tomorrow is perfect.
- vfelice4
- Jul 5
- 16 min read
Vincent Bertolini-Felice / 7.5.25 / piece inspired by Mark William Lewis' Tomorrow is Perfect
Copious amounts of water began to funnel under the door and sift its way through the cracked marble. She had removed the wooden barriers for aesthetic reasons and neglected to consider the functional purpose behind their initial presence. The concentration of salt had eroded what used to be a pristine lining of marble and limestone along the narrow interior of her domicile.
Her domicile had been repurposed in the twenties. What used to be a lighthouse overlooking Corniglia suffered decades of abandonment. Timeless materials adorned the lower level of the house; slates of locally sourced marble transported by carriage looked no worse for wear than they did on their initial import.
Nearly a century later, dilapidated brick had warded off any that would care to see the final cry of Scalvia.
Feeling more relation to the imperial era of Italian history, Giuseppe Scalvia chose to make the province of Cinque Terre a stronghold for an ancient tradition increasingly becoming the victim of utilitarianism.
The skeleton of a misplaced architectural hub was barely visible by this point. Entrenched amidst beautiful scenery, the pedestrian often spent too much time embracing the scenery to acknowledge the clashes of colors muffling the picturesque scene.
In a time not characterized by any seasonal trends, the colors were the last to be noticed. Weeks into October and an onslaught of grey had enveloped the town. Alongside the drab monotony of what could have been considered autumn, unseasonable rains began to bear down on the coastal town.
Cascading waves rippled against the low plateau of the cliff, sending liquid shrapnel through the French Doors and into the long hallway preceding the stairwell.
She carried a woven basket holding cloth towels that did a remedial job at soaking up the excess water. Months prior, she had inquired about having the doors replaced with a more resistant facade in the hopes of limiting the infiltration. Her inquiry was met with differing hostilities from the locals. She was chastised for the idea of removing what was seen as a piece of history or told it was a fruitless task, citing folklore or faulty science as to why that would not address the problem.
Behind her back, the consensus was that even if it was deemed possible, no one should provide services to the woman. The rejection and imposition of isolation for the woman had become a frequent occurrence since she had relocated to Cinque Terre.
She was not exactly a wealthy ex-patriot that had resolved to living for pleasure nor a clueless American attempting to forge a path in the nation. Yet, she was treated as such. Two years prior to her arrival in Corniglia, she had left a convent in Corsica.
Her upbringing was one of glamour, spending time across several private schools in Sicily and Manhattan; her commutes back and forth regimented in accordance to her father’s work. Nine months out of the year, her father was absent from their estate in New York. He worked as a private financial consultant for despots and oligarchs alike, which meant his nights were more likely to be spent in Jeddah, Budapest, or Buenos Aires than with his daughter.
When he did return, the phone calls requesting her home were met with dread and misery. She had never struggled to acclimate to her schools; she had high cheekbones and straight blonde hair that attracted a variety of personas, and she possessed enough wit and maturity to allow only those she enjoyed around.
It was rare she would form true emotional connections or find herself longing for a person or place when she inevitably returned home. Rather, she perpetually carried loose vessels of camaraderie that treated her well and she treated better until her final year of schooling.
She had decided she would join a convent, spending the remainder of her days in school meeting with various Sisters and Deacons about positions that may suit her well.
Those she met with in Manhattan seemed ignorant of both the purpose of the Church and where she may be suited. The final man she met with was Father Endrick, an exhausted Monsignor at St. Monica’s in Queens. They met over coffee at a Dominican restaurant south of the Church.
“Most of the best sisters are over in Korea.”
“What do they do over there?”
“Performing last rites on the troops.”
Spending her days clad in cloth in the humidity of Osan, tending to the spiritual needs of amputees clinging onto life through Morphine and Adrenaline was not a harrowing thought to her. There was a callousness in the way the Monsignor spoke, implying that she would immediately be relegated to mundanity within her role at the church. A slight smirk, glancing away, insinuated a disinterest from the Monsignor in anyone not helping with the war.
