Portrait of a duchess of the Mattei family, circa 1600, artist unknown.
Beatrice’s eyes widened. Duchess. Mattei. 1600?
She trembled as she calculated the dates in her head. The Turtle Fountain was built in 1588, so Muzio Mattei must have gotten married shortly thereafter. His bride would, naturally, have become a duchess, and would probably have been alive twelve years later when this portrait was painted. Could it be . . . her?
That would explain why she looked so sad; according to Nigel, she was forced to marry a man she didn’t love. Beatrice’s insides squirmed. Putting a face to the legend made it suddenly, startlingly real.
She scrutinized the painting for more clues. The woman’s eyes were tinged with red, as if she’d been crying, and her fingertips were stained with ink. On the spine of the leather book, a few letters were faintly etched in gold: C-A-T-E . . . her fingers hid the rest.
Despite her urge to keep exploring, Beatrice was reluctant to abandon the painting. She felt inexplicably linked to this lady with the melancholy eyes. But as intriguing as the painting was, it didn’t give her any answers. She tore herself away and wandered into yet another sumptuous showroom.
Along the right wall, a beefy man in a too-tight suit stood with his back against a set of closed doors, his arms crossed over his chest like a Russian dancer. Whatever was behind those doors was sure to be interesting, Beatrice speculated. But the man’s hardened expression and beady-eyed glare made it painfully clear that whatever he was guarding was not on display to mere auctiongoers like her.
Beatrice hurried toward the next showroom before she attracted any more attention. Just as she was about to turn the corner, the double doors behind her burst open with a loud clack. She peeked over her shoulder. A man came out, this one tall and slender with thinning dark hair and a beak-like nose. He slammed the door behind him, snapped a few short words at the barrel-chested guard, and the two men disappeared down the corridor in the opposite direction.
Beatrice stood stalk-still. Whether through a simple act of negligence or by the hand of fate, the men had left the door unlocked. Her eyes darted from right to left. The chattering visitors were absorbed in the objects on display and no one glanced her way. She stealthily approached the door and placed her hand on the knob, when a thought occurred to her: what if someone was still inside? She shrugged. Then she’d just pretend she was lost. She’d never solve anything without taking a few risks. She cast a surreptitious glance around and cracked open the door. With a fortifying breath, she slithered inside.
Empty. No sooner had she let out a sigh of relief than her eyes widened with wonder. Innumerable books climbed the walls like the branches of an exotic creeping plant. Row after row of leather-bound volumes filled nearly every inch of wall space, reaching all the way to the gilded ceiling. A person could spend their entire life in a library like this and never scratch the surface. It made her father’s library back in Boston seem downright puny by comparison.
Pausing in her marveling, Beatrice suddenly remembered her mission. Right. She was there to search for clues, not drool over a stranger’s book collection. Unfortunately, she had no idea what she was looking for. She tried to tap into her intuition, which had been spot-on so far: it’d led her to the Frenchman, and the duchess’s portrait. All she had to do was keep following her gut, and if there were anything to find, she’d find it.
At least that’s what she kept telling herself. In reality, the seconds ticked by faster and faster—the sinister-looking men could reappear at any moment. Her belly dropped like a yo-yo at the thought. If there was a clue in here, she needed to find it soon.
She raked her eyes over the contents of the room. There were too many books—and probably all in Italian. Starting there was not an option. A massive antique globe occupied one corner, and wine-colored leather sofas and armchairs crouched here and there. A broad mahogany desk seemed like the most likely place to start.
On one corner sat an old-fashioned fountain pen, a glass inkwell, and a blotter. Did these people live in the past or did they just act like they did? Several papers were scattered across the desktop. The first one looked like a building floor plan, but not any building she’d ever seen. The plan was shaped like a giant half-moon dissected by angled lines, with random squiggles drawn on in pencil. The next two papers were letters scrawled in what looked like Italian. The rest of the documents were equally bewildering.
