Advance Praise for
Upon This Rock
“Perry has written an elegant, twisty thriller in which a gay couple investigates a mysterious suicide in a scenic Italian hill town. It’s not hard to imagine that this book could do for Orvieto what Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil did for Savannah.”
—Armistead Maupin, author of the internationally acclaimed Tales of the City
“Upon This Rock is for those readers who love Italy and who love crime fiction. David Perry evokes the spirit of the ancient Italian town of Orvieto, in a 21st-century thriller that takes in several centuries of history.”
—Lucinda Hawksley. author of Dickens’s Artistic Daughter, Katey
“The gay DaVinci Code, but a lot better.”
—Fenton Johnson, Guggenheim Fellow and award-winning author of The Man Who Loved Birds; Scissors, Paper, Rock; and At the Center of All Beauty: Solitude and the Creative Life
“You will not be able to put this book down. It is page-turner from the first sentence until the unexpected twist ending. Upon This Rock by David Eugene Perry has everything you could possibly want: intrigue, suspense, history and characters so real they almost jump off the page. If you like mystery, suspense and intrigue, drenched in local Italian history, this is the book for you.”
—Lynn Ruth Miller, author of Getting the Last Laugh and the oldest stand-up comedienne in the world
“This is a wild read. David Perry’s ability to build suspense is impressive and the denouement of this thriller will not just surprise you, but literally stun.”
—Erika Atkinson, author of Ode to the Castro and Miles of Memories
“You will not find a more exquisite, captivating, well-written first novel than David Eugene Perry’s Upon This Rock. I was literally hooked from the first chapter. A wonderfully addictive and engrossing story with brilliant characters and an ending that will have you perusing your favorite bookstore looking for Perry’s next novel.”
—Dennis Koller, author of The Rhythm of Evil
“This fast-moving thriller spans several centuries of papal history, Vatican politics, black market smugglers, human trafficking, terrorism, the secretive organization Opus Dei, prostitution and the everyday life in a small northern Italian village. David Perry weaves a suspenseful story that is a real page-turner and a fascinating tale … a great read.”
—Robert Walker, Frank and Eva Buck Foundation
“Perry’s novel sparkles with campy wit, but it is also written with serious clues that keep you reading.”
—Will Snyder, former editor of The Bay Area Reporter
“David Perry’s tale brings to life a cast of characters and settings that powerfully dramatize the plot and draw the reader toward each new page-turning twist.”
—Linda Frank, author of the Lily Kovner “Jewish Miss Marple” novels After the Auction, The Lost Torah of Shanghai, and The Nice Little Blonde Girl
“After reading Upon This Rock I want to dance the tarantella. What a read! I learned more Latin than I remembered Hebrew from my six years of Hebrew School. Who knew Popes had so much fun. Lee’s love of his friend and mentor Brian comes through so strong. And the little niceties of Lee’s love for Adriano are so warm and real. I would love to meet these men and you will too. From the Castro in San Francisco to the underbelly of Umbria’s ancient Orvieto, and from the 16th century to the 21st, you are in for quite a ride. And with all the twists and turns, be happy that you’re not in the driver’s seat.”
—Darryl A. Forman, author of The Unleavened Truth
“Come for esoterically fascinating Vatican history and centuries-spanning ecclesiastical skulduggery, stay for a delectably rewarding, genre-spanning tapestry of romance, mystery, and literary tourism. Perry is no armchair explorer: this inventive debut blends evocative travel journalism with engrossing story-telling.”
—Richard Labonte, general manager, A Different Light Bookstores
Upon This Rock
Upon This Rock
A Novel
by David Eugene Perry
Pace Press
Fresno, California
Upon This Rock
Copyright © 2020 by David Eugene Perry. All rights reserved.
Published by Pace Press
An imprint of Linden Publishing
2006 South Mary Street, Fresno, California 93721
(559) 233-6633 / (800) 345-4447
PacePress.com
Pace Press and Colophon are trademarks of Linden Publishing, Inc.
cover design by Tanja Prokop, www.bookcoverworld.com
frontispiece image courtesy of Diego Tolomelli
book design by Andrea Reider
The cover image (courtesy Shutterstock) for Upon This Rock is a detail from Luca Signorelli’s masterpiece, Last Judgment (1499–1503) in the Duomo of Orvieto. It is believed that Michelangelo traveled to Orvieto to study these frescoes as inspiration for the famous The Last Judgment in the Sistine Chapel in Rome. In this section, the Devil is whispering in the ear of a man who appears to be Jesus, but is in point of fact the Antichrist, a warning to all to not be deceived as Evil can sometimes mask itself as Goodness.
ISBN 978-0-941936-06-4
135798642
Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data on file.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
DEDICATIONS
For my grandmother who taught me to read…
For my mother: Ego amo te…
For Aunt Helen for lessons in gratitude and patience…
For Aunt Blanche whose smile echoed beauty and music…
For Aunt Margaret for days spun with “Camelot” and “The Sound of Music”—you set my feet on the decks of many ships…
For our friend Tom whose life gave us a new life…
For Felipe and Otis and Anthony…you know
In gratitude for C.S. Lewis (November 29, 1898–November 23, 1963) and The Baroness P.D. James of Holland Park (August 3, 1920–November 27, 2014)
To the Orvietani: friends and friends yet to meet.
