The Ghost of Hannah Mendes (48 page)

“I can’t!” Suzanne said with sudden fear.

“You must!” The woman pulled her along.

The bars were high and sharply pointed, made with thick, forbiddingly cold metal. The gate screeched in protest as it was pushed open.

It was the smell of the Colosseum, Suzanne realized. The scent of the true malice of humankind, the only species that tortures its own. She ran her fingers over the rough, cold walls, feeling the nail scratches, perceiving the staining dark brown splatters of human blood. It was the breakdown of all human feeling, when the family of man loses all compassion, turning into monsters in human form. It was the essence of pure evil.

“I feel like I’m choking! There’s no air,” Francesca cried, feeling a sudden, irrational sense of panic. She sank to the floor, resting her back against the rough granite. Above, a small, barred opening let the moonlit night stream in like a guilty secret, its faint light swallowed by the thick gloom. She could see the waters of the canal and the ancient Bridge of Sighs, named by the suffering prisoners who gazed up at it from this hell below.

“Imagine sitting here listening to the screams from the torture chamber and from the other cells, not knowing…wondering if it was your own little girl.” Francesca’s eyes filled with anguished tears.

“Robbery, murder, rape, and torture in the name of some holy ideal. Inquisitors, Nazis, corrupt governments, terrorists. The names change, but the result is the same,” the woman told them.

“And it never ends. It never, never ends,” Suzanne agreed, shaking her head. “But Gracia survived it.” She nodded with bitter satisfaction. “I don’t think I could have.”

“Yes, you would have! Because you must! Every human being, sooner or later, sinks to a moment of absolute despair,” the woman’s voice said with deep conviction. “A moment when one feels absolute detachment from all succor, at the mercy of that black evil whose hands hold all power. There is a secret to survival. A weapon stronger than any they can bring against you. Something so powerful it is beyond their comprehension.”

The sisters looked at each other in wonder. Slowly, they turned their eyes toward the masked stranger, a slow dawning of recognition breaking over them like a wave of light.

“Take off the mask!” Suzanne demanded.

“Who are you? Please! And what is the secret?” Francesca begged.

The woman lifted her arms and undid the mask. In the darkness, her skin shone like pale milk, almost translucent. Her voice took on a strange, almost bell-like timbre that was not quite human: “The secret, my daughters, is the awareness of G-d’s presence.”

The Lord is my light and my salvation

Whom shall I fear?

The Lord is the source of my life’s strength, of whom then

shall I be afraid?

“Bodies may be tortured. They may even die. But the spirit goes on. And if a person is part of a family, the spirit is housed anew in another body each time a child builds his home as a branch of his parents’. In this way, every father and every mother, every grandfather and every grandmother, goes on living in children and grandchildren.

“And this is the secret of the everlasting, blossoming stem.”

Francesca clutched Suzanne’s cold hands, pulling her to her feet. They stood staring at the glowing form, which seemed to float upward in the dark room.

“It was you in El Transito, wasn’t it? You taught me your prayer!” Francesca exclaimed.

“And I wasn’t dreaming either, that night in my room, when you came to me, was I?” Suzanne called out, her whole body trembling with emotion. “Tell us what happened to you! Were you tortured? Did you manage to escape? Did you take your child with you?”

“And what happened to Brianda? Did you ever forgive her?” Francesca cried out.

All light in the room suddenly faded. They stared into the darkness. “Where are you! Please, don’t leave us! Help us!” they begged.

A small shaft of light suddenly came through the barred window, creating a path of light. Francesca reached out and took her sister’s hand, pulling her forward. They crept along the dark passageway together, following it up the staircase and out into the upper salons.

A sudden crush of revelers swept up the Giant’s Staircase, separating them and pressing them forward.

“Suzanne!”

“Francesca!”

They lost sight of each other, surrounded by the swirl of strangers in masks painted with expressions of unchanging emotion, a solid wall of strange indifference that they couldn’t penetrate.

