by Debbie Rix
Berta nodded, and Massoud bowed deeply and showed Ugoni to the desk in the window. Parchment and a pen were laid out ready for him, a candle flickering nearby, for the hour was late and the light was already fading. And there, in the gathering darkness, the light from the solitary candle falling on the assembled group in Berta’s bedchamber, she dictated her last will and testament:
‘In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, Eternal God, in the year from his birth 1172, 9th January. I am Berta, heiress of Calvo and daughter of Bernardo. I give and dispose of my things in the following manner……….’
The will was witnessed and signed by all those present, and the important work over, Massoud, Ugo and the rest took their leave. But Gerardo remained. He lay with the lady that night, and every night until her death, holding her closely, thinking of the love she had shown him, cradling her in his arms and inhaling the scent of lavender on her skin. Until, one morning in early March, her pain having been relieved the previous night by Violetta’s tender work, he woke to find her skin cold and pale, her hair spread out on the pillow like fire… and he wept for the woman he had loved and lost.
Chapter Twenty-Six
June 1999
Sam woke early riddled with guilt. It had only been a kiss. But it had been a long, passionate kiss.
Sharp light glinted through the crack in the curtains and she fumbled for the glass of water by her bed. Draining it in one gulp, she mentally totted up how many glasses of champagne and Prosecco she had drunk the evening before. She had been overtaken by a devil-may-care attitude after the first glass in the Bar Duomo, knocking each one back with something akin to abandon – to blot out, she realised, the memory of Michael’s phone call with Carrie.
‘What was I thinking?’ she muttered out loud, as she staggered to the bathroom.
There, sitting on the edge of the bath, her throbbing head in her hands, she stopped counting when she had got to thirteen glasses. She tried to recall if she had eaten anything; a couple of antipasti and a handful of pistachio nuts were all she could remember. She began to piece the evening together, and blushed with embarrassment when she remembered an excruciating conversation she had had with the Italian couple who worked in TV. Unable to speak each other’s language, the conversation was pretty stilted, but it took a turn for the worse when she realised they believed she was Dario’s girlfriend. Unable to deny it satisfactorily she’d spent the rest of the evening looking round wildly for Dario to come and rescue her. Hardly surprising that she grabbed every glass of wine offered to her.
She had a vague memory of a mishap on the stairs. She re-ran the whole episode, recalling having drunkenly tripped over, nearly falling down one entire flight, saved only by Dario. He was walking down ahead of her and had heard her gasp of surprise as she slipped. As he caught her, he had held her in his arms; she had been laughing, with a combination of fear and embarrassment, grateful to be saved. As he checked she was unhurt, he had stroked her hair and face; it was sweet… touching even… but, she realised now, a precursor to something else.
‘Stupid girl,’ she said out loud to herself in the bathroom mirror. Dark rings circled her bloodshot eyes. She splashed water on her face and brushed her teeth.
She slowly replayed the kiss in the Piazza dei Cavalieri. She had to admit she had enjoyed it. It was romantic, exciting even. They had walked slowly back to the pensione, his arm wrapped round her shoulders, her head tucked neatly against him. He stopped a couple of times and kissed her again, at one point leaning her up against a wall in a narrow lane. There was a faint stench of rotting food and debris, the lane was dank and dark, but all she was really aware of was the gentle lemony scent of his aftershave and the sensation of his mouth on hers.
At the door to the pensione, he made to come inside with her.
‘No, Dario – I can’t… not yet.’
‘No, of course. I’m sorry. It’s been lovely,’ he said, kissing her gently on both cheeks.
‘It’s just a bit soon, and well – you understand, what with my husband and…’
‘It’s fine. I totally understand. Can I see you tomorrow? We could go to the boat race together.’
‘Yes, that would be great – thank you.’
She showered, standing for a good ten minutes under the hot water, switching the control from hot to cold to ‘shock’ her system awake. Wrapped in a towel, she applied some tinted moisturiser to cover up the dark circles and gulped down six glasses of water. She dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, and headed out of the hotel across the Piazza, picking up her usual two coffees and brioches at the Bar Duomo.
