by Anne Fortier
[ IV.V ]
O, he’s a lovely gentleman.
Romeo’s a dishclout to him. An eagle, madam,
Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye
As Paris hath
…
THE MONTE DEI PASCHI BANK was dark and empty after hours, greeting us with soothing silence as we walked up the central staircase together. Alessandro had asked if I minded a quick stop on the way to dinner, and I had, of course, said no. Now, following him to the very top of the stairs, I began to wonder where exactly he was taking me, and why.
“After you—” He opened a heavy mahogany door and waited for me to enter what turned out to be a large corner office. “Just give me a minute.” Switching on a lamp, he disappeared into a back room, leaving the door ajar. “Don’t touch anything!”
I glanced around at the plush couches and stately desk and chair. The office bore few signs of actual work. A lonely file folder sitting on the desk looked as if it had been placed there mostly for show. The only wall decorations were the windows overlooking Piazza Salimbeni; there were no personal effects such as diplomas or photographs anywhere in the room, nor anything else to identify its owner. I had just touched a finger to the edge of the desk to feel the dust when Alessandro reemerged, buttoning a shirt. “Careful!” he said. “Desks like that kill many more people than guns do.”
“This is your office?” I asked, stupidly.
“Sorry,” he said, grabbing a jacket from a chair. “I know you prefer the basement. To me”—he cast an unenthusiastic look around the opulent décor—“this is the real torture chamber.”
Back outside, he stopped in the middle of Piazza Salimbeni and looked at me with a teasing smile. “So, where are you taking me?”
I shrugged. “I’d like to see where the Salimbenis go for dinner.”
His smile faded. “I don’t think so. Unless you want to spend the rest of the evening with Eva Maria.” Seeing that I did not, he went on, “Why don’t we go somewhere else? Somewhere in your neighborhood.”
“But I don’t know anybody in the Owl contrada,” I protested, “except cousin Peppo. And I wouldn’t have a clue where to eat.”
“Good.” He started walking. “Then nobody will bother us.”
WE ENDED UP AT Taverna di Cecco, just around the corner from the Owl Museum. It was a small place, off the beaten track and bustling with contrada locals. All the dishes—some served in clay bowls—looked like Mamma’s best home cooking. Looking around, I saw no artsy experiments with herbs sprinkled on the edge of half-empty plates; here, the plates were full, and the spices were where they belonged: in the food.
Most tables had five or six people at them, all laughing or arguing animatedly, not the least bit worried about being too loud or staining the tablecloths. I now understood why Alessandro had wanted to go to a place where no one knew him; judging by the way people hung out with their friends here—inviting everyone and their dog to join in and making a big fuss if they refused—it was hard to have a quiet dinner for two in Siena. As we made our way past them all and into an undisturbed corner, I could see that Alessandro was visibly relieved to recognize no one.
As soon as we sat down, he reached into his jacket, took out Romeo’s dagger, and put it on the table between us. “It seems,” he said, speaking the unfamiliar words very slowly, if not reluctantly, “I owe you an apology.”
“Oh well”—I stuck my nose in a menu to hide my smirk—“don’t get too carried away. You read my file. I’m still a threat to society.”
But he was not ready to laugh it off just yet, and for a while we sat in awkward silence, pretending to study the menu and taking turns poking at the dagger.
Not until we had a bottle of Prosecco and a plate of antipasto in front of us did Alessandro smile—albeit apologetically—and raise his glass. “I hope you’ll enjoy it better this time. Same wine, new bottle.”
“Getting to the main course would definitely be an improvement,” I said, touching my glass to his. “And if I can avoid being chased barefoot through the streets afterwards, I’d say this evening is bound to trump last night.”
He winced. “Why didn’t you come back to the restaurant?”
“I’m sorry,” I laughed, “but my scummy friend Bruno was far better company than you. At least he believed I was Giulietta all along.”