Swept up to the top, Francesca found herself caught in the swiftly flowing human stream. Her ears picked up a strain of the music she had heard outside. She followed it down the corridors, crowds pressing her forward. All at once, the playing got louder. The streaming crowds swirled past her, pushing open the doors to a vast hall.

She felt her waist encircled by strong male arms.

“What!” she protested, wriggling to free herself, but his grip was too strong.

“
Buon giorno!
” He laughed, his teeth milky white against his swarthy skin, his dark hair curled like a sea god’s over his ears and forehead. He smelled of good men’s cologne, the kind that made a woman feel powerless. And suddenly, to her surprise, she felt her body stop struggling.

Abandon, Francesca thought with strange recklessness. And why not? Why not? Life wasn’t an FDA-approved drug, after all. Suzanne was right. Was not this night all a dream? Was not all of life simply shadows and muffled voices dancing in the darkness against a palette of colors, real and imagined? Who knew what was real anymore? Marius, his love, Elizabeta? Suzanne was right. It was better to feel, to give in to the moment, before your time slipped away altogether.

The music grew faster, and the exciting warmth of the charming stranger pressed against her, feeling like love. He was here, now, without any hidden agendas, promises that needed to be made or kept, asking of her only what she was willing to give. So why not? Why not open herself to the world? Why not try to be Suzanne for just one night?

She felt herself twirled away into the crowd, her feet almost off the ground. He pressed against her, his cheek warm against her own, his hands massaging her back. Francesca felt herself moved toward the exit, the stranger’s arm decisively around her waist as he led her down the stairs.

“Francesca, where are you going?” It was Suzanne.

“
Piacere, signorina
,” the dark stranger said gaily, looking at Suzanne with a wide, sensuous smile.

“Get lost,
per favore!
Francesca, please, don’t!”

“Leave me alone! Why is it good for you but not for me?”

“This is no good! Not for anyone!”

“I can take care of myself. Go away!”

“I won’t! I can’t! You’re my sister.”

“Since when have you cared about that?”

“Cared!” Suzanne stamped the floor furiously. “What do you think got me interested in the women’s center, date rape…”

“Date rape,” Francesca repeated, shuddering, looking into the stranger’s dark male eyes as if suddenly awakening. She recoiled, waving him away. Suzanne dragged her up the staircase.

“Why did you have to come to Venice! Why did you have to tell me that Gran paid Marius off?” Francesca shrugged her off.

“I never told you that!”

“Yes, you did!”

“Do you love him?”

Francesca looked at her, astonished. “How can you ask me that!” she screamed, furious, pushing her away. “After what you’ve told me!”

Suzanne pushed her back. “I never told you anything about Marius. I don’t know anything!”

“Yes, you do!” Francesca slapped her.

“Gabriel said
we
were set up. Not you and Marius!” she shouted, returning the slap with interest.

“So what are you saying, what are you saying?” she screamed, punctuating her words with little sharp jabs to Suzanne’s shoulder blade. “That Gran did it to you but not to me? You but not me, huh? Does that make any sense…? I’m the SHORT, PLAIN, BORING ONE who never has a boyfriend, not you! I’m the one who NEEDS TO HAVE A MAN PAID OFF in order for him to show any interest in her….!”

Suzanne stamped her foot down on Francesca’s toes. “Yes, it does make sense! PERFECT SENSE!! I’m the problem child. Not YOU!! I’m the one who CAN’T BE RELIED ON TO MAKE THE RIGHT CHOICES. Who has to have a husband PICKED OUT FOR HER LIKE A GOOD MELON! My G-d! I think I’m going to be sick!” She ran down the hall to the nearest window overlooking the canal.

Francesca followed her, limping.

Suzanne heaved dryly, then wiped her mouth and closed her eyes, leaning against the wall. “And the thing is…the worst thing is…Gabriel
is
the perfect choice for me! G-ddamnit to hell! I love him! I can’t imagine living without him! It kills me!”