She sighed. She was getting nowhere. Maybe her instinct had been wrong. Maybe the clue to solving this puzzle wasn’t in the palace after all. Was she in over her head?
And yet, she alone knew someone had tried to steal Bernini’s turtles. It was her duty to try to find out who, if only to prevent them from succeeding the next time.
She walked resolutely toward the towering shelves. The books were ensconced behind glass doors and the light was so dim she could barely decipher the titles. She tried one of the doors but it was locked fast.
About to stamp her feet in frustration, she noticed a spiral staircase carved of rich dark wood. It led to a narrow landing that snaked around the upper walls of the library, providing access to the books on the highest shelves. The lighting up there was better, and there were no glass cabinets, as far as she could tell. The books were just sitting there, waiting to be picked up by a curious reader. Without a second’s hesitation, she bounded up the stairs.
She trawled the narrow landing searching for something, anything that might shed some light on this mystery. The books were stacked tightly together under a thick layer of dust. It looked like they hadn’t been touched in a century. She ran a finger along the backs of a random row of books where the light was brightest. She scanned the titles, naively hoping what she needed would magically reveal itself.
Cassiodoro, Flavio Magno
Castel Sant’Angelo
Catechismo della Chiesa Cattolica
Caterina
Catilina, Lucio Sergio
Catone, Marco Porcio
Beatrice froze. She worked her way back a few titles, stopping when her finger hovered over a simple brown leather book. The name Caterina was engraved in faded gold on the spine. Her mind flitted to the image of the book in the portrait she’d seen earlier, the letters C-A-T-E etched in an identical manner. Her hand trembled as she eased it out.
It was unmistakable: this was the book from the portrait. The narrow volume had a ridge of dust along the top. She blew it off lightly. Slowly, her heart knocking against her ribs, she eased the book open. The binding creaked. When was the last time human hands had touched it? She tremulously turned one page, then another, and just as she’d imagined—just as she’d hoped—the brittle yellowed pages were filled not with printed text but faded, elegant penmanship.
The penmanship of a noble lady.
A lady called Caterina.
A duchess.
Beatrice squatted down and, balancing the diary on one knee, gingerly turned one page after another. She ran a finger over the pale brown ink, but even if she could have read Italian, the penmanship was so foreign she could barely make out the letters. The dates were easier, and she determined the journal began in May 1592. Exactly right for the diary of the woman for whom the Turtle Fountain had been built.
High on the landing, hunched over the diary, Beatrice lost track of time and place. She turned the musty pages and scanned the unintelligible words that had been scrawled on them all those years ago. Here and there, tiny blots smudged the words; could they be four-hundred-year-old teardrops? Gooseflesh spread across Beatrice’s arms as she touched this piece of living, breathing history. She could almost see the hand of the woman in the portrait as it dragged a quill across these very pages.
The clack of the double doors snapped Beatrice back to the present and sent her blood racing through her veins. Someone must have seen her sneak into the library and now the beefy guard was coming for her! He’d find her thumbing through a four-century-old book and throw her out on her ear, maybe even notify
her father. She’d never be allowed out of the house again!
She held her breath and slid down as far as she could, but it was no use. Whoever it was knew she was up there, and he was coming for her.
Thirteen
A SECRET MEETING AND A RUMOR
“Allora, now we can talk in private,” came a deep voice with a faint Italian accent after the door had clicked shut once more.
Beatrice couldn’t believe her ears. Whoever it was wasn’t here to nab her! For the moment, she was safe. All she had to do was stay put and keep quiet, and she could sneak out after they left.
“Excellent,” said another man. His voice was accented as well but not with Italian. In fact, the rhythm of it was strikingly familiar.
“Please, make yourself comfortable,” said the Italian.
“Zank you very much.”
The Frenchman!
