“I am Lilith, the first woman,” Lucrezia responded, thrusting both arms in the air triumphantly, careful not to spill her remaining champagne. “All-powerful. Never submissive. Unsatisfied as the wife of Adam, I turned myself into a cobra and seduced Eve, giving her a mind of her own. And death? Somehow I can’t talk about death tonight.” She looked intently at Morgan.
Morgan noticed tears welling up in her defiant eyes. He took her by the arm and moved her out of the circle. “Let’s go sit in the garden and talk about Ibrahim,” he said softly as they walked away.
Alessandro and Justine watched them go. Justine wondered how much love remained between her parents and whether it might ever rekindle. Alessandro, his nostrils flared with what appeared to be jealousy, must be wondering the same thing.
Soon after, Amir found himself sitting quietly on a wrought iron bench near the edge of the garden. He removed his headpiece, held his champagne glass with both hands, and stared down at the valley below, his face drawn tight at the temples, a shadow of grief sweeping across his damp eyes. Justine sat down beside him and placed her hand on his furry paw. Neither spoke.
A small chime drew guests toward the villa’s archway. Inside the Loggia Ristorante, a six-course dinner with accompanying wines awaited the distinguished donors. After the sumptuous meal, an auction of donated art and artifacts commenced. Each auction offering secured a price beyond its apparent worth, and Justine speculated about the provenance of some of the treasures. Perhaps someday they would be of interest to the Italian Carabinieri.
And as for death? It wears many masks.
At 5:00 a.m. Justine awoke with a start, her blue satin camisole clinging to her breast. She stared up at the ornate molding and forced herself to breathe. What had she been dreaming? Lions and snakes and . . . Ibrahim. She forced herself to get up. Why, she wasn’t sure. Would Ibrahim be dead if it weren’t for me? Probably not. If I hadn’t found the wretched codex . . .
She shook her head to loosen her feelings of guilt, remembering Nadia’s comments that her guilt was hungry and she fed it with whatever she could find. Justine refused to take on such a heavy burden, but this morning the burden of guilt was intense.
Justine walked unsteadily into her bathroom and stepped into the primitive shower that had been scaffolded over the claw-foot tub. While the hot water caressed her back, she imagined Amir’s hands all over her, moving the suds across her skin. Reluctantly, she climbed out of the shower, dressed, and headed downstairs to the small study where she had set up her laptop.
She scrolled through her email with alternating irritation and disinterest until she spotted a familiar address: [email protected]. How curious. She was just on my mind. Justine conjured up an image of her Egyptian friend. Middle-aged, short, and full-figured, Nadia had an agreeable face whose animated features registered each new idea. Nadia had the energy of a much younger woman—and she needed it for her work with the Community Schools of Egypt, where she and Justine had briefly worked together.
My dear Justine,
Wishing we could meet for coffee this morning. So much to tell. I know you have heard that Ibrahim El Shabry died in an accident in the Rare Books Library. Fell down the stairs. We were all deeply saddened by this tragedy and pray for his family. You were so close to Dr. Ibrahim and must have taken the news quite hard. I saw Amir at the service and he told me you knew. I can only apologize for not contacting you sooner.
I have some news. In addition to my UNICEF work with the Community Schools for Girls, I’ve begun working part time with UNESCO. The site at Cerveteri is part of my assignment and word has reached my office that the archeological team there is having some problems. The local superintendent thinks that personality differences may be slowing down the work.
Could I impose upon you to check out the situation? See what is causing conflict among the team members? I hope to be able to get over there sometime this year, but not right now. I understand that this is a delicate situation because of your dad, but if you could just fill me in with a few details I would be most grateful. Much love, Nadia
Justine leaned so far back in her chair that it almost slid out from under her. Spy on Dad? That’s the way he would see it. Yet similar issues trouble him. Can I address the problem from both sides? She hit the Reply button.
Dear Nadia,
I do hope that you are well. It has been a long time—I am mutually responsible for the sketchy communications.
