“Why do you think that is, Riccardo?” Justine asked, raising her voice to drown out her father’s rudeness. “That so few verified Etruscan towns have been found?”
“Most of the buildings were made out of wood so didn’t survive. Probably destroyed by fire or dry-rot. Later generations probably used the wood for cooking fires as well. But tombs tell us a great deal about what the homes probably looked like. Come on, I’ll show you.” Riccardo led Justine back over the low-lying fence and toward a nearby tumulus. Her father reluctantly followed.
Riccardo led them into the Tomb of the Shields and Chairs, its large vestibule adorned with intricately carved shields. Chiseled from the rear wall, funeral beds of stone that once held sarcophagi. Nearby, two chairs with footrests gave the enclosure the homey appearance of a bedroom. “Look up,” Riccardo pointed. “This painting of a home with a thatched roof supported by capitals and columns tells us something about how they lived. And, think about it, this tomb was built more than 2,700 years ago. Notice these tools for everyday use sketched here and on many of the other tombs. Clearly, they thought they stayed here for a while before traveling on to the afterlife. So they brought along what they needed for daily life.”
Justine noticed the carving of an ornate mirror as well, and an arched comb with small, graduated teeth. Clearly women were expected to continue their beauty regimens in the hereafter. She grinned to herself, then pointed to the finds.
“Speculation,” grunted Morgan. “There are conflicting theories about how they viewed the afterlife. I can’t imagine that vanity held sway.”
“Many theories,” confirmed Riccardo, unruffled. “I’m drawn to D.H. Lawrence’s . . .”
“The biggest romantic of them all,” interrupted Morgan. “He didn’t know a thing about the Etruscans. A novelist,” he added dismissively.
“Why don’t you come to dinner this weekend and tell us about Lawrence and the afterlife?” Justine extended the invitation without looking at her father. “A friend of mine from Paris is coming in.”
“Love to,” Riccardo nodded, the morning light streaming in, dancing dust particles alive in the air. “I’m sure Dr. Jenner will tell me how to get there.”
Morgan turned away and walked into another chamber.
“Perhaps you can ride together,” she suggested, turning to climb back out into the full sunlight. Maybe they can get to know each other a little better.
Justine following, Morgan led toward the newly ploughed trough and scrambled down a small wooden ladder. Justine followed. Riccardo returned to his work site. Father and daughter sat yoga-style on the damp earth. Morgan removed his gloves and ran his hands over the newly cut earthen wall as though it were a thoroughbred. “This is the moment I love,” he said. “Virgin soil hiding her treasures like Michelangelo’s marble.”
Justine watched her father with fresh insight. “You’re a poet,” she charged.
“In some ways,” he admitted. “When I’m close to the treasures of history, I try to seduce them into releasing their secrets.” He continued to run his palms over the dark earthen wall with witching sensitivity.
“If you seek the treasures of history, why do you give historians like Riccardo such a bad time? Aren’t you after the same thing?” Justine’s hand followed the motions of her father’s, searching for the sense of mystery he felt.
“Not at all. Riccardo would connect finds together and create a story. The story may or may not be true. What we can infer today may not be how people thought back then. For me, each artifact can have value in and of itself. Then I look for patterns. If I find enough artifacts of the same expression, of the same utility, I know it was in routine use. If I find a piece of technology, I know the level of progress of the civilization. There is a valid history of technology, although sometimes even that can be misleading.”
“Such as?” She brushed her hands together to loosen the clinging soil, then wiped them on her pants.
“Well, for instance, the indigenous Americans used rounded objects to grind corn and make pottery, yet they never invented the wheel for transport. Amazing.”
“Amazing indeed.” She nodded. “Which led to a number of misinterpretations of native uses of technology . . . Regardless of some faulty assumptions, though, wouldn’t you say that some histories are defensible?” In spite of the heat, the damp ground soaked through her khakis and chilled her.
“Defensible histories that are straightforward, linear, that use the pieces of knowledge necessary to achieve the next level of advancement, yes. But not quixotic histories that speculate on human motives and emotions. Too subjective for me.”