Throughout the entirety of the conversation prior, she had interpreted his arrogance as an acknowledgement to her father. Her father had arranged the meeting weeks before, speaking only to the Monsignor through two assistants he had forgotten the name of.
She detested her father’s status and relations and felt an odd connection with the Monsignor for showing similar animosity.
Over the course of the conversation, it became clear that the Monsignor despised many things. He was no older than fifty, his hair was jet black save a few specks of white, and evident thinning. He had a smooth face, and clean teeth yet fixed a permanent scowl on his face and spoke on anything as if it had been silently burdening him for years.
He bridged the gap of silence in their conversation by injecting a rare moment of genuine curiosity.
“Why do you want to do this?”
“Why do I want to do what?”
He quickly widened and straightened his lips, spinning his pointer finger upwards and around. She took this to mean “the whole thing”.
The answer to that question felt like it was a given. It was something she had accepted without revelation or reluctance, an idea she loosely formulated over time that had become more concrete as time went on.
By the time she was sixteen, she had understood that charity and poverty are admirable things. Seeking a stark disconnect from her upbringing and from her father, she fetishized the idea of poverty to completely coincide with virtue. There was little proof in her life that material blessings paved the way for moral aptitude. The communities she existed within, familial and fraternal, were praised externally for being beacons of success, both materially and morally. A good Catholic family, a prestigious boarding school, both institutions that had the bearings of what could be considered a source of communal good.
The bureaucracy and neglect of said institutions that went unnoticed from the outside had bred an indifference to wealth. It was her belief that it was not the wealth or the well-kept facades that were inherently evil, rather the unseen barriers that birthed conflict.
Rigid conformity to norms, policed by imaginary figureheads created a passive-aggressive hostility that made everything a known and an unknown. It was expected that one would know the rules of existence, yet exhaustive hours were spent drilling said rules into everyone’s heads.
There was never a steady hand to explain exactly what was wrong, just bland reprimand that neither party could fully articulate nor understand.
It was because of this she believed there existed an echo chamber of ignorance in which fixed rules created for arbitrary reasons by emotion bureaucrats were taught to those who did not know better by people unfit to teach. She believed it was impossible to sever this immutable characteristic from any institution of power.
The idea that the Catholic Church could be victim to this principle was not absent from her thoughts. For millennia, the propaganda of ignorance has been shielded and wielded by those in the cloth, replacing worldly authority with spiritual authority. However, she harbored on the leverage of wealth in these situations.
One person adorning the cloth, preaching to the attentively listening masses only has power through trust. Trusting the word of a priest is Occom's Razor, the man who dresses and acts like a Priest must have the qualifications of a Priest. It’s a power you can feel in the walls of a church. However, whether those words carry power in the world is dependent on the listener. They may be swayed or convinced of something by words, but their power to enforce the will of the bureaucracy is ultimately up to the individual.
This is an impossibility with those who carry wealth. Their power is felt through every law, every trend, every penny, without the consent of the individual.
The most weight in her unfelt decision was a life spent in poverty. She had rendered it an impossibility to possess wealth and recuse yourself from using this, unaware that this did not constitute temperance. She failed to ponder if it could be considered virtuous to condemn yourself to poverty solely out of fear. It followed. Avoidance could be deemed acceptable if the alternative is perilous indulgence. This did not require deep thought or consideration. It was a given.
She left her conversation with Monsignor Endrick with the conclusion that she ought to write off the United States. She was able to leverage her privilege and connection across Sicily to find her position at Monte Luce. It was a rather humble, neighborhood Cathedral with a history less revered than most on the island.
Adjusting to life at a convent was easier than expected. Her mother spoke of her time in Catholic school as if that was an adequate comparison for what she should expect. Whether it was the American standard of nunnery, or an unfortunate resonance with her mother’s story, it was a jarring transition.
