Chapter 18

EIGHTEEN

MAY 2019

Tuesday

With nearly five hours to go before she would meet Emilio, Tori set out to discover more about the Parissis, her ancestors. She went back up the grand staircase and proceeded through the long hallway, past the room with the wedding dress and toward the other galleries on that floor. One was devoted to the origins of the castle in the late 1600s, when the then patriarch of the family, Gustavo Parissi, purchased the island and commissioned a Florentine architect to design the vast structure. And another gallery centered on Patricio Parissi, who headed the Parissi family when Giulia and her sisters lived in the castle. Known variously as an inventor, hermit, and benefactor, Patricio extended dozens of invitations to the greatest artists, scientists, and writers of his day. According to the display, he was also a generous employer, encouraging his guests to serve as mentors to members of his household staff who showed interest and promise.

Tori read all of the information in frames and on signs posted to walls, fascinated by the story of this unusual man. It seemed inconceivable to her that she was a descendant of such a wealthy family. She'd grown up modestly, in the small house where she still lived, her life nothing like the ones these relatives evidently had led. It was almost frightening, the disconnect between who she was and who her grandmother had been. While she recognized how much Marilene had given up to save Olive from a life with strangers, she nevertheless thought again how wrong Marilene had been to keep all this to herself. Yes, Marilene had her own reasons, her own awful memories, that led her to behave as she did. And the truth was, many people didn't find out about their heritage until later in life. There were so many television shows and articles these days about people—often celebrities—who studied their genealogy and discovered all kinds of surprising relatives from their past. Gangsters sometimes, or heads of state, or other strange and unexpected characters.

But she wasn't a celebrity. She was a thirty-six-year-old single mother who suddenly was chasing ghosts and starting to feel that if she looked in the mirror, she wouldn't even recognize herself. A woman whose only friend at this moment was a seventy-something man who was about to break the rules as a favor.

And though it didn't make sense, she couldn't shake the feeling that her grandmother—the biological one, Giulia—was throwing obstacles in her path. Daring her to continue, hoping she'd be intimidated. So she wouldn't have to face Tori and explain herself.

It's not going to work, Giulia , she thought. You're not going to scare me away .

The last exhibit in the room was the saddest of all. It had framed posters that described how the Nazis had invaded Parissi Castle, and how those who weren't able to escape were either killed or arrested and sent to the mainland to eventually be deported to concentration camps. Along one wall, a row of tiny crystal vases along a wooden ledge commemorated guests and staff members believed never to have made it off the island.

Tori thought again of home and how much she missed Molly and Marilene. And Albie, too. She looked at her phone, and realizing that it was now about seven in the morning at home, decided to give them a call. She walked to the lobby and through a set of glass doors to a pretty sun-drenched patio.

"Hello?" Mar said sleepily.

"Hi, Mar. It's me. Sorry to wake you. I don't seem to call at the best times, do I?"

"Oh, it's fine. I'm getting up. How are you doing?"

"I'm okay. Just feeling a little lonely. I'm at the museum. There's a nice man here who's helping me. He's the innkeeper and he also works here. You wouldn't believe how many tourists there are. They say it's become more and more crowded each month, and?—"

"Honey, can we talk another time? I'm still half asleep and I'm not even focusing."

"What? Oh, sure. That's fine. Molly's not up, is she?"

"No, and I think it's best to give her a little more time in bed. She had some trouble falling asleep last night."

"Why? Is something wrong?"

"No… well, the ballet cast was posted yesterday afternoon, and she didn't get the role she wanted."

"She didn't get Alice?"

"The teacher gave it to another girl. She made Molly the understudy and she's in all the other dances. But she's disappointed."

"Oh no. Oh, I feel horrible that I'm not there."

"She'll be okay. It was just a surprise. I could wake her if you want but I was going to let her sleep until seven thirty this morning. But I could…"

"No, you're right. I'll call later, okay? When she wakes up, just let her know that I called and I love her and I'll call again later."

"Of course, I will, honey. Take care and we'll talk later. Enjoy yourself. We're fine. Don't worry about a thing, okay?"

Tori agreed, but she hung up feeling terrible that she wasn't home for her daughter. She knew Molly must be crushed. Molly had worked out the whole cast list in her head and thought she knew exactly what Mademoiselle Diana would do. She was so strong and got her way so often. This was the first time Tori could remember that something hadn't gone according to her plan. And what was also strange was Mar's attitude. Enjoy yourself? It was almost as if Mar had forgotten, or no longer wanted to acknowledge, why Tori was even here.

It was exactly what happened all the time, now that Tori thought about it—her family pretending that certain disturbing events simply didn't exist. Like on that strange day she'd come home from school to hear the sound of someone crying. It was about a year after her mother had thought she was lost in Bloomingdale's—except this time, it was her father who was distraught. He worked as an accountant and never came home in the middle of the day, and she remembered feeling confused and terrified. She went upstairs to her parents' bedroom. The door was closed, and before she could completely open it, her mother came dashing out, her face red.

