Lake Como, not far east of Milan, is arguably the most beguiling place on Earth, not least for its mysteries and intrigues. From above, the lake itself resembles a very lanky, armless old man in profile, striding forward with one leg, knee bent, his head tilted back. He may be looking at the Alps, as who wouldn’t? The looming, jagged range is as menacing as it is inviting.
Along the banks of the lake are small towns and villages, but at the foot of each “leg” of our old man is a city. At the back “leg” is Lecco, at the other Como. The lake and its towns form a community of their own, an Italy within Italy, not unlike other regions, but the towns and villages retain their distinct character, as they have for centuries.
For example, people in Moltrasio tell stories of their grandparents’ fierce anti-Fascist resistance, while the Varennesi are proud of their Renaissance past, especially its beguiling Villa Monastero. Now, though people around the lake delight in the telling of their terrifying legends, generally they are peace-loving and discreet. They seem content.
1.
Valentina Rulx, without dressing the part and with no makeup, was stunning. Had she not tied back her luxurious brown-amber hair, it would have fallen in waves to her shoulders, framing a face exquisite enough to distract even from her contoured shape. She was in Lecco for the salsa music, the best in Lombardy, as was her dancing. Nearing 11 p.m., too late for the last ferry, she walked with a mesmerizing, athletic grace toward the bus stop that would take her back to Varenna.
Having watched her all evening, Valentina’s rapist had seen that she was no easy prey, so he struck her head from behind, the blackjack snapping as it hit her skull. He was practiced in the blow, one that caused little serious damage to his target but rendered her helpless. In the alley, he was deliberate, careful with her clothing. When he was finished, he covered her with her bolero jacket and walked out of the alley. He would have continued walking, but the bus arrived, so he boarded.
His misfortune would be that he underestimated his victim. He should have hit her harder. Valentina was fit, her will strong. Helpless in fact, she remained still, just conscious enough to register his face. She knew that she did not have a concussion, and she feared that the Lecco police, with two other rapes on their hands, would underreact. Now she took the last bus back to Varenna. After a long shower, she called her friend Marilena.
“I need you. Please come.”
In the ten minutes it took for Marilena to arrive, Valentina had sketched a drawing of her attacker. It would be a mnemonic device but probably useless for an official identification.
They were tucked at each end of Valentina’s sofa, drinking lemoncello.
“I can add that he was under six feet tall, slight of build, and agile.”
“Show it to your father, Vala. You must tell him everything.”
Valentina shook her head as she sipped. “How rich is this, no? You can’t beat the lemons from Sardinia. Thank you for coming, Mari.”
“Your father.”
“No! He is, you know, busy, at the Institute. Some new language book. And I’m sure my three uncles would come from Bruges, and – “
“Ah! The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, together! Val, I’ve heard the stories.”
“In the past. My father is fifty years old now, the youngest of them, but – “
“And the fittest man I’ve ever seen. Tell him.”
“Please don’t keep interrupting, Mari!” Full stop. “I will make a copy of this drawing for you, if you care to help. We will watch for this man. If we see him, then I will know what to do.”
The conversation ended there. Clear of mind, normally a very busy mind, Valentina had fallen asleep. It had rained, and the air outside was fresh, with a breeze, so Marilena cracked open a window. She stretched out her friend on the sofa and covered her with a blanket, gently placing a pillow under her head. Now certain that she was sound asleep, she looked into her face and almost defiantly whispered, “maybe I’ll tell Reynard myself.”
She shut all the lights. Halfway out the door, she heard, “I would never forgive you.”
Marilena rolled her eyes and groaned, “okay okay. Now get some sleep.”
But Valentina did not sleep. In the dark, with her eyes wide, first she would think.
2.
When Franco Fiori jumped on the bus, he had no plan, but getting off at Varenna was not quite a random act. He had close friends who lived there, buddies going way back. He could spend a few nights with one of them, and maybe together they could have some fun. By noon the next day, he, Lucho, Bruno, and Enzo were at Ristoro Genio, a cheap, delicious restaurant with a view of the lake and several young beauties.
“They are fine, no?”
“Yes, and they know it.”
“And we know that they know it.”
“And,” Franco chimed in, “it angers me.”
“You shouldn’t take it personally, Franco.”
“Enzo, I do. I must. On behalf of our sex. The dynamic is unbalanced. What do we have to compensate?” As his emotion rose, the room seemed to brighten, as though to stimulate him further.
