With the Perfectionists

I left the hotel’s precious shade and wandered down to the Arno. It wasn’t a lively river, in fact it hardly moved at all, but I liked it. What wasn’t quite so pleasant was having to stand in the midday sun in order to admire it. For Via d’Azeglio was now no more than a well-lit oven.

I turned and strolled up the street. On the left lay the languid Arno and, on the right, a row of houses in every variety of ochre imaginable reaching up to the sky and offering shade from the sun.

The road turned a bend and revealed the bridge by which I must cross to the northern side of the city. I don’t mind admitting that it took a substantial effort of will to leave the comparatively cool shadows and walk over the Arno in the full heat of the day.

The bridge led into a great square. I glanced at the map. This, apparently, was Piazza Garibaldi. I looked around. In the centre of the square, stationary amid the milling throng, stood two women dressed in white. Both were in their early twenties; one was pale and blonde, the other – the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen – with sad brown eyes and dark hair which curled down gently over her shoulders. Though they were busily handing out leaflets to everyone who passed them, not everyone who received their literature was grateful. Indeed, many read a few words, then screwed the leaflet up and threw it on the ground, but the girls continued their work regardless of the response.

Dressed in white and distributing literature? Could these be Fisher’s friends? I approached the dark girl and held out a hand. She put a leaflet in it and gave me a delightful smile.

‘Prego,’ she said.

I looked down at the leaflet.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but I can’t read that.’

‘You read English?’ she asked, in a strong Italian accent.

‘Yes.’

She took the leaflet back and replaced it with one bearing the title Prepare for Paradise. Quickly, I turned it over. It carried a familiar name and address on the back:

LA CHIESA DELLA PERFEZIONE
C.P. 148
56100 PISA

So, these girls were indeed Perfectionists. I decided to play ignorant, something for which I have a particular talent.

‘What’s this all about?’ I asked.

‘You must read it,’ she said, struggling to find the correct English words. ‘It will help you very much.’

Her friend stepped up to help her.

‘It tells you what you need to do before you die,’ she said, with a distinctly American twang to her voice.

‘I have no intention of dying,’ I said.

‘Maybe not,’ said the blonde girl, ‘but you can’t put it off for ever.’

What would you say if I told you that I’d never thought of this before? For a moment I was stunned, after which I found it surprisingly easy to act the part of someone who was suddenly convinced.

‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘What do I have to do?’

‘Wear white, play the harp and learn to fly.’

‘Okay, I’ll do it.’

‘You will?’ The girl seemed unable to believe her ears.

‘Yes. I believe you. Where do I sign?’

‘You don’t have to sign anything.’ The girl looked from me to the brunette, then back again. ‘But what you might like to do is visit our headquarters and meet the others.’

‘Love to,’ I said.

She smiled and set off across the square.

‘This way,’ she called, over her shoulder.

As her colleague and I followed, the dark-haired girl took hold of my hand and looked up at me.

‘What is your name?’ she asked.

I considered giving an alias, but then realised it would only lead to confusion if we ever met up with Fisher.

‘Matt Allen,’ I said.

‘Matt?’
Her friend gave her a nudge and whispered in her ear.

‘Oh, sì,’ said the dark-haired girl, smiling and nodding. ‘Where you come from, Matteo?’

‘Wembley.’

She hesitated.

‘I have heard of that, but I do not know why. Where is it, please?’

‘In west London, in England. Tell me, what’s your name?’

‘Lucia Agnelli. I come from Bologna. Is not far away. But my friend Bonnie is American. She come from Louisville, Kentucky.’

Lucia’s colleague grinned.

‘Hi, Matt,’ she said.

‘Hello, Bonnie.’

We’d now arrived at the edge of the piazza, and its searing heat was left behind as we entered a narrow street lined by tall houses.

‘Why did you come to Pisa?’ I asked Lucia.

The dark girl tossed her head.

‘To tell people the truth.’

‘What about you, Bonnie? Why did you come?’

‘Well, first of all, it was for a holiday. But, while I was here, I met some folks from the Church of Perfection, discovered that they had what I’d been seeking for years, and stayed on, like Lucia, to spread the good news.’

‘That’s nice,’ I said.
For ten minutes or more, we strolled through a maze of lanes. They were not particularly beautiful, but were filled with interest, for some drama was being enacted at every window and in each doorway. Finally, we burst out into an open space.
‘This is Piazza San Felice,’ said Lucia. She pointed towards a large building sitting in the sun on one side of the square. ‘That is Palazzo Marinelli, Matteo. Is where Bonnie and I live.’

‘It looks like a palace,’ I said.

Bonnie grinned.
‘It is a palace,’ she said.

They led me nearer. The palazzo was not nearly as large as Buckingham Palace, but it was appealingly ancient. Like the majority of the buildings I’d seen in Pisa, its walls were painted yellow ochre and all its shutters were green.

‘Come on,’ said Lucia, as I gazed up at it in awe, and dragged me through a pair of double doors.

Inside the entrance hall, the air was deliciously cool. I looked around carefully, hoping for a glimpse of Fisher, but fearful that I’d meet Rossi. From far away in the distance wafted a strange sound.

‘What’s that? I asked.

Lucia chuckled.

‘I will show you, Matteo.’

She took hold of my hand again and, with Bonnie following, led me down a dark corridor. As we walked on, the noise grew louder. It was rather like music, but not so pleasant. Lucia passed several doors before she came to the one she wanted. She stopped, opened it, and waited for my reaction. The din from within was appalling. It was a dark room and there were a dozen or more people inside, all sitting at harps and playing like mad. The only problem was that each musician played a different melody.

Bonnie nudged me and said something.

‘I’m sorry,’ I yelled, ‘but I can’t hear you!’

Lucia closed the door, reducing the cacophony to the level of merely dreadful.

‘This is our rehearsal room!’ said Bonnie.

‘Is it really?’

‘Sì, Matteo,’ said Lucia. ‘They are very good, no?’

‘They’re absolutely amazing,’ I said.

The girl gave a happy grin. At that moment, above the racket of the harps, there rose the sound of a gong.

‘Is dinner time,’ she said. ‘You will stay and eat with us, Matteo?’

‘Yes, please,’ I said, ‘if I may.’

Within the rehearsal room, the noise of the harps ceased, the door opened and the musicians poured out into our corridor, leaving the instruments of torture behind. Many of them saw the girls and greeted them, glancing at me with ill-concealed curiosity. Bonnie explained that I was a friend and hoped to become a member. They grinned, nodded to me and hurried past towards the dining room.

‘Come on,’ said Bonnie. ‘We’re falling behind.’

We chased after the crowd and caught up with them in the entrance hall. This was now filled to bursting with chattering Perfectionists all struggling towards a pair of double doors. Still feeling concerned about Rossi, I slipped away into the crowd. If Rossi were in the palazzo, it was up to me to spot him first and leave the building quickly before he saw me. I had wriggled to the edge of the throng without any sight of Rossi, and was quietly wondering whether he was out of town, when a hand grabbed hold of my shoulder.

‘Allen!’ snarled a voice. ‘What are you doing here?’

~ by Christopher Jealous on October 23, 2008.