She felt as if the shock of it never truly wore off. It was summer when she started, and the daily hikes taken as necessary parts of their commute tested her faith more than she believed possible. The monastery followed a strict fasting procedure to ground the sisters with a love for every meal. An admittedly noble way to train the spirit towards understanding of an impoverished community, this did not bode with a woman whose past exposure to poverty was from a marble terrace. Her logical understanding of poverty was one rooted in empathy, yet the bend to sympathy did not come without kicking and screaming.
On her first hike, she collapsed twice, being left to rise without the assistance of any other sisters as she had lagged by a sizeable margin. When she was discovered, she was assigned a proverbial chaperone to guide her. The tender hand of an aging woman with plump, varicose veins was not enough to prevent the second collapse. Her body failed to adjust to a drop in terrain, and her knees locked below her.
This prevented her from partaking in the occasionally enjoyed swim at the end of the hike. Her embarrassment was only heightened when she was informed the swim was supposed to be a way to celebrate her first completion of their journey. She kicked her feet around in the water, splashing beady spreads of crisp water onto her lap. There was something comforting about the cold, reminding her that it was acceptable to feel fragile to the natural forces of God’s creation. The failure of her bones was no different than the failure of her skin to not retract at the punch of the cold water. Over time, her skin stopped retracting, it did not mean the water was any less cold, it signaled her body had come to understand what to make of the water.
Her spirit soon followed this trajectory. Within months, routine was joy and her bones had hardened. However, much like her decision to join the cloth had subconsciously become an expected, her decision to leave followed the same fate.
Guilt and frustration at the lack of reason behind her thoughts delayed the execution of her decision by years. Despite her subconscious agony, she presented a kind demeanor, finding fleeting waves of joy still present. In the days leading up, she barely left the monastery. Taking longer walks to and from her posts, caressing the pillars and aimlessly kneeling at the pews free of thought. She cried without a catalyst and ate more.
It was commonplace for those leaving the nunnery to spend around a month making up for a lost future. A sort of farewell tour to a life that provided little more than solace and a toothless grin for those not prepared to truly live it. She was not informed of this tradition. When she spoke to Sister Analyn, she was told she could take as long as she wanted before leaving and that travel would be arranged through the church to wherever she needed to go.
Neither were great Sisters. The woman had failed to impress and still “lagged” in her duties. Sister Analyn had neither the patience nor leadership to correct such and would repent and harbor the guilt associated with her failures until she died. There was nothing special about the woman, Sister Analyn just resulted to the ease of not changing rather than correct course on her doings, she believed her silent self-flagellation would suffice in the eyes of her God.
She flew home three days later and had brief conversations with her mother about what was next. Neither parent cared enough to express or hold any disappointment, pushing her to leave the nest and figure out what worked for her as a ruse to get her out of their hair.
She spent the next six months drinking her way through mainland Italy. Spending most of her time in Tuscany, leasing and then abandoning an apartment the size of her bedroom in Corsica before moving to Cinque Terre.
It was the place that provided her the most peace on her tour, finding the still and slowly beating monotony of a place so beautiful suited her more than the unexpected pace of the sisterhood.
One phone call to her father and she procured a source of envy for the locals as her quarters. The lighthouse was beautiful, yet warped and impossible to turn into a true home. That was not a concern to her as the furnishings of warmth that signaled home were not something she had ever experienced.
Her bedroom was nearly as quaint as her quarters in the convent. Plaster walls adorned with tackily hung portraits of stern-faced ancestors stared upon a rotting wooden bed frame in the center of the room. The desk at Monte Luce was larger. Hers was an antique from her room in New York.
She spent the rainy days confined to her room, scribbling reports through a stream of consciousness into a leatherbound journal. Most entries contained small updates on adjustment to life, cultural affairs, and her strength through God.
Over the past few months, she wrote more of her trials in daily life. The strength that used to be derived from a personal God, holding her hand amidst the crashing of water soon became pleas for the rain to cease.