The three slowly looked at each other before looking at Franco.
Lucho, the biggest and oldest, and the only married man among them, said to him, “Enjoy the ravioli, Franco. Enjoy this place. Enjoy us.”
At that moment, a stunning young girl passed by their table, taking no notice of them.
“Did you see that?” Franco was beside himself.
“Of course I saw her,” Bruno said. “I’m at ass level. I couldn’t miss it.”
“Yes,” answered Franco, then “no. Not that. I mean her pretense. She shows us that ass then pretends as though we do not exist. The spensieratezza.”
They laughed. “Oh my! Did you pull that out of your ass?” Enzo chuckled at his own attempt at wit.
“Whatever.” Lucho was smirking.
“Whatever what, you ox?”
“Bruno, the word means ‘whatever’ in English, but said sarcastically.”
“Okay then, whatever. As in whatever will we do tonight, for fun?”
Lucho, approaching escape velocity boredom, stood. “I’ll be watching a movie with my wife. You, Enzo, will be at Vinis looking to pick up a woman shorter than you. And you two… you’ll find something. My advice? Try Como. Take the ferry. Then when you’re drunk, at least Franco can walk home.”
Lucho threw down ten euros – more than enough to pay for his one drink.
Enzo stood. “I must rest up for Vinis tonight, for a very tall girl.” Imitating Lucho, he put down ten euros and patted each friend on the shoulder.
As the two walked out together, Lucho asked, sotto voce, “How much do you think Franco will lift off the table? I say ten,” and they both laughed. Lucho was the eldest by a year, a big man, and no ox, who had once hospitalized a man in a bar fight; Enzo, with a mind of his own and little taste for adventure; Bruno, a tag-along, and Franco, always the opportunist. They were devoted to each other, certainly, but they did not know each other as well as they assumed. Each had a Hidden Self, but none as hidden as Franco’s.
Franco and Bruno smiled at each other. “Let’s meet at the ferry at seven.” Bruno nodded, put down ten euros, and left.
Franco sat. He gazed at the lake, shimmering with brightness, beckoning. Looking back at the table, he thought, much too much. He took ten euros from the table and put down five. What he knew is that they knew. He saw it as a game, as he did much of life.
Once out on the sidewalk, he stopped, stretched, and surveyed the street. Varenna was beautifully comforting in an old-world way, and since he thought himself an old-world man, he rather liked that. He thought himself alone in understanding that.
His gaze fell upon the church in front of the piazza. And that’s when he saw her, sitting on a stone bench. The girl whom he had raped in Lecco, more beautiful in the setting sun than under the moon. Stunned, again by her sheer loveliness, he thought, “This time I could love her.” Such was his sociopathy. But was Franco-the-romantic also too stupid to be frightened? Too confident that he could not be recognized? Or just lucky that Valentina had not, just then, looked his way? He would have his fun in Como.
3.
Marilena was troubled. Once before, she had seen her friend traumatized. She had become cold, impassive, calculating. Now, what plan would her friend concoct? Valentina was the capable daughter of a strong-willed Peruvian beauty who had died ten years earlier, a mother who “never settled,” as Valentina put it. Her father – her father was a man whom some knew had had his adventures. A “soldier-scholar” is how his employer described Reynard Rulx. Flemish, never Belgian.
Marilena had been friends with Valentina since grammar school, where Val was the most brilliant student in every subject. At the gym, she saw her friend train like a machine and spar like an Olympian. Trauma requires blame, and blame requires revenge – or was it justice? After all, she was her mother and father’s daughter.
Three days after the assault, at the invitation of Valentina, the two friends had breakfast at the Villa Monastero, a property of the Province of Lecco but actually, if indirectly, maintained and occupied by The Institute for International Communication (a think tank many people thought “shady” and of which there was no public record in Varenna). The building originated in the twelfth century, but its look was Renaissance (though the statuary was discreet), and its botanical gardens were the envy of Europe. They sat in the middle of a variety of intense colors, concentric circles reflecting the mellow morning light that bespoke calm. As was her custom, Marilena said a private grace over her meal.
One would suppose that two young, slender, athletic young women would not eat much, but one would be mistaken. Scrambled eggs, sausage, croissants slathered in butter, and blueberry muffins were washed down by pots of coffee (black, with sugar). The lake, appearing glazed, was rippling in a light breeze, its birds flying low.
“Will we see your father, Val?”
