Malefic, p.7
Malefic, page 7
part #2 of Sinister Series
Movement through the door window caught her attention. A thin man in a navy-blue uniform with an identity tag on a lanyard around his neck smiled at her from the other side of the glass.
She straightened herself and returned the smile as he swiped his card, tapped numbers on a keypad, and pulled the door open for her.
“Buongiorno,” she said, ignoring the warmth in her cheeks. She was committed now.
“Buongiorno,” the man responded. He was in his thirties, with unusually fair skin, thinning blond hair, and a smattering of freckles, like hers. He had freakishly fair eyebrows and looked more Scottish than Italian. “Are you here for the interview, signorina?” he asked with a grin.
He was Scottish. The accent was subtle, but clear.
She felt her nervousness melt a little. Another Brit. Another ally.
“How did you know?” she asked with a sigh, looking at herself, touching her hair as if she could see it.
“Ah, you know, just a guess.” he said, smile as wide as the Cheshire Cat’s in his small face. “For the record,” he read from a clipboard he was holding, “you’re Sofia DaTerra?”
“Yes, I am,” she said with too much enthusiasm. She swallowed, straightened, and repeated. “I am. I have an interview at seven.”
“Aye, you do, with Maria Bacciabella and Georgina Pellegrino.” He pulled a face after the last name.
“Oh, no good?”
She thought the interview was with one person, Maria. She didn’t realise there’d be someone else. Aurora had only arranged this meeting for her last night. She was friends with the curator and knew that she was looking for someone. When Sofia explained why she needed a job, Aurora immediately offered to help.
“Maria’s the curator. She’s lovely,” the man offered.
“Right, and Georgina?”
He wrinkled his face again.
“Great.” She smoothed her blouse subconsciously.
“Don’t worry. Her bite is worse than her bark.”
Sofia breathed a sigh of relief and then realising what he had just said, added, “Wait. What?”
“Sign in, please,” the man said, leading her over to a desk and thrusting a book and pen at her. “Don’t worry. You’re going to be fine. Just speak up. Be confident.” He leaned in. “She likes to try and rattle people, so don’t let her detect any blood in the proverbial water. She can be a bit of a shark.”
“Okay, I know you’re trying to help, but—”
“You best be on your way. You’re already a wee bit tardy.”
“Right.” She looked around the ticket hall.
“Just beyond the cordon, on the other side of the room, past the ticket machines, up the golden staircase, to the left. Knock on the door marked ‘Private’.”
“Okay.” Sofia smoothed her clothes again. “Wait, the golden stairs. The golden staircase?”
“Good luck,” the man said, tapping his watch.
Sofia hurried across the room that, despite the modern ticketing machines and crowd management ropes, still exuded unequivocal medieval opulence.
But it was nothing when compared to the Scala D’oro. Sofia recognised it immediately. She’d seen it in pictures before but even if she hadn’t, a helpful small plaque was affixed to the wall to remind her. This was the egress to the palace, the steps formerly used only by those of standing. It featured a resplendent vaulted ceiling of golden stucco with ornate detail that dated back to the 16th century.
Sofia had marvelled at photographs of these very steps. Now, she was climbing them on her way to a job interview! It was all overwhelmingly surreal and all thanks to her new friend and neighbour, Aurora. She made a mental note to buy her flowers no matter what today’s outcome turned out to be.
At the top of the stairs, when she failed to turn as instructed, a Scottish accent called out in a loud whisper, “Up the stairs, turn left!”
She crossed the landing and stopped in front of a heavy wooden door and, with one final shrug of self-encouragement, knocked.
“Avanti!” was the muffled response from the other side.
Sofia turned the handle and pushed. The door creaked with medieval reminiscence.
She stepped into a large room that continued the pervasive Venetian theme of stucco vaulted ceiling, but this time it was of white plaster that contrasted beautifully with ornate wine-coloured wallpaper that was adorned by an array of portrait paintings and religious iconography.
It was like stepping into an art gallery. Only this one had a large conference table and chairs at one end, behind which were three women.
Great.
Sofia’s heels seemed to click annoyingly loudly now as she made her way across the marble floor and presented herself to the panel.
“Buongiorno,” she said, conjuring her best smile.
All of them responded, but the only person who returned the smile was a diminutive woman with wispy grey hair, wearing a flowery patterned scarf. “Or good morning,” the woman smiled again. She spoke with a rounded pronunciation, like she had marbles in her mouth.
“Yes. Good morning. I’m Sofia DaTerra.”
“I’m Maria Bacciabella, the museum’s curator. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sofia. Please take a seat.” She gestured to a chair in front of the table. “And this is our chief of staff, Georgina Pellegrino, and our chief events coordinator, Raffaela D’Amosta.”
Both of the women forced tight smiles that were more of an acknowledgement of their introduction than a greeting. And, even if they hadn’t just been introduced, Sofia reckoned she could have plucked Raffaella from a line up. She had skeletal features shrink-wrapped in fair skin, wrinkle free though Sofia estimated that she must be in her late forties. There were no laughing lines around those grey eyes, possibly because the woman appeared to be economical with her smiles. Her hair was dark brown and cut short above the shoulders and her eyebrows thin and arched, as if permanently surprised. She was scowling, which made Sofia wonder if she’d already pissed the woman off without even opening her mouth. Or perhaps she was made of stone. That faint smirk from a few seconds ago was still imprinted on her face. Her eyes scrutinized but rarely blinked.