Beatrice couldn’t resist a tiny peek through the railing of the landing. Sure enough, the friendly old man who’d helped her into the palace was easing himself onto a leather couch. The other man, a white pate showing through his dark hair, was hurriedly stuffing the papers on his desk into a drawer. He slammed it shut and turned a tiny key, which he then slipped into his pocket. When he turned around to reveal the beak-like nose of the man she’d seen earlier, Beatrice had just enough time to duck out of sight, flattening herself onto the floor of the landing. If she moved a muscle or made a sound, she’d be discovered.
“You shouldn’t have come here today, Monsieur Cambriolage,” said the Beak Nose. “We cannot be seen together. No one must know we are in negotiations. If you wanted to view the collection, I could have arranged a private viewing for you at another time.”
“Don’t you zink zat would ’ave looked even more suspicious?”
Beatrice tried to follow their conversation over the clamor of her pounding heart.
“Perhaps. Regardless, now that you’re here, can you please tell me what was so important that it couldn’t wait for our meeting?”
“My client ’as ’eard a nasty rumor.”
“What kind of rumor?”
“Zat you are planning to sell ’im fakes.”
“Are you insinuating . . .”
“I am not insinuating anyzing, young man,” the Frenchman replied with a good-humored chuckle. “I’m telling you what our sources told us. If it’s not true, zen you have nozzing to worry about.”
“It is absolutely untrue, and I resent the implication.” He paused, as if searching for the right words. “I can arrange for you to be in a car, at a discreet distance, but still within view when the articles are . . . removed. You can follow the transport vehicle directly to the drop-off point. Will that satisfy you?”
“Very much so. I zank you, monsieur.”
Beatrice thought she heard a faint sigh of relief.
“And now, if you don’t mind, I must get back to my browsing. You have some exquisite objets out zere, young man. But nozzing zat can rival zose marvelous tartarughe.”
Beatrice’s ears twitched. Tartarughe?
As their footsteps died away, she let out her pent-up breath. Her body ached from being held in one position and her mind reeled. Had they been talking about the turtles all along? The turtles from the fountain? The Frenchman—Monsieur Cambriolage—worked for someone who was buying them? But he seemed like such a sweet old man. And the Italian, who was he?
Then her racing mind slammed on the brakes and a single word resounded in her head.
Fakes.
She took a moment to let the word sink in.
Monsieur Cambriolage had said something about fakes. What were his exact words? A rumor that the Italian was planning to sell him fakes . . .
The truth smacked Beatrice in the face. When the turtles had been wrenched off the fountain, perhaps the thief had immediately replaced them with replicas—excellent copies that no one had detected? Why hadn’t she thought of it before?
But then, if that were the case, if the turtles had already been stolen, why would the Frenchman need to watch them be removed again? Questions bobbed around in her brain like apples in a barrel, but she had no time to sit pondering them. She had to get out of there.
She glanced at the precious book lying forgotten by her side. She could gaze at it all night, but she’d never understand a word. She needed help. She had to take it with her.
Beatrice didn’t like the word steal. She refused to admit, even to herself, that she was stealing a historical document. Borrow was a much better word. She’d bring it back, eventually, so borrow was, truly, the more accurate term.
The more pressing issue was how to get it out unseen. Her handbag was barely big enough for a hanky; the book wouldn’t fit inside in a million years. She’d have to smuggle it out under her clothes. She loosened her wraparound skirt and tucked the book in at her waist. She silently congratulated herself for choosing a loose-fitting blouse; it covered the bulge the diary made at her tummy.
Half expecting Signor Beak Nose or his sidekick Beef Suit to be lying in wait for her, Beatrice tiptoed down the spiral staircase and out of the library. When she saw that all was clear, she cautiously ambled through the palazzo’s never-ending galleries. She tightened her stomach muscles and prayed the diary wouldn’t slip out of her skirt as she made her way down the grand staircase and across the courtyard.