“Mari. Mari Mari. No, we will not. You must stop paying him so much attention. He is too old for you.” She laughed as she spoke.
“Okay, Val. I promise not to mention your father more than another five times – for now. What is your plan?”
“Well, Mari, I have a three-step plan.”
Mari was unsurprised. “How systematic of you.”
“Yes, I am. Here are the steps: I’m going to find him, trap him, and beat him.”
Marilena fell back into her seat. After a long while, she said, “Just like that.”
“Yes, more or less. Listen, Mari, he does not know I saw him, that I can identify him with near certainty, so he will not hide. I will visit Lecco, Como, our neighbors around the Lake. You too will watch for him.”
Marilena said, “You’ve been brutalized, Vala. Please feel as well as think.”
“Will you not?” Valentina was leaning forward now. Very often, the two friends, who knew each other so well, did their conversational dance, certain of the end.
“Of course,” the friend conceded. “But if I see him, I will – ” she paused – “investigate, and probably turn him into the authorities. I do not do revenge.”
“Turn him in?” Valentina was smiling. “For what? A crime without a victim? There is no report. There will be no report. Or… or would you warn him?” Valentina had leaned back, her eyes narrow.
“No. Of course not. Val, I will tell you if I see him. Can you at least promise not to kill him?” Marilena tried to sound as if she were joking.
“Kill him? Who do you think I am? Anyway, you can say a rosary for me.” Valentina knew her friend wore her Catholic devotion lightly but that it ran deep, which, in Valentina’s opinion, made Marilena too… introspective.
Marilena smiled, and now she leaned forward. “Your father’s daughter, that’s who.”
“My dear Mari, you are so lucky I love you so much, and that I know you love Reynard – and he you.”
The two sat for a while longer, noting the blossoms and the shimmer just above the lake, a reflection of their shared mood. After a cheek-to-cheek air kiss, they parted.
Valentina sat. She did not really need the drawing. She did not take revenge lightly, but justice mattered. It did not occur to her that if the victim wrought the justice, it was revenge. Her calculation did not go that far, nor did it matter.
4.
The city of Como, lacking the snug charm of Varenna, instead has a dollop of big-city enticements. Its greatest draw is its location, so – tourists. During the day, foreigners as well as Italians come to shop, usually on their way into the Alps. As for the natives, they can be a supercilious bunch; in fact, they believe that the true Italy is north of the Po River, which itself is very far north on the peninsula. Maybe that pride is why the women – especially at night, when they dress for fun – are generally so appealing: slender, shapely, and above all, elegant.
The ferry dock at Como leads directly into the city, as do almost all the lake docks. Ferries are the circulation system of the lake. Buses along the shores are reliable but limited, useful for short runs and not as fast as ferries. There is nowhere on the lake ferries do not reach. There is no escaping that reach – none – or their efficiency.
When Franco and Bruno strolled off the ferry, it was almost 8 p.m., and they were hungry, so off they went to L’Antica Trattoria, a ten-minute walk from the dock. Small, cheap, reliable, with few tourists, plenty of pretty girls to see if you ate outside, and you could sit for a couple of hours.
“So, what’s on the menu tonight?” Bruno was not yet drooling but was close.
“Do you mean food or female?”
“Listen, Franco, your tastes aren’t all mine. Let’s enjoy the meal, some conversation, and the beautiful women. Especially let’s talk about them, as a sort of appetizer.”
“Yes, of course, let’s. And then?”
“And then, my friend, we part. I know a club where the living is easy.”
Franco sat silently, watching his friend from narrow eyes in a head tilted to the right. “Good. Good. That way you will not encumber me with your hesitations.”
“Hah. ‘Encumber.’ I like that word, Franco. Let’s encumber some clams with octopus, yes?”
The food was served to the middle of the table so they could take a portion as they pleased and go back for more. Too much pepper. Not enough pepper. The sauce could be thicker. The clams were nice and meaty. The octopus was almost alive. Bruno slurped, but Franco was a careful eater. Bite-sized chunks only, swallowing before the next, small mouthful, each morsel enjoyed as a delicacy.
The women nearby were of all ages and types, but the younger ones, certainly not yet thirty years old, caught Bruno’s eye. Look at her. Perfect symmetry. Dressed so tastefully and surely tastes as good.
Franco favored those slightly older and, unlike his friend, did not talk much about them. He didn’t need to. After a cognac each, they put down thirty euros, more than enough to include a good tip.
