Prologue
The Good We Oft Might Win
“And we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures.”
― William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar ―
Friday, November 4, 1966, was a national holiday in Italy, but the heavy rain that had fallen over the last two days had dampened not just the streets but the spirits of the Rimini citizenry. Forty-six-year-old Enrico Passero used his holiday to fix a leaky pipe to the bathroom sink and reorganize his many bookshelves, aided in both tasks by his nine-year-old son Pierluigi while his six-year-old daughter Carmelita supervised. His work kept the children out of the kitchen as Loredana, his forty-four-year-old wife, baked bread and prepared their evening meal.
That night, on the evening news, Enrico watched a televised video of appalling flooding in Venezia and Firenze—what the English-speaking world called Venice and Florence. In Venezia, more than a meter of lagoon water covered Piazza San Marco. As shocking as those scenes appeared, they couldn’t compare to the images coming out of Firenze. It was an epic disaster—catastrophic to the people, and to the city’s priceless art, architecture, books, and manuscripts.
“Why are you crying?” Loredana asked as she walked into the room.
Enrico pointed to the television and the grainy black-and-white image of the Arno River lapping at the shop walls on the Ponte Vecchio, now more dam than bridge.
Loredana gasped, then whispered, “Mio Dio,” as a tear formed in her eye.
The next morning, authorities contacted universities and libraries all over Italy to get the word out about the enormity of the disaster, and to ask for help. Enrico’s boss, the library director, authorized travel expenses and pay for Enrico and two colleagues, Sergio and Tadeo, to go to Firenze for a month. Enrico asked about his twenty-six-year-old stepdaughter Mariangela, who worked part-time at the library and who’d said she was going even before the director had approved a delegation. His boss agreed to pay for her travel expenses.
“But no salary, Rico! Else I’ll have every part-timer volunteering to go so they’ll get paid full-time wages. And remember, one month, no more!”
Enrico made plans for his group to leave for Firenze by train on Monday morning, changing trains in Bologna. If all went well, the entire journey would take three-and-a-half hours, but Enrico was unsure of the rail line status in the Arno Valley. His director told him there’d be people at the train station in Firenze who’d direct them where to go.
“I would’ve told you to go to the Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze, only it is under water. I’m sure you’ll get to it soon enough.” The director placed a hand on Enrico’s shoulder. “This is a good thing you do, Rico. Save the books, but please stay safe.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Monday morning at eight, Mariangela joined her stepfather Enrico, along with Sergio and Tadeo, on the train platform to await the northbound train that would take them to Bologna. Her mother and her two siblings stood with them, as did her husband Donato and his sister Silvia and her husband Gregorio, fellow residents of Rimini.
Four years ago, after the birth of their daughter, she and Donato had moved out of their apartment in San Mauro Pascoli to live with Silvia and Gregorio in the Rimini centro storico. Donato welcomed the extra hour commute each way so that Mariangela and Valentina could be closer to their family. And it was why, when Valentina turned two, Mariangela could return to her job at her stepfather’s library, while her mother Loredana watched Valentina along with her own son and daughter.
But babysitting five hours a day, three days a week, was not the same as twenty-four-hour, seven-day care. For that reason, Silvia, her sister-in-law, had volunteered to take leave from the canning plant and watch Valentina, now four and a half, after Loredana had said she couldn’t. Loredana had explained to Mariangela how she’d have her hands full with her own children while Enrico was away. Mariangela considered it just as well, knowing how difficult it would be for her daughter.
At least she’ll be in her own home with her father.
Mariangela knew her siblings would also miss their father, Enrico, but she knew an absent mother to be more traumatic to a child than an absent father. Mariangela stopped tugging on that thought when she felt Valentina pull at her arm again.
“Sì, my little warrior princess?” Mariangela knelt to look at her daughter, who, if she had any more growth spurts, would no longer need it. Valentina already stood 120 centimeters tall, rivaling most seven-year-old children.
“Mamma, you will return?”
“Ovviamente, my sweet daughter. Prometto.”
“But so much water, so much damage!”
“Allora, you doubt I’ll return?”
“No… Maybe?” Valentina lifted her gaze skyward, her response a plea seeking her mother’s reassurance.
“Do you doubt I love you?” Valentina now looked at her feet, anywhere but at her mother. Mariangela rose and placed her hands on Valentina’s shoulders, and her daughter’s gaze now met hers. “‘Doubt thou the stars are fire, doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love.’ Recognize it?” Under both her mother and grandmother’s tutelage, Valentina had a command of English, and her French was progressing.
