Juliet

by Anne Fortier

  The waiter looked sufficiently convinced and totally smitten, and ran off to fulfill her order with the dispatch of an Arthurian knight.

  “Look at the Balzana—” Alessandro was showing me the Siena coat of arms on the side of my cappuccino cup, thinking I was paying attention. “Everything is simple here. Black and white. Curses and blessings.”

  I looked at the cup. “Is that what it means? Curses and blessings?”

  He shrugged. “It can mean anything you want. To me, it is an attitude indicator.”

  “Attitude? As in … the cup is half full?”

  “It is an instrument. In a cockpit. It shows you if you are upside down. When I look at the Balzana, I know I am right side up.” He put his hand on top of mine, ignoring Janice. “And when I look at you, I know—”

  I quickly pulled my hand away, not wanting Janice to see our intimacy and then harass me afterwards. “What kind of pilot,” I snapped, “wouldn’t know if he was upside down?”

  Alessandro stared at me, not understanding the sudden rejection. “Why,” he asked, quietly, “do you always want to fight? Why are you so afraid”—he reached out for my hand again—“of being happy?”

  That was it. Janice could take no more, and she exploded in laughter behind her German guidebook. Even though she tried to mask it by coughing, it was obvious even to Alessandro that she had been listening to every word we said, and he shot her a glare that endeared him to me even more. “I’m sorry,” he sighed, reaching for his wallet, “I have to get back.”

  “I’ll take care of this,” I assured him, staying where I was. “I might have another coffee. Are you free later? You still owe me a story.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said, touching my cheek before he got up, “you’ll get your story.”

  As soon as he was out of hearing range, I turned to Janice, beyond furious. “Did you really have to come and ruin everything?” I hissed, keeping an eye on Alessandro’s disappearing figure. “He was just about to tell me something. Something about Luciano Salimbeni!”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Janice with saccharine insincerity, “to interrupt your little tête-à-tête with the guy who trashed your room. Honestly, Jules, have you lost your friggin’ mind?”

  “I’m not so sure—”

  “Oh, yes you are! I saw him, remember?” Seeing that I was still reluctant to believe her, Janice snorted and threw down the guidebook. “Yes, he is cute as a skunk, and yes, I’d like to lick his stamp collection, but come on! How can you let him play you like this? It would be one thing if he was just after your tail, but you know what it is he really wants.”

  “Actually,” I quipped, “I’m not sure I do. But you clearly have ample experience with shysters, so pray enlighten me.”

  “Puh-leez!” Janice couldn’t believe my naïveté. “It’s obvious that he’s hanging around to see when you go tomb raiding. Let me guess, he’s never explicitly asked you about the grave and the statue?”

  “Wrong!” I said. “When we were at the police station, he asked me whether I knew anything about a statue with golden eyes. Golden eyes! He obviously had no idea—”

  “He obviously had every idea!” snapped Janice. “Oldest trick in the book: Pretend you are clueless. Don’t you see he is playing you like a glockenspiel?”

  “So, what are you suggesting? That he is going to wait until we’ve found the stones, and then … steal them?” Even as I spoke the words, I could hear they made perfect sense.

  Janice threw up her hands. “Welcome to reality, bonehead. I say you dump this guy pronto, and move to my hotel. We’ll make it look as if you’re going to the airport—”

  “And then what? Hide in your room? This is a very small place, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “Just let me do the legwork.” Janice was visualizing the whole thing. “I’ll get this spettacolo on the road in no time.”

  “You are so hilarioso,” I said. “We’re in this together …”

  “Now we are.”

  “… and for your information I’d rather be screwed by him than by you.”

  “Well,” said Janice, miffed, “then why don’t you run after him right now? I’m sure he would be more than happy to deliver. Meanwhile, I am going to see how cousin Peppo is doing, and no, you’re not invited.”

  I WALKED BACK to the hotel alone, deep in thought. No matter how I twisted and turned it, Janice was right; I should not be trusting Alessandro. The problem was, I was not just trusting him, I was falling for him. And in my infatuation I could almost make myself believe that Janice’s blurry photos were of someone else, and that, later on, he had only had me followed out of some mistaken idea of chivalry.