In you, my creator, your constitution is present. Find the mercy to make that present. Grant relief or grant strength, bring peace.
Her most recent entry was interrupted by the ever-familiar flush of water downstairs.
By the time she had addressed the problem, the battering from the water had ceased. She peaked her head through a tiny slit in the door to ensure the flood was over. Above the horizon, looming over a phalanx of grey, stood a blissful sun. It was brighter than it had been in weeks.
Feeling heartened by the return of luminescence, she gathered the constitution to venture into town. She expected a sullen scene; maybe there would be children or a few vendors peeking their heads out to verify the brightness.
At the heart of town, three men sat under a cafe awning smoking. Each owned different restaurants within a half mile and could often be seen congregating at this cafe to pick fits with tourists. She remembered her experience at one of the men’s restaurants with a particular spite not usual to her.
Her sister had come to visit within a month of her move. The pair spent their first night at Federico’s establishment. Federico insisted on providing stellar service to her sister, making several sexual advances and commenting to nearby tables on her beauty.
He spoke to her sister in English, and she was too naive to understand the repulsiveness of his comments. She had just turned sixteen and still carried a childish notion that all men’s comments were made in a playful jest similar to immature boys in a school yard.
In an attempt to quell the discomfort she was feeling, she told Federico of her sister’s age and how she would be a more suitable candidate. She felt comfortable degrading herself for the sake of killing the knot in her stomach.
“I thought you were a woman of the cloth.”
“I was.”
“quindi rimettila.”
This occasion was her third encounter with a local that ended with hostilities. Her first occurred when she visited the priest at St. Benedict’s in the nearby town of Monterroso to volunteer herself for any community activities, still feeling an atavistic connection to her previous duties.
Father Rossi was younger than she expected him to be. In her correspondence with the convent, they made the man out to seem like a distinguished figure known outside the bubble of Cinque Terre. It was rare to find such men so young in the states, and she wondered whether it was a uniquely American thing to conflate experience with merit.
He was rather soft-spoken and enjoyed pacing when he talked. In their meeting in his office, he fluttered around his chair, taking breaks when he spoke to grab the back and stare around the room.
He spoke exclusively in broken English although she introduced herself in Italian.
“Sister Lucia, your love is humble. To speak with honest, the people of the community know that you are no longer in the church. This.... this is”
He gestured by wagging his fingers that this was a negative and that his duties were incompatible with her interests.
She chose to match him in speaking English out of respect.
“Father, I assure you, my devotion to God is strong. Even stronger than when I served in the convent.”
“Why did you leave?”
“The routine vexed me. I found myself faltering in my faith when I failed. No one corrected me. It truly felt like there was no love in Monte Luce.”
“That is.... strong”
His statement was broken up by a deep, frustrated sigh, blowing air out of his cheeks.
“Lucia, sister. I care for your love. I care for your soul. The people here, they don’t know. They don’t like it. I am sorry. Please visit but I cannot help you.”
She harbored on why she was forced to visit a community she was a part of. Why her involvement in her residency was trapped to being an onlooker.
Her visits to St. Benedict’s were sporadic and begrudging. She found herself traveling further, often on foot to visit smaller, often neglected churches across the province. Some Sundays her days started at dawn and concluded when she returned from church.
Despite the sun, she found herself feeling particularly worn by her Sunday routine. Monday was usually a slow day in Corniglia but the flocks adoring the sun had taken its toll on her.
She settled on dining quietly. There was a spot that closed early so that the owner could drink at other restaurants adjacent to the water. It was dormant when she arrived. A few familiar faces were tucked away setting the scene for what appeared to be a party, while newer staff seated her amidst what would inevitably become a chaotic scene.
Her dinner was relatively sparse. She had a small flight of various seafoods and left as the party was coming into swing. There were more people than she anticipated. Small herds of seven to eight people would flutter in and out, taking over the whole restaurant in the process. She found herself shrinking further and further, her table becoming more cluttered and her eyes fixing on anything but her surroundings.
