Page 30 of Palazzo
The obituary said that he had lost a four-year battle with a rare form of stomach cancer, which explained everything to Cosima, why he had insisted on ending their affair three years before and told her she had to marry and have children and forget him, and why he had stuck to his position resolutely no matter how much pain it had caused them both. He knew he was dying and didn’t want to hang on to her until the bitter end. He had wanted to free her, but they were bound to each other heart and soul. He had never stopped loving her, nor she him. She didn’t have a moment of regret for the fifteen years she had loved him, or the nine years of their affair, no matter howgreat the difference in their ages, or the fact that he was married and she had known he could never get divorced.
The article went on to say that he was deeply embedded in the politics of the Church, with strong ties to the Vatican. It mentioned his uncle, who was a cardinal, and his brother, who was a bishop. He came from a long line of noblemen who had been involved in the politics of Italy for centuries. He was even related to a sixteenth-century pope. She knew most of it from him. There was to be a state funeral at the Basilica di Santa Maria Sopra Minerva, and burial would be private for family only. Both his brother and his uncle, although older than he was, had outlived him, and would officiate at his funeral.
Cosima had never felt a loss as acute since the death of her parents. She didn’t regret a moment she had spent with Gian Battista and wished he had told her he was ill when he left her, but then she wouldn’t have allowed him to leave her. He had staunchly refused to put her through it, and the article said he had survived longer than expected due to experimental treatments, which had stopped being effective three months earlier. It explained why she had found him so tired recently and looked thinner at lunch two days before. She sat at her desk feeling like a stone statue for an hour and didn’t answer her phone. She couldn’t. She could barely breathe, knowing he was gone.
The memories came rushing back, of all the years they had shared, the wonderful times they had had, and she knew how right he had been that the memories were all that mattered. She had them all, and he would never leave her. They lived a full lifetime together in a mere fifteen years.
An hour after she had read the article her secretary had left on herdesk for her, she unlocked her office door. Allegra came through it a few minutes later and stared at her when she saw her. Cosima was as white as a sheet. She looked like a ghost.
“Are you okay?” Allegra was instantly worried. “You look sick.”
“Gian Battista died last night, at home. He had cancer. I didn’t know. I saw him for lunch two days ago.” Allegra had always suspected that there was more between them but had never asked. If Cosima had wanted her to know, she would have told her, and she never had. Cosima had always been fiercely private. Allegra knew something had happened a few years ago. Cosima had looked devastated for months and Gian Battista had suddenly become much less present than he had been before, but he was always there, nearby, on the fringes of their lives, and available if they needed him, like a guardian angel.
“I’m so sorry,” Allegra said, and hugged her. Cosima clung to her and was shaken by sobs, and then Cosima sat on the couch, holding Allegra’s hands and not speaking. “Are you going to the funeral?” Allegra didn’t know if his wife knew or not, and didn’t want to ask that either. Allegra had never been completely certain until that moment, but now it all made sense, and it was also why there had never been another man in her sister’s life. Gian Battista had been the love of her life, the only one.
“I guess so.” Cosima couldn’t imagine not going, and Gian Battista had been deeply religious, so it would be a high mass at the funeral.
“Can I come with you?” Allegra asked her, and Cosima nodded. She didn’t want to go alone. Cosima intended to sit discreetly in a back row. She felt hypocritical going since she had no sympathy for his widow, but people would have been shocked if the Saverios weren’t there, and Cosima needed to be there, out of love and respect for him.
She was even more surprised when Gian Battista’s secretary calledher later in the day and said that the countess di San Martino wished to invite her and her sister to sit in the pew with her. Cosima wasn’t sure if she should, but she accepted. It was a place of honor in a ritual that was important to him and would be to Cosima too.
“I have nothing to wear,” Cosima told Allegra when she came to check on her after lunch, which she hadn’t eaten. She had hated black suits ever since her parents’ funeral. She had worn a black suit to that.
“I’ll get you something,” Allegra promised.
“I’ll come with you,” Cosima said. She wanted to look perfect for him, for this final appearance to honor him. They had gone out socially discreetly for nine years. He had always portrayed their relationship as her being his deceased closest friend’s daughter, and very few people had ever suspected, if any. And no one knew for sure. He was always careful of her reputation and appearances, and when they went away together, they traveled separately, and met in faraway places. She always pretended to others that she traveled alone. They had met in Bali, Burma, Vietnam, Mauritius, Tahiti, the wilds of Provence or remote corners of Brittany, or the Dordogne. They had had so many good times together, shared so many important moments. She couldn’t imagine her life without him now, but he had been preparing her for this for the past three years. She understood it all now. He had been teaching her to go on with her life and be happy without him. He had even said it the other day after lunch. He had been giving her his instructions for the future. “Be happy, don’t work too hard, have fun.” He had told her how proud he was of her, and called her “My beautiful girl,” which was what he had always called her when they were alone. They had been madly in love for a long time, until the end. And he had been what was stopping herfrom getting more deeply involved with Olivier, whom he had called her “honorable friend” at lunch. It was his stamp of approval, his permission to go on and live, even with Olivier if she chose to.
