My Heart Is Buried In Venice
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I was up and dressed before the sun, as usual. The housekeeper had already done her work; I couldn’t help but think of my old home in New York when she said that about doing her work. She did it well too. It didn’t matter what time we got there, our rooms were always ready for us.
The morning after we arrived here, I’d asked Mary to find out why I hadn’t been told of a change in plans regarding this trip. “What do you mean?” she replied with an arch look on her face.
“You know very well what I mean,” I said, glaring at her over the rim of my teacup. “If you’ve made arrangements without informing me—”
She interrupted by saying, “I’m sure Mr. O’Connor would never have allowed it.”
That’s right! He was the one who suggested we take a tour of Europe together instead of just traveling around the U.S., so he could see his business partners and meet prospective ones. But I knew him well enough to realize he wouldn’t allow any changes unless they were necessary.
And if I thought that Mary or anyone else was going to make such decisions without consulting me first—well, let’s just say I wasn’t willing to wait until I saw the itinerary again. I might not be able to read Italian, but I could speak it well enough to understand the language.
So I’d gone to the desk clerk last night to get a copy of the plan. As expected, everything seemed to be in order, except for our stay in Venice. Instead of staying in the city proper, we would spend three days touring the island. Three days?
That meant I had only two nights left in Rome. If we spent all day today seeing the sights, I’d barely have time to shop and pack. Then I realized I should have planned ahead better because I hadn’t even bought myself a new hat. I looked down at the black felt one that covered my hair and frowned. What kind of woman traveled to Italy and didn’t bring a hat along?
Mary came into the room carrying a tray with breakfast and took a seat next to me at the table. We ate silently for several minutes before she spoke.
“Why are you frowning like that?” she asked quietly.
“Nothing,” I replied, wiping my mouth with a napkin. “Just thinking.”
We finished eating quickly, then walked through the courtyard toward the stables where Mary kept her horse. After mounting, I rode slowly past the villa to give Mary time to finish grooming the mare. I watched her for a while, admiring how skillfully she handled the brush. When she glanced over at me, I smiled. She returned my smile and nodded before turning back to her task.
I turned away from the villa and continued riding, stopping occasionally to admire the scenery. For some reason, it struck me as beautiful this morning. The sky was clear and blue; the flowers were in bloom, and the grass was green.
There wasn’t much traffic on the road since most of the people were still asleep. The streets were empty and silent, allowing me to enjoy the scenery more than ever. This is heaven, I thought. A few moments later, I heard a loud voice behind me.
“Mrs. O’Connor!” I jumped in surprise, startled by the sudden shout. Turning to see who yelled, I recognized Tom’s voice immediately. His tall form appeared between the trees; he waved frantically. I reined the mare in and waited for him to catch up.
When he reached me, I noticed that he was smiling broadly. “Good morning,” he said. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Yes, thank you,” I answered, trying to hide my irritation. “But I wish I weren’t leaving soon. I feel as though I haven’t seen anything yet.”
He chuckled. “Don’t worry,” he said, patting my hand. “It won’t be long until you’re back.”
For a moment I wondered why he sounded so sad. Wasn’t he happy to see us? Why wasn’t he taking advantage of the chance to explore the countryside? Did something bother him? Or was it simply that he missed us? My curiosity increased as we continued riding. He must want to tell me something important.
A short distance ahead, we passed under the bridge near the Ponte Sant’ Antonio. Looking closely, I saw a young man sitting on the stone balustrade above the water, leaning against the iron railings. I stopped the mare and stared at the figure.
He was wearing a white shirt tucked inside tan breeches. His brown hair was pulled back loosely. His dark eyes were fixed intently on the river below. I couldn’t imagine what he was doing there. It was too early for tourists to visit the area, so I doubted he was waiting for someone. Yet he sat motionless, staring off into space. I nudged the mare forward.
The bridge ended abruptly about fifty yards farther down. In the end, I found the young man sitting alone. He looked out over the river and gave no sign of noticing us. In fact, he hardly moved at all. No wonder he looked so odd to me. He was probably deaf.