“Amleto?” Valentina responded as though she wasn’t sure, but Mariangela knew she was. She read Shakespeare to her daughter almost every night, both in Italian and the original English.
“Sì, eccellente. Hamlet’s letter to Ophelia. And if you do not doubt my love for you, then you cannot doubt my return. You’ll have me forever, principessa, but Firenze needs us now. Just for a few weeks.”
Valentina embraced her mother as the train rolled to a stop. “Sì, Mamma. I will have you forever.”
CHAPTER ONE
Valentina
I can live with that.
In June 2018, as her goddaughter Angelina’s due date approached, Valentina found herself, for the first time in forty years, experiencing positive emotions from multiple sources. Angelina, of course, had always been such a source. As much a surrogate daughter as a goddaughter. But now Valentina also had a surrogate son, Angelina’s husband, Benjamin. Two people made up a family unit to love and protect. And they’d given her the title she now relished as much as any—nonna—as she awaited the birth of their daughter.
I am going to be a grandmother.
Three months before, authorities had charged her in the murder of Angelina’s first husband. The police investigation had been an ordeal, with Valentina unaware of how much stress she’d been under until it had lifted from her, as if she’d followed Dante out of hell, to the other side of the world, and could once again see the stars. But out of that ordeal, she’d renewed neglected friendships with two colleagues: Roma from the Carabinieri, and Ogier from AISE, the Italian foreign intelligence agency. In the years leading up to Angelina’s wedding last December, while Valentina had spoken with Roma from time to time over the phone, Ogier had lived up to his nickname, Ombra, and had remained just a shadow in her life. More an echo of a memory than a memory. She’d worked with Ogier Malouf-Bracco—who’d received the nickname Shadow from his colleagues—almost her entire time while in the AISE. For all that time, she’d believed that he was gay.
Hell, I thought I was gay.
He wasn’t; she wasn’t. Not really. That realization had smacked her in the face like a fish after Ogier announced he was in love with her. And since then, he’d persisted with the idea, pestering her in his own lovable way to stop living in the past and instead accept and return his affection. She’d resisted, in part because he was a man, but mostly because he wasn’t Isabella. Valentina considered the pledge she’d made thirty-six years ago to love only Isabella, Angelina’s mother, a sacred vow. This even after Isabella had been forced by her parents to marry the much older Tàmmaro, and despite the deaths of both Isabella and Tàmmaro twenty-two years later, leaving Angelina parentless. But unlike with Angelina’s late husband, Giovanni, Valentina had killed Tàmmaro, albeit in self-defense.
With reluctance driven by disbelief, she worked to convince herself of three things: Ogier could not be in love with her, she could not have a romantic relationship with a man, and she’d be unfaithful to Isabella were she ever to have a romantic relationship with anyone else. But after a dinner to celebrate the dismissal of the charges, followed by a long, solitary walk that set her thoughts spinning, and finally, a sleepless night, she’d acknowledged that none of the assertions were true. For the first time in her life, she’d understood what Cervantes meant when he wrote, “Love not what you are, but only what you may become.”
Whether because of the relief that la polizia had cleared her and solved the Giovanni Fabrizi murder or the renewal of their friendship, Valentina had confronted both the confused feelings she’d held for Ogier over the years plus the guilt those feelings evoked as she thought of her promise to Isabella. She decided she could enjoy seeing Ogier socially without jeopardizing her vow. The only person more surprised than her at this turn of events was Ogier, who overcame his shock to welcome her decision.
Last month, following the dropping of her murder charge, she’d realized she needed to decompress. Deciding to package up her anxiety about both boats and dating to unwrap later, she’d accepted his invitation to go sailing on his sailboat, L’Étranger, at the end of May. The venue was his choice; it would not have been hers. Her grandparents had owned a fishing boat, and they’d died on it during one of the many bombing attacks inflicted upon Rimini during World War II. The story of their death had engendered in her a singular distaste for boats. Yet, she’d found she enjoyed his company on their first date, though she could not bring herself to use that term. That was no surprise. The surprise had come when she discovered she enjoyed sailing.
Ogier was a perfect gentleman that day, as always—well, except for one time in Paris. She believed he sensed he couldn’t push a romantic agenda. Regardless of his reasoning, the approach was working. Valentina enjoyed sailing, and she enjoyed being with Ogier.