“Psychological profiles are important to anthropologists. Otherwise, we couldn’t reason out the stories of civilization, understand human motivation. Perhaps there’s a niche for me there.” She shifted from side to side to loosen her slacks from the grasping earth.
“The female brain is hardwired for such endeavors. I’m not.” Morgan was unaffected by the growing dampness. He was in his element.
“Let me see if I get this straight: I’m an unrealistic girl who goes around with her head in a cloud wearing rose-colored glasses.”
“Something like that.” He tipped his hat playfully.
She stood abruptly, brushed herself off, and climbed the ladder. “I’m walking back,” she called down from above. Should I even consider working with him? He insists on such unimaginative thinking.
“I had more to show you, Justine. Don’t be angry. I was just playing with you.” He climbed the ladder two steps at a time, walking rapidly after her, unable to catch up.
As she emerged from the tree canopy into the heat of the day, her scalp began to sweat. The walk back into town didn’t soothe her frustration with her father’s chauvinism. He was either dismissing her work or trying to get her goat. Testing her all the time. She knew he was kidding, but it got tiresome.
Justine opened her car trunk, threw in her jacket, changed out of her boots, grabbed her purse, and brushed the dried mud off her slacks. She headed toward the east side of Cerveteri and a gray stone castle that housed the Etruscan museum.
A small sign indicated the entry through a ground-floor archway underneath the ramparts. She handed three euros to a young woman in a glass booth and stepped inside. An incline led to the upper ramparts and wound into a parapet and eventually a turret with barred windows. Crevices from missing stones offered homes to dozens of pigeons.
In the darkened room, strategically placed lights beamed down on sarcophagi, pottery, tools, and delicate votive offerings behind glass walls. Light streamed in through the barred window onto ancient carved metal mirrors, one decorated with the Etruscan god Tinia, known in Greece as Zeus, holding a feather umbrella and touching the gown of a maiden wearing rose- and disc-shaped earrings and bracelets of gold filigree and granulated crystals. Long rows of perky ducks walked across brooches and fibula. Fingers of light caressed black Bucchero pottery scattered about, designed to serve both utilitarian and decorative function; amphora and drinking cups dedicated to the Etruscan god Fufluns; vases and funeral urns engraved with the names of men and women. Bronze tableware, bowls and pitchers, ladles and strainers. Halfway down the room she came upon a terra cotta sarcophagus that drew her attention with such intensity that chills moved up her bare arms. She stood mesmerized for several moments by the mystery of this scene of profound union. A man and a woman lounged in each other’s arms on stone pillows, legs extending the full length of a royal bed. He was naked above the waist; she wore a tunic and long braids. His right hand rested tenderly on her shoulder, the forefinger of his hand extended as though pointing toward something they were viewing together through peaceful, yet lively, almond eyes. His left palm remained open as though it had once held a treasured offering of his love. The intimacy of this poised couple makes me feel like an intruder in an ancient boudoir. Behind the sarcophagus were four framed drawings of the floor plan and sketches of the inside of the tomb in which the sarcophag
us was found. This Sarcophagus of the Married Couple from the necropolis nearby had been dated to the second half of the sixth century BCE.
She turned around slowly, riveted by a growing consciousness of the story around her. She stared again at the images of men and women on the mirrors and black pottery, some etched with names for both partners, at amphora with dancing partners regarding each other without guile or modesty. She swirled, seeing the room with new lenses, her eyes the shutters of a fast-firing camera. Men and women were in conversation, touching, relaxing together, a natural part of each other’s world. The men assumed no dominance or superiority—no semblance of diffidence or timidity defined the women. The room came alive with the communal existence of humans on a shared journey. If any moment in time can bring an awareness powerful enough to inform everything that comes after, this was such a moment for Justine. Her eyes narrowed, her long fingers formed into a tent that she drew in wonder to her lips. A goddess culture, this extraordinary civilization began as a goddess culture! She felt with great avouchment that she understood the relationship between men and women in Etruria.
CHAPTER 4
“Unrequited love is the only possible way to give yourself to another without being held in indentured servitude.”
