Chapter Two:

A knot of older Italians swarmed Emily and Tobias when they entered Santa Lucia, firing questions in Italian. Emily, bewildered, said, “sono americana, sono americana” until Tobias said, “they know, Emily,” and began rattling off Italian himself. Emily caught a few words, “Emily Poiger… una studentessa americana… Battersby, Todd, Krista, gli studenti americani… Università Americana a Firenze…” Tobias turned to Emily. “Where were your friends?”

“They were getting some stuff on Via Quattro Venti.”

“I’ll see what we can do.” He tapped her on the shoulder. “Stay with the other Americans.”

“Aren’t you American?” Emily asked.

But Tobias had already melted into the press.

Emily elbowed her way out of the crowd. She leaned against the wall and tried to catch her breath, taking in Santa Lucia for the first time.

Like most poor Italian churches, Santa Lucia was plain and gloomy, reeking of dead saints and mildew. To be strictly honest, it looked more like a fortress than a place of God. The windows were slits in the wall; sunlight barely filtered through the thick grim stone to the dusty floor.

About a hundred and fifty people were crammed inside. Some elderly men and women sat on the chairs and benches that had been shoved against the wall. Others roamed around, whispering to each other, mostly in Italian, but also in English and German and, if Emily heard it right, even in Chinese.

Emily followed the sounds of English to a knot of people by the back wall. Her heart sank. Battersby, Todd, and Krista weren’t there – it was just a handful of art majors from Boston University, judging by their college sweatshirts, a kid from Florida State, a nerdy kid from MIT, and one of those classic white-bread American families that made Emily want to puke.

The puke-worthy family offered Emily a seat on the ground beside them.

“Hello, dear,” the overweight mother said. Alabama? Georgia? Emily used to be so good at the accent-game… “Oh, look at your arms. Are you okay? I think there’s an Italian woman here who’s a doctor…”

“I’m fine.”

“We were on a family trip… we were going to go into Ravenna tomorrow,” the mother said. “I’m Jo-Anne Walker, by the way. What about you, honey? What were you doing in Adesso?”

“I was going to go into Ravenna, too, with a bunch of friends. I don’t know where they are, though.”

“Tobias will help you. He’s a wonderful young man, isn’t he?” Mrs. Walker said.

Emily nodded.

“He found us at that church by the town-hall – thank God it wasn’t one of those Gothic things with all the stained glass. I still don’t understand what happened…” Mrs. Walker’s voice trailed off.

“What do you study, Emily?” Mr. Walker said.

“Communications,” Emily said. She nodded over her shoulder towards the knot of older men. They had withdrawn behind the altar, and were now talking in hushed voices, their backs to the crowd. “What’s going on up there?”

“They’re trying to decide what to do.”

“Isn’t there somebody they can call? Like the police?”

“Phone lines are down,” Mr. Walker said.

“What about cell phones?”

“They’ve tried,” Mr. Walker said. “They’re not working.”

“Why don’t you tell us a bit about your program, dear?” Mrs. Walker said. “What are you studying in Florence? That’s where you’re studying, aren’t you?”

“Oh yeah,” Emily said. “I’m taking a course on Renaissance art, and a course on Italian literature from Dante to… something, and I’m taking an Italian course, and a course on fashion and the Italian media.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Mrs. Walker said.

Mrs. Walker’s eldest sandy-haired boy stopped drawing in the dirt and looked up at his mother. “Mike and me are still hungry, Mom.”

“Mike and I, Billy,” Mrs. Walker said. “And we’ve eaten the last of the pastries. I’m afraid we’ll have to wait for whatever they dish up.”

Mike curled up next to his mom, watching the Italians milling around. Some were whispering to each other; still others were arguing, and some were crying. “Why are they still crying, Mom?”

“They’re probably worried about their homes.”

“Is our home okay?”

“Our home is fine. Our home is thousands of miles away.”

They all looked up as the church door opened, and Tobias returned with a dust-covered Australian, an English woman, a handful of Italian children and… Battersby, his Budweiser T-shirt now grimy and nasty, his blonde hair streaked grey with dust.

“Battersby!” Emily’s face lit up. She ran up to him, hugging him. She looked past him. “Where’s Todd and Krista? Are they . . .”

Battersby shook his head.

“Oh my God,” Emily said. “Did you… see it?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

About half an hour later, Giorgio Nogarola traipsed into the church. He set down his duffle bag, and unzipped it, pulling out a couple boxes of matches and a few lighters. He also pulled out a knife, a few bottles of wine and a few loaves of bread wrapped in paper. An Italian boy followed him into the church, with a shopping bag full of bread and rolls slung over his shoulder, and a few bottles of olive oil tucked under his arm.