Francesca held her breath, astonished. “What?”

Suzanne leaned once again over the banister: “If you laugh, I’ll kill you!”

“Perfect for you? And Gran picked him out, like a melon, you say?” Francesca roared.

“I can’t believe you think this is funny.” Suzanne heaved, but instead of vomiting, she giggled. “It was supposed to be a blind date! And I ran off with him!! Oh my G-d. Perfect,” she howled. “And…and all the time…all the time I was thinking…” She choked, holding her shaking stomach. “I tell you, I was thinking: To hell with the family! To hell with Gran!”

They laughed until their bellies hurt and their throats ached, and their palms were soaked from wiping away the tears….

“So, what do we do now?” Francesca asked.

“We get out of here,” Suzanne answered, slipping her arm around her sister’s waist.

38

“Want a stiff drink?”

“Please,” Francesca said gratefully, her feet on the floor, the rest of her body lying flat on the bed. She flung her arm over her eyes, exhausted.

“Want to talk about it?” Suzanne asked hesitantly, handing her a rum-and-Coke.

She sat up wearily. “Whew! I don’t even…can’t even…guess. Can you?”

“That was really weird. Maybe it was all that champagne we had before we left. I mean, you don’t really think that it was”—she lowered her voice to a whisper—“
her
…do you?”

“I don’t know what to think! If it was just this one time, well, maybe. But I’ve been sober as a judge this entire trip, and it hasn’t stopped one strange coincidence and event after the next from happening to me! And certain things I
know
really happened. I didn’t dream them. Like that woman who whispered a Spanish prayer in my ear in the El Transito synagogue, and finding you in that church! It was a very special prayer known only to scholars. And I had no intention of going into that church!”

“I know what you mean. Like that dream I had. I’m telling you, Francesca, I saw that woman! She was in my hotel room. She even left a gold thread from her shoes on my carpet.” Suzanne hugged herself.

“There’s got to be some simple explanation. I don’t believe in ghosts, Suzanne. At least I never did until now.”

“Well, maybe
one
believes in
us
and is following us around! Unless you can come up with a more reasonable explanation.”

Francesca shrugged helplessly. “Could she have been an actress hired by Gran, to teach us a lesson? There has to be a logical explanation, right? But I can’t think now. I’m absolutely exhausted. I’m just going to read my phone messages and go to sleep. I’m sure in the morning, when all the alcohol has worn off, we’ll both come up with something perfectly reasonable.” She yawned, flipping through the white notes.

“Who are they from?”

“This one’s from Marius. He wants me to call him back. One from Mom. Hey, this one’s from Gran! And it’s addressed to both of us!”

Suzanne sat up straight. “But no one knows I’m here!”

They studied each other.

“This really
is
spooky! Unless she was just taking a shot in the dark. Suzanne, look!”

“What?” she turned, confused.

“The night table! The book!”

It was full of torn paper.

“My G-d! Someone’s destroyed it! How did they get in here? Why would anyone do that! I don’t believe this!” Francesca ran to the table and picked up the volume. Large tears had been made in the inner binding. “Just destroying it like that, for no reason! Criminal, insane.” Her face changed colors. “Elizabeta!”

“Why would you say that?”

“She was trying to tear it when I was at her house! I snatched it away.”

“Let me see that.”

“Maybe I could tape it up, or take it to a book bindery….”

“
No!
Look at this.” Suzanne peeled off some more pieces of paper.

“Are you crazy, Suzanne?!”

“Francesca, look!”

A small slit had been opened on the inside of the binding from which off-white parchment stuck out.

“There’s something inside the binding.”

“You’re right.” Slowly, she continued peeling away the paper until the folded pages slid out.

It smelled of ambergris.

“My G-d! What is it!?” Suzanne exclaimed.

But before Francesca could examine it, the phone rang.