The premier Etruscan museum in Italy occupied a garden-enclosed, eighteenth-century, rose-colored villa that had been used as a hospital during World War II. “To understand the Etruscans, you must understand the Greeks,” Miranda called over her shoulder. “The reciprocity cannot be untangled.” Justine would one day discover the profound significance of that simple statement.
Justine found what she was looking for on the second floor, the Sarcophagus of the Spouses, sixth century BCE, in terra cotta. She looked at the inscription and found that it had been discovered in Cerveteri. “Are these sarcophagi only found in Cerveteri?” Justine asked Miranda.
“No,” replied Francesca Boitani, the museum director, entering the room behind them. “These are molds that could be purchased. Like a tombstone. Nonetheless, there are very few of them in existence.”
A wave of disappointment moved through Justine. She didn’t want to know that the sarcophagus was a common mold.
“Is Dr. Andrea LeMartin here?” asked the director.
“That would be me,” said Andrea, puzzled by the recognition.
Dr. Boitani stepped forward and took Andrea’s hand. “Thank you for leaving your names in the gift shop. I’m familiar with your work, Dr. LeMartin, especially your translations of some of the Dag Hammadi finds in Egypt.”
“Andrea, please. I’m honored that you know of my work.”
“Etruscans are my specialty, Egyptians my avocation and passion. Your translations are thorough, detailed. Very professional. I am curious about some of your findings. Won’t you ladies join me in my office for tea?”
CHAPTER 7
“Cicero smiled at us. ‘The art of life is to deal with problems as they arise, rather than destroy one’s spirit by worrying about them too far in advance. Especially tonight.”
—Robert Harris, Imperium: A novel of Ancient Rome
LATER THAT EVENING, a taxi drove the three women to the end of Via Veneto Boulevard to a stone wall surrounding the city. On the left stood Ristorante Harry’s Bar. A golden crest signifying the name hung amid a row of amber lanterns that lit a large patio of formally prepared tables. The name, Harry, was about the only consistent feature of the famous saloons found in New York, Paris, and Venice. The Roman Harry’s was Victorian in style. The interior featured delicate lights in the form of lilies, velvet curtains, and gold-embossed walls. Its waiters wore tuxedos.
“The drink of the house is the Bellini,” said Miranda, who was modestly attired in a city where women wear stilettos to pick up their children from preschool. She had changed at the hotel into a tailored salmon dress and small gold earrings for the evening, defying Justine’s expectations of royal glamour. “A blend of champagne and peach liquor. It’s yummy.”
Without waiting to hear Justine’s preference, Andrea turned to the attentive waiter and ordered three Bellinis.
“That conversation we had with Dr. Boitani was unexpected and welcome,” said Justine. “Kudos to you, Andrea. She was almost gushing about your work. And her belief that the Etruscans created literary works is exciting, even though such remains have not yet been found. Dad and Riccardo will want to talk with her.”
“I’ll be glad to arrange a meeting,” said Andrea. “I could pick up your father in Cerveteri.” She winked at Justine.
Justine stiffened at the thought of another liaison between Andrea and her father. “Aren’t you returning home soon?” she grinned, fingering the four strands of pearls at her neck that complemented her black linen dress.
Miranda looked from one woman to the other, clearly puzzled by the exchange.
“That I am,” Andrea admitted. “But just now, I want you to know that Miranda has been working with the Italian Culture Minister, Riccardo Rutelli.” Andrea slowly lifted her napkin and set it across her silk slacks. “I think she can fill us in on the Marion True story.”
“Marion True? I’ve read a couple of things in the International Herald Tribune,” said Justine, pushing the previous moment’s apprehension to the back of her mind.
Miranda shook her head, her auburn hair swinging from side to side. “Andrea overstates my importance in the ministry. I occasionally assist with translation, but my primary occupations are teaching two English classes and raising my two lovely daughters. Okay. Here’s what I know. Marion True was the Getty antiquities curator from 1986 to 2005, when she was released from her duties—fired, as you Americans would say.” She went on to explain that Marion True had represented one of the world’s most aggressive collectors, and had worked endlessly in the international markets, assessing and acquiring Italian and Greek antiquities. Italian authorities investigated her for years and charges were finally filed in court in 2005.