Tobias must have raided the church’s supply of thick votive pillars, because he came out of some back room with his arms full of candles. He set about twenty of them in the middle of the church and handed the rest to two Italian girls. A boy grabbed a few boxes of matches from Nogarola and 

followed the girls, carefully lighting each candle. Emily looked up, smiling for a moment at the candlelit chapel. She shivered. The candles dispelled some of the darkness, but they couldn’t do much for the cold.

Mr. Walker took off his suit-jacket and handed to her. She put it on; it was about ten sizes too big, but at least it was warm.

Three old women were slicing up the loaves by candlelight in the middle of the church, while a girl poured olive oil onto a few saucers, like Emily used to pour milk for her cat. The girl picked up the saucers, distributing them among the knots of people around the church.

“Is this some kind of weird ritual?” Battersby whispered to her.

“I think it’s dinner,” Emily said.

“Just bread?”

“I guess it’s all they could scrape together.”

Battersby and Emily stopped talking as the girl set two plates of olive oil in front of Emily and the Americans. Emily dipped her bread in the oil and took a bite. The girl must have sprinkled some salt in the olive oil; she could taste it, but in the shifting candlelight, it was difficult to see.

She leaned against the wall, nibbling on her second piece of bread, trying to make it last, watching Tobias and a few Italians sitting in circles on the ground eating bread and drinking wine and laughing. One of the guys pulled out a guitar; he strummed it, singing some song in Italian. He handed it to Tobias, who strummed a few chords meditatively for a moment, then started singing in Italian himself. For a guy who was just passing through Adesso, you seem to have made an awful lot of friends…

She looked up, and blinked. Tobias had handed off the guitar to someone else and broken away from the crowd of Italians. He picked up a thick candle, and made his way back to the corner where the Americans and the Australians had sequestered themselves. He held the candle close to his chin, making a spooky face at Billy and Mike. “Whooo… whoooo…”

“Wow,” Emily said. “You’re mature.”

Tobias laughed, and pulled the candle away from his face. “Are you guys all right? Do you need anything? We’ve got some extra blankets.”

“We’re fine,” Mr. Walker said. “One thing… can we have another candle? My wife likes to read a bit of the Bible aloud to the kids in the evening.” He looked around, and said, a touch defensively, “If that’s all right with you all.”

“Fine by me,” the MIT kid said with a yawn.

Tobias handed the candle to Mrs. Walker. “Do you need a Bible?”

“No, I always carry a copy of the New Testament with me.” She reached in her tote back, and pulled out a little leather-bound book. “You never know when you’ll need it.”

Tobias sat down in their circle, next to the MIT kid. “Do you guys mind if I listen?”

“Not at all.” Mrs. Walker peeled off the rubber bands and gently opened the book. "I didn't realize you were a Christian, Tobias."

"I try to be."

She thumbed through pages so thin that they were almost translucent, until she came to the passage that she wanted. She held the candle dangerously close. A few drops of wax dripped onto the paper; she rubbed them away with her finger. “We know that all things work for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose. For those he foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son, so he might be the firstborn among many brothers. And those he predestined he also called, and those he called he also justified, and those he justified he also glorified…”

Emily yawned; the Asian MIT kid was trying to look chill, but she knew he was listening avidly. Funny, she didn’t think those science-y types were that spiritual. More into experiments and equations…

The Hispanic girl from Florida U said, “Can I read?”

“Sure, honey,” Mrs. Walker said, passing the New Testament to her.

The Florida U kid read, “What then shall we say to this? If God is for us, who can be against us?” She looked up at Battersby and Emily. “Would you like to read – oh my gosh, I’m sorry. I feel really embarrassed. What’s your name?”

“Battersby.”

“And I’m Emily,” Emily volunteered.

The Florida U kid blushed. “I’m Carmen. Do you guys want to read?”

“Oh no,” Emily said. “I’m spiritual, but I’m not religious.”

“Okay,” Carmen said. “What about you, Battersby?”

“I think I’ll pass,” he said. Emily noticed something odd – though Battersby was talking to Carmen, he was looking across the circle at Tobias.

“I’ll take a turn,” the Australian volunteered. “I’m Brad, since we’re playing the name-game.”

Carmen passed the book and the candle to him.

Brad the Australian said, “What will separate us from the love of Christ? Will anguish, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or the sword? No, in all these things we conquer overwhelmingly through him who loved us...” He looked up. “Tobias, would you like to finish it off?”

Tobias took the book and looked across the church for a moment. Santa Lucia had fallen rather quiet now; the older Italians had curled up in their jackets and coats, trying to sleep. A few of the younger Italians who were still awake had crept closer while they were reading, listening to words recited in a language that few, if any of them, could understand.

“Signor Prezzo,” they said, “Italiano, per favore.”

Tobias held the candle close, to make out the tiny, crabbed print. He read the passage in Italian. The young Italians murmured appreciatively…

As Emily was drifting asleep, she heard, “For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor present things, nor future things, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Jesus Christ Our Lord…”