Michael smiled his familiar lop-sided smile when she walked in and held his hand out to her.
‘Darling, thank God.’
As she kissed his prickly face, she noticed tears in his eyes. Putting the coffees down on the side table, she sat down on the edge of his bed.
‘I’m sorry I’m so late… I had a bit of a lie-in.’
‘Was it fun?’ he asked.
‘Oh, it was fine. The lights were very twinkly, the fireworks were noisy, you know, firework-like! The party was OK; there were some interesting people there, I met a couple who work for Italian TV; but it was all quite hard work because my Italian is not great, as you know.’
Michael pulled her hand to his mouth and kissed it.
‘I’m so sorry, darling. I hope you know that. It’s over… the thing with Carrie. I told her last night. It’s finished. I know that now. It’s you I want.’
She smiled ruefully, an image of Dario floating into her mind. ‘Oh, good.’
‘You don’t sound very pleased.’
‘Of course I am, Michael, of course. But it’s not that simple, you know. You don’t just go “sorry” and it’s all done and dusted. You slept with her. It’s not nothing.’
‘I know. But it was a fling. You must understand. Men do that sort of thing sometimes. You know that. It didn’t mean anything.’
‘Does she know that?’ Sam asked as she crossed over to the window. She could just see the Arno glittering in the sunshine.
‘Yes, I told her yesterday – on the phone.’
‘How did she take that?’
‘Not well... obviously, but she’ll get over it.’
‘Nice,’ Sam said.
‘Darling…’ Michael stretched his hand towards hers, but she pulled back.
‘I’ve got to go out now, Michael. I’m going to look at the boat race. They do it in medieval costume and it might be useful research for the film.’
‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ he said.
‘What? That you’ve dumped the girlfriend? And you think that everything’s OK now – is that it? Good old Sam will forgive you and everything will go back to normal? It doesn’t work like that, Michael. I’ll see you later,’ she said from the doorway.
She had arranged to meet Dario at the café on the Piazza. They were going to walk down to the river together. As she wandered through the medieval courtyard that led from the hospital to Via Maria, she almost collided with a young dark-haired girl, rushing determinedly in the other direction.
‘Permesso,’ said Sam politely.
But the girl said nothing, and rushed on.
As Sam mused on this uncharacteristic Italian’s rudeness, she realised that the girl was familiar. The picture of a face framed with short dark hair floating down onto the bed the day Michael left home for Italy, filtered into her mind… It was Carrie.
Sam, momentarily disbelieving, turned on her heel and raced after her. An Italian family were just leaving the hospital, filling the entrance hall with their chatter. She pushed past them, just in time to see the lift doors closing. She ran up the stairs – taking two at a time – and along the corridor; Carrie was visible at the other end, just entering Michael’s room. She was leaning over Michael’s bed and embracing him when Sam arrived, breathless.
‘I don’t believe it…’ said Sam.
Carrie turned round, tears streaming down her face.
Michael looked from one to the other, his face registering sheer panic.
‘Sam… I didn’t ask her to come,’ he said at once.
‘Right. So what’s she doing here then?’ asked Sam.
‘I don’t know, Sam! Carrie, I told you yesterday, it’s over. I can’t do this.’
‘Did you Michael – really?’ Sam challenged.
‘Yes I promise, Sam. Carrie – tell her please.’
Carrie looked down at her feet, all the while refusing to relinquish her grip on Michael’s hand, who was attempting to remove it from her grasp. But she had hold of the hand on his weaker side and he simply did not have the strength. It was almost laughable, and Sam suppressed an ironic smile.
‘Well?’ she asked Carrie.
‘No… he didn’t know I was coming – but I know he’s glad to see me.’
For the first time since he admitted the affair, Sam actually felt sorry for him.
‘Carrie – you have to understand this,’ Michael interjected desperately. ‘I am not pleased to see you. I’m sorry if you’re upset. But it’s over – OK? Finished. This was a terrible mistake.’