I appreciate that you understand the grief that my family and I feel at the loss of Ibrahim. He was a friend, mentor, colleague—and so much more. We will miss him.
Dad has mentioned some of the same problems at the site to which you allude. And he has asked me to work with him. I believe he is interested in mending fences as much as possible. I had already planned to assist with team effectiveness, so I’ll see what I can do. But you will need to rely on communications from the superintendent or Dad directly, rather than from me.
As you know, I am persona non grata in Egypt now, so I hope you’ll plan to visit us here in Fiesole—or perhaps we could meet in Greece.
Fondly, Justine
“What’s happened?” Lucrezia’s beautiful complexion seemed even more radiant without makeup. Painted toenails crept out from beneath her blue kaftan.
“What makes you think something has happened?” grinned Justine. “I’m going to Cerveteri. I told Dad and Amir I’d be along this morning.”
Ignoring her daughter’s question, Lucrezia said, “I know. You said you were going to Cerveteri today.” She took Justine’s cup out of her hand, refilled it, and placed it on the table with a dish of blackberries and yogurt. Then she motioned for her pacing daughter to sit down. Lucrezia knew Justine well, but was prepared to be astonished, which happened less often than she liked.
Disregarding the maternal gesture, Justine walked to the window and stared into the garden, watching Prego loosen the soil around the pansies. Her thoughts returned to Prego’s revelation that boots and fear had filled the villa during the war. Justine’s left eyebrow arched as she drew her fingers into the shape of a tent and touched them to her lips.
“You have that perplexing expression on your face. Somewhere between a Cheshire Cat and an aging philosopher.”
“I received an e-mail from Nadia.” She sat down to enjoy her blackberries and described the message from Nadia. “I was perplexed. She asked if I would observe the goings-on at the dig and report back to her. I think I’ve decided upon my approach. After all, resolving the tensions there would be helpful all around.” She told her mother of her return message.
“That’s reassuring. I would hate you see you and your father caught in a vise between Italian and Egyptian authorities.”
“Exactly. But I must tell Dad that I know about the superintendent’s concerns. He will blow off steam for awhile.”
“Predictably.” They both laughed.
Within the hour, Justine had packed, dressed, and made ready for the lengthy trip to Cerveteri, which, as her mother had reminded her, she had planned to make anyway. Tossing her bag in the back of her Spider, she turned and walked toward the garden, looking for Prego.
“Prego. Good morning,” she said, finding him still on his knees, rocking back and forth as though he wasn’t sure he could get up. She considered whether to offer a hand, but thought better of it.
“Good morning, signorina. You go on trip?” Prego struggled to his feet and brushed the dark soil off his knees. Placing both hands in his pockets, he looked up at Justine, striking a familiar stance and squinting into the morning sun.
“Back to Cerveteri, Prego. To see Dad. When I return, we’ll talk.”
Concern darted through the crevices in his aged face.
CHAPTER 12
We are dying, we are dying so all we can do is now to be willing to die, and to build the ship of death to carry the soul on the longest journey.
—D.H. Lawrence, excerpt from The Ship of Death
VLADIMIRO AI BASTIONI was as empty
as it had been the last time Justine and her father had eaten there. When she opened the door, the succulent aromas sparked memories of their earlier conversation about feminism. That night with Amir. On the long drive from Fiesole, she had rehearsed several conversations she wanted to initiate with her father and Amir about Ibrahim and her work with the team. By the time she saw her father’s relaxed smile at the far end table, she had decided that her best tack was to be direct and honest about Nadia’s message. How novel, she mused. There was a time when I wouldn’t risk conflict with Dad, especially if there was any hint of criticism.
As soon as Justine sat down across from her father, he began his wine ceremony with a treasured bottle of Brunello di Montalcino. She observed his methodical moves without comment. And then, unexpectedly, it was he who spoke first. “How confident are you that Ibrahim’s death was not an accident?” he asked without looking up.