  Furthermore, he had promised to tell me how it all hung together, and it was not his fault that we had been interrupted several times. Or was it? If he had really wanted me to know, why had he waited for me to initiate the conversation? And just now, when Janice interrupted us, why had he not simply asked me to walk back to Monte dei Paschi with him, and told me the highlights of the story on the way?

  As I approached Hotel Chiusarelli, a black limo with tinted windows rolled up beside me, and a rear window went down halfway to reveal Eva Maria’s smiling face. “Giulietta!” she exclaimed. “What a coincidence! Come and have a piece of Turkish Delight!”

  Climbing into the creamy leather seat facing Eva Maria, I caught myself wondering if it was some sort of trap. But then, if Eva Maria wanted me kidnapped, why not just have Alessandro do it? Undoubtedly, he had already told her that he had me eating—or at least drinking—out of his hand.

  “I am so happy you are still here!” Eva Maria gushed, offering me a piece of candy from a satin box. “I called, you know. Did you not get my messages? I was afraid my godson had scared you away. I must apologize for him. He is not usually like that.”

  “No worries,” I said, licking confectioner’s sugar from my fingers and wondering what exactly she knew about my interactions with Alessandro. “He’s been very nice lately.”

  “Has he?” She looked at me with raised eyebrows, at the same time happy to hear the news and annoyed at being kept out of the loop. “That is good.”

  “Sorry to walk away from your birthday dinner like that—” I went on, feeling a little sheepish for not having called her back once since that awful night. “And about the clothes you lent me—”

  “Keep them!” She waved dismissively. “I have too many as it is. Tell me, are you here this weekend? I am having a party, and there will be some people you should meet … people who know much more about your Tolomei ancestors than I do. The party is tomorrow night, but I would like you to stay for the whole weekend.” She smiled like a fairy godmother conjuring a pumpkin carriage. “You will love Val d’Orcia, I know it! Alessandro will drive you. He is coming, too.”

  “Uh—” I said. How could I possibly refuse? Then again, if I didn’t, Janice would strangle me. “I’d love to come, but—”

  “Wonderful!” Eva Maria leaned over to open my door so I could get out. “Until tomorrow, then. Don’t bring anything, just yourself!”

  [ V.V ]

  How oft when men are at the point of death

  Have they been merry! Which their keepers call

  A lightning before death. O how may I

  Call this a lightning?

  …

  Siena, A.D. 1340

  ROCCA DI TENTENNANO was a formidable structure. It sat like a vulture on a hill in Val d’Orcia, perfectly perched to scavenge far and wide. Its massive walls were built to withstand innumerable hostile sieges and attacks, and considering the manners and morals of its owners, those walls were not an inch too thick.

  Throughout her journey there, Giulietta had wondered why Salimbeni had been so kind as to send her to the country, far away from him. When he had seen her off the day before, standing in the courtyard outside Palazzo Salimbeni and looking at her with an air of benevolence, she had wondered whether he now—thanks to the curse on his manliness—fel
t remorse for what he had done, and whether his sending her away had been a way of compensating her for all the pain he had caused her.

  In her hopeful state, she had observed him as he took leave of his son Nino—who was to accompany her to Val d’Orcia—and had thought she saw genuine affection in Salimbeni’s eyes as he gave his last instructions for the road. “May God bless you,” he had said, as Nino mounted the horse he had ridden in the Palio, “on your journey and beyond.”

  The young man had not replied; in fact, he had acted as if his father was not even there, and for all his wickedness, Giulietta had—ever so briefly—felt embarrassed for Salimbeni.

  But later, seeing the view from her window at Rocca di Tentennano, she began to grasp his true intention in sending her here, and to understand that it was not meant as a gesture of generosity, merely as a new and ingenious form of punishment.

  The place was a fortification. Just as no one could get in who did not belong there, so would no one ever be able to leave who was not allowed to. Now she finally understood what people had meant when they gravely referred to Salimbeni’s previous wives as having been sent to the island; Rocca di Tentennano was a place from which the only possible escape was death.

