LITMIR.BIZ

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better be gentle, or you’ll hurt yourself!”

      They both laughed at Perkin’s foretold misfortune, then Gianina asked for his hand again. “Look at me like the boy did,” she commanded as she stroked his palm.

      “I’ve no ring to steal, or I’d have already given it to you already.” Perkin smiled as the oppression of the impending departure continued to lift.

      “No. I’m giving something to you. Look down.” So gentle that Perkin could barely feel it, she had placed a rectangular silver locket in his palm.

      “What is it?” he asked as he opened the antique locket.

      “It’s Saint Michael the Archangel. He’ll protect you. He’s the patron saint of soldiers.”

      Perkin walked closer to the light and looked at the locket. It was the same general shape as his dog tags but much larger. Instead of a picture inside, there was a painting on a thin ceramic surface which had been cut and filed to fit tightly inside the locket. The painting was small, unbelievably small, yet richly detailed and showed a winged Saint Michael subduing a winged Lucifer—Saint Michael’s foot on the back of the prostrate Lucifer’s head, one hand holding a sword poised to plunge into his adversary, his other hand holding the chains that shackled Satan. It was incredible imagery with remarkable detail, given its size.

      “Oh, Gia…it’s fantastic. I’ve never seen anything like it. Where did you find this?”

      “The locket is an old family one, but I did the painting…well, it is a copy of one by Guido Reni called The Archangel Michael, although I took some liberties with it.” Gianina smiled and then laughed. “Look at the face under this magnifying glass.”

      Perkin looked closely at the angel and saw what could be nothing other than Private Edwin Kulis’s tiny bespectacled face resting atop Saint Michael’s muscular torso. Although Perkin could not be sure, the painting so small, but he thought that Kulis was smiling back at him.

      Delighted, Perkin cried, “Is that Kulis?”

      “Isn’t it divine? I was laughing so hard as I painted the glasses that I had to do it four times. But you told me that he saved your life at Paestum and protected you at Paola, so who better than Eddie as Saint Michael to watch over you?”

      “Who better indeed? I—” Perkin began to thank her, but Gianina interrupted.

      “Do you know why Saint Michael and not Saint George or Saint Martin? They are also patron saints of soldiers.”

      “I have no idea. Why?”

      “Your friend, Father Riley, told you that this war is the war to oppose evil, and Saint Michael will lead God’s army to defeat evil. He will be a good protector for you,” she said simply.

      Patrick Riley was an Irish priest who Perkin had met in the Italian village of Pisciotta. In addition to being a Jesuit priest, Riley was also providing information to his older brother in British military intelligence—an act which had come to the attention of the Germans. When Perkin passed through the village of Pisciotta, he stopped a German patrol that had been sent to arrest the priest. As Perkin evacuated the priest to a more secure village, one closer to the American lines, Father Riley had told Perkin that the war was definable in terms of good and evil, and it was Riley’s contention that Perkin and his soldiers had been brought to Italy to oppose the incarnation of evil by the Nazis—a notion that Perkin largely rejected, but one which resonated with Gianina. The nature of the war was more complex in Perkin’s light than simple black and white notions of good and evil, but he was touched by Gianina’s gift.

      “I had something made for you as well.” Knowing her reaction, Perkin could not keep a grin off of his face although he tried. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small jewelry box and handed it to the delighted Gianina.

      “What’s this?” Gianina opened the box. “A cow!? A cow? You give me a cow necklace as a present?”

      “It’s a longhorn, baby—the universal symbol of Texas. What’s wrong, you don’t like it?”

      “I think…,” Gianina sputtered laughingly, “I think that the prediction of your celibacy was off by a day.” She put the necklace on and struck a pose for Perkin as she stuck out her tongue. “How does my cow look?”

      “Anemic. I reckon Bevo needs some color. Here’s the one I meant to give you. The cow was for my daytime girlfriend.” From his other pocket, Perkin produced a second box and opened it. Lying inside was another gold necklace, this time with a small square emerald in place of the longhorn.

      “Oh Perkin, it is beautiful. Grazie.” Gianina put the emerald necklace on without taking off the longhorn. As she modeled them both for Perkin, she exclaimed, “I love it! And I’m not giving back the cow, either. You’ll have to give your other girlfriend a pig necklace! Which one do you like better?”

      With a grin, Perkin replied, “Depends on where we stand with the prophecy I guess.” He gave her another kiss and a hug.

      They were interrupted by a knock at the door, and as Gianina answered it, Perkin unwrapped the second painting. He was still staring at it as Gianina walked back to him.

      “That was my director. I told him we were looking at The Fortune Teller and that I was taking the rest of the day off. We’re lucky he likes you; he said…oh, Perkin. I didn’t want you to see this one.”

      Perkin had a strained look on his face. “It’s OK, sweetheart. This is about Abraham and Isaac?” It was more of a statement than a question. The three foot by four foot canvas showed Abraham as an old bald man with a long beard and a full robe. Abraham was shoving his terrified son facedown onto a rock while looking back towards an angel who was restraining Abraham’s hand from cutting Isaac’s throat. As he tried to stop Abraham from sacrificing his son, the angel pointed to a ram which seemed to be watching with interest. Despite knowing the story, Perkin felt it wasn’t clear from the painting whether Abraham would take the angel’s suggestion and sacrifice the ram instead.

      Gianina turned Perkin’s face from the painting and looked worriedly in his eyes. “You are all right? Yes?” She kissed him on the cheek, stepped back, and explained, “Caravaggio did two depictions of the sacrifice of Isaac. This is the second painting—maybe painted five years after his first—but the action takes place first in this one. In the other painting, which is in America, it’s maybe, I don’t know, ten seconds later than this. Abraham has just realized he does not have to kill his son. It’s more vivid, I think, but less terrifying. I’m sorry that you saw this.”

      “It’s OK. The knife…It’s OK.” Perkin’s voice trailed off and he shrugged. Two months before, Perkin had killed a rogue Italian soldier with his trench knife. It was a horrible moment for the then lieutenant—one that he relived frequently in his dreams. More than any other act that he had seen or done in the war, it was his worst memory.

      As Gianina wrapped up the Caravaggios, she almost stamped her foot with anger at herself. She had known instinctively that the second painting would disturb Perkin, and she had determined that she would not let him see it. He was getting so much better, she thought—less angry, less moody, and the happy-go-lucky nature that she had suspected existed when she met him was once again the dominant aspect of his personality. His cousin, Sam, had told her that she was a gift to Perkin, “better than fried trout for breakfast,” and she was inwardly furious that she might have imperiled what looked to be their last day together.

      Perkin seemed to have that sense as well, and he stepped away from the darker side of his nature and smiled gently at her. “Don’t worry. It was just a little shock. I’m fine. It’s a fantastic work of art about a fantastic story, and maybe someday we can see the other version together in America.”

      As they walked holding hands down the dark corridor and up the stairs, he said, “Caravaggio should have met Kierkegaard.” She shook her head, unfamiliar with the name. “He was a Danish philosopher who wrote a book in the last century called Fear and Trembling—I read it my last year

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