—Bauvard, Some Inspiration for the Overenthusiastic
HER HEAD STILL SPINNING from the museum visit, Justine parked her Spider in front of Chez Anna and checked in. She climbed the stairs to her room, threw open the shutters, and gazed out on the valley below, the sea beyond. Her mind floated back to the carved mirror in the ceiling of the tomb, the married couple in a warm, respectful relationship on the sarcophagus lid in the museum. Riveting images of men and women together . . . what did she know now?
The iron four-poster bed, covered with a white quilted coverlet, coaxed her to take off her shoes and dirt-encrusted khakis and relax with her latest purchase—D.H. Lawrence’s Virgin and the Gypsy, a quick read that the author had written for his stepdaughter, Barbara. She was again surprised by Lawrence’s ability to write with such sensuality without explicitly describing sexual consummation (until Lady Chatterley, that is):
. . . And through his body, wrapped round her strange and lithe and powerful, like tentacles, rippled with shuddering as an electric current, still the rigid tension of the muscles that held her clenched steadied them both, and gradually the sickening violence of the shuddering, caused by shock, abated, in his body first, then in hers, and the warmth revived between them. And as it roused, their tortured semi-conscious minds became unconscious, they passed away into sleep.
An hour later, Justine was awakened by a cool air drifting in from the sea. Stretching and shivering, she took a warm shower and dressed in a white silk blouse and clean khaki slacks. She was ready for dinner with her father.
It was a short walk back down a narrow street, hugged by fourteenth-century stone houses, to the fish restaurant Morgan had suggested. The theatrical owner and chef came from Napoli, and therefore was immediately held suspect by locals. The Ristorante Vladimiro ai Bastioni boasted the best Napolitano seafood outside of Rome . . . and Napoli, of course. Two diners at the table in the intimate room. One was her apprehensive father.
“Good evening, Dad,” she said in a lighthearted tone. “I see you’ve started on our bottle of wine.”
The other man turned toward her. She gasped. “Oh . . . Amir! What a surprise! I didn’t know you were here.” Her voice sounded slightly accusatory.
Morgan looked puzzled.
Amir met Justine’s questioning stare. “Do you think I’m following you?”
Justine blushed. “It entered my mind.”
“Whoa! Hold on here!” Morgan nearly shouted. “If I’d thought there was something between you two, I’d never have hired Amir without talking with you, Justine.”
“There is nothing between us.” Justine’s voice was confident.
Amir looked wounded. He turned toward the mustard stucco walls, dotted with framed photos and commendations to the owner as a much younger man. “Quite an array of accomplishments,” he noted, and picked up his wine. “Your father’s offering me a job. Archaeologist on the new dig.”
Morgan glanced at each of his guests, one at a time. He squinted. “You do know that I’ve known this young man since he was a mere whippersnapper.”
“Of course, Dad. I was just caught off guard.”
“Now for the wine. A little celebration,” Morgan said. “Mastroberardino Lacryma Christi del Vesuvio Bianco, tears of the Christ. I thought it apropos. Made from the Coda di Volpe, tail of the fox, to be exact.” He poured them each a glass. “Did you get some rest?” he asked, cautious with his daughter.
“I couldn’t rest until I went to the museum. Remarkable!”
“How so?” asked Amir.
“I visited it on my first day in town,” Morgan interrupted. “Impressive structure, but not much of a museum. At least, it doesn’t live up to the reputation of the necropolis itself.” He sipped his wine, watching them closely over the rim of his glass.
“You asked why I found it remarkable, Amir,” she said, ignoring her father. “I found it not only informative but moving. Particularly the Sarcophagus of the Married Couple. There seemed to be such an equal, respectful relationship among Etruscan men and women.” Picking up her wine glass, she held it suspended in her right hand until she concluded her impassioned description, then she took her first sip.
Amir nodded, captivated by her passion.
“You read too much into things, honey,” said Morgan. A flicker of regret moved through his eyes.
“Perhaps you’re right.” Her comment surprised both of them. Morgan relaxed into a familiar grin. He didn’t anticipate what was coming.
