Midnight in the Piazza

by Tiffany Parks

  “W-well,” she stammered, “did you know that underneath the buildings on the other side of the piazza are the ruins of an ancient Roman theater?”

  “I seem to recall reading something of that nature,” he said distractedly.

  “The Theater of Balbus, first century BC!” she proclaimed.

  “Interesting,” he muttered, still engrossed in his reading.

  “Well, I was thinking that maybe—”

  “My god!” her father exclaimed.

  “What is it?”

  “There was a break-in at Palazzo Rospigliosi. A painting by Botticelli was stolen!”

  Suddenly Beatrice’s appetite was gone. “When? How?”

  He scanned the article, translating the gist of it. “Late last night, it seems. The family is at their seaside home for the summer. Only the housekeeper was there, and she apparently slept through the whole thing. Discovered it was missing this morning.”

  Two works of art disappear on two consecutive nights, plus a security breach at the academy: it couldn’t be a coincidence.

  “What a shame. Such an exquisite work, even though, if it were up to me, it would be on display in a public museum, not shut up in a private collection. Still, a terrible loss for the Rospigliosi family. It’s been in their collection for centuries.”

  Beatrice finally found her tongue. “You don’t think it could be connected to—” She stopped short, waiting for the inevitable interruption.

  “Connected to what?”

  “To . . . what happened to the fountain the other night?”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “The Turtle Fountain . . . ?” she clarified.

  “Oh, that! You’re not still hung up about that nightmare, are you? Silly goose!” He tousled her hair and began clearing the table.

  Beatrice bristled. When the turtles were revealed to be fakes and Bernini’s originals long gone, maybe then he’d start taking her seriously.

  She just hoped it wouldn’t have to come to that.

  Sixteen

  A PASSAGEWAY AND A HIDING PLACE

  Beatrice sat in the café, sipping an iced tea and tapping her foot nervously. She swiveled around every time someone walked through the door, but two o’clock came and went with no sign of Marco. He’s just running late, she assured herself. Italian family lunches were elaborate and long. To pass the time, she scrawled in her notebook what she’d learned so far:

  The turtles were stolen off the fountain late Monday night (July 26) by a tall, thin man, possibly with a shaved head and arm tattoos.

  The turtles were apparently replaced with high-quality fakes.

  A certain Monsieur Cambriolage is buying the turtles on behalf of an unidentified “client.” This client is afraid of forgeries.

  So many unknowns. So much of what she was going on was intuition and guesswork. She jotted down a few questions:

  Who was the Italian man in the library?

  Who is Cambriolage working for?

  Where are the turtles now?

  She underlined the last question. If she could discover that, nothing else mattered.

  A glance at her watch showed twenty after two. Where was Marco? Maybe he’d forgotten about the appointment? No, not possible.

  At half past, her worry turned to dread. Her mind conjured the worst possible scenario: Marco had stolen the diary, and he wasn’t coming back. How could she have been so naive to trust a virtual stranger? She’d been taken in by his easy smile and warm eyes but he was nothing but a liar and a thief. Just as tears of frustration sprang to her eyes, the door creaked open and Marco strutted in with a rakish grin, the diary under his arm.

  Beatrice’s heart flooded with relief. She hopped off her chair and nearly threw her arms around him, catching herself just in time. Instead she gave him the customary two-cheek kiss.

  “Sorry I’m late! My mom made me wash all the dishes. Sometimes I wish I had an Italian mom—they never make their sons do housework!”

  Beatrice felt a stab of envy. Italian or American, any mom was better than none.

  “No worries,” she said, with more composure than she felt. “So? Did you manage to finish it?”

  “Yep. I was up till three, but I read the whole thing.”

  “And did you translate it?”

  “Well, not every single entry, but all the interesting ones, and there were loads of interesting ones.” He took out a spiral notebook along with the diary and handed them over triumphantly. “You can read it for yourself while I get a caffè.”

  Beatrice seized the notebook and practically tore off the cover. More than half the pages were filled with small, neat writing. Her eyes flitted here and there, reading snippets of entries. She wished she could read them all at once, but she forced herself to slow down and start from the beginning. With a trembling hand, she turned to the first page and read:

  8 February 1594

  As I prepare for bed, I cannot help but go over the events of the day, and it makes me weep to think about the cruelty of the duke—the brute that destiny has forced me to call Husband. If only my father could have saved me from this wretched fate. We’ve been married nearly six years, and I have yet to produce an heir. For this, he has come to despise me.

  So here I am, the most miserable lady in Rome, with a husband who makes my life a nightmare. Yesterday, he caught me writing in this diary and threw it across the room. He has taken all my friends and family from me, refuses to let me leave the palace or see anyone. My only companion is this small book in which to confide my thoughts. And now he wants to deny me that as well! But I will defy him; I will find a way to write in secret. I must or I fear I will lose my mind.

  The entries were sporadic, often with several months between them. The first dozen or so were similar, filled with Caterina’s complaints about her marriage and life. By the time Beatrice had read about a quarter of Marco’s translation, she was close to tears. The duchess had had such a miserable existence, and in a way it was all because of that fountain. It didn’t seem right that something so lovely should have caused—even indirectly—so much pain.