♦ ♦ ♦
A visit from Benjamin’s parents and Angelina’s cousin and her husband for the July 14 baptism, and then, the baptism itself, had stoked Valentina’s feelings of family, of belonging, but also had raised a new feeling, one she could only describe as “incompleteness.” She’d believed that her love for Isabella had completed her, but now Valentina felt as though another piece was missing.
At first, she’d thought Benjamin, her nominal son-in-law, represented the missing piece, but he was the piece missing from Angelina’s life, not hers. Next, Valentina believed Angelina’s unborn daughter would complete her, but again, Bella was the piece that completed Angelina. Only then had Valentina realized that Ogier occupied the missing piece of her life’s puzzle, though she was unsure whether he was a perfect fit. Valentina decided that perfect fit or not, she liked Ogier, and she enjoyed spending time with him.
She’d regretted not inviting him to Bella’s baptism. At first, she wasn’t sure where the relationship was going or if it would even exist. When the relationship displayed no signs of evaporating after Bella’s birth, Valentina tried to convince herself that with the baptism only weeks away, it was too late to add another guest.
Who was I kidding?
It wasn’t too late, she knew—it was too soon. She hadn’t been ready to tell Angelina. Valentina hadn’t been ready to admit that she might break her vow to Isabella; she still wasn’t. Nor was she sure she’d ever be ready.
When Ogier had asked her about why she’d not invited him to the baptism, he didn’t accept her rationalization. “I embarrass you. You don’t want to be seen with me, vero?”
Valentina brought her hands together, as though praying. “No, certo che no! You do not embarrass me!” She rocked her praying hands at him. “I embarrass myself. You should know that about me by now.”
They hadn’t seen each other for two weeks after the baptism, and there had only been two phone calls and a handful of texts and emails. When Ogier called the second time, he said, “Valentina, I have something to ask—”
Valentina interrupted him. “Ombra, before you say anything, I must apologize for my behavior. I should have invited you to the baptism. You have every right to feel hurt, but know I am not embarrassed by you. I care about you, and our relationship is special to me, meaningful. Important. I must face my demons and accept that Isabella would not object. If Angelina cannot see that, I must learn to accept that as well.” She sighed, then said, “But what were you going to ask?”
“Would you like to go sailing with me on L’Étranger this Saturday, mia cara?” Ogier asked.
Valentina hadn’t expected his invitation, and it took her a moment. When Ogier coughed, she said, “Certo, Ombra.”
The boat’s name still brought a smile to her thoughts. When she’d first seen his boat in Ancona last year, she’d teased him about using the Camus book title for its name. She remembered their conversation.
“You might as well have named it Hommage Malavisé,” she’d said.
“It’s hardly the Misguided Tribute. And while I didn’t name it with you in mind, I apologize. I know how much you despise Camus.”
“No, I am teasing. I may not like Camus the man, but I’ve enjoyed reading L’Étranger. Besides, based on our recent conversations, it appears you have been a stranger to me. In more ways than one.”
And now, hopefully, strangers no longer.
♦ ♦ ♦
The weather the last Saturday in July was glorious, with the sun a constant companion, its brilliance adding glittering flecks of confectioner’s sugar to the Regatta-colored crêpe of the Adriatic. Valentina had brought her sun shirt and hat as a precaution; they became essential as the day progressed. She and Ogier enjoyed a calm Adriatic, and the eight-knot breeze out of the north gave the boat something to work with. Unlike her first sailing experience two months before, Valentina informed Ogier she wanted to learn to sail the boat.
“La mia guerriera, I asked you along to enjoy the day, not to make you work.”
“When is learning a new skill work? Cervantes said, ‘It is good to live and learn.’”
Ogier studied her for a moment, then said, “Allora, we begin your lessons.”
He began by reacquainting her with the terms for the sails and parts of the boat. When he described port, starboard, fore, and aft, she lifted her hands to her sides. “I need to learn how to sail, Ombra. I am not ignorant of basics!”
“Mia cara, when we worked together, you told me never to assume anything. One must always explain to avoid gaps and misunderstanding, sì? Did not Cervantes say not to leap over the hedge before you come at the stile?”
“I am not sure he meant I must listen to basic vocabulary lessons, but your point about assumptions is well-taken. Per favore, continua, Ombra.”