"Oh, Tori!" she'd said. "I didn't realize how late it was. Look at you, home from school already. You know something? I don't have much in the house for a snack, but I'm so in the mood for ice cream. What say you and I go get a couple of cones?"

For the life of her now, Tori had no idea why she didn't push her mother for answers about the sound of her father crying. She supposed she knew that her mother wouldn't want to talk about it and would try to avoid her questions. And she never liked upsetting her mother. She also remembered thinking that if she tried hard enough, she could convince herself that she hadn't heard the sound at all—that her father wasn't crying, that he wasn't even home. Which was exactly the situation when she and her mother arrived back from the ice cream shop: Dad wasn't around, and when he did come home at six, his normal time, he looked fine.

Tori never knew what had made her dad cry. She never asked about that day, and she was never told. But that was the day she realized that this was how they did things in her family—they ignored what they didn't want to face. Looking back now, she could see that life in her family had always been one big power grab. One ongoing effort by her parents to gain control of the narrative.

She looked again at her phone, hoping that Jeremy had called her and left a message, and maybe because of spotty reception it had only come through now. She wanted so much to talk to him. She felt as though she were losing herself, standing here on this patio surrounded by unfamiliar faces and foreign words floating in the air. Even now, all these years after that ice cream cone day, she had to admit that she still wanted control as much as her parents had. She'd come here to try to get answers, yes, but she'd also come here to try to know herself better. To learn about the parts she'd never known. The secrets she would refuse to ignore.

She couldn't help but believe that the opposite was happening: She was rapidly losing hold of the parts of her life that she'd thought would always be secure.

She went to the outdoor food stand to get a sandwich, and after eating, she returned to the museum, obsessively reading each plaque and leaflet as she explored the rest of the galleries. She thought of Marilene's family, her mother and father, and the way they tried to isolate their children from the atrocities of the war. Those people were her history, too. She wanted to learn more about them as well.

Before she knew it, it was four thirty. The museum galleries started to empty. In the lobby, the crowds were heading out the front door to make their way down the stone steps and over to the dock to catch the ferry back to the mainland. The workers at the information desk, including the English-speaking woman with whom she'd gotten nowhere, turned off the lamps at their stations. Tori arrived at the spot where she'd seen Emilio earlier and waited. At four fifty, he came down the grand stairway and over to her. He looked around stealthily, watching the people leave. When she and he were the only two in the lobby, he tilted his head, indicating that she should follow.

She followed him behind the information desk and down a long, dark corridor. At the end, there was a glass door that read Dipartimento di Ricerca , with "Research Department" printed underneath. He took out a large key ring and unlocked the door, then pulled it open.

"What the public doesn't know is that there's one more ferry that leaves at six o'clock to take the security officials back to the mainland," he was saying as Tori took in the scope of the room. "We spend the extra hour checking for lingerers and turning off lights, and then the night guard takes over. So, my friend, go ahead inside. Don't turn on any lights or you'll attract attention—there's still plenty of sunlight coming from the windows, and you can use your phone light if you need to. I'll be back for you in forty-five minutes. See what you can discover by then."

He turned and left, and she watched the door slowly glide shut. He'd been right—though the room was darkened, there was adequate sunlight streaming in from the high, narrow windows to guide her way. She went through the long room, past rows of tables and chairs with lamps and USB ports. Beyond the desks, she entered an area that looked like a warehouse, with aisles of metal shelving units that rose from the floor nearly up to the ceiling, all lined with cardboard boxes. There were rolling ladders affixed to the shelves .

She started at the left and walked down one aisle and up the next, not sure what she should be looking for. Signs were posted at various points along the shelving, and she assumed these identified what was in the nearby boxes, but the words were in Italian. She didn't know what she'd been expecting to see; she hadn't thought about it, as she'd been so fixated on getting inside. And she supposed she'd expected to be there during normal hours, when there'd be people to help her. The email she'd received from Signor Mansirio had been so friendly. She'd even assumed there'd be English-speaking staffers to help her find materials related to Giulia. How na?ve she'd been, to think this would be easy.

She continued walking down one aisle and up another, trying to make sense of the signs. She supposed she could take out her phone and look up some of the Italian words to find their translation. But that would take time, and she didn't think it was the most efficient approach, at least not at first. Instead, she thought, she'd just keep looking, hoping she'd see Giulia's name on one of the signs.

That didn't happen—but soon there was a sign that caught her attention: " Isola di Ciani ." That was Marilene's family's island—the island where Giulia had shown up after she'd escaped from the Nazis. The sign had arrows along the bottom pointing in the direction of several large boxes beneath it. It seemed perhaps a little far-fetched to expect these boxes to reveal where Giulia now was, but having spent the whole day reading what had happened on this island, the entire collection of boxes had an even larger significance. The items they held told stories about the people who had once lived here in this castle and this region—their dreams, families, plans, hopes, work, and joy. The things that mattered to them, the things they loved. The people on Parissi Island had had so much to live for, and they had suffered horribly when the Nazis arrived as had so many others. Tori felt there was something right, something necessary even, in taking stock, as much as she could, of all that was lost.