Carrie dropped his hand and stared at him, stunned.
‘OK, young lady… I think you heard him’, said Sam, grabbing the girl by the arm. ‘Out. Now.’
‘No,’ said Carrie wildly. ‘I love him. I’m not leaving; he doesn’t know what he’s saying.’
‘Oh, I think you’ll find that he does, and you are most definitely leaving – now.’ Sam pulled the younger woman away from Michael’s bedside. But she fought back and slapped Sam squarely across the face.
Sam reeled – more in surprise than pain.
‘If you don’t leave the hospital this minute, I will have you escorted off the premises.’ Sam’s voice was firm.
‘But… I know he loves me,’ Carrie insisted passionately.
‘I don’t think so,’ Sam turned to Michael for confirmation, who fiercely shook his head. ‘Good,’ she continued, ‘so if I were you, I’d get back to the airport and get the first plane out of here.’
The girl looked imploringly at Michael. But he turned his face away from her.
‘Just go, Carrie. This was all a terrible mistake,’ he said impassively.
Sam guided her out of Michael’s room and down the corridor. Once outside in the Piazza, she turned Carrie to face her, holding both her arms firmly. ‘Listen to me; this is not a game. He’s had a stroke. He’s very unwell. He’s told me all about you, and as far as he’s concerned, it’s over. It was a mistake. He’s sorry. OK – understand? Now, get in a cab and get back to the airport. I’m sure there’s a flight going back to England sometime soon. And don’t even think about coming back here. I mean it. I won’t be so kind next time.’
Once the girl was out of sight, Sam went back to Michael’s room. He looked so terribly distressed, she thought, as she lay down on the narrow hospital bed and put her arms around him.
‘It’s OK… she’s gone. Oh darling, you are a silly boy.’
‘I’m so sorry, Sam,’ he murmured through tears.
‘I know.’
It was five o’clock before Sam got back to the Piazza. She was amazed to see Dario still sitting at the café.
‘My God,’ she said, ‘I’m so, so sorry. Something happened… with my husband, and I couldn’t get away. I should have rung you, but… things just got a bit out of hand.’
‘It’s OK. I hope it’s not serious,’ Dario said.
‘Not really. Just a bit time-consuming. How was the boat race?’
‘Much as last year and the year before that. I’m sorry you missed it. It’s a lovely sight. Do you want a drink?
‘Thank you, just an orange juice. I think I had a bit too much last night.’
‘Ah… so it was the booze…’ he said, smiling.
‘Not exactly, Dario. Oh God… this is so complicated. I think you’re lovely. I hope you know that. But it’s so difficult with my husband. He’s had a fling with some girl, he’s now dumped her and thinks everything will go back to normal. But… now there’s you.’
‘Is there?’ he asked.
‘Well yes. I mean, I don’t go around kissing strange men all the time, you know. I really like you, Dario – you’re lovely.’
He took her hand across the café table. ‘I think you’re lovely too,’ he said.
‘But my husband has just had a stroke, and whatever else he’s done, I owe it to him, to our children, to try to keep it together. To get him home, help him get well. Do you understand?’
‘Unfortunately for me, yes I do. I completely understand… he’s a lucky man.’
‘Mmm, well I’m not quite sure he’d agree with you about that.’
They finished their drinks and walked together across the Piazza to her hotel, their hands just touching.
‘Can we meet up tomorrow?’ she asked. ‘There is so much still to do. We need to get someone to look at those documents that turned up with the drawing. They appear to be in an old dialect. Do you understand them?’
‘No. They’re not Italian, but what looks like a medieval variant of Latin. I can make out the odd word, but nothing more. Let me get in touch with the Operaio’s office – they’re bound to have an archivist there. Or we could speak to the curator of the museum. But the Operaio would be best.’
‘OK, and I really want to meet up with the Professor again and show him your father’s incredible find.’
