Juliet

by Anne Fortier

  The statue, they told him, must be placed on Giulietta and Romeo’s grave, and it must be covered in the purest gold. It must depict the young couple and do it in such a way that it would become an antidote to Friar Lorenzo’s curse. Salimbeni must take the precious gems from Giulietta’s bridal crown and use them as eyes in the sculpture: two green emeralds in the head of Romeo, and two blue sapphires in the head of Giulietta. And underneath the statue, an inscription must read:

  Here sleeps true and faithful Giulietta

  By the love and mercy of God

  To be woken by Romeo, her rightful spouse

  In an hour of perfect grace

  In that way, Salimbeni could artificially re-create their moment of resurrection, allowing the two young lovers to behold each other again and forever, and allowing every citizen of Siena to see the sculpture and call Salimbeni a generous and religious man.

  To aid this impression, however, Salimbeni must make sure to cultivate a story of his own benevolence, and to commission a tale that freed him from guilt altogether. The tale must be of Romeo and Giulietta, and it must contain much poetry and much confusion, as good art does, for an accomplished storyteller brimming with dazzling falsehoods commands far more attention than an honest bore.

  As for those people who would still not be silent on the issue of Salimbeni’s guilt, they must be silenced, either by gold in their hands or iron in their backs. For only by getting rid of such malicious tongues could Salimbeni ever hope to be purified in the eyes of the people and find his way back into their prayers and thus into the holy ears of Heaven.

  Those were the recommendations from the university professors, and Salimbeni set about meeting their demands with much vigor. Firstly—following their own advice—he made sure to silence the professors before they could slander him. Secondly, he employed a local poet to fabricate a tale about two star-crossed lovers whose tragic deaths were no one’s fault but their own, and to circulate it among the reading classes, not as fiction, but as a truth shamefully ignored. Finally, Salimbeni employed the great artist, Maestro Ambrogio, to oversee the work with the golden statue. And once it was ready—with the precious eyes in place—he posted four armed guards in the chapel at all times, to protect the immortal couple.

  But even the statue and the guards could not hold the Plague at bay. For over a year the horrible disease ravaged Siena, covering healthy bodies in black boils and killing almost everyone it touched. Half the entire population perished—for every person that lived, another died. In the end, there were not enough survivors to bury the dead; the streets ran with rot and gore, and those who could still eat were starving for lack of food.

  Once it was over, the world had changed. The slate of men’s memory had been wiped clean, for better and for worse. Those who had survived were too busy with their needs to care much for art and old gossip, and so the story of Romeo and Giulietta became little more than a faint echo from another world, occasionally remembered, but only in fragments. As for the grave, it was gone forever, buried under a mountain of death, and few people were left who knew the value of the statue. Maestro Ambrogio, who had personally affixed the gemstones and knew what they were, was one of the many thousand Sienese who had died during the Plague.

  …

  WHEN MONNA MINA had heard everything Monna Cecilia knew about Friar Lorenzo, she decided that there was still something that could be done to appease his ghost. And so on a day when her husband had seemed particularly enamored with her before riding off on business, she ordered six capable servants to follow her into the basement and break up the floor of the old torture chamber.

  Naturally, the servants were not happy with their morbid task, but seeing their mistress standing so patiently next to them as they worked, urging them on with promises of cakes and sweets, they dared not complain.

  Over the course of the morning, they found the bones not just of one, but of several people. At first, the discovery of death and molestation made them all sick to the stomach, but when they saw that Monna Mina—although pale—did not budge, they soon overcame their horror and picked up their tools to continue their work. And as the day went on, they were all filled with ardent admiration for the young woman, who was so determined to rid the house of its evil.

  Once all the bones had been recovered, Monna Mina had the servants wrap them in shrouds and take them to the cemetery, except for the most recent remains, which, she was sure, must be Friar Lorenzo’s. Not quite sure what to do, she sat for a while with the body, looking at the silver crucifix that had been clutched in its hand, until a plan formed in her head.

