Juliet

by Anne Fortier

  Naturally, Grandfather Marescotti was insulted by the suggestion that he was in a sad state, and he said as much, loudly listing all the blessings surrounding him on all sides.

  “Are you telling me,” said Diane Tolomei, leaning over the table and touching his hands, “that there are not days when you feel a mighty power watching you with impatient eyes, an ancient ally who is waiting for you to do the one thing you have to do?”

  Her words made a great impression on her two hosts, and they all sat in silence for a moment, until suddenly they heard a terrible noise from the barn, and they saw Romeo come running, trying to carry one of his screaming and kicking guests. It was the girl Giulietta, who had cut herself on a hayfork, and Romeo’s grandmother had to stitch her up on the kitchen table.

  Romeo’s grandparents were not actually angry with him for what had happened. It was much worse. They were simply terrified to see that their grandson was causing pain and destruction wherever he went. And now, after listening to Diane Tolomei’s stories, they began to worry that he truly did have evil hands … that some old demon lived on inside his body, and that, just like his ancestor Romeo, he would live a life—a short life—of violence and sorrow.

  Grandfather Marescotti felt so bad about what had happened to the little girl that he promised Diane he would do everything in his power to find the ring. And she thanked him and said that, regardless of his success, she would return soon with the cencio, so that at least Romeo could get what belonged to him. For some reason, it was very important to her that Romeo still be there when she came back, because she wanted to try something with him. She did not say what it was, and no one dared to ask.

  They agreed that Diane Tolomei would return in two weeks, which would give Grandfather Marescotti time to investigate the matter of the ring, and they all parted as friends. Before she drove away, however, Diane said one last thing to him. She told him that if he was successful in his search for the ring, he must be very careful and open the box as little as possible. And under no circumstances must he touch the ring itself. It had, she reminded him, a history of hurting people.

  Grandfather Marescotti drove into town the very next day, determined to find the ring. For days and days he went all over the Bottini underneath Palazzo Marescotti to find Romanino’s secret hiding place. When he finally found it—he had to borrow a metal detector—he could see why no one else had stumbled across it before; the box had been pushed deep inside a narrow crack in the wall, and was covered with crumbled sandstone.

  As he pulled it out, he remembered what Diane Tolomei had said about not opening the lid more than necessary, but after six centuries in dust and gravel, the wood had become so dry and fragile that even his careful touch was too much for the box. And so the wood fell apart like a lump of sawdust, and within a moment, he found himself standing with the ring right in his hand.

  He decided not to give in to irrational fears, and instead of putting the ring in another box, he put it in his trouser pocket and drove back to his villa outside of town. After that drive, with the ring in his pocket, no other male was ever born in his family to carry the name Romeo Marescotti—much to his frustration, everyone kept having girls, girls, girls. There would only ever be Romeo, his grandson, and he very much doubted this restless boy would ever marry and have sons of his own.

  Of course, Grandfather Marescotti did not realize all this at the time; he was just happy that he had found the ring for Diane Tolomei, and he was anxious to finally get his hands on the old cencio from 1340 and show it around the contrada. He was already planning to donate it to the Eagle Museum, and imagined that it would bring much good luck in the next Palio.

  But it was not going to be that way. On the day when Diane Tolomei was supposed to come back and visit them, he had gathered the whole family for a big party, and his wife had been cooking for several days. He had put the ring in a new box, and she had tied a red ribbon around it. They had even taken Romeo into town—despite the fact that it was just before the Palio—to get him a real haircut, not just the gnocchi pot and the scissors. Now, all they had to do was wait.

  And so they waited. And waited. But Diane Tolomei did not come. Normally, Grandfather Marescotti would have been furious, but this time, he was afraid. He could not explain it. He felt as if he had a fever, and he could not eat. That same evening he heard the terrible news. His cousin called to tell him that there had been a car accident, and that Professor Tolomei’s widow and two little daughters had died. Imagine how he felt. He and his wife were crying for Diane Tolomei and the little girls, and the very next day, he sat down and wrote a letter to his daughter in Rome, asking her to forgive him, and to come home. But she never wrote back, and she never came.

