She closed her eyes, trying to recall exactly what that shifty young man with the backpack had looked like, but all she could remember was a shaved head, a long-limbed body, and snakelike tattoos running up and down his arms.
It wasn’t much to go on. Still, her instincts told her the two men were one and the same. But even if she was right, what did it prove?
She sighed with frustration and stared at the false window. What was the point of walling up a window? And why would anyone have wanted to block a view of the Turtle Fountain?
She wandered over to investigate. Carved above the palace’s monumental wooden doors was a marble coat of arms featuring a checkerboard pattern with a diagonal slash running across it. Inscribed above were three astonishing words: Palazzo Giacomo Mattei.
So this was Duke Mattei’s palace! According to the legend, the duke built the Turtle Fountain in order to win back his property and his bride—and he had succeeded. Why then had someone, presumably of the same family, walled up a window that looked out onto it?
Nailed to the front door was a notice. Beatrice stomped her feet in frustration that she couldn’t read it; then she heard her father’s voice—if you give up every time you meet with a challenge, you’ll never get anywhere. She remembered the pocket dictionary in her bag. She fished it out and began to look up the words.
She started with the bolded line across the top: Avviso di Asta Pubblica.
Avviso: notice.
di: of (she knew that already from her lessons).
Asta: auction.
Pubblica: public (obviously).
A public auction! Here in this very palace! She scanned the notice to find out when. There it was, at the bottom of the page: Esposizione: martedì il 27 luglio dalle ore 15.00 alle ore 19.00. Asta: domenica l’1 agosto alle ore 17.00. She gleefully translated the dates and times in her head: Tuesday, July 27 (today!) from three to seven p.m., and Sunday, August 1 at five p.m.
The auction was her in. If she could just get inside the palace, maybe she could find out more about the legend. She knew that somehow the legend was connected to whatever had happened to the turtles. It had to be. She felt it in her gut.
She glanced at her watch: two-thirty. She had a half hour. The only appropriate thing to do to fill the time would be to get a gelato, Italy’s version of ice cream—that was way better than ice cream.
As she made her way down the bending streets to her favorite gelateria, she put the legend and the fountain and the turtles and the man in black and the walled-up window and all the rest of it out of her head, and focused instead on which flavor to get.
Chocolate, of course, was excellent—but it was too hot for chocolate. Perhaps something fruity like melon or peach. Lemon was refreshing, but a bit sour. Maybe they had mango. . . .
She skipped into the gelateria with the taste of a dozen fruits on her lips. But before she could try out her limited vocabulary with the shop assistant, she recognized someone. A young man with floppy brown hair was tucking into a strawberry gelato armed with a tiny plastic spoon. It was the snooty tour guide who’d mocked her the week before.
First she tried to avoid him, still burning with embarrassment at how she’d humiliated herself in front of all those people. Then she had a brilliant thought: why not ask him about the legend? He was a tour guide; who better to know random bits of information?
Forgoing her gelato (and a good deal of pride), Beatrice gathered her courage and walked up to him just as he was downing the last of his ice cream. “Excuse me?”
He turned and looked at her, his eyelids drooping as if her existence bored him beyond words.
“Excuse me,” she repeated with her most winning smile. “You’re a tour guide, aren’t you? I was hoping you could answer a question.” She prayed he wouldn’t recognize her.
“Ah, you again!” he exclaimed in his cut-glass British accent. “Been to the Colosseum lately?” he sneered, glancing in the direction of the Theater of Marcellus.
Beatrice bristled. “Yes, well, um, I was wondering if you knew anything about the legend of the Turtle Fountain?”
“Ah, la Fontana delle Tartarughe . . . ,” he crooned, over-enunciating each word. “The loveliest fountain in Rome.”
“Oh, you think so too?” Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.
“I’d love to answer your questions, but I have a tour. . . .”
“Please, just a minute of your time! You see . . .” She thought up an excuse quickly. “I have to write a school paper on it, and I’ve looked through a dozen books but I just can’t find the last bit of information—”
“A school paper? In July?” He raised a dubious eyebrow.
