so that was why he had wasted no time!
"You can certainly say that in your case, Dr. Ferrante. It sounds to me like you were called into the pursuit of your profession—perhaps by the divine." He rolled his eyes then upward in reverence to the heavens. "There are countless young men where such a tragedy would just simply break them. It's awful…why do you think so many of them run off into gangs?" He shook his head pitifully then, continuing, "Here you are rising above adversity. It takes true strength to do so. Honestly, Dr. Ferrante, it's heroism at its finest. I have no words to express how much more enthralled with you I am, so I know your blessed mother would be proud." His smile was warm, full, as bright as the sun, and this did reach Ferrante with welcomed reception.
Ferrante was rubbing his chin, not looking at Battisti anymore. His expression was quizzical, and Battisti felt a tinge of shame at the awkwardness at what he had just said. He meant every word, true, but sometimes it seemed, he crossed an unspoken boundary with others.
Fools rush in, they say. Although the application was better suited elsewhere. He rushed in now for apology, but Ferrante blinked, and wagged his finger at him quickly, adding, "Don't. I appreciate your sentiments." He smiled sincerely thereafter, whatever thoughts he had had, dissolved into this sure appreciation.
He would have spoken again, but his attention was taken by Ferrante grabbling in his wallet once more. He produced an old, framed wallet sized photograph from its snug encasement. Battisti was all too eager, anticipating already who it must be.
A woman with coarse, thick black hair. It was brushed back neatly, the front pulled away from her face and secured in what looked like a white ribbon. Her eyes were almost as black as her hair, somewhat small, almond shapes with low setting lids. Her lips were small, red and pouted, and her skin was golden, kissed only so gently from the sun. A gorgeous woman indeed, the epitome of Italian beauty, it could be said.
"Bellissima. How old is she here?"
"Seventeen. 1966." There was warmth in Ferrante's husky voice.
"So young…" Battisti commented dreamily as he looked at the back of the photograph, where he found her name and birthdate written.
Nerina Savino. May 9th, 1948.
It was a fittingly beautiful name. The only thing that perplexed him a bit was her attire. She looked to be in a plain frock, more befitting a village girl than an elite. It didn't quite add up given Ferrante's family account…although, as he recalled in his own time, it was not unheard of for a wealthy man to take a village girl. Especially if they were beautiful and, well, she would certainly stand out even with her skirts hitched to her knees, skin covered in dirt.
He handed the photograph back to Ferrante who quickly tucked it back to safety. Although he was swift, it was done gingerly, and apparently so; it was a sentimental item for him. As Battisti pondered her age a bit more, he realized that she was not only just a bit older than him but would have passed away at Ferrante's age now! He decided to comment on the former, while not the latter.
"She's just a few years older than me, you know. I imagine your father was probably older than her though." Battisti proclaimed this smugly, before lifting from the chair.
"Suggesting you could be my father?" Ferrante teased, as he then opened the drawers of the desk, examining contents.
Battisti blushed for what must have been the thirtieth time today. "Ha! Well, it would be an honor to be considered so by you, frankly."
Ferrante leaned in his seat, driving on the flirtations without remorse. "You probably fancied yourself so before we had this conversation. You're still my senior, after all."
His assertion was spot on, so now Battisti had to retreat to keep from his Mediterranean complexion from betraying him. He almost chortled as he added quickly, closing the distance between the desk and the doorway, "It's an honor, as I said."
Once his foot stamped down upon the metal niche at the archway, he turned once more after regaining some composure. He bid farewell to Ferrante, assuring him he'd give him the rest of his break to familiarize himself in his new office and decorate however he wants.
Battisti was only so relieved to be away from his presence to give the man some peace. He felt rather guilty these past few days, always engaging Ferrante in conversations that were not all strictly business. As much as he himself enjoyed them, he hoped it wasn't too invasive for Ferrante. He didn't want to risk taking too much liberty with him, and to respect his privacy.
Ferrante on the other hand, felt quite glad to be rid of him, though it more had to do with his desire to celebrate the fact that he now had his own office, an incredible ego booster as well as a well-deserved boon after several years of medical school. He decided to take his lunch here for some peace of mind, so he was soon stalking out to the break rooms again, chuckling in his mind at how much of a fool he regarded the director to be.
.