  [ VIII.I ]

  O, I have bought the mansion of a love

  But not possess’d it, and though I am sold,

  Not yet enjoy’d

  …

  WHEN ALESSANDRO FINALLY FINISHED his story, we were lying side by side on the wild thyme, holding hands.

  “I still remember that day,” he added, “when we heard about the car accident. I was only thirteen, but I understood how terrible it was. And I thought of the little girl—you—who was supposed to be Giulietta. Of course, I always knew I was Romeo, but I had never thought much about Giulietta before. Now I started thinking about her, and I realized that it was a very strange thing to be Romeo, when there is no Giulietta in the world. Strange and lonely.”

  “Oh, come now!” I rolled up on one elbow, poking at his gravity with a nodding violet. “I’m sure there has been no scarcity of women willing to keep you company.”

  He grinned and brushed the violet away. “I thought you were dead! What could I do?”

  I sighed and shook my head. “So much for the engraving on Romeo’s ring, Faithful through the centuries.”

  “Hey!” Alessandro rolled us both over and looked down at me with a frown. “Romeo gave the ring to Giulietta, remember—?”

  “Wise of him.”

  “All right—” He looked into my eyes, not happy about the path of our conversation. “So tell me, Giulietta from America … have you been faithful through the centuries?”

  He was half joking, but it was no joke to me. Instead of answering, I met his stare with resolution and asked him straight out, “Why did you break into my hotel room?”

  Although he was already braced for the worst, I could not have shocked him more. Groaning, he rolled over and clutched his face, not even trying to pretend there had been a mistake. “Porca vacca!”

  “I’m assuming,” I said, staying where I was, squinting at the sky, “you have a really good explanation. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”

  He groaned again. “I do. But I can’t tell you.”

  “I’m sorry?” I sat up abruptly. “You trashed my room, but you won’t tell me why?”

  “What? No!” Alessandro sat up, too. “I didn’t do that! It was already like that—I thought you had messed it up yourself!” Seeing my expression, he threw up his arms. “Look, it’s true. That night, after we argued and you left the restaurant, I went over to your hotel to—I don’t know. But when I arrived, I saw you climb down from your balcony and sneak off—”

  “No way!” I exclaimed. “Why on earth would I do that?”

  “Okay, so, it wasn’t you,” said Alessandro, very uncomfortable with the subject, “but it was a woman. Who looked like you. And she was the one who trashed your room. When I went in, your balcony door was already open, and the whole place was a mess. I hope you believe me.”

  I clutched my head. “How do you expect me to believe you when you won’t even tell me why you did it?”

  “I’m sorry.” He reached out to pull a twig of thyme from my hair. “I wish I could. But it is not my story to tell. Hopefully, you will hear it soon.”

  “From whom? Or is that a secret, too?”

  “I’m afraid so.” He dared to smile. “But I hope you believe me when I say that I had good intent
ions.”

  I shook my head, upset with myself for being so easy. “I must be insane.”

  His smile broadened. “Is that English for yes?”

  I got up, brushing off my skirt with brisk strokes, still a little angry. “I don’t know why I let you get away with this—”

  “Come here—” He took my hand and pulled me back down. “You know me. You know I could never hurt you.”

  “Wrong,” I said, turning my head away. “You are Romeo. You are the one who can really, really hurt me.”

  But when he pulled me into his arms, I did not resist. It was as if a barrier inside me was collapsing—it had been collapsing all afternoon—leaving me soft and pliable, barely able to think beyond the moment.

  “Do you really believe in curses?” I whispered, nested in his embrace.

  “I believe in blessings,” he replied, against my temple, “I believe that for every curse, there is a blessing.”

  “Do you know where the cencio is?”

  I felt his arms tighten. “I wish I did. I want it back just as much as you do.”