“Thank you, my dear,” Franco said as the waitress retrieved the money. “Thank you,” she said, without a smile, and, as she walked away, showed some wiggle in her hips.
“You know,” Bruno was thinking aloud, “maybe I’ll come back here.”
Franco smiled. “No, you won’t.” You’ll be on an early ferry, if I know you.”
“And if I know you, you will wind up . . . well, it could be anywhere, couldn’t it?” The truth is, Bruno did not want to know. Franco himself did not know.
5.
Franco would never become the stuff of gossip, let alone of legend, nor of the lake, of its depths. Not that he was a secret worth keeping, but because he was like shore scum that does not sink. His good fortune is that he would be forgotten, though not by all.
Now he walked, he drank, he scouted. Finally, he chose, a young woman almost, but not quite, plain, though with a cute, if diminutive, figure. He would be settling, but it was late, and he had a long walk to his out-of-the-way loft.
He followed her for several turns. Finally, when the street she turned onto was dark, he quickened his pace. He could see a courtyard – or was it an alley? – some thirty meters ahead. He had seen that she was swaying. She was drunk, ordinarily a disincentive, but not this night.
He was capable of great stealth, even as his stalking turned into a chase. When she was ten meters from the alley and he ten meters behind her, he knew he could time his arrival to coincide with hers at the alley, hit her, drag her into the alley, and have his way.
How could he have known that his way was not to be? Before he got to her, two men stepped out of the alley and grabbed her. She began to scream, but one of them clapped his hand over her mouth and pulled her into the alley. Franco was stunned, stunned and excited. As he got closer, he listened to the scuffling. He could hear her moaning and crying. Then, purely on an impulse fueled by ego, he acted.
Almost casually, he strolled into the alley. “What are you boys up to?”
She was on her knees, her mouth squeezed open from behind by the shorter of the two men. The second man stood in front of her, his pants at his ankles. When Franco spoke, the shorter man let go of the woman, who muttered, “Please help me.”
It was a long moment. The short man stepped back, the big man raised his pants, the woman stood then fell to the pavement. As she crab-crawled backwards, the bigger man, turning from the woman to Franco, said, “Now see what you’ve done?”
Franco was confused, at first too confused to be scared. But that passed as soon as the smaller man kicked him in his groin. Franco fell to his hands and knees. The woman, standing now, backed away, watching in terror as she realized what was about to happen even before Franco did.
The two men took turns, he begging and whimpering all the time. The men enjoyed his miserable subjugation. His abject compliance fueled their appetite. When they were done, the shorter man wiped Franco’s face with his own shorts. The woman ran. The men simply walked out of the alley into the night.
An ambulance took Franco to the Ospedale Valduce on the Via Dante Alighieri, where he would remain for two nights. The police found the woman, who had gone to the nearest bar and could only blabber. It was the bartender who called the ambulance. The next day, the local press, print and television, were at the hospital. The woman, one Gisela, had told the world that a stranger had intervened but nothing more, so now they wanted to hear from the hero, their word, not hers.
The hospital, along with the police, Gisela, and Franco, did not tell the whole truth. “Sexual assault” was suggested in the reports, but the word “rape” did not appear. And Franco played his role. His suffering, he said, was a small price to pay to save the woman from the torture of that brutality. He was sure the Holy Spirit had guided him into that alley. Yes, he would very much like to meet Gisela. He thought, but only thought, he had some thanks coming.
Of course, his friends, while visiting, learned the truth. Lucho especially was dismayed that he (along with Gisela) had provided a description of the rapists, who now could search for him.
6.
The two prior Lecco rapes had made the news, of course, but were not word-of-mouth news. Natives around the lake did not gossip. A mention would be met with a shrug. Not quite fatalistic, old-timers were settled in the belief that things would work out. Somehow they always had. “Be patient,” they would say.
Valentina was elated. So there he is, my rapist. She noted the irony but only noted it. He had paid, yes, but not for what he had done to her.
“What now?” Marilena asked the night after the news broke. They were back on Valentina’s sofa.
“I can easily learn his home address, and – “
“And what?” Marilena screeched. “Leave it be. We know the man has been sodomized in more ways than one, he has been brutalized, and – “
“We don’t know he’s been sodomized, dammit. We don’t. And he’s playing the hero, Mari! Don’t you see? You know he went into that alley to have his own bite. I know it. He must at least be humiliated beyond any lie he could tell.”
“Hasn’t he already been? Or must you be the instrument of retribution?”
