Don't Blink Twice

Sneak peek:

1

Saturday, July 22, 2023

The brisk march from campus across a few canal bridges began as a need to distance myself from Antonio. My unconscious trajectory away from him brings me to the largest collection of Venetian art in the world, nestled in the same compound as the Canonici Lateransi monastery, The Gallerie dell’Accademia. I storm past the ticket booth.

I must look as bad as I feel, because the elderly bearded docent waves off the clerk and softly greets me, “Buongiorno, signorina Ravida,” before mentioning that the gallery is closing in thirty minutes.

“La ringrazio.” Thank you.

I gravitate to the quietest room in the building. Once there, I stare at Titian’s last painting, the Pietà. Featured in the center is the only perfect man. Two women and a man tend to his body. Even in death, light frames His head.

Having held back an emotional reaction as long as possible, I let tears flow. Thirty minutes ago, Antonio ended our one-year relationship. It’s not like we were destined for marriage. He is a Carabinieri officer who took time off to earn a master’s degree to qualify for the TPC, a special task force within the Carabinieri, better known as the Italian art fraud squad. They set the global standard for investigating and protecting cultural heritage items, including art and antiquities. They are based in Rome. I have a job offer with the Gallerie delgi Uffizi in Florence. But still. I’m really going to miss Antonio.

My mobile phone vibrates in my pocket. His face appears on the screen. “Ciao.”

“Francesca, are you okay?”

Being braver at a distance, I confess. “I thought we were a couple.”

“I know.” He sighs.

“Why are you calling?”

“Years ago, when I told a girl I wasn’t looking for marriage, she tried to harm herself.”

“That’s crazy.”

His husky laugh breaks my mood. “This. This is more like you.” He sounds like he’s smiling. “Just so you know, the last thing you told me to do is not physically possible.”

I wince. “Yeah. Those reflexive verbs are tricky.”

Three students, two male and one female, wearing dark coats, dark face masks, and slouchy knit caps, enter the room. The COVID pandemic has been over for three years, but some still fear exposure in public places. Out of respect, I dig a cloth mask from my pocket and put it on.

“We are friends, yes?” Antonio’s tone sounds sincere.

“Do you stay friends with all the women you date?”

“All except that crazy one.”

We are simply friends who dated, even though my imagination hoped for more. Even so, he treated me like an adult, like a lady even, and I struggle to let go of that. “I need time to sort my feelings.”

Hmm. “Will you get over being in love with me by graduation?”

“Give me one week.”

His laugh resounds while I stuff my mobile in my raincoat pocket. We can be friends at graduation.

Two of the students walk toward the Pietà, and the third lifts his phone as if to take a photo, so I step aside. Tourists? Podcasters? The man and woman near the Pietà huddle. Next, the man raises his hands to the cameraman. The female squeezes clear goo onto her hands. Who sells sanitizer in a tube, and why does she need heaping handfuls of it?

The stink of it reaches me. Glue!

He announces, “Energy justice! Save our planet! We are warriors against climate change and fossil fuels.”

He faces the camera while I rush to block him from touching the oil painting or its frame. He pivots, and his eyes widen at me. After a breath, he says, “I am a warrior against—"

Honed from years of playing soccer, I kick with enough speed and power to connect with his crotch and lift him off the floor. He doubles over, glues his hands to himself, and crumples into a moaning heap.

The female protester gasps. She darts past me. Her hands reach toward the body of Christ and almost touch the canvas, but I grab her cap-covered hair in a fierce grip.

I shout in Italian for help and for the police.

Her cap slips, revealing blonde hair as I drag her, kicking, to the center of the room. She reaches back, groping for my hands. I yank off her cap, press her glue-covered hands to her head, and hold them there.

“No. No. No. My hair!” the blonde shrieks, twisting and kicking like a toddler in full tantrum mode.

After silently counting to thirty, I let go. The cameraman is still recording. I run at him so fast he trips over his own feet and falls on his back.

“We’re trying to save the planet,” he pleads in English.

My shadow looms over him. “Then study science!”

Strong hands grab my arms and pull me away from the coward. The other two protesters groan and scream. People crowd into the chamber, their voices echoing off mosaic tiles and precious Venetian paintings. During the chaos, the elderly docent pulls my arm and shakes his head at someone holding me. A medical team and police handcuff the injured protesters to gurneys and haul them away. Cuffed and stuffed into a van, I glare at the cowering cameraman during the ride to the police station.

***

After two nights in jail, I appear before a judge. My cousin Giovanni Ravida is my Avvocato, attorney. He speaks for me. Exhausted and hungry, I understand half of what is said. Twenty minutes later, a clerk hands me my coat, phone, and mask. Outside, Giovanni plants a hand on my shoulder.

“You will be allowed to graduate with your class.” His warm brown eyes and calm demeanor comfort me. “Immediately after graduation, you must return to the United States and stay there until you hear from me.”

I open my mouth to protest, but he continues.

“You wait there or in jail here. So far, you have not been charged. That could change. Lesioni Personali, what you call assault, is a serious offense. Sentencing is based on how long it takes to recover from the physical injury or mental illness caused by the assault.”

“Those climate clowns planned to destroy a Renaissance masterpiece! What charges did they get?”

Giovanni answers softly, “They attempted a crime. You committed two.”

How did I become the bad guy?

Holding my shoulders at arm’s length, Giovanni says, “Please do as I say. I want to keep you out of prison.”

The word 'prison' scares me into silence as he guides me to the canal and hands cash to the gondolier. “I will see you at graduation.” He hugs me.

I climb down into the gondola and sit. “Thank you for bailing me out.” I owe him. My phone starts up quickly, and I receive messages from Antonio, friends in my study group, one of my professors, and one from an unknown number. I listen to that one first. “This is Maria from the Gallerie delgi Uffizi. I am saddened to report that our job offer has been withdrawn. Please know that you may reapply after your legal matter is settled.”