My thoughts drifted back to the conversation I’d had with Mr. Bannister the other day about the deaf and mute. I remembered his comment about how hard life was for those with such conditions. How sad, I thought.
They can’t hear their loved ones talk and don’t know when they come home. Their friends are always visiting them. But they never leave their side. Not once do they go outside, nor does anyone visit them. As we rode along, I could almost visualize the lonely life the boy must lead. What an awful existence!
“Do you think he wants to get rid of his body or something?” Mary asked, startling me. “Maybe he wants to float away down the river.”
“No,” I whispered, shaking my head. “That wouldn’t make sense. Floating away would take longer than walking here. And even if he wanted to get rid of his body, why would he choose the middle of the street to do it?”
She shrugged and started brushing the mare again. Then she glanced over at me, looking concerned. “Did you say something, Mrs. O’Connor?”
“Oh, nothing,” I said quickly, hoping she hadn’t overheard my morbid remark. “I just realized that this isn’t exactly the safest place for children to play. Let’s hurry up and get out of sight before they realize we’re not coming.”
I urged the mare toward the main thoroughfare and headed east toward town. After a few minutes, we entered the small village of Castello Nuovo. The buildings lining the street were made of wood and brick, giving the village an old-fashioned look.
We crossed the bridge connecting the two halves of the city and went straight through the center, passing the church square and then the city hall. Several men stood talking in front of the building while others gathered around a horse-drawn cart nearby.
Nearby, several women carried baskets of fruit from one market to another. One woman carried a basket filled with oranges; the fragrance wafted through the air.
As we neared the plaza in front of the cathedral, we encountered our first beggar. A shabby, gray-haired man stood in the middle of the cobblestoned road. He wore an ill-fitting suit jacket with worn shoes. His face was dirty, but his expression was pleasant. When I handed him a coin, he smiled widely, bowing low to receive it.
Mary gasped, surprised by the gesture. “Why did he bow like that?” she asked, holding her hand close to her chest. “What is he thanking us for?”
“Well, maybe he didn’t mean it quite that way,” I explained. “Perhaps he bowed because he knew we couldn’t understand him.”
“Could he have been thanking God for the money?” Mary asked hopefully.
I shook my head. “Not likely,” I replied, trying to sound confident. “Most beggars don’t seem to care who gives them money. Besides, it doesn’t matter whether he was thankful for the money or not. You should be grateful to receive any amount of charity. That’s what makes people feel good about helping.”
We walked past the beggar without stopping, moving on toward the cathedral. Mary watched the man as we passed. She seemed puzzled by his actions. I tried to explain what I meant, but Mary wasn’t convinced. Finally, we reached the steps leading to the entrance.
I paused beside a bronze statue of Saint Dominic and gazed at the magnificent façade of the cathedral. I could see a large crowd of people gathering across the plaza. From where I stood, I saw three priests walk into the church. Two of them stopped to speak with some elderly ladies standing near the doors. They talked briefly and then turned and left.
“Let’s go inside,” I suggested.
Mary nodded and followed me through the open door. We took off our hats and stepped inside, glancing around at the beautiful stained glass windows illuminating the interior. A huge cross hung above the altar and rose high into the vaulted ceiling.
Large paintings depicted scenes from Christ’s life and crucifixion. Even though I’d seen these pictures before, I still marveled at how detailed they were. Each painting showed the moment of Christ’s death, burial, and resurrection. All of the figures portrayed looked so real I felt as if they might step forward and greet me personally.
After gazing at the artwork for a time, I noticed Mary watching me. Her eyes met mine, and she gave me a knowing smile. “You really believe all this stuff?” she whispered, pointing at the paintings.
I hesitated, unsure of what to say. What if I told her the truth? Would she laugh at me or turn away? Or worse yet, accuse me of blasphemy? Instead, I offered only a vague response. “It helps keep me centered. It reminds me of the important things in life.”
“Like what?” she asked. “The cross and the resurrection?”