Cosima didn’t want to talk to Olivier now, or to anyone. She had her secretary take messages all day and say she was out of the office at a conference where she couldn’t be reached.
She wondered if Luca read the newspaper in prison, and if he knew. Gian Battista had been there for Luca too, although he hadn’t approved of Luca’s behavior for the past several years and had given up on him. She knew that Luca would be shaken too. They all were, anyone who knew him. And he had been like a father to Allegra and Luca, and a husband to her.
The days before his funeral were a blur Cosima couldn’t even remember afterwards and didn’t want to. Allegra had clothes brought to the store for her to choose from. She picked a plain black wool dress, a very chic black Dior coat, and a gorgeous black hat she knew he would have loved. He loved it when she looked glamorous, and she wanted to for him. Allegra picked a simple black Chanel suit with black satin lapels to wear, of the kind Cosima hated, but it looked well on her, and was suitably funereal.
The two sisters went to the funeral together in a black Bentley, and Maria Grazia had sent them cards to present at the church, which would allow them to be led to the front to sit with her. Gian Battista had had countless cousins and great-nieces and nephews, but he wasn’t close to any of them. The Saverios were the only children he was ever close to. Maria Grazia looked like a scarecrow in a black silk dress that hung on her, plain black suede shoes, an old black coat, and a hat that was long out of date.
She had never made an effort about how she looked and hated her role as an important man’s wife. She had spent most of her time riding horses when she was young, gave it up after a hunting accident, and after that spent her time in church and on charity committees.
Maria Grazia and Gian Battista had spent as little time together as possible for fifty years. They had discovered within months of their marriage that they were ill suited, but a divorce was unthinkable at the time, nearly impossible to obtain in Italy, and unimaginable given his connections to the Vatican. He would have been satisfied with an annulment and had asked her for one within six months of their marriage, but she wouldn’t agree to it. They had stopped sleeping together within a few months of their wedding, by her choice, and had separate bedrooms after their first year of marriage and from then on. She wanted the appearance of being his wife, but not the fact. Cosima had had the reality, but not the name.
Maria Grazia hugged both girls stiffly when they arrived. Allegra maneuvered her wheelchair as close as she could to the end of the pew, and Cosima sat between her and Maria Grazia, feeling uncomfortable but honored. The widow was wearing black suede gloves and patted Cosima’s hand. “He loved you very much,” she said in a voice no one else could hear. “Always. And your whole family.” Cosima wondered if she knew, but Gian Battista always insisted that she didn’t, and was careful not to cause her pain or embarrassment. He had been loyal to her for half a century, but hadn’t loved her.
Maria Grazia had always said that she regretted not going into religious orders, and Cosima wondered if she would enter one now. She had wasted all the years as Gian Battista’s wife, which Cosima would have cherished. She would have gladly been his wife andgiven him ten children. She had even considered having a child by him, unmarried, and was sorry now she hadn’t. But he was afraid of the scandal for both of them and didn’t want to compromise Cosima’s reputation. They had been more than married in many ways, and she was more his widow than the woman sitting next to her in the ugly black hat with a widow’s veil. Her face was heavily lined and her features sharp beneath the veil.
The high mass took two hours, the music was beautiful, and he would have liked it. A choir of Dominican nuns sang. There were many tributes and readings, and a homily about a man of great wisdom, wit, and humility, which almost did him justice but not quite, and at the end of the mass, Allegra and Cosima followed Maria Grazia out, down the main aisle. She had honored Cosima in a deeply respectful way Gian Battista would have wanted and approved of. Cosima pushed Allegra’s wheelchair to steady herself and so she had something to hang on to. Allegra understood and didn’t object.
There was a reception at Gian Battista and Maria Grazia’s home afterwards, but the two sisters didn’t go. The hypocrisy was too much for Cosima, and she avoided the reception out of respect for his wife in case anyone did know about her and Gian Battista. They thanked Maria Grazia before they left, and then they went home.
Cosima sat for hours alone on her terrace, surrounded by memories of him, just as he had said. He had been teaching her how to live with what had just happened, and the pain was very fresh. If he hadn’t been sick, he would never have left her three years before. She knew that now and it was a comfort to her.
She was somber and serious at the office afterwards for several days. The sale of the palazzo had gone through and she didn’t noticeor care. She didn’t take a call from Olivier until the end of the week.
“Are you all right?” He was worried by her silence, but he knew why. She didn’t need to tell him. He had guessed.
“Yes, I’m fine. I’ve had a long week.”
“I read about your friend Gian Battista inLe Figaro.I’m so sorry. Did you go to the funeral?”
“Yes, with Allegra. We sat with his wife, she invited us.” That surprised him, given what he suspected, but he didn’t comment. He didn’t want to intrude on her grief.