“So she was dismissed because she was guilty?” asked Justine, squinting at her friend. Andrea never pursues a story without a reason. So why Marion True?
“Really, no. The public reason was that she had taken a loan for a second home from a client. But I think it was because the Getty wanted an excuse to disassociate itself from her before the trial started in Rome.”
“Back up, please,” said Justine, confused but engrossed in the story. “Isn’t this case a bit extreme? After all, unprovenanced trafficking has been going on for centuries.”
“I know. I know, but things in the field of museum acquisition have changed dramatically in the last few years,” said Miranda. “At one time, asking ‘Where did you get this?’ would have been poor etiquette. And provenances were often unknown or shaky.”
The musicians started to play “La Vie en Rose.” Andrea shivered as though old memories encircled her. She held the sleeves of her beaded sweater and interjected, “As far back as ’72, I remember, there was a case of a vase involving the dealer Hecht.” The vase had been the work of the Greek ceramicist Euphronias, found in Cerveteri.
“Dad is working on a new dig in Cerveteri,” Justine explained to Miranda. “I’ve heard that the Etruscans were the largest importers of Greek vases.”
Miranda nodded. “The New York Met was charged with plundering many Etruscan sites. They focused on aesthetic qualities and didn’t ask too many questions about provenance. Today that wouldn’t do. Countries want their artifacts returned, so museums have to know where they came from.”
“True got caught in the crosshairs of history with some questionable characters, dealers such as Hecht, a collector named Symes, and Giacomo Medici, who was convicted in ’04, sentenced to ten years in prison, and fined a lot of euros,” said Miranda, now in her element. “There were letters, purchases, ample circumstantial evidence, plenty of prova di contorno, information to adorn the edges. Enough to suggest that Marion True knew what was going on. Or should have known.”
“Do you think she was guilty?” asked Justine. “Will she be convicted?”
“I think she was careless. Perhaps she couldn’t imagine what can happen with authorities in Italy once the competition starts. It’s my hunch that they’ll drop all charges, now that they’ve got what they wanted,” said Miranda. Her nose wrinkled involuntarily when she knew she was particularly clever. “Conforti has retired.”
“Who’s Conforti?” asked Justine and Andrea simultaneously.
“I’m hungry,” said Miranda, noticing surprise on the other women’s faces. “I’m very active!” she added defensively.
Justine laughed, amused that such a willowy woman could have such a voracious appetite. “Please go on . . .”
Miranda pursed her lips, then continued while she studied the menu. “General Conforti became personally obsessed with this case, so he and the Carabinieri started investigating True in the late ’90s. There was tremendous rivalry among the ministries, each trying to make la bella figura, to look good. When such competition gets going in Italy, the evidence can get lost in the shuffle. You see, Conforti was particularly obsessed with the return of the Aphrodite, the most disputed piece at the Getty. And he and the Carabinieri were unimpressed by the museum’s pretense at diligence in returning othe
r items. They became determined to pursue this case to its conclusion. To create an intimidating example.”
“What do you mean by lost in the shuffle?” asked Andrea, fingering an engraved silver cigarette case that she never opened in Justine’s presence.
“The process is more important than the outcome,” explained Miranda. “Looking good, getting promoted, playing the game, outdoing your rivals. As long as the evidence is enough to bring a passable case to court. After all, it might all be dropped anyway. Usually for political reasons.”
Andrea laughed in recognition. “Men are more alike than different.”
“Did you ever meet her?” asked Justine, indifferent to the menu.
“Once, at a party,” said Miranda. “A woman in her mid-fifties, gracious, confident. Well-dressed, an Armani suit and furs. Blond hair, probably not natural. She told me, quite casually, that you’re not really important in Italy unless someone is investigating you. Actually, I liked her.”
“Sounds like a sophisticated woman,” observed Justine.