  I looked up at him, trying to figure out if he was lying. “Why?”

  “Because”—he met my suspicious stare with convincing calm—“wherever it is, it is meaningless without you.”

  WHEN WE FINALLY strolled back to the car, our shadows were stretched out before us on the path, and there was a touch of evening in the air. Just as I began wondering if perhaps we were running late for Eva Maria’s party, Alessandro’s phone rang, and he let me put the glasses and the empty bottle back in the trunk, while he wandered away from the car, trying to explain our mysterious delay to his godmother.

  Looking around for a safe place to put the glasses, I noticed a wooden wine case in the far corner of the trunk with the label Castello Salimbeni printed on the side. When I lifted the lid to peek inside, I saw that there were no wine bottles in the box, just wood shavings, and I suspected this was how Alessandro had transported the glasses and the Prosecco. Just to make sure that I could safely stick the glasses back in the box, I dug my hand into the wood shavings and rummaged around a bit. As I did so, I felt something hard against my fingertips, and when I pulled it out, I saw that it was an old box, about the size of a cigar case.

  As I stood there, holding the box, I was suddenly back in the Bottini with Janice the day before, watching Alessandro take a similar box out of a safe in the tufa wall. Unable to resist the temptation, I pulled the lid off the box with the trembling urgency of the trespasser; it never even occurred to me that I already knew its contents. Only when I ran my fingers over it—the golden signet ring cushioned in blue velvet—did the truth come crashing down from above, pulverizing all my romantic musings for a second or two.

  Because of the shock of discovering that we were, in fact, driving around with an object that had—directly or indirectly—killed a heck of a lot of people, I had barely managed to stuff everything back in the wine case before Alessandro stood next to me, the phone closed in his hand.

  “What are you looking for?” he asked, his eyes narrow.

  “My skin lotion,” I said lightly, unzipping my weekend bag. “The sun here is … murderous.”

  As we drove on, I had a hard time calming myself. Not only had he broken into my room and lied to me about his name, but even now, after everything that had happened between us—the kisses, the confessions, the disclosure of family secrets—he was still not telling me the truth. Sure, he had told me some of the truth, and I had chosen to believe him, but I was not fooled into thinking that he had told me everything there was to know. He had even admitted as much by refusing to explain why he had entered my hotel room. Yes, he might have put a few token cards on the table for me to see, but he was clearly still holding the major part of his hand close to his chest.

  And so, I suppose, was I.

  “Are you okay?” he asked after a while. “You are very quiet.”

  “I’m fine!” I wiped a drop of sweat from my nose and noticed that my hand was shaking. “Just hot.”

  He gave my knee a squeeze. “You will feel much better once we get there. Eva Maria has a swimming pool.”

  “Of course she does.” I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. My hand felt strangely numb, right where the old ring had touched my skin, and I discreetly wiped my fingers on my clothes. It was definitely not my style to give in to superstitious fears, and yet here they were, bouncing around in my belly like popcorn in a pot. Closing my eyes, I told myself that this was not the time for a panic attack, and that the tightness in my chest was nothing more than my brain trying to throw a monkey wrench into my happiness, the way it always did. But this time, I wouldn’t let it.

  “I think what you need …” Alessandro slowed down to turn into a gravel driveway. “Cazzo!”

  A monumental iron gate barred the way. Judging from his reaction, this was not how Eva Maria usually greeted her godson, and it took a diplomatic exchange with an intercom before the magic cave opened and we could start up a long driveway flanked by spiral cypresses. As soon as we were safely inside the property, the tall doors of the gate swung back to close effortlessly behind us, the click of the lock barely audible through the softly crunching gravel and birdsong of late afternoon.

  EVA MARIA SALIMBENI lived in something very near a dream. Her majestic farmhouse—or rather, castello—was perched on a hill not far from the village of Castiglione, and fields and vineyards fell around the property to all sides, like the skirt of a maid sitting in a meadow. It was the sort of place one would come across in an unwieldy coffee-table book, but never actually manage to pin down in reality, and, as we approached the house, I silently congratulated myself on my decision to ignore all warnings and come.