  Much to Giulietta’s surprise, a servant girl came right away to light the fireplace in her room, and to help her out of her travel clothes. It was a cool day in early December, and for the last of the many hours of the journey, her fingertips had been white and numb. Now she stood in a woolen dress and dry slippers, turning herself about in front of the open fire, trying to remember when she had last felt comfortable.

  Opening her eyes, she saw Nino standing in the door, regarding her with something as unexpected as kindness. It was too bad, she thought, that he was a scoundrel like his father, for he was a handsome young man, strong and able, to whom smiling seemed to come far more easily than perhaps it ought, considering the weight—surely—of his conscience.

  “May I ask,” he said, his tone as cordial as if he had addressed her on the dancing floor, “that you join me downstairs for dinner tonight? I understand you have been eating alone these past three weeks, and I apologize on behalf of my ill-mannered family.” Seeing her surprise, he smiled charmingly. “Do not be afraid. I assure you, we are completely alone.”

  AND INDEED THEY WERE. Posed at either end of a dinner table that could comfortably seat twenty, Giulietta and Nino ate most of their meal in silence, their eyes only occasionally meeting through the candelabra. Whenever he saw her looking at him, Nino smiled, and at length Giulietta found the necessary boldness within herself to speak the words that were on her mind. “Did you kill my cousin Tebaldo in the Palio?”

  Nino’s smile disappeared. “Of course not. How could you think that?”

  “Then who did?”

  He looked at her curiously, but neither of her questions had visibly upset him. “You know who did. Everyone knows.”

  “And does everyone know”—Giulietta paused to steady her voice—“what your father did to Romeo?”

  Instead of answering, Nino rose from his chair and walked along the table all the way down to where she sat. Here, he knelt down next to her and took her hand the way a knight would take the hand of a maiden in distress. “How can I ever make good the evil my father has done?” He pressed her hand to his cheek. “How can I ever eclipse that mad moon shining upon my kin? Please tell me, dearest lady, how I may please you?”

  Giulietta studied his face for the longest time, then simply said, “You can let me go.”

  He looked at her, puzzled, not sure what she meant.

  “I am not your father’s wife,” she went on. “There is no need to keep me here. Just let me go, and I will never bother you again.”

  “I am sorry,” said Nino, pressing her hand to his lips this time, “but I cannot do that.”

  “I see,” said Giulietta, withdrawing her hand. “In that case you can let me return to my room. That would please me very much.”

  “And I will,” said Nino, getting up, “after another glass of wine.” He poured more wine into the glass she had barely touched. “You have not eaten much. You must be hungry?” When she did not reply, he smiled. “Life around here can be very pleasant, you know. Fresh air, good food, wonderful bread—not the stones we are served at home—and”—he opened his arms—“excellent company. Everything is yours to enjoy. All you have to do is take it.”

  Only when he offered her the glass, still smiling, did Giulietta begin to understand his full meaning. “Are you not afraid,” she said, lightly, taking the glass, “of what your father would say?”

  Nino laughed. “I think we both would appreciate a night of not thinking about my father.” He leaned against the table, waiting for her to drink. “I trust you can see that I am nothing like him.”

  Putting down her glass, Giulietta stood up. “I thank you,” she said, “for this meal and your kind attention. But now it is time for me to retire, and I bid you good night—”

  A hand around her wrist prevented her from leaving.

  “I am not a man without feeling,” said Nino, serious at last. “I know you have suffered, and I wish it were otherwise. But fate has ordained that we be here together—”

  “Fate?” Giulietta tried to free herself, but could not. “You mean, your father?”

  Only now did Nino give up all pretense and look at her wearily. “Do you not realize that I am being generous? Believe me, I do not have to be. But I like you. You are worth it.” He let go of her wrist. “Now go, and do whatever it is that women do, and I will come to you.” He had the nerve to smile. “I promise, you will not think me quite so offensive by midnight.”

  Giulietta looked him in the eye, but saw only determination. “Is there nothing I can say or do to convince you otherwise?”