“Stop it, Mari! We believe he has been humiliated, but others do not know it. We find the girl he . . . shall I say, saved? We assess.”
“There is no telling – “
Shaking her head, Val interrupted, “Don’t start, Mari.”
“My goodness, Val.”
“I know about your goodness, sister. Not another word.” She hefted a large pillow into the air as though to strike. Marilena smiled. As smart as her friend was, such abstractions as ‘revenge,’ ‘justice,’ and ‘retribution,’ let alone ‘forgiveness,’ could not compete with actual trauma. There lay the crux of all strife: abstraction versus actual. Right now, maybe that one bit of conflict could be diffused by distraction.
“You know, Reynard could be the love of my life, not that you care.” Valentina could only stare, then, at the same time, they belly laughed. Marilena, finally catching her breath, said, “I don’t like your idea. Leave that poor girl alone. She’s having her moment. After all, this Franco showing up did save her.”
“I need to know exactly what happened, Mari. Exactly. And there are only four people who know: The two who did it, this Franco, and Gisela. And she is the only one who might tell me. I say ‘might’.”
They sipped their lemoncello, and another, and another, until Valentina mumbled, “I’m done, but not with him.” Marilena had fallen asleep curled up around an overstuffed pillow.
Like justice, revenge can achieve its own symmetries. Thus their resemblance.
7.
The two prior Lecco rapes had made the news, of course, but were not word-of-mouth news. Natives around the lake did not gossip. A mention would be met with a shrug. Not quite fatalistic, old-timers were settled in the belief that things would work out. Somehow they always had. “Be patient,” they would say.
Valentina was elated. So there he is, my rapist. She noted the irony but only noted it. He had paid, yes, but not for what he had done to her.
“What now?” Marilena asked the night after the news broke. They were back on Valentina’s sofa.
“I can easily learn his home address, and – “
“And what?” Marilena screeched. “Leave it be. We know the man has been sodomized in more ways than one, he has been brutalized, and – “
“We don’t know he’s been sodomized, dammit. We don’t. And he’s playing the hero, Mari! Don’t you see? You know he went into that alley to have his own bite. I know it. He must at least be humiliated beyond any lie he could tell.”
“Hasn’t he already been? Or must you be the instrument of retribution?”
“Stop it, Mari! We believe he has been humiliated, but others do not know it. We find the girl he . . . shall I say, saved? We assess.”
“There is no telling – “
Shaking her head, Val interrupted, “Don’t start, Mari.”
“My goodness, Val.”
“I know about your goodness, sister. Not another word.” She hefted a large pillow into the air as though to strike. Marilena smiled. As smart as her friend was, such abstractions as ‘revenge,’ ‘justice,’ and ‘retribution,’ let alone ‘forgiveness,’ could not compete with actual trauma. There lay the crux of all strife: abstraction versus actual. Right now, maybe that one bit of conflict could be diffused by distraction.
“You know, Reynard could be the love of my life, not that you care.” Valentina could only stare, then, at the same time, they belly laughed. Marilena, finally catching her breath, said, “I don’t like your idea. Leave that poor girl alone. She’s having her moment. After all, this Franco showing up did save her.”
“I need to know exactly what happened, Mari. Exactly. And there are only four people who know: The two who did it, this Franco, and Gisela. And she is the only one who might tell me. I say ‘might’.”
They sipped their lemoncello, and another, and another, until Valentina mumbled, “I’m done, but not with him.” Marilena had fallen asleep curled up around an overstuffed pillow.
Like justice, revenge can achieve its own symmetries. Thus their resemblance.
Valentina awoke early and left quietly, Marilena stretched out on the sofa, gurgling softly. Gisela’s address was public knowledge, because Gisela was an idiot. Valentina would look for Gisela at her home in Lecco.
She preferred traveling alone. When her mother died, Valentina, fifteen at the time, became something of a spectator. She was never one to “check her brain at the door,” as her father would put it, but thought that thinking – seeing, knowing, understanding – was enough. So, on her twenty-first birthday, she resolved to act.
Finally, she was her father’s daughter: a thinker-in-action. She investigated corruption, street crime, celebrity rumors, the police – their overzealousness, ineptitudes, and their successes, all even-handedly – and wrote about it all. Her byline, though not widely known, was respected by those who knew it.