  Before her marriage, Monna Mina had had a confessor, a holy and wonderful man, who came from the south, from the town of Viterbo, and who had often spoken of the town’s cathedral, San Lorenzo. Would not this be the right place to send the monk’s remains, she wondered, that his holy brothers might help him find peace at last, far away from the Siena that had caused him such unspeakable woes?

  When her husband returned that evening, Monna Mina had everything prepared. Friar Lorenzo’s remains were now in a wooden coffin, ready to be loaded onto a cart, and a letter had been written to the priests at San Lorenzo, explaining just enough to make them understand that here was a man who deserved an end to his sufferings. The only thing wanting was her husband’s permission and a handful of money for the venture to be launched, but Monna Mina was a woman who had already learned—in just a few months of marriage—how a pleasant evening could extract such things from a man.

  Early next morning, before the mists had lifted from Piazza Salimbeni, she stood at her bedroom window, her husband blissfully asleep in the bed behind her, and saw the cart with the coffin leaving for Viterbo. Around her neck hung Friar Lorenzo’s crucifix, cleaned and polished. Her first instinct had been to put it in the coffin with the monk’s remains, but in the end she had decided to keep it as a token of their mystical connection.

  She did not yet understand why he had chosen to speak through her and force her hand to write an old curse that had called down a plague on her own family, but she had a feeling he had done it out of kindness, to tell her that she must somehow find a cure. And until she did, she would keep the crucifix to remind her of the words on the wall, and of the man whose last thoughts had not been for himself, but for Romeo and Giulietta.

  [ VII.I ]

  By a name

  I know not how to tell thee who I am

  My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself

  …

  AFTER MAESTRO LIPPI STOPPED READING, we sat for a while in silence. I had originally pulled out the Italian text to get us off the topic of Alessandro being Romeo, but had I known it would take us to such dark places, I would have left it in my handbag.

  “Poor Friar Lorenzo,” said Janice, emptying her wineglass, “no happy end for him.”

  “I always thought Shakespeare let him off the hook too easily,” I said, trying to strike a lighter tone. “There he is, in Romeo and Juliet, walking around red-handed in the cemetery—bodies sprawled everywhere—even admitting that he was behind the whole double-crossing screw-up with the sleeping potion … and that’s it. You’d think the Capulets and the Montagues would at least try to hold him responsible.”

  “Maybe they did,” said Janice, “later on. ‘Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished’ … sounds like the story wasn’t over just because the curtain dropped.”

  “Clearly it wasn’t.” I glanced at the text Maestro Lippi had just read to us. “And according to Mom it still isn’t.”

  “This,” said the Maestro, still frowning over the evil deeds of old man Salimbeni, “is very disturbing. If it is true that Friar Lorenzo wrote such a curse, with those exact words, then it would—in theory—go on forever, until”—he checked the text to get the wording straight—“‘you undo your sins and kneel before the Virgin … and Giulietta wakes to behold her Romeo.’”

  “Okay,” said Janice, never a great fan of superstitious mumbo jumbo, �
�so, I have two questions. One: who is this you—?”

  “That’s obvious,” I interjected, “seeing that he is calling down ‘a plague on both your houses.’ He is obviously talking to Salimbeni and Tolomei, who were right there in the basement, torturing him. And since you and I are of the house of Tolomei, we’re cursed, too.”

  “Listen to you!” snapped Janice. “Of the house of Tolomei! What difference does a name make?”

  “Not just a name,” I said. “The genes and the name. Mom had the genes, and Dad had the name. Not much wiggle room for us.”

  Janice was not happy with my logic, but what could she do? “Okay, fair enough,” she sighed. “Shakespeare was wrong. There never was a Mercutio, dying because of Romeo and calling down a plague on him and Tybalt; the curse came from Friar Lorenzo. Fine. But I have another question, and that is: If you actually believe in this curse, then what? How can anybody be stupid enough to think they can stop it? We’re not just talking repent here. We’re talking un-friggin’-do your sins! Well … how? Are we supposed to dig up old Salimbeni and make him change his mind and … and … and drag him to the cathedral so he can fall to his knees in front of the altar or whatever? Puh-leez!” She looked at us both belligerently, as if it was the Maestro and me who had brought this problem upon her. “Why don’t we just fly home and leave the stupid curse here in Italy? Why do we have to care?”