Her colleague, Georgina, looked as if she had been replaced by a mannequin replica and was joining via remote video conference. Enshrouded in sun-bleached blonde hair that was immaculately combed and smoothed over her head, her silicon face looked more like a mask with generous yet meticulously applied makeup. She sat straight, like she’d been to finishing school, and wore her navy-blue uniform and security lanyard like she meant it.
Sofia handed over her hastily handwritten resume and then perched more than sat in the chair. It looked like an antique and she feared it might collapse underneath her.
She had barely parked herself before the mannequin when the woman pounced on the sheet of paper in front of her and spoke through a small round mouth.
“So, Sofia,” she began. “There is already one thing I would like to clear up with you.” Her tone was clipped and her accent thick as she addressed her like a head teacher might an unruly child.
“Of course,” Sofia responded with a smile, inching a bit further onto her seat and wishing she hadn’t agreed to attend an interview so soon. She would have preferred to have at least had the time to get her handwritten scrawl typed and printed.
“I think there must be a mistake with your resume, yes? It says your address is Palazzo Rosso, Via Irregolare.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Sofia nodded, with a smile. “It’s just off the Canale Grande.”
Georgina let out a hollow laugh, unimpressed by Sofia’s use of the Italian language. “Palazzo Rosso is, what you say, a listed building. Built centuries ago. If you live there, you not need be applying for a job here,” the woman said dismissively.
“Why not?” Sofia countered. She retained the trace of a smile because she didn’t want to come across as combative, not that she thought the woman would care. She gave Sofia the impression that she enjoyed nothing more than a good scrap.
The chief of staff didn’t appear to have an immediate response for the impertinent little girl—which is how she made Sofia feel—but Maria assisted.
“I think what Georgina is trying to say, Sofia, is that Palazzo Rosso is worth a considerable amount of money. The presumption is…” she paused and glanced at her colleague, “…is that if you live there, then you shouldn’t need to work here.”
“I inherited the place,” Sofia explained, “on the understanding that I wouldn’t sell it.”
All three women observed her for several seconds, but it was Maria again who broke the silence.
“I see,” she nodded. “Well, Sofia, you do realise that as you are the incumbent owner of Palazzo Rosso, that makes you a—”
“Contessa, yes.” Sofia felt that dreaded heat rush to her cheeks. She’d made a point of omitting the ridiculous title from her hastily written notes to avoid this silly discussion and yet here they were. Worse, something told her that she’d just plummeted even further down Georgina’s wrinkled nose of disapproval.
Sofia glanced at Raffaella, the events coordinator. She seemed interested in the conversation, but her demeanour remained amused yet impassive.
“It takes some getting used to,” Sofia added, although she really wanted to say that the title was a load of rubbish as evidenced by the fact that she was sat there being condescended to by all of them.
Okay. So now she’d developed a short fuse out of nowhere.
Apparently not one to be deterred from belittling her, Georgina continued. “Your, um… notes say you’ve moved around a lot.”
“Moved around?”
“Yes, changed your jobs.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Why is that?”
“Um, well, you know, as they say, variety is the spice of life!” She followed that up with a nervous chuckle. She had no idea why she had responded with that stupid line because nobody across the desk was sharing her amusement.
The truth was she hadn’t liked those jobs. She hadn’t taken them by choice but necessity. It was the same core reason why she was there now, cringing through this interview, even if this job might actually be one that she wanted. Part of her wanted to tell them that, but the other was shouting that it would make the completely wrong impression. It would suggest that she didn’t take any of her roles seriously and imply that she wasn’t serious about this role either. But she was.
“None of those roles really interested me. They were more about necessity than job satisfaction.” Oh well.
“And would this job satisfy you?”
“Oh, yes, absolutely,” she said quickly, feeling her eyes light up with enthusiasm. “Working somewhere like the palazzo would be a dream job for me. I’ve always loved the leisure industry and, of course, Venice. Dealing with the public is what I’m about. As you can see,” she continued excitedly, nodding at the sheet of paper on the desk, “my longest lasting positions were Thorpe Park and Stansted Airport.”
“Thorpe Park?” Georgina repeated.
“Yes, it’s a theme park, just outside of London.”
“A theme park?” the woman echoed, that disgruntled nose seemingly elongating so she could wrinkle and look down it some more. “You worked there as an usher?”
“Yes.”
“Il Palazzo Ducale is not a theme park,” she retorted, enunciating and clipping each word.
“No, of course not,” Sofia said, trying to recover.
“It’s an international site of historic importance.”
“Of course.”
The room fell silent as the sounds of a new Venetian day pushed their way through the gap in the lead windows. The noise of motorboat engines, gondola operators, tourists, and seagulls all reminded Sofia that there was a beautiful world outside of this room that, as magnificent as it was, was fast becoming grim and terrifying, like the setting of some kind of trial.
