Aida hesitated. What did she really think she’d find in Trista’s office? And what would she do once she found it? She wasn’t sure she wanted to be so quickly out of a job. Or in jail. And ifshe was looking for information about a database, she needed Yumi’s help.
“Not just yet. I’ll let you know soon.” Campo de’ Fiori loomed ahead at the end of the street, its white-capped market tents glowing in the morning sunshine.
“Right, then. You just give me the sign, and that night she’ll be sleepin’ like a baby.” Pippa pulled her phone out of her pocket and flipped it back on. “Ahh, my artichokes.” She gave Aida a little salute, then headed past several vendors with cheap tourist trinkets toward a stall laden with vegetables.
Aida turned on her phone and headed toward Palazzo Spada, just a few streets away. She paused to take photos of Giulio Mazzoni’s stucco sculptures of Roman heroes and emperors, as well as the facade of the opposing building across thepiazzetta, and a beautiful fountain adorned with a nymph with arms crossed over her breasts and a lion spewing water into a scalloped basin.
She spent the next two hours in a sleepy haze, voice cataloging the collection of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century paintings. She felt blind to the beauty of the immense main hall with its statues and ceiling-to-floor arrangement of paintings. The rooms were filled with works by Guido Reni, Titian, Jan Brueghel the Elder, Guercino, Rubens, Dürer, Artemisia Gentileschi, Caravaggio, and others, but she would have to return to truly appreciate the beauty of the objects before her.
For the first time in her work at MODA, she was slogging through a job, rather than doing something she loved. Part of it was fatigue, but most of it was a heavy haze of worry about what she was supposed to do with the knowledge handed to her by the ancient Greek goddess Sophrosyne, who, up until yesterday, Aida thought was a myth.
But when she came to the most important feature of Palazzo Spada, the optical illusion added by Borromini to the courtyard over a hundred years after it was built in 1540, Aida perked up a bit. She stared down into the forced perspective gallery ofcolumns toward the statue of Pompey the Great, trying to work out the trick of it. The statue looked far away—the length of two bowling lanes—and one sensed that it was a big piece of art. But she knew it wasn’t, that instead, it was merely thirty feet away, and the statue was only slightly higher than her knee.
She was about to begin recording her impressions when an abrupt Zen came over her, an unusual calmness and connection with herself. She was no longer tired, and instead was alert yet placid. She could gaze upon this halcyon scene for hours and be perfectly content.
“Marvelous, isn’t it?”
Aida turned toward the voice, intrigued at her lack of alarm at the sudden sound in the quiet courtyard. She’d heard no crunch of gravel signaling another soul crossing the expanse to reach her.
Disa stood a few feet away, adorned in a tailored jacket in ecru wool bouclé, stunning on its own but made even more so by the glossy black trompe l’oeil snake that formed the jacket’s collar, its mouth latched onto its body a few inches from the end of its tail. Her black crop pants were simple by comparison. Her long black hair was smoothly twisted with a white ribbon and styled in an intricate updo, the strands artfully pinned in place.
Aida was aware that she should be alarmed at the sudden appearance of this woman, who she now knew was the goddess Discordia, but she wasn’t. Sophie’s spell really did work. Maybe too well.A bit of surprise would be wise, she thought to herself.
“Oh, Disa! You startled me,” she said with an awkward chuckle that she hoped only lent to the deception. This time, she couldn’t help but comment on the woman’s wild outfit. “Is that jacket... Schiaparelli?” Aida had long admired the fashion house’s work, famous for its outlandish designs.
“It is.” Disa flashed her a rare smile. Only then did Aida realize the white ribbon in her hair wasn’t a simple accessory but another snake, its tiny head clasped to the goddess’s ear like an earring.
“It’s stunning.” Aida looked back at Borromini’s Perspective, marveling at how she stood between two things that were not as they seemed.And I am not what I seem, she thought, grateful for the calm Sophie had given her. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I’m in the city visiting my sister who’s down on her luck. I had some free time, and I thought I would see how your work is going.”
Aida didn’t believe her. Perhaps the goddess suspected Aida knew more than she should. “I wondered why you weren’t in London. I had no idea we’d exchanged locations.” She emitted another forced laugh. “The work is going well. I’m always in awe of the genius of the Renaissance artists. And Borromini was one of the best. For someone whose life was full of darkness, he left us so much beauty,” she said, referring to the artist’s bipolar disorder, which eventually led to his suicide.
“His chaos was his best feature,” Disa said, looking toward Pompey in the false distance. “It was the source of his genius.”
Any doubts that Aida had about Disa’s deism disappeared with that remark. Of course, Discordia would appreciate Borromini’s eternal conflict. She was a being who thrived on the unpredictable and who reveled in bloodshed and strife. Aida’s memory of the myths wasn’t as strong as Luciano’s, but she knew some of them, including the story of the golden apples.
The apples! The bowl on the table in the Boston hotel where she’d had the MODA interview—on top of the pile of apples had been a single golden one. The Apple of Discord. Calm from the aegis tamped down any emotion tied to that realization.
Disa left Aida’s side and undid the rope that blocked visitors from walking down the colonnade. She strode toward the statue.
Aida watched, her mind swirling with the story of Discordia, the goddess who was not invited to the wedding of Peleus and Thetis. Furious, she went anyway and threw a golden apple inscribed “To the Fairest” among a crowd of attending goddesses. What ensued was a battle between Hera, Aphrodite, andAthena over the apple that not only disrupted the wedding but also brought about the Trojan War.
Disa reached the statue, her elegant silhouette towering above the stone helmet of Pompey. She looked like a giant. “This is the best of his brilliance, captured in this illusion.” Although she appeared very far away, she was close enough that she had no need to raise her voice.
Aida pulled her MODA phone from her pocket and lifted it to take a photo.
Disa’s visage transformed into anger. “Don’t. I didn’t give you permission to capture my image.”
Aida had half assumed she wouldn’t be able to get away with taking a photo of the goddess, but it was the most natural reaction to such a scene. Any other person would have been delighted to have their photo taken in such a context.
“I’m so sorry,” Aida said, hoping she sounded contrite. “I didn’t take it, I promise.”
Disa left the statue’s side and walked toward Aida, her giant form growing smaller and smaller until she was at the gallery entrance and her height returned to normal.
“That reminds me,” she said as she neared. “Trista tells me you’ve been having problems with your phone. Should we have it replaced?”
Aida marveled at how normal her heart was beating in the face of such direct confrontation about her phone. She should have known Trista would bring it to her superiors’ attention. “No, I think it’s more of a connectivity issue. The signal’s been spotty when I’m moving around, and sometimes the reception cuts out completely in certain areas. Plus, I’ve noticed the sound randomly mutes when the connection is bad.” She made an effort to look pained. “I apologize if I’ve caused any concern.”