  But all he did was smile and shake his head.

  THERE WAS A GUARD posted on every corner as Giulietta walked back to her room. And yet, despite all the protection, there was no lock on her door, no way of keeping Nino out.

  Opening her shutters to the frosty night outside, she looked up at the stars and was amazed at their number and brightness. It was a dazzling spectacle, put on by Heaven for her alone, it seemed, to give her one last chance to fill her soul with beauty before it all went away.

  She had failed at everything she set out to do. Her plans to bury Romeo and kill Salimbeni had both come to naught, and she must conclude that she had kept herself alive only to be abused. Her sole consolation was that they had not managed to void her vows with Romeo no matter how they had tried; she had never belonged to anyone else. He was her husband, and yet was not. While their souls were entwined, their bodies were separated by death. But not for long. All she had to do now was remain faithful to the end, and then perhaps, if Friar Lorenzo had told her the truth, she would be reunited with Romeo in the afterlife.

  Leaving the shutters open, Giulietta walked over to her luggage. So many dresses, so much finery … but nested in a brocade slipper lay the only thing she wanted. It was a vial for perfume, which had been on her bedstand at Palazzo Salimbeni, but which she had soon decided to put to other use.

  Every night after her wedding, an old nurse had come to serve her a measure of sleeping potion on a spoon, her eyes full of unspoken compassion. “Open up!” she had said, briskly, “and be a good girl. You want happy dreams, do you not?”

  The first few times Giulietta had promptly spat out the potion in her chamber pot as soon as the nurse had left the room, determined to be fully awake in case Salimbeni came to her bed again, that she might remind him of his curse.

  But after those first few nights, it had occurred to her to empty the vial of rosewater Monna Antonia had given her as they said goodbye, and—instead of the perfume—slowly fill it up with the mouthfuls of sleeping potion she was served every night.

  In the beginning, she thought of the concoction as a weapon that might somehow be used against Salimbeni, but as his visits to her room became more and
more rare, the vial sat on her bedstand with no dedicated purpose, except to remind Giulietta that, once it was full, it would surely be lethal to anyone who drank it all.

  From the earliest age, she remembered hearing fanciful tales of women killing themselves with sleeping potion when abandoned by their lovers. Although her mother had tried to shield her daughters from that kind of gossip, there had been too many servants around the house who enjoyed the wide-eyed attention of the little girls. And so Giulietta and Giannozza had spent many afternoons in their secret ditch of daisies, taking turns being dead, while the other played out the horror of the people discovering the body and the empty bottle. Once, Giulietta had remained still and unresponsive for so long that Giannozza had, in fact, believed she was really dead.

  “Giu-giu?” she had said, pulling at her arms. “Please stop! It is not funny anymore. Please!”

  In the end, Giannozza had started crying, and although Giulietta had eventually sat up, laughing, Giannozza had been inconsolable. She had cried all afternoon and all evening, and had run away from dinner without eating. They had not played the game since.

  During Giulietta’s imprisonment at Palazzo Salimbeni, there were days when she sat with the vial in her hands, wishing it was already full, and that she possessed the power to end her own life. But it was only on the last night before her morning departure for Val d’Orcia that the vial had finally run over, and throughout the journey she had consoled herself with thoughts of the treasure nested in a slipper in her luggage.

  Now, sitting down on the bed with the vial in her hands, she felt confident that what she held would stop her heart. This, then, she thought, must have been the Virgin Mary’s plan all along; that her marriage with Romeo was to be consummated in Heaven, and not on earth. The vision was sweet enough to make her smile.

  Taking out the quill and ink that was also hidden in her luggage, she settled down briefly to write a final letter to Giannozza. The inkwell Friar Lorenzo had given her when she was still at Palazzo Tolomei was by now almost empty, and the quill had been sharpened so many times that only a feeble tuft was left; even so, she took her time composing one last message to her sister before rolling up the parchment and hiding it in a crack in the wall behind the bed. “I will wait for you, my dearest,” she wrote, tears smearing the ink, “in our patch of daisies. And when you call my name, I shall wake up right away, I promise.”