The Faces of Angels by Lucretia Grindle Read Free Book Online Page A

and martyrs and how they died. I give myself a ten for the find and another ten for speed, and roll the lemon absently as I read that today is the anniversary of three guys called Felix, Fortunas and Achilleus, who were scourged and broken on the wheel somewhere in ancient Gaul. The names sound like brands of men’s cologne, and why people would want to remember things like this is beyond me. Pierangelo finishes with the carrots, heaping them on a plate and setting it aside, which means I can talk to him.
    â€˜How was Savonarola?’ I put the calendar back, and slide the drawer closed, thinking D’Erreti would probably approve of some scourging and breaking himself.
    â€˜It was OK.’ Piero grabs the lemon in mid-roll and replaces it with the glass of wine. ‘In fact,’ he adds, ‘I would say His Eminence is thriving. This Vatican suits him. All they need to do is bring back the Holy Inquisition and he’ll be in seventh heaven.’
    We both laugh, but the truth is that, despite his posing, or probably because of it, Florence’s cardinal is popular. Very. He did some time in Africa and the U.S., where he apparently picked up some tricks from Evangelists, and when he’s in town D’Erreti’s appearances at the Duomo are as packed as rock concerts. I haven’t actually heard him preach, but I gather that on occasion he’s borrowed a page from his namesake’s book and even evoked a black cross hanging over Florence. Personally, I never was too into fire and brimstone, even back in the days when I went to Mass. But I realize I’m in the minority.
    â€˜The odd thing about D’Erreti,’ Pierangelo says, picking up his glass and shaking his head, ‘is that despite the fact I disagree with him about basically everything, I know why people admire him. I even feel myself doing it sometimes. Whatever else he may be, he’s not a hypocrite. And then there’s the whole power trip. And the history.’
    Pierangelo told me once that he was an altar boy. It just slipped out, and it surprised me at the time, both because of how he feels now, and because his parents were university professors, one a mathematician, the other a historian. He doesn’t talk about them much, or about his brother, who lives in Milan and is some kind of big shot at Fiat, but as far as I know, they weren’t particularly religious. As he puts his glass down and turns back to the cutting board, I realize that while I know what drove me away from the church, I’ve never asked him what made him change his mind, or drew him in the first place, for that matter. And now I wonder if it’s some residual love, or revulsion, or a combination of the two that draws him to D’Erreti.
    â€˜What’s this piece on, I mean, exactly?’
    â€˜Our fiftieth birthday.’ Pierangelo glances over his shoulder at me as he says this and bursts out laughing. ‘You should see your face,’ he says. ‘Don’t panic, cara , Savonarola is not my long-lost twin. The paper’s just doing a profile in honour of his half-century.’ He shakes his head, grinning, and checks the contents of a bright copper pan. A spout of steam erupts like a mini-Vesuvius. ‘You know the kind of thing,’ he adds, ‘modern man—goes to the gym—rides a motorcycle—but radical reformer—and beloved of the people—Is This the New Future of Mother Church?’
    â€˜And is it?’
    â€˜Well, maybe. But I certainly hope not.’ Pierangelo begins dropping the baby artichokes one by one into the boiling water. ‘For a start,’ he says, ‘D’Erreti would probably like to do things like have all homosexuals forced to publicly recant. Or, if they refuse, have them rounded up and shipped to God knows where. Some island somewhere, along with all the other undesirables. You know, women who want to be priests, men who think women should be