  Ever since Janice had told me that cousin Peppo suspected Eva Maria of being a mobster queen, I had been swinging back and forth between lip-biting worry and head-shaking disbelief, but now that I was finally here, in broad daylight, the whole idea seemed ridiculous. Surely, if Eva Maria was really pulling the strings of something shady, she would never host a party at her house and invite a stranger like me.

  Even the threat of the evil signet ring seemed to fade as Castello Salimbeni rose ahead, and by the time we pulled up beside the central fountain, whatever worries might still be kicking around the pit of my stomach were soon drowned out by the turquoise water that fell in cascades from three cornucopias held high by nude nymphs astride marble griffins.

  A catering van was parked in front of a side entrance, and two men in leather aprons were unloading boxes while Eva Maria stood by, hands clasped, overseeing the procedure. As soon as she caught sight of our car, she rushed towards us, waving excitedly, gesturing for us to park and make it snappy. “Benvenuti!” she chirped, coming towards us with open arms. “I am so happy you are both here!”

  As always, Eva Maria’s exuberance left me too stumped to react in a normal way; all that went through my head was, If I can wear those pants when I’m her age, I’ll be beyond happy.

  She kissed me vigorously, as if she had feared for my safety until this very moment, then turned towards Alessandro—her smile turning coy as they exchanged kisses—and wrapped her fingers around his biceps. “You have been a bad boy, I think! I was expecting you hours ago!”

  “I thought,” he said, displaying no guilt whatsoever, “I would show Giulietta Rocca di Tentennano.”

  “Oh no!” exclaimed Eva Maria, all but slapping him. “Not that terrible place! Poor Giulietta!” She turned towards me with an expression of the utmost sympathy. “I am sorry you had to see that ugly building. What did you think of it?”

  “Actually,” I said, glancing at Alessandro, “I thought it was quite … idyllic.”

  For some inexplicable reason, my answer pleased Eva Maria so much that she kissed me on the forehead before marching into the house ahead of us both. “This way!” She flagged us through a back door, into the kitchen, and around a gigantic table piled with food. “I hope you don’t mind, my
dear, that we are going this way … Marcello! Dio Santo!” She threw up her hands at one of the caterers and said something that made him pick up the box he had just put down and place it very gently somewhere else. “I have to keep an eye on these people, they are hopeless! … Bless their hearts! And—oh! Sandro!”

  “Pronto!”

  “What are you doing?” Eva Maria shooed him impatiently. “Go get the bags! Giulietta will want her things!”

  “But—” Alessandro was not too happy to leave me alone with his godmother, and his helpless expression almost made me laugh.

  “We can take care of ourselves!” Eva Maria went on. “We want to talk girl talk! Go! Get the bags!”

  Despite the chaos and Eva Maria’s energetic gait, I was able to appreciate the dramatic proportions of the kitchen on my way through. I had never seen pots and pans that big before, nor had I ever seen a fireplace with the square footage of my college dorm room; it was the kind of rustic country cuisine most people claim they dream about, but—when the rubber hit the road—would have no clue how to use.

  From the kitchen we came out into a grand hall that was clearly the official entrance to Castello Salimbeni. It was a square, ostentatious space with a fifty-foot ceiling and a first-floor loggia going all the way around, not unlike, in fact, the Library of Congress in Washington where Aunt Rose had once taken me and Janice—for educational purposes and to avoid cooking—while Umberto was away on his annual vacation.

  “This is where we will have our party tonight!” said Eva Maria, pausing briefly to make sure I was impressed.

  “It is … breathtaking,” was all I could think of saying, my words disappearing under the high ceiling.

  The guest rooms were upstairs, off the loggia, and my hostess had very kindly put me in a room with a balcony overlooking a swimming pool, an orchard, and, beyond the orchard wall, Val d’Orcia bathed in gold. It looked like happy hour in Paradise.