  “Because Mom cared,” I said, simply. “This was what she wanted: to stick it out and end the curse. Now we have to do it for her. We owe her that.”

  Janice pointed at me with the rosemary twig. “Allow me to quote myself: All we owe her is to stay alive.”

  I touched the crucifix hanging around my neck. “That’s exactly what I mean. If we want to stay alive happily ever after, then—according to Mom—we have to end the curse. You and me, Giannozza. There’s no one else left to do it.”

  The way she looked at me, I could see her coming around, realizing I was right, or, at least, telling a convincing story. But she didn’t like it. “This,” she said, “is so far out. But okay, let’s assume for a moment that there really is a curse, and that—if we don’t stop it—it really will kill us, like it killed Mom and Dad. The question is still how? How do we stop it?”

  I glanced at the Maestro. He had been unusually present-minded all evening—and still was—but even he didn’t have the answer to Janice’s question. “I don’t know,” I confessed. “But I suspect the golden statue plays a part. And maybe the dagger and the cencio, too, although I don’t see how.”

  “Oh, well!” Janice threw up her hands. “Then we’re cooking! … Except that we have absolutely no clue where the statue is. The story just says that Salimbeni ‘made for them a most holy grave’ and posted guards at ‘the chapel,’ but that could mean anywhere! So … we don’t know where the statue is, and you lost the dagger and the cencio! I’m amazed you’ve managed to hang on to that crucifix, but I suspect that’s because it has no significance whatsoever!”

  I looked at Maestro Lippi. “The book you had, which talked about Juliet’s Eyes and the grave … are you sure it didn’t say anything about where it is? When we talked about it, you just told me to go ask Romeo.”

  “And did you?”

  “No! Of course not!” I felt a surge of irritation, but knew that I could not reasonably blame the painter for my own blindness. “I didn’t even know he was Romeo until this afternoon.”

  “Then why,” said Maestro Lippi, as if nothing could be more straightforward, “do you not ask him next time you see him?”

  IT WAS MIDNIGHT BY the time Janice and I returned to Hotel Chiusarelli. As soon as we entered the lobby, Direttor Rossini rose behind the reception counter and handed me a stack of folded-up notes. “Captain Santini called at five o’clock this afternoon,” he informed me, clearly blaming me for not being in my room, on tiptoes to take the call. “And many times since. Last time he called was”—he leaned forward to check the clock on the wall—“seventeen minutes ago.”

  Walking up the stairs in silence, I saw Janice glaring at my handful of messages from Alessandro—evidence of his keen interest in my whereabouts. I began bracing myself for the inevitable next chapter in our ongoing discussion of his character and motives, but as soon as we entered the room we were met by an unexpected breeze from the balcony door, which had sprung open by itself with no immediate signs of a break-in. Instantly apprehensive, however, I quickly checked that no papers were missing from Mom’s box; we had left it right there, sitting on the desk, since we were now convinced that it contained nothing like a treasure map.

  “Please call me back—” sang Janice, leafing through Alessandro’s messages one by one. “Please call me back—Are you free for dinner?—Are you okay?—I’m sorry—Please call—By the way, I’m a cross-dresser—”

  I scratched my head. “Did we not lock that balcony door before we left? I specifically remember locking it.”

  “Is anything missing?” Janice tossed Alessandro’s messages on the bed in a way that had them scatter in all directions.

  “No,” I said, “all the papers are there.”

  “Plus,” she observed, wiggling out of her top in front of the window, “half the law enforcement in Siena is keeping an eye on your room.”

  “Would you get away from there!” I cried, pulling her away.

  Janice laughed delightedly. “Why? At least they’ll know it’s not a man you’re sleeping with!”

  Just then, the phone rang.