Alessandro looked away, and it occurred to me that I was the only one who appreciated the comedy of the situation. I knew he had humor—and certainly sarcasm enough to go around—but right now it clearly did not amuse him to be reminded of his own ungentlemanly behavior.
“When I was thirteen years old,” he finally said, leaning back in his chair, “I spent a summer with my grandparents here in Siena. They had a beautiful farm. Vineyards. Horses. Plumbing. One day, they had a visitor. It was an American woman, Diane Tolomei, and her two little girls, Giulietta and Giannozza—”
“Wait!” I interrupted him. “You mean, me?”
He looked at me with a strange, lopsided smile. “Yes. You were wearing a—what is the word?—diaper.” Ignoring my protests, he went on, “My grandmother told me to play with you and your sister while they talked, and so I took you out to the barn to show you the horses. Unfortunately, you got scared and fell down on a hayfork”—he shook his head, reliving the moment—“it was terrible. You were screaming, and there was blood everywhere. I carried you into the kitchen, but you were kicking and crying, and your mother looked at me as if I had tortured you on purpose. Fortunately, my grandmother knew what to do, and she gave you a big ice cream and stitched up the cut the way she had done with all her children and grandchildren many times.” Alessandro took a sip of Prosecco before he went on, “Two weeks later my parents read in the newspaper that Diane Tolomei had died in a car accident, together with her little girls. They were devastated.” He looked up and met my eyes at last. “That is why I didn’t believe you were Giulietta Tolomei.”
For a moment we just sat there, looking at each other. It was a sad story for both of us, but at the same time there was something bittersweet and irresistible about the idea that we had met before, as children.
“It is true,” I said quietly, “that my mother died in a car crash, but she didn’t have us with her that day. The newspaper got it wrong. Now, as for the hayfork,” I went on, more cheerfully, “I appreciate knowing what happened. Do you have any idea how unsettling it is to have a scar and not know where it came from?”
Alessandro looked incredulous. “You still have a scar?”
“Absolutely!” I pulled up my skirt and let him see the white mark on my thigh. “Pretty nasty, huh? But now I finally know who to blame.”
Checking to see if he looked remorseful, I found him staring at my thigh with an expression of shock that was so very unlike him, it made me burst out laughing. “Sorry!” I pushed down my skirt again. “I got carried away by your story.”
Alessandro cleared his throat and reached for the Prosecco bottle. “Let me know when you want another one.”
HALFWAY THROUGH DINNER, he got a call from the police station. When he returned to the table, I could see that he had good news.
“Well,” he said, sitting down, “it looks like you don’t have to change hotels tonight. They found Bruno at his sister’s, his trunk full of stolen goods from your cousin’s museum. When his sister discovered that he was back in his old business, she beat him up so bad he begged them to arrest him right away.” He grinned and shook his head, but when he noticed my raised eyebrows, he quickly sobered. “Unfortunately, they did not find the cencio. He must have hidden it somewhere else. Don’t worry, it will turn up. There’s no way he can sell that old rag—” Seeing my dismay with his choice of words, he shrugged. “I didn’t grow up here.”
“A private collector,” I said, sharply, “would pay a lot of money for that old rag. These things have great emotional value to people around here … as I’m sure you are well aware. Who knows, maybe it’s Romeo’s family, the Marescot
tis, who are behind all this. Remember, my cousin Peppo said that Romeo’s descendants think the cencio and this dagger belong to them.”
“If it is,” said Alessandro, leaning back as the waiter took away our plates, “we’ll know tomorrow, when the boys have a little talk with Bruno. He is not the silent type.”
“What about you? Do you believe it? … That the Marescottis hired him to steal the cencio?”
I could see that Alessandro was not at all comfortable with the subject. “If they were really behind this,” he eventually said, “they would not have used Bruno. They have their own people. And they would not have left the dagger on the table.”
“Sounds like you know them?”
He shrugged. “Siena is a small place.”
“I thought you said you didn’t grow up here.”