And most especially, as with all things, for Alfredo. I love you.
In Memoriam:
Luca Seidita
1981–2010
Prologue
He stood on the cliff and prayed.
Useless, he thought, to turn my mind to God.
Behind him, the evening lights of Orvieto reflected in a million icy crystals. Snow had come early this year. It wasn’t yet December.
Below, the road would be deserted. He wondered who would find him. Someone would, of course, and for that he was sorry. What a horrible thing to discover: the body of a reprobate, crushed against the rock and never to see forgiveness. Never to see the face of God. Never to see another sunrise.
It should be beautiful, and he smiled. He had often come here to sit near the altar and wait for the dawn. Tomorrow, its rays would reach out to warm the city across a quilt of virginal frost. He had seen it before, prisms of color in the ice. Like a miracle, it had seemed to him as a child.
No more. No more dawns, no more rainbows, no more miracles.
“Don’t!”
He heard the scream, but too late. He had already stepped off the cliff, arms outspread like a cross, and dived for the tombs below.
Contents
Prologue
Part I
CHAPTER I
Death Takes a Sabbatical
CHAPTER II
Refugee
CHAPT
ER III
Of Expats and Paintings
CHAPTER IV
Upon This Rock
CHAPTER V
A Crooked Cross
CHAPTER VI
A Voice in the Wilderness
CHAPTER VII
Magda
CHAPTER VIII
Vescovo
CHAPTER IX
Andrea
CHAPTER X
Fallen Angel
CHAPTER XI
The Rupe
CHAPTER XII
The Swiss Guard
CHAPTER XIII
Fall from Grace
CHAPTER XIV
Imprisoned
CHAPTER XV
De Perfundis
CHAPTER XVI
Schism
CHAPTER XVII
Nonna
CHAPTER XVIII
At Sea
CHAPTER XIX
Reunion
CHAPTER XX
Puzzle
CHAPTER XXI
Dinner with a Medici
CHAPTER XXII
Strangers on a Train
CHAPTER XXIII
A Conspiracy of Shadows
The Eternal City
CHAPTER XXV
Doctor, Heal Thyself
CHAPTER XXVI
Parrots, Porn Stars, and Popes
CHAPTER XXVII
Family History
CHAPTER XXVIII
Repentance Denied
CHAPTER XXIX
Curious Curia
CHAPTER XXX
Papal Audience
CHAPTER XXXI
Baked Goods
CHAPTER XXXII
Conception
CHAPTER XXXIII
Clement’s Fountain
CHAPTER XXXIV
Luke
CHAPTER XXXV
Brother and Sister
CHAPTER XXXVI
The First Snow
Part II
CHAPTER XXXVII
Excavation
CHAPTER XXXVIII
Brave New World
CHAPTER XXXIX
Time to Say Goodbye
CHAPTER XL
Dress Rehearsal
CHAPTER XLI
Sanctuary
CHAPTER XLII
Solstice
CHAPTER XLIII
The Longest Night
CHAPTER XLIV
Dead Man Walking
CHAPTER XLV
Death Comes Knocking
CHAPTER XLVI
The Tower of Secrets
CHAPTER XLVII
Time Grows Short
CHAPTER XLVIII
Songs from the Grave
CHAPTER XLIX
Camorena
CHAPTER L
What Child Is This?
CHAPTER LI
Black Market Art
CHAPTER LII
Nativity of Truth
CHAPTER LIII
CHAPTER LIV
Revelation
CHAPTER LV
Coronation
CHAPTER LVI
Purgatory
CHAPTER LVII
Repeat Performance
CHAPTER LVIII
All the News that Fits…
CHAPTER LIX
Deus Ex Magda
CHAPTER LX
Befana
CHAPTER LXI
Resurrection
CHAPTER LXII
The Holy Family
CHAPTER LXIII
Upon This Rock
CHAPTER LXIV
Ashes to Ashes
CHAPTER LXV
Absolution
CHAPTER LXVI
Death of a Pope
Epilogue
A Note from the Author
About the Author
Part I
CHAPTER I
Death Takes a Sabbatical
Saturday, November 30, 2013, midday, Orvieto, Italy
“Signora Peg is…”
Marco paused, with juggling hands and bobbing head, seeming to weigh his half hour familiarity with Lee and Adriano.
“…a little eccentric?” Adriano offered.
“Si,” Marco exhaled. “Very, very nice but a little eccentrica, si.”
Lee silently nodded—Marco, you’re a little eccentric too, I think—smiling in melancholy recollection of one of Brian’s favorite anecdotes: “I can imagine what he says about me, because I know what he says about you!”
Member of the club? Lee wondered. Couldn’t tell yet. The ever-smiling and ruthlessly cheerful Marco certainly threw off the gay vibe: thirty-ish, short-ish, cute-ish, and stylish. But, prego, this was Italy. Everyone was always kissing everyone and seemed—even when a bit rumpled, as was Marco—slightly gayish. He had just finished giving them the overview of what would be their home for the next two months, a fifteenth-century-built-but-1980s-renovated apartment building.