“Yes,” I replied quietly, thinking of my family and wondering what had become of them. “And the love between husband and wife.”
A tear trickled down her cheek. She wiped it away and gave me a quick glance. “Mrs. O’Connor,” she whispered, “why do you cry?”
“Sorry,” I muttered. “I guess I’m just tired.”
Mary nodded, looking worried. As much as I hated to admit it, I needed to rest more than anything else. My mind was foggy and my body ached. I’d barely slept last night and had spent most of today riding the train and walking the streets of Castello Nuovo.
After a while, we found seats on one of the wooden pews. The sanctuary was packed, but there was plenty of room for two. We sat together, listening to the organ playing. For a few minutes, I closed my eyes and listened to the music, letting the melodies wash over me.
But soon I started drifting off to sleep. I opened my eyes to find myself alone in the pew. Mary must have slipped out somewhere. I got up slowly and made my way toward the front of the church, finding Mary sitting on one side of the aisle.
She looked at me, concerned. “Are you feeling better now?” she asked.
“No,” I said honestly. “But I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”
Mary frowned and glanced around nervously. I realized she probably thought we would attract unwanted attention. In fact, I think I’d already attracted enough attention to satisfy anyone.
“I need to get outside for a minute,” I told her.
“Oh, I don’t know… I heard the priest tell Mrs. O’Connor not to leave the sanctuary.”
“Just let me run outside for five minutes,” I begged.
“All right,” she agreed reluctantly, rising to follow me. We crossed the nave and entered the vestibule. Standing beside a marble column, I looked back at the main doors of the cathedral. Several men wearing white robes and black miters waited to pass us through.
They spoke to each other in low tones, their voices muffled by the heavy oak doors. I recognized Father Corrado, the priest who’d given me shelter at the mission. He motioned for me to join him, and he led us into an empty confessional. I lowered my head as I walked in, praying that no one would hear my conversation.
Father Corrado motioned for me to sit down on the bench and then closed the door behind me. “What is it?” he asked.
“There’s something wrong here,” I said. “Why are the priests treating me like this?”
“They’re not treating you like anything,” Father Corrado insisted. “This place belongs to God.”
I shook my head. “That doesn’t make sense. How can I trust a man who claims to speak with God?”
He folded his hands across his chest and regarded me carefully. “Do you really doubt the existence of God?”
“Not exactly, but I’ve never believed in organized religion,” I explained. “When I first came to America, I wanted nothing more than to learn English and live among the people. That meant I had to accept their beliefs. But after a while, I decided I could do without religion. And besides, I didn’t want to cause any trouble.”
“Then why did you come to the cathedral?” he pressed.
“To ask about your services. You see, I’m searching for someone.”
“Someone?”
“My sister-in-law. A woman named Laura Foster.”
His face became serious. “Is that so?” he mused. “Who does she belong to?”
“Her name is Lucy,” I said quickly.
Father Corrado pursed his lips and stared at me intently. “Lucy,” he repeated. Then he smiled broadly and leaned against the wall. “Lucy, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it seems you were wise to seek our help.” His voice took on a soothing tone. “If you believe in the power of prayer, surely you realize how blessed you are to be married to such a lovely girl.”
“How lucky I am,” I echoed.
“And if you ever need anything, just send word to me or another priest,” Father Corrado promised. “We’ll take care of all your needs.”
“Thank you, Father.” I rose to go.
“Wait, wait,” he called, stopping me from leaving. “You’re asking yourself why we should help you when we claim to pray every day. It’s simple: because you’re Catholic.”
I stopped and turned to look at him. “It has nothing to do with being Catholic,” I protested.
He chuckled. “Of course not. But since you have faith in the teachings of Jesus Christ, surely you understand that God works through his church.”
I nodded. “Perhaps God works through you.”
The smile disappeared from his face. “Don’t say those words aloud,” he warned me.
“Sorry.”
“Now go home to your family and enjoy Christmas dinner. After all, what else can you expect? The Lord will provide.”