Surprised by his abruptness, Justine paused before answering. How confident am I? “‘Confident’ is probably not a word I would use,” she said. “‘Suspicious’ is more like it. In those last few days in Cairo, Ibrahim told us the whole story of the theft of the codex, including the involvement of the Supreme Minister of Antiquities, then he somehow managed to give Amir the copy to bring to me. Both Ibrahim and Amir knew it was risky.”
“I’ve got people in our Egyptian Embassy looking into the case, and Amir tells me the family is working with the authorities.” He reached for her hand. “This was a painful loss, Justine. He was like a father to me.”
“I know, Dad.” Justine took his hand in hers and squeezed. “It must hurt a great deal. I knew him for less than a year and I came to care about him more than I might have imagined.” She held her father’s wounded gaze and wondered how she would handle his death. Not well.
He patted her hand and withdrew his own as the restaurant’s chef and proprietor approached. It was not in his nature to have another man think him sentimental. “Here we are, honey. Vladimino will tell us what we want to eat.” He smiled at the rotund Napolitano. “By the way, Amir drove back to Rome this afternoon. He needs to return to Cairo.”
“Trouble?”
“Not that I know of—but he’s going to ask some hard questions.”
Justine just nodded.
“Signorina. Signore. Welcome, welcome back. You are both well?” The corpulent man had the head and mane of an opera singer. “Tonight we will eat zuppa di pesce and Calamari Ripieni. Fresh from Sicily.”
“Sounds wonderful,” said Justine, without asking what ripieni meant. She wondered how Vladimino managed his delicacies with such large hands, and his inventory with so few customers. When he disappeared into the kitchen, she turned to her father.
“Dad, I received an e-mail from Nadia Mansour early this morning. You’ll remember that she and I worked together on the UNICEF project in Egypt. Well, she now has some responsibility for the oversight of a few UNESCO sites, including the one in Cerverteri.” She picked up her wine and moved it toward her lips, watching him over the rim of her glass. “I told her I would be working with the team. What would you think if one of my duties is to communicate on a regular basis with Nadia? Just an e-mail once in a while. She won’t be coming to Italy this year.”
Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “What does she want to know?” He was suddenly alert.
Justine saw her father’s defenses rise. Understandable. “She just wants to be assured that the team is working well with the local authorities. No big deal. Routine.” She released her breath slowly, awaiting the inevitable.
Morgan slammed down his wine glass, splashing some of the ruby liquid onto his hand. He reached for his napkin, “Bitch! The local superintendent has given Nadia reason to think that there are tensions in the project! But now that Amir is working with her, things are fine. This is my team. I’m a professional. I know what I’m doing and I don’t need interference.” His fist came down on the edge of the table, spilling his wine again.
Justine ignored most of his questions—and all of his anger. She paused while he again wiped the red wine off his hand and attempted unsuccessfully to salvage the white linen tablecloth. “Dad, relax. I think she’d just like to know if you are satisfied with how things are going.”
“‘Satisfied’ is a strong word, Justine. Riccardo is a hopeless romantic, but a good worker. The local crew takes too many breaks and insists on wine with lunch. And Della Dora is qualified but picky. Can’t stop asking questions. But now that Amir is here, things will be different. A competent man. Soon we’ll get some research assistants and that will help too.”
“Della Dora?”
“The linguist, a new hire from the University of Bologna. Quite a scholar, renowned in fact. He agreed to come out of retirement for this dig. But sometimes I think he has his own agenda.”
Apparently, Andrea refused his offer to work as a linguist with the team.
Vladimino arrived with two clean napkins and the succulent seafood dishes. With characteristic drama, he took his time placing the dishes on the table. Bowing lavishly, he kissed his folded fingers and said, “Buon appetito!” Morgan managed a weak smile.
As soon as Vladimino was out of sight, the lines on either side of his mouth tightened and the veins in his temples throbbed. Justine felt an urge to rescue her father swelling up in her chest. She wanted to change the subject, but resisted her maternal impulses. “Any hunches about what this is all about? Why the superintendent is causing problems?”