She was rattled by the scene. There was something about a large group of people moving so callously and speaking so brashly that dug at her timid nature with fine needles. In her panic, she left without remembering to pay. It was an honest mistake but one she would be punished for gravely, both by her conception of God and any worldly authorities who cared.
One authority who noticed the woman over the course of the night failed to miss her quick exodus from the scene. The owner dropped his newspaper and followed her out of the restaurant.
“Fermarsi!”
The woman was rounding a corner; half her silhouette neatly tucked around the pillar of a shop. She turned sharply and rested her hand on the pillar. In her haste, she only remembered she had forgotten to pay when she saw a barrel-chested man briskly stampeding towards her.
“Pensi che questo sia divertente?”
“No.”
He recognized the woman as the American.
“Why you did not pay?”
“I- I forgot.”
The woman was stricken with fear. In the moment, she was fixating on her negligence and fault in the restaurant, rendering herself incapable of recognizing the man wanted money.
The man was well beyond drunk, and in his last drink, any merriness attained before had died.
“You pay!”
The woman’s purse was strapped to her side. In her panic, the leather strapped had moved the purse towards the back of her thigh. The man had his hand out, pinching his fingers into his palm to demand payment. When he recognized the woman’s failure to comply, he turned her around into the pillar.
He attempted to yank the purse by the strap, grabbing her neck and temporarily choking her. He then pulled at the purse at her thigh, stabilizing her on the wall by digging the dirt on his nails into her buttocks. She cried out with a high-pitched whine, her tears muffling her shouts.
His choice to assault the woman was incidentally done in a strategic place. There were no apartments in the nearby vicinity and the bars would not be open for another hour.
The owner considered to tighten his grip, thrusting his chest into her ear and whispering remarks about her doing this to herself in broken English.
Finally, the purse unlatched. The man ran off with the purse, realizing there was no possibility what he did could be seen as a reasonable confrontation.
The woman’s dress had ripped. The side closest to her purse had torn a small seam on the side that the man had only made larger. Her hair was tossed in beaded and tussled arrays. Rosy puddles of irritated skin had formed on her face from her tears.
She was silent. Her tears had stopped; it was over, yet she could not leave the square. She slid down slowly against the pillar and tucked her legs against each other below her torso. In the distance, the party leaving the restaurant could be heard.
The flat drum of laughter and claps of joy rang against her temple. She threw her hands on the ground and began coughing uncontrollably. Something about the scene from earlier being preserved despite what had just occurred made her sick. Violent spews of vomit leaked out of her mouth, the tears returning, more at repulsion of the sickness.
As she worked to calm her stomach, the crowd drew nearer, bringing an exuberance that felt impossible into the square. Invariable lighting illuminated the pools of vomit next to the woman, a thin forearm being the only part of her visible.
Members of the party noticed the woman and shushed their joy. They circled the patio near the pillar and shot sporadic glances at the woman. No one would address her. Twenty or so people walked past her, keeping silent out of respect, or negligence, or annoyance. She looked up at the group, mostly men and women in their early twenties, with a younger boy and two men closer to retirement.
It was as if her glance would kill them, the sharp turns that once fixed on her all were locked forward, as if the party had suddenly been forced into a death march. Some had shame about leaving the woman, others did not, none stopped, none bothered to look again. When the elderly man lagging behind had finally passed the woman, she stopped crying.
The next minutes passed by in an instant. By now, she was sitting on the stairs away from the light. In the distance, she could hear music start to play and people shuffle into the square in the opposite direction. Dozens walked past her, occasionally stopping when she let out a dry cough or sniffled at tears.
Nightly occasions would not pause. Music caressed every corner of the tiled streets. It felt apt for rain to temporarily harsh the jubilance, instill respect for the poor woman where she so clearly could not receive it. There would be no rain. There would be no conversation, no delicate hand, no climb down the mountain.
Alone, she would return. Strung lights confined her to solace, a sullen walk through a swollen city.
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