“True.” He tapped his fingers on the table a few times, clearly annoyed at my perseverance. “But I spent my summers here, with my grandparents. I told you. Me and my cousins played in the Marescotti vineyard every day. We were always afraid of being discovered. It was part of the fun. Everyone was afraid of old man Marescotti. Except Romeo, of course.”
I nearly knocked over my wineglass. “You mean, the Romeo? The one that my cousin Peppo talked about, who might have stolen the cencio?” When Alessandro did not reply, I went on, more quietly, “I see. So, that’s how it hangs together. You were childhood friends.”
He grimaced. “Not exactly friends.” Seeing that I was bursting to ask more questions, he handed me the menu. “Here. Time to think of sweet things.”
Over dessert, dipping almond cookies—cantucci—in vin santo, I tried to circle back to the issue of Romeo, but Alessandro did not want to go there. Instead, he asked about my own childhood, and what had triggered my involvement with the antiwar movement. “Come on,” he said, clearly amused by my scowl, “it can’t all be your sister’s fault.”
“I never said it was. We just have very different priorities.”
“Let me guess …” He pushed the cookies towards me. “Your sister is in the military? She went to Iraq?”
“Ha!” I helped myself to more cantucci. “Janice couldn’t find Iraq on a foam puzzle. She thinks life is all about … having fun.”
“Shame on her.” Alessandro shook his head. “Enjoying life.”
I exhaled sharply. “I knew you wouldn’t understand! When we—”
“I do understand,” he cut me off. “She is having fun, so you can’t have fun. She is enjoying life, so you can’t enjoy life. It’s too bad someone carved that in stone.”
“Look”—I swirled my empty wineglass, not willing to give him the point—“the most important person in the world to Janice Jacobs is Janice Jacobs. She will skewer anybody to score a point. She’s the kind of person who—” I stopped myself, realizing that I, too, didn’t want to conjure the ugly past on this pleasant evening.
“And what about Julie Jacobs?” Alessandro filled up my glass. “Who is the most important person to her?”
I looked at his smile, not sure if he was still making fun of me.
“Let me guess.” He gave me a playful once-over. “Julie Jacobs wants to save the world and make everybody happy—”
“But in the process, she makes everybody miserable,” I went on, hijacking his morality tale, “including herself. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that the ends don’t justify the means, and that sawing the heads off little mermaids is not how you make wars go away. I know that. I know it all.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“I didn’t! It wasn’t supposed to be that way.” I looked at him to see if we could possibly forget that I had mentioned the Little Mermaid and move on to a happier subject. But we couldn’t. Even though he was half smiling, his eyes told me this was an issue that could be postponed no longer.
“Okay,” I sighed, “this is what happened. I thought we were going to dress her up in army fatigues, and the Danish press would come and take pictures—”
“Which they did.”
“I know! But I never wanted to cut her head off—”
“You were holding the saw.”
“That was an accident!” I buried my face in my hands. “We didn’t realize she was so small. It’s a tiny little statue. The clothes didn’t fit. And then someone—some moron—pulled out a saw—” I couldn’t go on.
We sat for a moment in silence, until I peeked out through my fingers to see if he still looked disgusted. He didn’t. In fact, he looked mildly amused. Although he wasn’t actually smiling, there was that little sparkle in his eye.
“What’s so funny?” I grumbled.
“You,” said Alessandro. “You really are a Tolomei. Remember? … ‘I will show myself a tyrant; when I have fought with the men I will be civil with the maids, I will cut off their heads.’” When he saw that I recognized the quotation, he finally smiled. “‘Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense thou wilt.’”
I let my hands drop to my lap, partly relieved and partly embarrassed by the shift in our conversation. “You surprise me. I didn’t realize you knew Romeo and Juliet by heart.”
He shook his head. “Only the fighting parts. I hope that’s not a disappointment.”