She realized that being the daughter of Reynard Rulx helped. His reputation as a scholar – a philologist, as he would call himself – was international, as was his success as a diplomat for the Institute. His success in those two fields was owing to his astonishing linguistic ability and a sort of self-effacing charisma, considerable for a not-so-handsome man of ordinary height.
But there was another Rulx, too, more whispered about than witnessed. This Reynard Rulx had been, and for all anyone knew still was, a sort of soldier, an extremely competent agent: remarkably fit, intelligent, daring, resourceful, and skilled. In fact, a killer. His colleagues at the Institute had seen him spar in the ring, swim, then run, for hours. His three older brothers, none with an appetite for any nonsense and all in their own ways men capable of action, always deferred to him. None would spar with him.
Neither he nor Valentina ever addressed his reputations, and, especially in their presence, people knew better than to do so. Only half-joking, Marilena would be in a very long line of women who would want to grab hold of Reynard.
Of the many traits Valentina shared with her father, there was one in particular. In not telling her father of her rape, she was not posturing as the wannabe independent progeny of a famous man, a cliché she would avoid at all costs. Rather, she was acting quite naturally, as herself. Would her father find the rapist, perhaps kill him? Certainly the first, plausibly the second. After all, his parents had been killers in the Resistance.
Moreover, she was not the victim, a word Valentina despised when applied to her. And she did not want this Franco Fiori dead. What she did want was for him to live in a sort of Hell, and she thought she knew how to accomplish that. A brand of justice.
Gisela was ready to talk, loved telling her story, not least to journalists. And when Valentina, whose name Gisela knew, asked for the whole story, Gisela was almost giddy. They sat drinking tea in Gisela’s old-fashioned parlor, adorned as though in the nineteenth century – “these were mostly my grandmother’s things” – and Valentina thought, “more likely your great grandmother’s.”
The room seemed dark, but the darkness did not speak. Beams of sunlight at the farther end of the room were dazzlingly bright. Valentina could have counted the dust particles. She thought Gisela was low in self-esteem and thus insecure; she dressed exhibitionistically.
No, she had never before been assaulted. And, yes, she was frightened that the two who had attacked her and Franco would find her.
“Tell me about the attack, Gisela. I know the details are ugly, and that telling them may be painful, but I need to know them.”
“Why?”
“Because Franco Fiori raped me.”
Valentina had spoken without emotion, but Gisela shivered, as though a bucket of ice water had been poured over her. Then, grimly, she said, “I’ll be glad to tell you everything – every little thing. You will enjoy the last part.”
8.
Meanwhile, Marilena had dressed and had called Reynard. Would he care to join her for breakfast? The invitation was unusual, so Reynard was not only curious but vaguely, but only vaguely, unsettled. He had known Marilena a very long time, knew that his daughter and she would die for each other, and though she was not quite like a daughter to him, he would protect her maximally.
She was troubled. “Identities, to be worth anything, must be continuous,” she had told Valentina. “Mine is not. The fractures have given me overlapping identities, which I try to mold into one.” Reynard long knew of her tragic family past, an assault she would never discuss. Her hair had turned white overnight. “I know, dear. We go up the ladder of abstraction and find a single, but complex, identity. Yours is as a Catholic.” Reynard knew her well. He called her faith a “contour of character.” She called it reality.
Her conviction was worn lightly. She was something of a chameleon, a “mood chameleon,” her friend called her. Reynard knew this, too.
“Mari, do you still say ‘sorry’ and ‘thank you’ every night before you go to sleep?”
Marilena was seated exactly where the two women had had lunch. “And ‘please.’ Of course.”
She ordered fruit, Rulx a full English breakfast, minus the beans. “I don’t know how you do it, dottore,” she said. Marilena delighted in the veiled reference to the comic character from the commedia dell’arte. Reynard grinned.
“Exercise and good genes.” He saw that something grave was on the young woman’s mind, and he also knew not to hurry her. Had she made a fateful decision? Only after a few bites did he say, “Tell me, Mari?”
“Reynard, Val doesn’t know I’m here. She would kill me if she did. If that is not right with you, I will leave now.”
Immediately Rulx answered. “Mari, I am a collector of secrets, and you are distraught. And now you’ve mentioned my daughter. Tell me.”
“Okay then. Val was raped last week.” She stopped and watched. Reynard did not even twitch, his breathing did not change, he did not blink. He stared.
“She has found her rapist, Reynard. She has identified him.” Still, the father remained still.
