The Fifth Gospel(27)

            I jog to catch up to Simon, wondering what his own thoughts are. But my brother has already disappeared. When I make my way inside, Sofia emerges from the nursery and says, “He went up there.”

            She points toward the rooftop. The most solitary place in the building.

            I begin to follow, but she puts a hand on my arm and whispers, “Peter needs you.”

            I turn toward the nursery. Inside, I find my son sitting up in his makeshift bed. The light is dimmed and the floor is strewn with books and stuffed animals from the nearby crib. Peter is breathing so hard he looks as if he’s been running.

            “What’s wrong?” I say.

            The air around him is wet and warm. He reaches out his arms.

            “Nightmare?” I ask.

            This is the age when night terrors and sleepwalking begin. Simon fell prey to both. I raise his gangly body into my lap and stroke his head.

            “Can we read about Totti again?” he whispers, half-delirious.

            Totti. The starting second striker for Roma.

            “Of course,” I tell him.

            He leans forward and paws the dark floor for his book. But he’s careful not to exit my lap. I’ve already left him once.

            “It’s over, Peter,” I promise him, kissing the damp back of his head. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re safe here.”

            I stay beside him for a while after he falls asleep again, just to be sure. By the time I slip out, Leo has returned home, and Sofia is heating him a plate of food. In the kitchen I see him rub her belly while leaning across it for a kiss. Before they can invite me to join them around the table, I excuse myself to look for Simon on the rooftop.



            HIS HAIR IS WINDSWEPT and wild. His face is drawn. He is staring down at the lights of Rome the way I imagine a sailor’s widow would stare at the sea.

            “You okay?” I ask.

            His hand, tapping for cigarettes from his emergency pack, is unsteady.

            “I’m not sure what to do,” he murmurs, not turning to look at me.

            “Me either.”

            “He’s dead.”

            “I know.”

            “I called him this afternoon. We talked about his exhibit. He can’t be dead.”

            “I know.”

            Simon’s voice grows thinner. “I sat beside his body, trying to wake him up.”

            A dull pang forms in my chest.

            “Ugo poured himself into this show,” my brother continues. “Gave it everything.” He lights a cigarette. A look of grinding disgust crosses his face. “Why let him die a week before opening night? Why let him die right on the doorstep?”

            “Human hands did this,” I say. A reminder of where his anger should be directed.

            “And why bring me there?” he continues, not listening.

            “Stop. None of this was your fault.”

            He blows a long plume of smoke into the darkness. “It was my fault. I should’ve saved him.”

            “You’re lucky you weren’t there. The same thing could’ve happened to you.”

            He glares bitterly at the sky, then peers down at the empty spot where we used to play as boys. One of the Guard families would inflate a plastic swimming pool on this terrace. All that remains is a water stain.