***
I returned to the nave, thinking about Father Corrado’s words. Perhaps God was providing me with everything I needed—just maybe not the way I expected. Maybe I hadn’t been very religious during the past few years, but I still believed in Him.
Did that mean I belonged somewhere? Was I supposed to stay at St. Francis de Sales Cathedral for good? Would I have to start attending mass regularly again? Shouldn’t I give up my search for Lucy? If I did, would God forgive me? What would happen to my family? Could they survive without me? My heart ached as I thought about them. They deserved better than what I’d given them.
A bell rang, signaling the beginning of Mass. I watched the priest step onto the altar and bow toward the congregation. I listened as he recited the litany of prayers, followed by the opening hymn. I remained seated until everyone stood to sing “O Come All Ye Faithful.”
Then I rose to join the rest of the worshipers. As I sang, I wondered if anyone noticed me standing alone in the center aisle. I knew it wasn’t right for me to attend Mass here. I shouldn’t even be here now. This place was sacred; it belonged to God.
But what difference did it make? I’d already violated the rules of this church. I couldn’t stop myself. There was no reason to try anymore.
I knelt down to receive communion, feeling the bread pass over my lips. I tried to imagine the faces of my loved ones back home. When the service ended, I left the cathedral and walked slowly outside. It seemed strange to think I might spend the holidays with them, knowing there was only one thing I could possibly offer them.
***
The snow had stopped falling, and the temperature dropped rapidly once the sunset. As darkness fell, the city lost its festive mood. Only a few families had gathered around the brightly decorated trees lining Grant Avenue. Most stores and restaurants had closed for the night, and the streets were quiet except for occasional traffic.
I hurried away from the busy downtown area and headed west toward the mountains. I passed several houses that had lights on inside their windows. I didn’t know many people who lived out this far in town. The only time I’d seen a house like this before was when I visited a wealthy friend’s home.
When I reached the edge of the forest, I looked north toward the mountains, trying to find some sign of Lucy. Nothing moved beyond the line of pines. No one appeared. Had she gone into hiding? Or perhaps she was simply waiting for Christmas Eve to arrive. That evening I prayed that she’d return safely. And that somehow she’d forgive me for having broken her trust.
I found it hard to sleep that night, so I decided to walk down to the river and watch the stars twinkling in the dark sky. On my way, I passed a small park where children played baseball under the moonlight.
A couple of teenage boys tossed the ball while two girls ran after it, giggling. Two other teens sat on the grass, playing cards. One young woman read a book. Another young man leaned against a tree. Everyone was enjoying the peacefulness of the outdoors, just like me. Except for one person.
She was sitting on a bench in the middle of the park, watching me approach. She held a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and I realized that she must live nearby. Her hair was long and brown, cut short above her ears, and she wore a white wool dress, black gloves, and leather boots. As soon as she saw me coming, she smiled. “Hello, Detective Donovan,” she greeted me.
My first thought was that someone should have told me Lucy was alive. Why hadn’t they informed me? How had she survived all these years? Where was she living now? Were any of the other men involved in her abduction still free? I’d come to Denver to bring justice to the man responsible for killing Lucy, but how could I accomplish anything now that she was back?
Lucy stood up and brushed off the seat of her pants. “It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Donovan. I hope I’m not interrupting your holiday plans?”
“No, of course not.” I shook hands with her. “You look well.”
“Thank you. So do you.”
“I’ve missed our walks together,” I said.
“Yes, we haven’t met since then.” She paused. “Did you want to talk?”
“Not really.”
Her brow furrowed. “Is something wrong?”
“Maybe. But nothing that can’t wait another day or two. If you don’t mind, I’ll leave you alone tonight.”
“Of course. Please don’t let me keep you from anything important.”
“There is no need for concern. I’ll see you tomorrow morning at breakfast.”
After saying goodbye, I continued walking south along the riverfront, hoping I would spot Lucy somewhere along the way. I glanced at the houses surrounding the park, wondering which one she lived in.