“It’s for summer school,” she gabbled. “But, you know, it’s fine. If you don’t know anything about it, I suppose I could . . .”
Just as she’d hoped, he took the bait.
“Oh, believe me, I know all about that fountain. I practically wrote my dissertation on it.”
Dissertation, smishertation. I bet you don’t know the turtles were ripped off it last night, she wanted to shout. But she held her tongue. Instead she said, “It’s all right. I’m sure you’re very busy, and the last thing I want to do is waste your time—”
“Please. What do you want to know?” he said studying his fingernails with a sniff. “You have been fortunate enough to locate an expert.”
“I know about the legend of the Mattei duke who had the fountain built in one night to win back his property and his bride. But what I can’t figure out is why one of the windows of his palace was walled-up and painted over. Does it have anything to do with the legend?” She took a deep breath. She’d spewed it out as quickly as possible so he wouldn’t have a chance to interrupt. She looked up at him expectantly.
He said nothing, just stood there and smiled, enjoying her anticipation.
“Yes, that window.” He grinned to himself, as if deliberately leaving her out of an inside joke.
“Does it have anything to do with the legend?” she persisted.
“It has everything to do with it,” he said dramatically. “The duke won his property back, and his bride; everyone knows that story. But what most people don’t know is that the bride wasn’t so happy to be won. Some say she was in love with someone else; some say she was simply terrified of the duke’s infamous cruelty. Either way, she was being forced to marry him because his family was so wealthy and powerful. She begged her father to call it off, but the marriage contract had already been signed and he couldn’t back out without drastic social and financial consequences. Not even his ploy to get the duke to gamble away his fortune worked. When he lost the bet about the fountain, his daughter’s fate was sealed.”
Beatrice gasped. The picture of the duke and his bride that she held in her mind shifted like sand. Now instead of a love that couldn’t be broken, she saw a portrait of malice and fear.
“Inevitably, the marriage turned out to be an unhappy one. The young duchess ordered the window through which her father had first seen the fountain to be boarded up forever.”
“Then it’s not just a legend!” Beatrice blurted. “It all really happened!”
“This is a country that loves stories.” He shrugged. “Maybe it did; maybe it didn’t. Who are we to say?”
Beatrice wanted to ask him a dozen more questions, but he was gathering his things and glancing pointedly at his watch. “Thank you so much . . .”
“Nigel. Nigel Dundersnitch,” he said with a flick of his hair.
Beatrice suppressed a giggle at the unfortunate moniker.
“I’m Beatrice, by the way. Beatrice Archer. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help.”
Nigel’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you so interested in this obscure bit of history anyway?”
“Um . . .” She racked her brain for a plausible excuse but came up with zilch. “No reason!” she chirped, putting on her most innocent face.
Nigel didn’t look convinced. “If I were you, I’d be car
eful of who I spoke to about this,” he said, suddenly serious.
“And why is that?” Beatrice demanded.
“That family,” he said, glancing over his shoulder as if to make sure no one was listening, “the Mattei family . . .” He lowered his voice to a whisper and Beatrice had to lean in to hear him. “Legend has it they’re cursed.”
Eleven
THE FRENCHMAN
If Nigel had thought his warning would dissuade her from further investigations, well, it had done the exact opposite. She was more convinced than ever that the legend had something to do with the attack on the fountain, and that there was only one logical place to look for answers: the Mattei Palace.
Back in the square, a small crowd had gathered at the palace’s front door. She got in line behind a few dozen well-dressed Italians who were gradually being let in by a doorman. When it was finally her turn to enter, the doorman took one look at her shorts, T-shirt, flip-flops, backpack, and lack of adult chaperone, and barked, “Niente bambini non accompagnati!”
She stared at him in utter bewilderment.
“No unaccompaneed cheeldren!” he translated gruffly.
“But . . .”
“Arrivederci.”