“He is the same man who was himself raped and brutalized and is now in the hospital.” No reaction, at first. Marilena knew the trick. If someone you are speaking with remains silent, you have the urge to speak. But she did not. Finally, Reynard nodded.
“And so she plans to do something to her rapist.” A statement. Reynard did not need to ask.
“Yes! Yes, that’s it. Not kill him, as she fears you would do, but humiliate him – for what he did to her. I don’t know how.”
“She will find the witness and coax her into a complete account, and that account, if public, or even if known by only a few, would satisfy my daughter.”
“Please, I beg of you, do nothing rash.” She had grasped his hands in hers.
She cried softly as he answered, “Of course not.” Reynard was impatient with conversational games, so did not bother to ask why she would think he’d act rashly. He already knew why. “But may I at least be watchful?”
“To what end?”
“There are two rapists at large. There are two people who can identify them. Valentina is, shall I say? ‘hostilely’ connected with one of those two and, if I know my daughter, by now with the second. That puts three people in danger.”
“Yes. But I will watch with you.”
“No, Mari, you will not.” Reynard was smiling.
At that, she too grinned, and they continued their breakfast, though not quite as leisurely as either would have liked. Then the clouds darkened and rain poured upon the water, its drops the size of crystal pendants.
9.
Lucho, Bruno and Enzo were at the hospital; Franco was dressed, waiting for his discharge, the usual cold neon light buzzing above them. The friends wanted to believe he had acted heroically. Among themselves their skepticism,hidden from Franco, was evident. They avoided any talk of the rape.
About ten minutes into their visit – they were standing around, the plan being to take Franco to lunch – two women walked into the room. The three friends stared, Lucho’s head tilted. Seated on the edge of the bed, Franco slipped off onto the floor.
“You see,” shouted Valentina with a laugh, “he does recognize us. I told you he would!”
Lucho stared at Franco. “Do you know them?”
“Yes, well, you know I know her,” pointing to Gisela. “She’s the one I rescued. The other one I think I’ve seen in Varenna, at a distance.”
Valentina stepped towards Franco. “Not Varenna, scum, and not at a distance.” Turning to the three men she said, “gentlemen, a certain friend would say that the Holy Spirit has sent you, since your being here has saved me much effort. Now the time for truth is upon us.”
Bruno and Enzo sat; Lucho remained on his feet, along with the two women. When Franco tried to rise Gisela pressed down on his shoulder. “You stay.”
Lucho leaned in, troubled by his friend’s easy compliance, but said and did nothing.
“Last week, in Lecco, he raped me.”
“And he would have raped me, but he was raped before he could.”
The men, immobile, said nothing.
“Understand,” Gisela continued, “I say he was raped, and I suppose he was, technically.”
“Not technically,” Franco screamed. “Really!”
“Well, yes. But, Franco, you weren’t overpowered. You obeyed every command.”
“I was terrified. The big man had already punched me.”
“No, Franco, he threatened to punch you. It was the smaller man who had kicked you, once. Listen, gentlemen, do you want a detailed account?”
Lucho turned to Gisela. “No.” The others shook their heads in agreement.
“Very well. But I must tell you how it ended.”
Franco was slobbering. “No,” between gasps, “it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t.”
“They wiped his face with his own underpants. And after,” Gisela continued, “they looked at me, but strangely. Have you ever seen a large cat at the zoo who has just eaten? That was their look. They walked away, I ran.”
After several seconds Bruno said, “so, Franco did not rape you.”
“But he would have. He was going to join in with them.”
He turned to Valentina. “He raped you.”
“And he was raped – sort of.” Valentina nodded.
“Did you report that to police?” Enzo, who had seemed distracted, had been paying attention after all.
“The Lecco police? Why bother? I had other ideas.”
“This. This was your idea?” Lucho seemed genuinely curious.
“Humiliation, yes. As I said, I did not expect you here. But this will do nicely.”
Bruno went to Franco and helped him to his feet. “Does it end here?”
“For me, yes,” said Valentina, “but probably not for him, and maybe not for Gisela. Both she and your friend gave descriptions of the rapists. Who knows what they will do?” The two women gave Franco a last look from the door. Valentina was earnest. “A friend of mine would say you should confess, express remorse, and promise reform. I think you should too, since you’ve already done penance. Is there no place for conscience? There must be.” She stared at Franco.
“I am sorry,” he muttered.
Valentina watched, then, “for raping me? I do not believe you, and that is too, too bad for you.”
10.