Not entirely sure whether he was flirting with me or just making fun, I started fiddling with the dagger again. “It’s strange,” I said, “but I know the whole play. I always did. Even before I understood what it was. It was like a voice in my head—” I started laughing. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“Because,” said Alessandro plainly, “you’ve only just discovered who you are. And it’s all finally beginning to make sense. Everything you’ve done, everything you’ve chosen not to do … now you understand. This is what people call destiny.”
I looked up to find him staring not at me, but at the dagger. “And you?” I asked. “Have you discovered your destiny?”
He took in air. “I’ve known it all along. And if I forget, Eva Maria will quickly remind me. But I never liked the idea that your future is already made. All my life, I tried to run away from my destiny.”
“Did you succeed?”
He thought about it. “For a while. But, you know, it always catches up with you. No matter how far away you go.”
“And did you go far?”
He nodded, but just once. “Very far. To the edge.”
“You’re making me curious,” I said lightly, hoping he would elaborate. But he didn’t. Judging from the frown on his forehead, it was no happy subject. Dying to know more about him, but without wanting to spoil the evening, I merely asked, “And are you planning to go back there?”
He almost smiled. “Why? Do you want to come?”
I shrugged, absentmindedly spinning the dagger on the tablecloth between us. “I’m not trying to run away from my destiny.”
When I didn’t meet his eyes, he put a hand gently on top of the weapon to stop it from spinning. “Maybe you should.”
“I think,” I countered, teasingly inching out my treasure from beneath his palm, “I prefer to stay and fight.”
…
AFTER DINNER, ALESSANDRO insisted on walking me back to the hotel. Seeing that he had already won the battle over the restaurant bill, I didn’t resist. Besides, even if Bruno Carrera was now behind bars, there was still a misfit on a motorcycle at large in town, preying on scaredy-mice like me.
“You know,” he said, while we walked though the darkness together, “I used to be just like you. I used to think you had to fight for peace, and that, between you and a perfect world, there would always be sacrifice. Now I know better.” He glanced at me. “Leave the world alone.”
“Don’t try to make it better?”
“Don’t force people to be perfect. You’ll die trying.”
I couldn’t help smiling at his mundane conclusion. “Notwithstanding the fact that my cousin is in the hospital, being slapped around by female doctors, I’m having suc
h a good time. It’s too bad we can’t be friends.”
This was news to Alessandro. “We can’t?”
“Obviously not,” I said. “What would all your other friends say? You’re a Salimbeni, I’m a Tolomei. We’re destined to be enemies.”
His smile returned. “Or lovers.”
I started laughing, mostly with surprise. “Oh, no! You are a Salimbeni, and as it turns out, Salimbeni was Shakespeare’s Paris, the rich guy who wanted to marry Juliet after she had secretly married Romeo!”
Alessandro took the news in stride. “Ah yes, now I remember: the rich, handsome Paris. That’s me?”
“Looks like it.” I let out a theatrical sigh. “Lest we forget, my ancestor, Giulietta Tolomei, was in love with Romeo Marescotti, but was forced into an engagement with the evil Salimbeni, your ancestor! She was trapped in a lovers’ triangle, just like Shakespeare’s Juliet.”
“I am evil, too?” Alessandro liked the story better and better. “Rich, handsome, and evil. Not a bad role.” He thought about it for a moment, then added, more quietly, “You know, between you and me, I always thought Paris was a much better man than Romeo. In my opinion, Juliet was an idiot.”
I stopped in the middle of the street. “Excuse me?”
Alessandro stopped, too. “Think about it. If Juliet had met Paris first, she would have fallen in love with him instead. And they would have lived happily ever after. She was ready to fall in love.”
“Not so!” I countered. “Romeo was cute …”
“Cute?” Alessandro rolled his eyes. “What kind of man is cute?”
“… and an excellent dancer …”
“Romeo had feet of lead! He said so himself!”
“… but most importantly,” I concluded, “he had nice hands!”
Now, at last, Alessandro looked defeated. “I see. He had nice hands. You got me there. So, that is what great lovers are made of?”
“According to Shakespeare it is.” I glanced at his hands, but he foiled me by sticking them in his pockets.