Just as she was about to step into the sweet freedom of the piazza, a husky voice sounded behind her. “Signorina!” She froze. Turning around in slow motion, she widened her eyes, hoping she didn’t look as guilty as she felt.
“La tua borsa!” the doorman demanded, his hand out.
Beatrice stared back, uncomprehending.
“Your bag!” he barked.
Making as few movements as possible, she handed over her tiny purse and tried not to imagine the consequences for swiping a piece of the collection. Beads of sweat pricked at her forehead, and she held her breath, both out of nervousness and to keep the diary in place.
The guard yanked her bag open, revealing nothing more than a set of house keys and a folded ten-euro note. He roughly handed it back and waved her on.
She was about to let out an enormous sigh of relief but realized just in time that if she did, the diary would fall straight to the ground. Instead she took tiny sips of air and fought the urge to bolt straight for her building.
As she placed one faltering foot in front of the other, the smooth leather book began to slip lower and lower. She pressed her belly out as far as she could until she reached her door at last. She fished her keys out of her handbag with trembling fingers and fumbled with the lock, stepping inside just as the diary flopped onto the stone floor.
Late that night, perched in the loft above her bed, Beatrice sat at her desk with the diary open and her dad’s massive dictionary at the ready.
She turned her attention to the diary with anticipation strumming at her heartstrings. But after half an hour, her excitement had turned to frustration and defeat. The old-fashioned handwriting, the faded ink, the complexity of the language: it was all too much for her, even with the help of a dictionary. She’d never be able to translate it, at least not on her own.
An image of her raven-haired Italian teacher floated before her eyes. If anyone could translate it, Ginevra could. But could she be trusted?
No. It was too risky.
Beatrice yawned, exhaustion hitting her like a tidal wave. It was hard to believe only last night she’d witnessed the theft of the turtles. It felt like a lifetime had passed since then.
She stumbled down the spiral staircase and slipped into bed, propping open the diary on her pillow. Struggling to keep her eyes open, she tried in vain to absorb the indecipherable words that had been scrawled all those centuries ago. Maybe if she stared at them long enough, their meaning would come to her in her dreams.
She turned a few more pages as the breeze from her window made the curtains dance. At last her eyelids could support their weight no longer. The diary slid off
her pillow and landed open on the floor with a gentle thunk, rousing her momentarily. She reached down to grab it but it was just out of reach. The last thing she heard before yielding to sleep was the sound of brittle pages rustling under her bed.
Fourteen
A HALF-AND-HALF PARTNER
“Mio fratello,” lilted Ginevra’s voice.
“Mio fratello,” repeated Beatrice, trying to match her accent. My brother.
“Mia sorella.”
“Mia sorella.” My sister.
“Mio padr—” Ginevra’s voice cracked on the Italian word for father.
Beatrice looked up. Ginevra, usually poised and composed, sat silently, her eyes cast down. Tears brimmed on her lower lids and one spilled over, plopping onto the page.
“Ginevra? What’s wrong?”
“Niente, niente,”1 she said, a wobble in her voice.
“It’s okay,” Beatrice assured her. “You can tell me.”
For a long moment, Ginevra said nothing. Then her stoic facade crumbled. “It ees my father. . . .” She gulped, breaking her no-English rule for the first time. “He died a few months ago. I still . . . I still miss heem.” She turned her face away.
Beatrice placed her hand on Ginevra’s. “I’m so sorry.” After a moment of silence, she added shyly, “I . . . I know what it’s like. I lost my mom too.”
Ginevra turned to Beatrice but didn’t meet her gaze. “I don’t know what’s come over me. I have not cried een weeks.” She ran two fingertips along her lower eyelids and took a deep breath. “Continuiamo!”2 she sang, as if nothing had happened. “Mio padre.”
“Mio padre,” Beatrice repeated. She peeked at Ginevra out of the corner of her eye, but her teacher chirped on, the moment of weakness forgotten.
Midnight in the Piazza Page 6