‘Yes, of course; I’ll call them both in the morning. You’re right; there’s a lot to do, and I have to get back to work at the end of this week… back to Rome.’
Sam was surprised by her own disappointment. ‘Oh, of course,’ she said, ‘somehow I just imagined you always being here.’
He smiled at her. ‘Hold that thought,’ he said before kissing her, just once, on her mouth.
‘See you tomorrow.’
The archivist for the Operaio worked in a set of offices that adjoined the hospital of Santa Chiara, on the edge of the Piazza. The building formed a quadrangle, with the hospital on one side and open loggias running the length of the pale terracotta buildings on the other. Sam and Dario entered the quadrangle through a large archway from Via Santa Maria.
Dappled sunlight filtered onto the open loggia, highlighting the peeling plasterwork and the worn tiled floor. ‘This used to be part of the hospital, I believe,’ he said. ‘It’s where the whole thing started. There is a chapel down here too; the hospital was originally a convent, and the nuns took in patients as part of their Christian work.’
Dario turned left off the loggia into a narrow alley that intersected one side of the quad. Bright sunlight beckoned at the other end, but he stopped halfway along and knocked at an old wooden door, before pushing it open and motioning Sam to follow.
She found herself in a small square room painted entirely in white, with a dark chestnut floor. In spite of the white walls, the room was dark – with just one small window onto the loggia. At the far end stood a simple table, decorated with an old majolica vase, filled with dried flowers. That’s certainly seen better days, thought Sam. A crucifix hung above the table, and against the third wall were two simple wooden chairs. After a few minutes, an elegant woman, with dark brown hair, appeared at a doorway in the corner.
‘Buongiorno,’ she said warmly, ‘you must be Dario Visalberghi. Please come through to my office. My name is Gina Balzarelli. How may I help you?’
Gina’s office was as dark as the anteroom, but much larger. There was an elegant mahogany desk, two guest chairs, and hundreds of leather-bound volumes packed into sturdy dark wooden bookcases which lined the walls from floor to ceiling.
She gestured to them both to sit down.
‘Welcome,’ she said warmly.
‘Oh good,’ said Sam, ‘you speak English.’
‘Yes,’ said Gina, ‘I worked in London for a while – at the British Library. Now, Dario has told me a little of your interests in our city and its history. He says you are m
aking a film here?’
‘Yes,’ said Sam, ‘that’s right. I am making a film about the rescue of the Tower, but we are also interested in exploring more information about “the widow”, Berta di Bernardo, who left the money for the tower to be built. I have spoken to Professor Moretti, who has been most helpful to me. He is of the opinion that she was a simple patron of the arts, but I am struggling to find out more about her. A few days ago, some builders found a collection of letters and documents, hidden behind some panelling in an old house on the Arno, which might have been where the lady herself lived. We are not sure. These letters, however, contain reference to the Operaio… and Dario and I wondered if you might be interested in them, and whether you had any more information in your records about “the widow”.’
‘Our records do not go such a long way back, I’m afraid – nothing much beyond the eighteenth century in fact. Record-keeping was not such an exact science before that time. So I am fascinated to see your documents… may I?’
Dario handed over the sheaf of papers and Gina took each photocopy out in turn and studied it.
‘They appear to be in some kind of dialect,’ said Dario, ‘I couldn’t quite work out what they were saying.’
‘Yes… they are. Which is interesting in itself. Italian as we know it now was not in use before the thirteenth or fourteenth century. These appear to have been written in a Tuscan dialect – based essentially on Latin – that was in use no later than the twelfth century – so that certainly puts them squarely in the time of the widow. She died in…?’
‘Around 1172,’ said Sam, ‘or at least that’s when she wrote her will. I have a copy of that too – it’s been translated into modern Italian fortunately. I have it here if you’d like to see it.’
‘Thank you. I have seen it before of course. Now let’s look at these other pieces. They are photocopies. Where are the originals?’
‘With my father, Lino Visalberghi, but they are being sent to the university for carbon-dating and restoration.’