She was unceremoniously pushed out of line, and a snooty middle-aged couple elbowed past and walked inside. So that was it? They weren’t going to let her in?
Refusing to accept defeat, she gathered her determination and stomped back to her apartment. “I’ll find a way to get into that palace if it’s the last thing I do!” she proclaimed aloud.
Back in her bedroom, she ransacked her wardrobe. She settled on a lavender knee-length wraparound skirt and a flowy gray silk blouse. She slipped on a pair of black sandals, pinned up her hair, and squirted on some perfume.
Grabbing a demure handbag, barely big enough for her keys—let alone her cell phone, had it been intact—she appraised herself in the mirror. Not bad. She looked like a completely different girl. Still, it only solved half the problem. Now she looked presentable, but she was still unaccompanied.
Could she pass for a few years older? Doubtful; she was short for her age as it was. Then how would she slip past the doorman? She marched out of her apartment. She’d think of something.
The line now snaked around the building. It seemed as though all of Rome’s elite had turned up in her little piazza to score some antique bargains. She sidled up to the back of the line, eyeing the people around her. Could one of them help her? How would she even ask in her nonexistent Italian?
Her eyes shifted to an older gentleman standing beside her, humming to himself and reading a newspaper. He was short and rotund, with salt-and-pepper hair and a trim gray beard. His eyes sported clusters of wrinkles on either side, like her dad’s—the kind made by a lifetime of smiling. He shuffled the pages of the paper and Beatrice noticed it had English headlines. Before she had time to stop herself, she shrieked, “Are you English?”
The man rolled his eyes at that unpleasant suggestion and replied in a thick accent, “No, I am not English, zank ’eavens, I am French! But I do speak English. ’Ow can I be of service, ma’moiselle?” he asked, folding the paper and tucking it under a plump little elbow.
“I . . . um . . .” She racked her brain for an appropriate question. “Do you happen to know . . . if you need an appointment to attend the auction?”
“But tonight is not ze auction, ma’moiselle.”
“What? I read the notice on the door. . . . I thought it said Tuesday and Sunday. . . .” What had she misunderstood this time?
“Today is the exposition, for prospective buyers to view ze collection. Ze auction itself is on Sunday.”
“Oh. Well, that’s okay. I just want to visit the palace.”
“Now, why would a leettle child like yourself want to visit zis palace? Certainly zere are more exciting sites in Rome?”
“Um . . .” How many times would she find herself lying to a total stranger today? “I just love the . . . er . . . history of the Mattei family. You know, the fountain, the legend . . .” She eyed the palace entrance, inching closer by the second. If she could just keep him talking, maybe the doorman would think they were together and let her in.
“Ah, oui.” He gazed at the fountain and sighed. “Certainly ze most beautifool fountain in Rome.” His eyes glinted as he looked at the turtles, as if they held the answer to a riddle.
“It’s my favorite too.” Beatrice struggled to keep her voice steady.
“You know, of course, zat ze Mattei family is completely impoverished.”
“Impoverished?”
“Zey’re out of money!” He cackled with glee. “Ze old duc from way back when wasn’t ze only one wiz a gambling problem. His descendants ’ave lost everyzing. Why do you zink zey’re ’aving zis auction? Zeir debts are enormous, and ze sale of ze palace won’t be enough; zey’re selling off all zeir possessions.”
Beatrice hadn’t stopped to wonder why there was an auction taking place. She’d only seen it as a way to get inside. She hadn’t imagined the Mattei family might still live there after all these years.
“A family zat was once so rich and powerfool, since ze Middle Ages. ’Alf a century of dominance in zis neighborhood! And now zey are ruined.”
“How did it happen?” Beatrice asked tentatively.
“Zey are cursed!” he shouted dramatically. “It is ze only explanation. Zey owned four palaces in zis neighborhood alone, and others around ze city. One by one, zey lost zem all. Zis is ze only one left. It belongs to ze heir of ze last remaining branch of ze family, and by Sunday, it too will be sold, and zat will be ze nail in ze coffin of ze ’ouse of Mattei.”