Before reaching the bridge leading across the river, I spotted a familiar figure standing in front of a row of shops near the water. I approached him slowly until he turned his head. He wore a gray suit and tie. I recognized him right away: Frank Morrison.
He stepped aside and nodded toward an open doorway behind him. “Mr. Donovan, please enter.”
I hesitated. Was Morrison here because I’d been searching for Lucy? Did he suspect that I knew where she was?
As soon as I entered, I heard voices speaking French. The room was dimly lit by a single lamp. Morrison was seated in the center of the floor with a group of men seated around him. They spoke softly, looking intently at Morrison as if listening closely to every word he uttered.
The only light came through a narrow window high overhead. I couldn’t make out much of what they were talking about.
Morrison motioned for me to sit beside him. Then he took a cigar out of his pocket and placed it between his teeth. He pulled out a lighter and struck fire to the end, holding the flame in place. It gave off enough heat to warm my face, and I realized that I was shivering.
The others followed his example, lighting their cigars. Some smoked them openly while others preferred to hold theirs close to the flame. When Morrison finished smoking, he offered me a stick. “Want to try it?”
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
“Why not?”
“Because I quit smoking over fifty years ago when I started working undercover. My lungs are grateful for it.”
Morrison chuckled. “Then you won’t mind sharing mine. We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”
A few minutes later I noticed Morrison puffing on his cigar while staring at me. After several seconds, he lowered his cigar to the floor and looked away. I waited for him to speak, but he remained silent, so I did.
“So why are you here, Mr. Morrison? And who is this gentleman sitting next to you?”
“That’s Jules Sorel. He runs the factory.”
“What business does he have with us?”
“Nothing yet, but maybe someday. That’s what we’re discussing.”
“And what exactly is your plan?” I asked.
Morrison leaned forward, resting elbows on their knees. “We want to start a new industry in Colorado—a different kind of business than what’s already available here.”
“What sort of business?”
“One that will be very lucrative.”
“How profitable?”
“Very.”
“Where do you get your ideas? From books? Or perhaps you just make things up?”
“Neither. We use our imaginations.”
“If imagination has made you rich, why don’t you invest some of that money into charity work?”
Morrison shrugged. “That’s not my style.”
“But you could help the poor of France if you wanted to.”
“Perhaps. But I prefer helping those who live within a stone’s throw of my factory.”
“Are there many of them living nearby?”
“None at all.”
“Really?”
“Well, I suppose there might be a few.” Morrison smiled. “But if they weren’t living within a stone’s throw, they wouldn’t be poor. Now tell me, Mr. Donovan, how many poor people do you think live in this town?”
“Twenty thousand, give or take a couple hundred.”
“Do you know any of these twenty thousand personally?”
“No.”
“Have you ever spoken with any of them?”
“Only once,” I said, remembering the time I had talked with her. “You should talk to more people. You’ll learn a lot.”
Morrison raised an eyebrow. “Or you can listen to me and save yourself a whole lot of trouble.”
“Trouble? What do you mean?”
“This town isn’t like other places. People here are used to doing things a certain way. You can’t expect everyone to change overnight.”
“They can’t afford to wait another year before making progress.”
“That’s true. This brings me back to what I told you earlier: If you want to succeed, then you need to understand how to deal with folks. Otherwise, you may find yourself right back where you started —in jail.”
“Jail!” I laughed. “Not likely.”
“It happens all the time, especially with women. Women tend to believe that they’re smarter than everybody else, which is fine if you’re a man, but not so good if you’re a woman. This town is run by men. Men with power and influence. If you come here without knowing anything about us, you’ll never fit in.”
I thought about the day I had arrived in Denver, wondering whether anyone would even recognize me now. “You didn’t seem to mind my being here two months ago.”
“That’s because I didn’t know who you were until after I hired you. Now I’ve got a problem.”
“Meaning what?”
“There are too many of you. The last thing I want to see happen is for the word to spread through town that one of you is a federal agent. A single woman alone in this community poses a threat. Not only to me and my workers but also to the entire population of Colorado Springs.”
The End