Morgan turned toward his daughter. His eyes and mouth softened. “You’re not going to let go of this, are you? Or tell me what business you have in this matter.”
“None. No business whatsoever. I just thought you might want to hear it from me so you could nip it in the bud.” She slowly ate her chowder and waited.
Morgan lifted a little white bundle of stuffed squid onto his plate and began to carve. “When our team meets, the conversation is all over the place,” he said. “Riccardo’s hopes are unreasonable. Della Dora just asks questions. The three local team members, Adamo, Donatello, and Fabiano—sound like actors in an Italian opera, don’t they?—so far they have little to contribute, especially after lunch when they’ve insisted on wine. Amir will help me straighten this out. Lately he’s been preoccupied with family affairs. But, right now, no one seems committed to the mission of this project anyway.”
“And what is that mission, Dad?” said Justine between spoonfuls.
Morgan paused, his fork suspended in the air. “The mission is”—he searched for the right words, and a chunk of crusty bread—“we are searching for a tomb or tombs that could provide information challenging current theories about the Etruscan civilization—its religious and governing practices, the development of its language, its origins.”
“So what’s your plan to get everyone on board with the mission?”
Morgan threw her a dart with his eyes, looked exasperated. Then he met her question with one of his own. “Okay. Dr. Anthropologist. What can I do to bring this team together?”
Justine was astonished. Her father had never asked for advice before. For several moments, she struggled for the right tone and words. “Successful teams fully understand their mission. Their members understand their roles—their contribution to the mission. Each member is encouraged to share his or her ideas, and each one is listened to. Problems are handled by the group.”
“Sounds reasonable, but what if the ideas are bad ideas? Why do I have to listen to bad ideas?” His voice had an acidic quality; he ran his fingers through his hair.
Justine laughed, responding to the words rather than the tone. “Dad, it’s important to make people feel that they’ve been heard, respected.”
“Respected. Ah, yes,” said her father, sliding back in his chair. “Tell you what, honey. Come with me to the team meeting in the morning. Gather your own data. If you can bring this team together, you’ve got yourself a job. I’ll be going out early, but I’ll come back and meet you for coffee and we’ll g
o together to the damn meeting. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said, pleased to be asked. “Under the clock tower?”
“I’ll be there by nine.” Rising with his hands firmly on each corner of the table, Morgan bowed to the chef and his daughter and left the check on his running tab.
It was 9:00 a.m. Justine sat under the indigo and gold fairytale clock tower at the west end of the Piazza Risorgimento. She sipped her cappuccino and wondered who was more nervous about the impending meeting: she or her father. She considered her presence there risky for both of them. The young waitress hurried to the table, her dress very short, its faded, appliquéd roses swaying from side to side. Justine raised her voice so that her order for another cappuccino and a croissant could be heard above sirens in the distance.
By 9:15, Justine had finished her coffee, but her father had not appeared. Unlike him to be late, she thought. He probably lost track of time at the dig site. Several minutes passed before her mind cast back to the sirens. They had come from the east and faded toward the north. She threw down five euros, grabbed her backpack, and ran.
Justine sped east through clothes-lined alleyways. As she raced toward the Necropolis of the Banditaccia, her speedometer read 75 km/h. Parking outside the necropolis, she sped through the fields of tumulus and jumped the low-lying fence into the area of her father’s dig. Ambulances were parked nearby. An older man wearing a button-up shirt and khaki pants belted high on his waist rushed toward her.
“You must be Justine,” said Delmo Della Dora, introducing himself. His broad forehead was framed by a full head of graying, curly hair; large brown eyes jumped impatiently. Wrinkles began at his hairline and ran down, crowning the bridge of his nose. “I’m afraid that your father is still down there. And Adamo. The roof has collapsed, bringing the tombs from above into the freshly dug area. I’m sure he’ll be all right. Riccardo is down there now.” His calm voice denied the urgency of his words.
The Italian Letters: A Novel (The Justine Trilogy Book 2) Page 9