“It used to be one huge palazzo for a Renaissance merchant,” Marco explained. “But now, it’s been divided into three units. The one downstairs is owned by a businessman in Rome, but he’s out of the country. The one just upstairs from you has an enormous balcony with an incredible view of Il Duomo, the cathedral, but it’s…it’s ah…empty. But, your place is-a very nice, very nice. Beautiful! So, no neighbors to bother you! You have the whole place to yourself. It’s very quiet. Ciao!”
With that, Marco dropped two sets of keys in Adriano’s hands. He seemed in a hurry to leave the pair and get back to other beckonings. He also gave them three carefully typewritten pages with instructions on everything from where to shop, where to eat, and when to put out the garbage for pickup (the last being the most complex of all).
“And don’t forget, come and check out my restaurant, Café Marco! It’s just off the Corso, near Piazza del Popolo. You meet my nonna! Welcome to Orvieto! I love Americans! USA! USA! Ciao! Ciao!”
A concert of ciaos exchanged, Lee and Adriano stood in front of the massive wooden double front doors, regarding their new home as Marco disappeared quickly out of sight down a tortuously curved cobblestoned street. With the exception of a weather-worn plaque above and to the left of the doorway memorializing seven WWII-era partisans from Orvieto, their new home could have been the backdrop for a Renaissance tableau. One expected a Medici banker to pop out at any moment. Lee loved it. He could smell the past lives of the place. A perfect moment. They were alone—well, almost. An elegant gray cat paraded in front of them, purring rather grandly, before stopping to regard them with feline ennui. Then, with a flick of its tail, it continued on toward the center of town.
“Well, here we go,” Adriano sighed with a smile. “As Brian used to say, ‘Be careful what you wish for.’ And here we are!”
“Indeed, here we are.”
“Happy birthday, honey. Welcome to your thirties.”
“Thanks, stud husband. You’ll be here in two years, so don’t get cocky. But, right now, you’re all the present I want.” Lee kissed his husband on the nose, briefly fogging up Adriano’s glasses.
“That, and a sabbatical in Italy.”
“Exactly, Signor Llata de Miranda,” Lee said, loving the sound of his husband’s melodically endless names, of which these were only the first two. “You do the honors. It’s your continent.”
Adriano put the key in the door. With an audible click, the tumbler turned and they were in. “Let’s go up.”
Their residence for the next two months was just off the Piazza della Repubblica and a block from the medieval church of Sant’Andrea—buzzing with activity this afternoon since today was the feast day for the saint, who was perhaps best known for the earthquake fault bearing his name in Adriano and Lee’s hometown, San Francisco. Later there would be a special Mass that Lee didn’t want to miss. He had once visited the Catholic martyr’s tomb in Patras, Greece, when he worked aboard ship during his pre-Adriano days. Plus, Lee always went to church on his birthday. It was a hard tradition to
break for someone who once considered the priesthood.
“I think you’re a closet priest,” Adriano said, as they climbed the marble stairs to their top-floor flat, a repeatedly teasing remark over their ten years together.
Lee, slightly out of breath as they approached step number thirty and leaning against the wall for a moment’s rest, replied as he always did: “I’m not a closeted anything, as you well know. But once an altar boy, always an altar boy. You should know as a Spaniard. Plus, I love anything ancient, and puzzles. Don’t forget puzzles.”
Burdened with a name like Lee Fontaine Maury, it was difficult to escape a fondness for tales of times long gone. His history-philia had aided his other hobby, crosswords, an obsession he had shared with Brian. During Lee’s youth, no Virginia historical marker had been left unstopped at, no Civil War battlefield or Colonial pilgrimage missed by his mother and grandmother. In point of fact, he was named for two of his father’s best friends: Lee (crooked, rich lawyer) and Fontaine (honest, poor lawyer). Maury was his by birth, and to believe his pop (a speculative endeavor at best), he was the direct descendant of renowned oceanographer and Confederate naval officer Matthew Fontaine Maury—a complex and disquieting legacy not uncommon in the South. Armed with the children’s book Pathfinder of the Seas about his supposed ancestor, Lee had developed a joint fascination with all things nautical and historical, eventually leading him to two years working aboard ship during his late teens after his parents’ and grandmother’s deaths, events only somewhat anesthetized by a circumnavigation of the globe, but never far below the surface of memory or emotion. There weren’t enough waves on earth to wash away such bloody sands.
His first name, he loved; its namesake, he detested. His middle name, he loathed; that uncle, he respected. He never used Fontaine, except on legal documents, and had only heard it uttered during childhood by his mother yelling from the porch when he was late for dinner, had forgotten some household chore or both. “Lee Fon-TAINE Maury!” Of course, now, all of his family was dead. And Brian was dead. Adriano Llata de Miranda was all the family he had left—or needed. He continued climbing, following his husband’s more athletic form.
“Appartamento numero sette,” Adriano motioned theatrically. “Siamo arrivati.”