  “That guy,” sighed Janice, shaking her head, “is a nutcase. Mark my words.”

  “Why?” I shot back, making a dash for the receiver. “Because he happens to like me?”

  “Like you?” Janice had clearly never heard anything so naïve in her entire life, and she embarked upon a long-drawn, snorting laugh, which only stopped when I threw a bed pillow at her.

  “Hello?” I picked up the phone and carefully shielded the receiver from the noise of my sister stomping defiantly about the room, humming the sinister theme from a horror film.

  It was Alessandro all right, concerned that something had happened to me, since I had not returned his calls. Now, of course, he acknowledged, it was too late to think about dinner, but could I at least tell him whether I was, in fact, planning to attend Eva Maria’s party tomorrow?

  “Yes, Godmother …” mimicked Janice in the background, “whatever you say, Godmother—”

  “I hadn’t actually—” I began, trying to remember all my excellent reasons for saying no to the invitation. But somehow they all seemed utterly groundless now that I knew he was Romeo. He and I were, after all, on the same team. Weren’t we? Maestro Ambrogio and Maestro Lippi would have agreed, and so would Shakespeare. Furthermore, I had never been completely convinced that it was really Alessandro who had broken into my hotel room. It certainly would not be the first time my sister had made a mistake. Or told me a lie.

  “Come on,” he urged, in a voice that could talk a woman into anything, and probably had, many times, “it would mean a lot to her.”

  Meanwhile, in the bathroom, Janice was wrestling loudly with the shower curtain, pretending—by the sound of it—to be stabbed to death.

  “I don’t know,” I replied, trying to block out her shrieks, “everything is so … insane right now.”

  “Maybe you need a weekend off?” Alessandro pointed out. “Eva Maria is counting on you. She has invited a lot of people. People who knew your parents.”

  “Really?” I could feel curiosity tearing at my feeble resolve.

  “I’ll pick you up at one o’clock, okay?” he said, choosing to interpret my hesitation as a yes. “And I promise, I’ll answer all your questions on the way.”

  When Janice came back into the room, I was expecting a scene, but it never came.

  “Do as you wish,” she merely said, shrugging as if she couldn’t care less, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “It’s so easy for you, isn’t it?” I sat down on th
e edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted. “You’re not Juliet.”

  “And you’re not either,” said Janice, sitting down next to me. “You’re just a girl who had a weird mom. Like me. Look”—she put an arm around me—“I know you want to go to this party. So, go. I just wish—I hope you don’t take it too literally. The whole Romeo-and-Juliet thing. Shakespeare didn’t create you, and he doesn’t own you. You do.”

  Later, we lay in bed together and looked through Mom’s notebook one more time. Now that we knew the story behind the statue, her drawings of a man holding a woman in his arms made perfect sense. But there was still nothing in the book that indicated the actual location of the grave. Most of the pages were crisscrossed with sketches and doodles; only one page was unique in that it had a border of five-petal roses all around, and a very elegantly written quotation from Romeo and Juliet:

  And what obscur’d in your fair volume lies,

  Find written in the margent of my eyes.

  As it turned out, it was the only explicit Shakespeare quotation in the entire notebook, and it made us both pause.

  “That,” I said, “is Juliet’s mother talking about Paris. But it’s wrong. It’s not your fair volume or my eyes, it’s this fair volume and his eyes.”

  “Maybe she got it wrong?” proposed Janice.

  I glared at her. “Mom get Shakespeare wrong? I don’t think so. I think she did this on purpose. To send someone a message.”

  Janice sat up. She had always loved riddles and secrets, and for the first time since Alessandro’s phone call she looked genuinely excited. “So, what’s the message? Someone is obviously obscured. But we can find him. Right?”

  “She talks about a volume,” I said, “and a margent, which means margin. That sounds like a book to me.”

  “Not just one book,” Janice pointed out, “but two books: our book, and her book. She calls her own book her eyes, which sounds to me a lot like a sketchbook”—she knocked on the page of the notebook—“as in this book. Wouldn’t you agree?”