Someone cleared their throat and then the chief of staff continued. “There isn’t much work history on your resume before you were twenty and I see no record of college or university. Why is that?”
Sofia’s heart skipped a beat. As dreaded, the woman was venturing into an area of her past she had not wished to dwell on.
“Um… It’s a part of my life that I don’t normally discuss.” The words fell out of her mouth.
“Why not?”
“It was a difficult time for me,” she said, adding a conciliatory smile.
“Difficult how?”
Maria glanced at her chief of staff, but the woman was undeterred.
Sofia bit her lip. “Um… It was a hard time, personally.”
“Why?”
“If it’s all right with you, I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Why not?” the woman persisted.
“It’s just a part of my life I don’t talk about, don’t discuss.”
“If it is in the past, why wouldn’t you discuss it?”
“Georgina…” Maria jumped in.
Georgina turned to the curator and spoke as if Sofia was not sitting right in front of them. “I don’t understand why she doesn’t want to talk about it. It’s very important for us to review both personal and professional history as this helps us determine if a candidate—”
“I was having some problems,” Sofia jumped in hastily. She shook as she was reminded, once again, of how much even thinking about that time made her heart quicken and her insides turn. She swallowed the lump in her throat and continued. “My mother left, and I didn’t take it very well. I developed some issues.”
“What kind of issues?” Georgina asked flatly.
Sofia paused, stilled by the woman’s insistence in raking up the worst part of her life. But she knew she had a choice. Either tell her to stick her job and walk out or persevere to try to win the placement she desperately needed.
“I…um…struggled with depression and anxiety. I became a bit of an obsessive compulsive, though, believe it or not, my therapist says that is a good thing because when I apply myself to something, I do so obsessively!”
That last bit was supposed to be a joke, the same joke her therapist made in her weakest moments. She owed that man. But the only person to react was the curator, who did so with a surreptitious grin.
Several seconds passed. Someone sang somewhere outside.
“You don’t have any of the experience we’re looking for. What makes you think you’d be good for this job?” Georgina ploughed on.
“I…well…um…” Sofia fumbled because she didn’t know what to say. The woman in front of her had already derided all her work as well as her personal history. And yet she cleared her throat and continued. “My role as a passenger experience agent at Stansted Airport. I was there for a long time and the position requires a lot of skill dealing with the public who are often unhappy about—”
“Yes, this was your last job, correct?” Georgina interrupted.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“You don’t say why you left there?”
“Sorry?”
“Why did you leave your last job?”
“I…” Sofia’s heart hammered in her chest, urging her to run screaming from the room. Even if she ignored the fact that her father had always insisted that honesty was the best policy she knew that there was a good chance this woman would check up on her. And if she did, there was no doubt that Steve would have nothing nice to say. She had no choice but to be honest.
“There was an accident.”
“An accident?” the woman echoed.
Sofia nodded. “One of the passengers was in an accident and I… I was suspended pending an investigation.” She watched the woman sit back in her chair as if she’d rested her case. “But it wasn’t my fault.”
“No? So, you haven’t been suspended?”
“No. I mean, yes, but it wasn’t my fault. Maybe if you let me explain, I—”
“Sofia,” Maria interjected. Her voice was calm. Rational. As if those words weren’t still hanging in the air.
Sofia swallowed the dry sand that was the back of her throat, pressed trembling hands to her thighs so nobody would notice them shake, and looked at the curator.
“For clarity, this role does not require you to interact with the general public. Instead, you would be dealing directly with some of our benefactors, many of whom are very important to this museum.”
Sofia frowned. “I… right…” She cleared her throat again as she attempted to process what she was hearing. She then looked at her interviewers in turn, but Georgina and the mute were busy glaring at Maria who, undaunted, continued. “We have a new, very exciting and very important exhibition coming up. We could use an additional pair of hands in the events planning department.”
“Eh, un momento, Maria.” Raffaella, the mute, found her tongue.
“Do you think that’s something you’d be interested in?” Maria spoke over her subordinate with the most wonderful Isabella Rossellini intonation. At least, that’s how it sounded to Sofia.
“I would absolutely love that!” she gushed, unable to mask her enthusiasm.
“Very well. Why don’t you go wait for us outside?” Maria said. “I get the impression my colleagues would like to have some words with me.” Maria made knowing eyes at Sofia, who immediately sprang up from her seat, nodded at the other two women, and hurried out of there.
She had barely managed to close the door behind her when she heard the verbal onslaught begin. The Italian chatter was fast, loud, and definitely angry.
Sofia leaned against the wood and listened to the drone like wasps in a jar.
“How did it go?”
The voice startled her, and she yelped, face burning as if she’d just been caught snooping.
It was the man in the navy-blue uniform. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare ya. Although, I am a wee bit surprised that you could be scared of anything after surviving that,” he said with a wry smile.
Sofia breathed deeply. “Yeah, well, I get the feeling I just made it worse. If that’s even possible.”
“Ah, don’t take it personally, lass. She doesn’t hate ya. Well, not you specifically. She hates everyone.”