“To be a sailor, you must understand how the boat’s weight and its buoyancy interact with the effects of tide and current, ovviamente, but the most important thing is to understand the forces that act on a sailboat under sail.” He brought his hands together several times at different angles as he continued. “The driving force flows across our sails. We trim the sails to make the best use of this force, anywhere from close-hauled to running.”
“I have watched you trim the sails. Understanding the driving force and the points of sail seems simple enough.”
“If only it were that simple. You must balance the driving force with the heel force that wants to push the boat sideways.” He used the heel of one hand to push the other. “Without our keel and ballast, this heel force would capsize the boat. You still must manage it, as well as wind gusts and sudden changes in wind direction to keep us from broaching.”
Ogier spent the next two hours mentoring Valentina as she handled the boat. teaching her how to read the wind, trim the sails, and decide when to tack. After her most recent deft tack to port, Ogier said, “Allora, you have been paying attention. Well done. You handle the helm with confidence.”
Valentina thought, I handle everything with confidence. Instead, she said, “It seems to be simple physics. Not so difficult.”
That evening, as they maneuvered into his slip back in Ancona, Valentina said, “Ombra, today was great, thank you. I expect the weather tomorrow to be just as spectacular. I wish we were sailing tomorrow.”
“Well, why not?” He smiled, then cut the motor as Valentina stepped onto the dock with a mooring line. “I’m staying aboard, anyway. I’ll get you a room in town.”
“Why can I not stay on the boat? In the other cabin.”
“Are you ready for a night on the water?” Before she could reply, he said, “Let’s think about it over dinner.”
After dinner, Valentina insisted she wanted to stay on the boat. She was glad she had driven to Ancona rather than taken the train. Consistent with her philosophy to be prepared for anything, she kept a go-bag in the car’s boot, with a change of clothes and a few toiletries. She’d just never expected to use it on a date.
And until that moment, she realized, she’d considered nothing she’d done with Ombra “a date.”
Sunday, she and Ogier enjoyed another day of sailing, the weather just as wonderful, the boat just as responsive, and the Adriatic just as mesmerizing. The winds were not as strong as Saturday, and the morning’s wind from the north veered, shifting out of the east by mid-afternoon before becoming southerly as they returned to the marina. Adjusting to the changes in direction, Valentina’s sailing skills had improved throughout the day. With each luffing of sails, she course-corrected to keep momentum, and near the end of her “watch,” even expected wind shifts and trimmed sails avoiding the luff. As they returned to the slip, with Ogier again at the helm, Valentina regretted their sailing adventure was ending.
Once they secured the boat, they headed for dinner, Valentina feeling as though the Earth’s gravity had shifted as she stepped off the floating dock onto the pier. I seem to have developed sea legs in only one weekend.
She glanced at her legs, nodded, and lifted a palm. “I am walking like a real sailor.”
“No wonder. You’re tacking like a real sailor, not un marinaio della domenica,” he said.
“But it is Sunday, Ombra.”
“You know what I mean. Un dilettante.”
“I knew what you meant; I was kidding. It is because I have an excellent teacher.”
“Teacher of joking or sailing?”
“Sì,” Valentina said and smiled. “Allora, I would not have agreed beforehand, but I needed this. I have for so long despised boats—and now I do not.”
“Why’d you hate them? It doesn’t show.”
“That is a not-so-happy story for another time. I want to focus on today, not the past.”
Following a delightful meal, they strolled back to the boat, and Valentina retrieved her bag. Ogier walked her out to her Alfa Romeo, where she set her bag in the boot. “Ogier, this was the most wonderful weekend I have spent since we met your uncle in Lebanon. Thank you.”
“Also, for me, la mia regina guerriera.” He waited, as if studying her reaction. When she didn’t respond, he said, “You said not to call you princess. You said nothing about queen.”
She raised a hand to cup her chin. “Sì, Ombra, I can be your warrior queen.” She embraced him, lifting him off the ground as she bussed both cheeks. “But only here—on your boat. Concordato?”
“Sì, la mia regina querriera. But not just on the boat, no? When we are sailing, vero? The marina, the parking lot, the restaurants—all of it. Concordata?”
“Va bene, I agree, Ombra.”
“As much as I hate to ask, could you, uh… put me down?”
“Oh, sì!” She chuckled as she lowered him to the ground, not so much embarrassed as amused. She’d enjoyed holding him. “Thank you again,” she said, and entered her Alfa Romeo.
His warrior queen? I can live with that.