“I’d say so,” said Miranda, “Ironically, many of the reforms that Marion talked about are now in place. Many in the field have argued that if museums hadn’t picked up on and collected unprovenanced finds, they would have ended up in private collections. But things have changed. Museums have stopped buying these antiquities for the most part. Many items have been returned, and museums are engaging in loans. Ownership isn’t that important anymore, as long as loans can be liberally arranged.”
For nearly a half hour, Justine had been trying to piece together Andrea’s motive in pursuing the Marion True story. Andrea did few things without reason. “What does this story have to do with the codex, Andrea?” Justine finally asked, almost sharply. “There’s always a purpose behind your curiosities, n’est-ce pas?”
“You know me too well, cherie. I wanted the inside story so we’ll know what to expect from the Italian authorities regarding the codex.”
Protecting me—or herself?
Miranda placed both her hands firmly on the table, palms down, and demanded to know what the codex was.
Andrea and Justine stared at each other. After a short silence, Andrea said, “Let us order first. A true Roman dish, baccalà, cod with raisins and pine nuts.”
“And puntarelle, a salad of chicory and garlic-anchovy sauce,” added Justine.
Andrea touched her forefinger to her nose and called the waiter. “I’ll have the nudi gnocchi. And another Bellini,” added Miranda. For several minutes, the women listened to the music, watching people come from and go into the underground station situated between the restaurant and the stone city wall. Street lamps gave the remains of their Bellinis a pearly luminescence.
“I’ll start,” Justine said finally. “A year ago—I can’t believe it was only a year ago—I visited St. Sergius Church in old Cairo. The cave, now a crypt, under the church, was supposed to have been the resting place, for some years, of the Holy Family.” Justine heard Miranda inhale sharply. “I entered the cave just before a major earthquake hit. I was trapped. But with help, I managed to get out, carrying with me a little book that wasn’t mine . . . that had apparently fallen into my bag in the chaos.”
“An ancient codex,” interjected Andrea, coolly. “The diary of the Virgin Mary.”
Miranda opened her mouth but was unable to form a word. Then she managed, “Where is it?”
“It was stolen,” whispered Justine, just as dinner arrived.
CHAPTER 8
The market in antiquities is perhaps the most corrupt and problematic aspect of the international art trade.
—Marion True
THE NEXT MORNING, Justine lay on her bed in the Hotel Michelangelo, staring at the cocktail napkin in her hand. An hour passed as a kaleidoscope of haunting scenes raced across her mind. The earthquake in Cairo, her disappointing love affair with Nasser, being expelled from her mother’s home country. But Amir is here . . . where do I want that relationship to go?
But it was the story that Andrea had told her in Alexandria that flooded her mind most prominently: the story of Andrea’s fiancé, Francois, landing in Algeria the night before he was kidnapped, tortured, and killed. His Foreign Legion uniform perfect in the afternoon sun, shining buttons and metals. His blinding smile. Francois had written to Andrea that last night. On the letter, he had doodled a sketch of the plane he’d flown across North Africa. So eager was she for news, his voice. Justine was convinced that the plane was a DC-2. The same plane, she’d come to learn, that was flown over Africa by Hal Blackburn, the codex thief’s father. So many questions she’d had for Andrea. But not asked. Had Francois expected Algeria to be like India—safe? So innocent, so unsuspecting he was. Andrea’s only grand passion, and the one from which she still hadn’t recovered.
A wave of guilt washed through Justine. How could she resent Andrea? Her secretiveness; her efforts to find momentary happiness with Morgan. Forcing herself to get out of bed and stop whining, Justine walked unsteadily to the bathroom and stood under the hot shower for several minutes while she made her decision. Oh, those Bellinis! She would go to the antiquities area alone. Andrea didn’t need to know . . . not yet. Although Justine was convinced that Andrea suspected something, she would protect her friend until she was sure.
She quietly opened her door, glanced across the hall to Andrea’s room. No light was coming from under the door; she heard no sound. Justine headed for the stairs, avoiding the noisy elevator.