She pulled one box off the shelf. It was tall and rectangular, the size of a moving carton in which you might pack linens and towels. Fortunately it wasn't heavy. She carried it away from the aisles, walking slowly since the box was so tall that she almost couldn't see where she was going. When she reached the open space where the tables were, she placed it on the floor. It was sealed with packing tape across the top, and she picked at an edge with her fingernail and then ripped the tape back carefully, knowing that she'd have to reseal the box as best she could before she left.

She pulled back the flaps and looked inside. There was a muddle of objects tossed haphazardly inside. It was hard to believe that this was the way the museum handled such precious artifacts. But then again, this was a new museum staffed mainly by local people who had personal ties to the area. When she thought about it that way, she realized that what had been collected and stored in this space, this assemblage of materials waiting to be investigated and cataloged, was pretty amazing.

At first, the box seemed to contain mostly junk. Tori thought that if she didn't know better, she'd have assumed the items were destined to be lined up on a folding table outside someone's garage, with handwritten prices on stickers. She would have sworn she'd seen similar items around town back home last June, the month when nearly everyone in town either held or thought about holding a tag sale. She pulled out old wall calendars from the 1940s; brass candlesticks; a ceramic serving platter covered in bubble wrap; a terra cotta garden pot; two small table lamps; a map of the world dating back to 1935; a wooden box with knobs that seemed to have once been a radio; a child's wooden toy train; a stack of white linen dinner napkins, faded in spots to yellow and brown.

She dug further, and then grasped a white envelope, about the size of a sheet of paper. It was sealed, and she peeled it open and looked inside. There were a handful of black-and-white photographs inside, and she pulled them out and started to go through them. The top one was a photograph of three children, including a girl about Molly's age. Tori studied the girl—her long chin, her thick eyebrows and hair, her wide mouth—and suddenly it hit her: This was Marilene! This was Marilene as a child—an image Tori had never seen before. She looked so young, so carefree—so different from the Marilene she knew, who always had a determined look on her face and a list of chores and responsibilities in hand to tend to. When had Marilene changed from someone who appeared so very relaxed? Was it when Giulia left? Or when she spirited Giulia's daughter out of Italy in the dark of night? It struck her again that Giulia had caused so much damage. But why? Was she selfish? Or was there more to the story?

She looked more closely at the picture. Marilene was wearing a one-piece outfit, with a button-down top, loose shorts, and a thin, ribbon-like belt. Next to her were two little boys, twins evidently, their hair cut short. These had to be the brothers Marilene never saw again after she left Italy. They looked cute and entertaining and mischievous. Taking in these sweet children, Tori realized anew how much Marilene had sacrificed when she left her home with Olive. How awful it must have been for her to sever all ties with the family she loved; and how sad, to never make contact with them because she wanted to keep her whereabouts hidden, so Olive could stay with her. Tori wondered how often Marilene thought of these two boys, who now would be… what, around eighty? Over the years, she must have tried to imagine what had happened to them: Were they happy? Had they married? Did they have families of their own? Were they still alive?

Tori put the picture aside, but her chest sank as she thought about the pain of such a loss. Taking a deep breath, she silently vowed to talk with Marilene about her family when she returned—and to help find out what had happened to them, if that's what Marilene wanted to do. Maybe Marilene felt as she did—that she wanted a resolution: if not a reunion then at least some closure.

She turned back to the group of photographs. The second one was of her grandmother, Giulia, when she was a teenager, eighteen or so. Tori recognized her immediately, since she was familiar with Giulia's appearance, having studied the newspaper photo Marilene had put in her bag while she was on the plane. Giulia was standing in some kind of airy, light-filled room. Again, Tori couldn't get over how very lovely she was. She was wearing a white sleeveless blouse and dark shorts, holding a basket that seemed to be filled with spools of thread. Her wavy hair was pulled back into a long ponytail. Beside her was a tall man, about Giulia's age, maybe a little older. He was very handsome, with dark hair that fell over his forehead, a straight nose and large, intense eyes. He was wearing a short-sleeved button-down shirt, dark slacks, and sandals, and Tori could see his very broad, very muscular physique. She wondered who this man could be. He was clearly too young to be Marilene's father; could he have been another relative there for a visit? Or… was he Giulia's boyfriend? Someone she was in love with? Maybe even the man who would become Tori's grandfather?

Putting the photos aside, she looked deeper into the box and pulled out a hard-backed notebook. There was only one page inside; the rest of the pages seemed to have been ripped out. The page that remained had several handwritten paragraphs, the penmanship cramped and dark, as though the writer had pressed heavily with the pen. Holding the notebook up to the light from the window, Tori thought that in several places, she could make out the word Giulia . It was repeated at least six times. Whoever had penned these words had been writing about her grandmother.

"Tori!" came a loud whisper from the front of the room. "Come now or we will miss the boat!"

"Coming!" she whispered back. She put all the photographs and larger objects back into the box, pressed the tape down, and returned it to the shelf. Then she tucked the notebook into her bag.

She needed Emilio to translate the words on the page.

She wanted to know what their author had written about her grandmother.