“Who would have wanted to curse them?” Beatrice wondered aloud.
The Frenchman looked sinister. “In zose days, ma chère, all powerful families ’ad enemies. Ze Mattei more zan most.”
The Frenchman’s revelations were so fascinating that Beatrice didn’t notice they had reached the front of the line. The doorman narrowed his eyes at her, and just when she was convinced he was going to throw her out of line again, he seemed to change his mind, and waved them both in with a bored shrug.
They walked through the immense doorway into a cobbled courtyard. A sweeping staircase led to a covered balcony framed with columns and arches, a loggia she’d read it was called. She marveled at the size of the doors and the Frenchman explained that in a Renaissance palace, the doorway had to be big enough to allow horse-drawn carriages to pass through to the courtyard, which would be fitted with a carriage house and stables. There were no living quarters on the ground floor, just the service facilities, kitchen, pantry, and the like. All the most important rooms, where the family entertained, were one floor up, on the piano nobile, the noble floor.
Once inside, they followed dozens of eager visitors up another grand staircase to the piano nobile to view the items up for sale. Despite her gratitude to this old man for the information he’d divulged, now that she was inside, she was itching to explore, alone.
“It was so nice to meet you, Mr. . . .”
“Likewise, ma’moiselle! Enjoy your visit!” he said with a jovial wink, and disappeared into the crowd.
Twelve
A DUCHESS AND HER DIARY
Beatrice stood at the top of the staircase, her eyes widening with wonder. Opulence overwhelmed every corner of her vision: antique cabinets, porcelain statuettes, gilded mirrors, silver candlesticks taller than she was, marble-topped tables, alabaster vases, tapestries, sculptures, busts, and row upon row of gilt-framed paintings, all with a backdrop of paneled walls and frescoed ceilings.
Discreet placards described (in English as well as Italian, she noticed gratefully) the articles on display with opening bid prices. And the prices were astronomical! She’d forgotten for a moment that she was in an auction showroom, not a museum.
As she meandered down a corridor hung with large oil paintings, she noticed the suspicious eyes of a guard following her every step. Don’t pan
ic, she told herself, and quietly latched onto a nearby group of adults who were too absorbed with the art to notice her. Lagging behind them, she passed one enormous landscape painting after another, but she was growing antsy. She hadn’t come here to admire the collection; she’d come to gather information.
Where to begin? The palace was dripping with stuff. Expensive stuff, but stuff nonetheless. She didn’t even know what she was looking for.
Around the corner was another painting gallery, this one full of portraits. Stern and imposing men. Rich ladies, dripping with jewels. Opulently dressed children, posing like miniature adults.
Beatrice’s pace slackened in front of a small, dark painting. Under a layer of soot, a young woman gazed out with a sorrowful expression. As Beatrice approached the portrait, a gust of air blew in from the windows, setting the chandeliers clinking and rainbow bursts dancing on the walls. The chatter of the visitors faded into the background, replaced by a faint hum that hung in the air like a distant swarm of bees. Time lagged behind its usual relentless pace and Beatrice’s breathing—even her blinking—slowed.
As her probing eyes met the painted lady’s mournful ones, invisible pins pricked at her arms and legs. Unlike the idealized appearance of some of the other portraits, this one looked startlingly real. Beatrice had the chilling sensation that she was looking at an actual woman, not a painted one.
The lady in the portrait was dressed in a simple gown of green satin and velvet, a gold braided sash tied around her waist. Her dark, lustrous hair framed her slender face, and an amber-colored stole hung loosely around her shoulders. She sat rigidly on a high-backed chair, a small leather book clasped in her hand.
The background was dull and dark. The only light came from a tiny window in the corner of the canvas, creating harsh shadows that made the painting look . . . sinister. Despite the canvas’s thick layer of grime, the woman’s melancholy gaze shone through like a plea for help. What could this beautiful, wealthy lady have been so sad about? Beatrice glanced at the placard near the corner of the frame.
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