Light swarmed into the narrow alleys off Piazza Navona. Bicycles wound their way by grocers filling bins with spring squash, carrots, and chard, alongside imported bananas and peaches. Street grocers gave way to shops distinguished by black brick and brass entrances. Justine stepped into a coffee shop and ordered an espresso, which she drank quickly before returning to the alley.
She walked more slowly now, staying in the portion of walkway still shaded from the searching early light, examining each antiquities shop in turn. Unknown to Justine, another figure moved rapidly, running toward her, south across Ponte San Angelo, turning briefly onto Tor di Nona, then continuing south, nearing Via Coronari. The two collided violently. Justine fell on the cobblestones, cutting her left elbow. The runner grabbed a cornerstone and kept her balance.
“What are you doing here?” demanded a breathless Justine, struggling to sit up.
“I could ask you the same thing,” answered Andrea, clearly angry that she was being left out of some adventure, even if concerned about her friend’s injury. “I often run in the early morning too. Just started up again recently. Trying to stay in shape.” Andrea held out her hand to help Justine up. “Weren’t we going to meet for breakfast at the hotel?”
Justine accepted the extended hand, brushed herself off, and examined her bleeding elbow. She pulled a handkerchief from her jean pocket and held it to the wound. “You run with the power of a train, my friend. Don’t you watch where you’re going?”
“People rarely lurk in the shadows on the left side of the street. What were you looking for?” Andrea asked even as she looked up and noted the row of antiquities shops. “Ah.”
“All right. I was looking for Blackburn. His shop, anyway. Thought I might recognize something.”
“Like a codex displayed in the front window?”
“Smartass. Let’s go back to the hotel. I need another shower and a bandage.”
The two women walked silently back to Hotel Michelangelo and entered their separate rooms.
Andrea called back over her shoulder, “Let me know when you’re out of the shower. I’ve got a small first aid kit.”
They chose a table in the hotel breakfast room by a bank of tall windows with lace curtains that overlooked the piazza and fountain. A young woman brought a tray of coffee and hot milk, motioning to a side table with pecorino and cold cuts, hard rolls, butter, and jams. Justine handed Andrea the cocktail napkin she’d found at lunch the day before and told her what she knew about the ancient DC-2. “And, o
f course, Francois flew . . .”
Andrea stared down, stirring her coffee, listening carefully, occasionally looking out at the Fountain of Four Rivers.
Justine stared at her friend across the table—an adventuress, daring and self-possessed. Capable of getting herself in over her head. “He’ll recognize you,” she said flatly. “I’ll go.”
Andrea grinned, as though she had hoped Justine would be enticed to confront Blackburn.
“One shop particularly interested me. It had many Egyptian artifacts, a bust of Horus, Isis with her sparrow hawk wings, amphora, a gold-plated chair, its back painted with hieroglyphics and poppies. Most of the other shops had Italian period furniture and lamps and an assortment of small Roman and Greek replica statues. However,” added Justine, “it seems too obvious.”
“May I speak with the owner of your shop, signore?” Justine asked a crumpled older man behind the cases of Egyptian jewelry, scarabs, and knives. The gentleman beheld a young woman in a dark gray suit, spike heels, and pearl earrings. Her hair was pulled into a chignon. The overall effect reminded him of Kim Novak in Vertigo. He loved American movies. “I’m Dr. Justine Hassouna with the Medea Foundation.”
The small man bowed slightly and walked to the back room. Calm voices could be heard through the curtain. Shortly, an erect man with long, lanky arms and legs and a wide girth emerged from the back of the cluttered shop. He was probably in his seventies, although his face was surprisingly free of wrinkles. Even though Justine was more than five foot eight, this man towered over her. He looked down, taking her hand. His blue eyes sparkled but revealed the pain that must have accompanied the scars on his left cheekbone and neck. “I am Enrico Lamberti,” he said gently. “How may I be of assistance?”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Lamberti,” she said, shaking his hand. “Dr. Justine Hassouna. I’ve been commissioned by the Medea Foundation to find a certain codex, recently discovered in Cairo. When I saw your Egyptian displays, I thought you might be helpful.”
The Italian Letters: A Novel (The Justine Trilogy Book 2) Page 6