The friends had not known Franco was off quite this much, or in that way. Bruno had suspected more than the others and told him he should take the woman’s advice, and to leave Lake Como, in fact, leave the peninsula. He didn’t take the woman’s advice, but he did rush to Sicily, “to be with family.” The three friends had much to talk over.
Later, when Marilena asked her friend what had happened, Valentina answered, “not much. I’ll fill you in later. For now know that I am very satisfied. I told you we didn’t need Reynard.” She could be very smug.
Two nights after the hospital meeting, the two men who had raped Franco were standing near a bus stop not far from a loud dance club in Lecco, the city in which Leonardo had probably painted the Mona Lisa, and where Manzoni had set his great novel The Betrothed. They were ignorant of all that, but they knew women would be leaving soon, and they saw the alley nearby as an ideal place. They smoked Marlboros as they leaned against the building.
A car pulled into the bus stop and one man got out and wandered some five meters away to their right, his back to them. Another man approached from their left asking for a light. When they turned to him, the man to their right sprang upon them and struck the bigger man with a sap, grabbing him before he fell unconscious. When his friend turned, the second man, to the left, did the same to him. Both unconscious men were carried into the waiting car.
Later that night the bodies of two men were found strangled in an alley in Lecco, not far from a popular dance club. A note pinned to each body read, simply, ‘rapist’.
At lunch the next day, Valentina, who had read of the dead men in the morning paper, asked her friend, “is there anything you should tell me?” Marilena, staring back quizzically, shook her head.
Meanwhile, Lucho, Bruno, and Enzo were celebrating the murder of the two men who had hurt their friend. They had played football together at school. “Now, does Franco know he cannot return, ever?” “He knows.”
That evening, having dinner outdoors at the Villa Monastero, overlooking the lake glistening in the moonlight under a sky lit by a thousand points of light, were Reynard, Valentina and Marilena seated alternately with Roscoe, Rollo, and Russell Rulx, Reynard’s brothers, having just arrived from Bruges. Years earlier they had shared a strange and happy mystery at the Villa. They reminisced, laughing into the night.
At one point during desert, affogato with pistachio gelato, Marilena stood and walked to her friend. “You know, Val, I just love your uncles,” then, waiting until her friend’s mouth was full, added, “but I still love Reynard so much more,” and pranced away, grinning. She knew Val would not forgive her the quip and would somehow pay her back. She was a Rulx.
Then, as the group walked off the terrace, Russell, the eldest brother, in a melanchoy voice and out of the blue said, “you know, we’ve never been to Sicily.”
Hearing that, Marilena spun away towards her friend, who was walking with her father. “Val,” she nearly shouted, “a word, please.” Father and daughter turned. He kissed her on the cheek and kept walking with his brothers. Valentina stopped.
“Val, we know very well who killed those two rapists.”
“Do we, Mari?”
“Your uncles are not like them.”
“Oh?”
“Where do you suppose your rapist is hiding, Val?”
“I know where he is, Val. We all do.”
“Val, he was raped. He was humiliated. His manhood taken from him.”
“Mari, Mari, are you suggesting that I do what you would do?”
“Which is?”
“Forgive.”
“Is it too soon?”
Valentina droppped her eyes. “Is never too soon, Mari?” Spitting the words.
“That is not my decision. I know for me now really would be too soon. But execution?”
“Mari, be at peace. Russell is all talk. They are returning to Bruges. Russell said Sicily is too far away.”
Marilena stepped into her friend and hugged her.
When they parted Valentina held her friend’s shoulders, and now her eyes. “You know, Mari, such an act would not be revenge. That could only come at my hands, and don’t think I haven’t imagined his eyes popping as I choked him. Yet even that would not put the pain to rest. One does not, as they say, get over rape. Come to terms, yes. But not get over. The trauma is more than physical. And also this. The man is a rapist. He is not a person who raped once. No. He is a rapist. Rape is what he does. Even his loyal friends do not understand that. It is his hidden self. He will rape again.”
“Of course. Maybe. So. Justice then, not revenge. Really?”
“Maybe prophylaxis.”
Marilena breathed in, becoming one with the lilacs. She had no hidden self, as Valentina called our secret parts. But she did have a blind self, one so good that all who knew her saw it, all except Marilena herself, who, like the lake, is deep, four hundred meters deep, outside Norway the deepest lake in Europe.
“Now, my friend, let’s talk about you and my father. Don’t you dare rush away . . . ”