“Women are gifted with intuitive powers denied to men. Perhaps men are just defective women.” She saluted the two men with her glass, winked, and suggested that they order.
Amir laughed wholly, a laugh that Justine loved, and looked around for the menu.
“So true, Justine. So true.” Morgan also laughed with unrestrained fullness. “We don’t order here. Giuseppe tells us what we want to eat.” He motioned to the owner, who walked toward the table, his majestic stride practiced for a more abundant audience. “What delightful dishes do you have for us tonight, my friend?” Morgan had become a regular patron, one who was treated with the reverence of family.
“Calamari Ripieni and Pescespado o Tonno Alla Stemperata, signore. Giuseppe’s best. Only for you.” He clustered his chubby fingers into a bud and pressed them to his pursed lips. His smile stretched from cheek to cheek.
“Squid and tuna?” Justine asked, turning toward her father.
“Tonight, no tuna. Swordfish, my lovely signorina. Calamari stuffed with pecorino and prosciutto,” Giuseppe said in his rich Genoan accent. “And who is this beauty with you tonight, signore?”
“Ah, forgive me. Meet my daughter, Justine.” Giuseppe bowed deeply and kissed Justine’s hand. His gallantry charmed her. “And, this young man is my colleague, Amir El Shabry.”
Amir smiled and bowed slightly.
“Everything sounds wonderful,” Justine assured him, flashing her most beguiling smile.
The chef came to stand next to Giuseppe. “My friend here prepares the swordfish with olives and raisins and capers. Delicious,” said her father. The rotund chef hurried back to his open kitchen.
Two hours later, compliments about the glorious seafood paid, the three of them exhausted from speculating about the work to come in Cerveteri, the evening was winding down. With the second bottle of wine, tensions had relaxed and the three had become playful, recalling the years Morgan had taken Lucrezia and Justine with him on dig assignments in Egypt. Amir had tagged along, fascinated by Justine’s buoyant crinoline skirts, at children’s parties at his family home in Cairo. Morgan’s partner and mentor, Amir’s grandfather, Ibrahim El Shabry, had brought the families together on festive occasions. Being Egyptian, Lucrezia had forever been the gui
de and the star of any occasion.
Justine watched Amir closely as he picked at his dinner. Both Justine and her father knew that Egyptians tended to shy away from exotic cuisine. She had almost forgotten how handsome he was with his rumpled, curly black hair and piercing dark eyes. So sensual, so sexy.
“I’ll walk you back to Anna’s. That’s where you’re staying—right?” asked Amir.
“Thank you, Amir. Dad—you coming?”
“I’ll nurse my brandy.” Morgan pointed to the owner. “Giuseppe and I have some lies to exchange.”
“Why did you say there was nothing between us?” Amir asked as they turned the corner and started west down the narrow, darkened street. “We’ve been through a lot together. How about the kidnapping? Finding the Virgin Mary’s comb? My brother’s death?”
Justine shivered. He was right. They had been through a great deal together. Perhaps she didn’t want her father to know how intertwined they really were. They had desired one another, but refused to act on those feelings. Besides, she knew she wasn’t entirely over her affair with her betraying Egyptian lover, Nasser. Her father had been pressuring her on the details. “I know, you’re right, Amir. I’m sorry. But why didn’t you tell me you were coming? Going to be working with Dad? You have my e-mail.”
Amir took a deep breath. They had arrived in front of Anna’s. “I’d like to come up for a few minutes. At least try to resolve some misconceptions.”
Justine let the comment pass. She opened the outside door with her key and started up the stairs. Amir followed. The door to her room was unlocked. Inside, she turned to face him. “So, what’s the story here?”
“I assumed your father would tell you—and, frankly, as you said at dinner, I feared you’d think I was following you.”
“Were you?” she challenged.
“Justine, you know I’ve wanted to get back into the field for a long time . . . but there is some truth in your hunch. I did want to be nearer to you.” He stepped closer, moonlight catching the side of her face, her white blouse.
The Italian Letters: A Novel (The Justine Trilogy Book 2) Page 3