  But as moved as Beatrice was by Caterina’s words, she had a rising sense of dread that there would be nothing helpful in the diary after all. She pressed on, and after a few more uneventful entries, she read:

  27 November 1598

  Today I made an odd discovery. I was in the palace library, searching for a book to read. In this miserable existence that is my life, reading is my only solace. That, and expressing my thoughts in this diary.

  Muzio is in the countryside touring his estates; otherwise I would never have had the chance to find what I did. I was searching in a part of the library I had never explored before, because the shelves are difficult to reach, behind the globe in the corner, with very poor light. I had to light a candle to be able to see the titles of the books, even though it was full day.

  My eye spotted a slender volume of Aristotle, and I had to reach awkwardly behind the globe to grasp it. But the books were packed so tightly that it wouldn’t budge. Beside the Aristotle was a large, plain book, with no title on the spine. I doubt I would have touched it had it not been beside the one I wanted.

  I tugged the book, hoping to dislodge the Aristotle, when I heard a loud noise. A moment later, as if a hinge had been sprung, an entire section of the bookcase shifted. It was a concealed door, and scarcely knowing what I was doing, I pulled it toward me. It must have been long unused for it took a good deal of effort to pull it back far enough to look inside.

  I peered into the small opening, but all I could see was a steep stone staircase descending into blackness. I dared not venture further for fear of what might have been lurking down in the darkness. I replaced the bookcase as it was and have spoken of it to no one. Yet I cannot get that hidden doorway out of my mind. Where could it possibly lead?

  “I was in that library! I was there!” Beatrice marveled. “I can’t believe there was a hidden doorway so near me. Do you th
ink it has anything to do with that secret room you were talking about?”

  Marco’s eyes twinkled. “Keep reading.”

  5 March 1599

  If Muzio’s cruelty were directed only toward myself, perhaps I could forgive him, but he is heartless to all. When he flies into a rage, woe to anyone in his path. All the servants are terrified of him and he has them whipped for the slightest offense.

  I try to be kind to the servants, but decorum dictates I show them neither friendship nor even gratitude for their work. Cut off as I am from social interaction, I value them more than simply as laborers. The housekeeper, Assunta, is one of the oldest servants in the household, and has been employed here for more than half a century. In fact, she came here when old Duke Giacomo Mattei, Muzio’s grandfather, first built the palace.

  Assunta is an odd character, tough on the outside, setting a strict example for the other servants, but with a soft heart underneath. I found her crying a few weeks ago. She was so worried I would be angry with her for showing emotion while working. If Muzio had seen her, he would have been furious.

  I asked her why she was crying. She refused to speak at first, but at last she revealed that her youngest grandson had died fighting for the papal army in the north. I comforted her as best I could, and since then we have become friends, at least as much as servant and mistress can be. I shudder to think what Muzio would do to me—or to her—if he found out.

  16 April 1599

  Yesterday, while I was embroidering, I invited Assunta to my rooms to keep me company. We sat talking for hours, and in the course of conversation, she revealed something most intriguing.

  When the old duke first built the palace over fifty years ago, he had a secret chamber constructed underground with a hidden passageway connecting it to one of the rooms. It was richly decorated and fitted with every luxury, or so she had heard. The duke would go there when he wanted utter privacy. Assunta had never seen it herself, as it was a jealously guarded secret. The only servant who had ever seen it was the duke’s valet, who cleaned the room himself. No one else knew of its existence, not even the old duchess.

  At that time, the duke’s valet was Assunta’s sweetheart, and later her husband. It was he who told her about the hidden chamber, swearing her to secrecy. She never knew exactly where it was, only that it was somewhere underneath the palace.

  On his deathbed, Duke Giacomo passed the secret on to his son, Muzio’s father. The secret was meant to pass this way, from father to son, duke to duke, but Muzio’s father died in a hunting accident when Muzio was still a child, so he never had a chance to reveal the location to him. Not long after, Assunta’s husband died as well, and the location of the secret room was lost. Assunta is the only person alive who knows of its existence, a secret she has kept for over thirty years.

  I cannot imagine why she chose to tell me, except perhaps because I am the only member of the family to show her any kindness. I pretended her story was of no interest to me, but in truth, I was fascinated by every word.

  I believe—no, I am convinced—that the hidden door I discovered by accident leads to that secret room. I’m tempted to seek it out myself, to have a place to escape Muzio’s rages, where I can write or read in peace. Still, I am terrified at the thought of what restless spirits I might encounter if I had the courage to descend the dark staircase into that long-unvisited chamber. And worse, what would happen if I got lost and couldn’t find my way out?

  Beatrice shuddered. She visualized Caterina sinking into the dark unknown, imagining ghosts around every corner. She read on.

  25 April 1599

  I have decided to search for the secret room. I’m terrified but also exhilarated. It’s the first time since my marriage that I am truly excited about something, and if only for this reason, I am determined to find it. I considered asking Assunta to assist me, but thought better of it. If I involve her and we are found out, she could be dismissed, or worse.

  No, I will do it alone. Naturally I will take a candle, but that will not be enough if I lose my way, so I’ve decided to take a large spool of embroidery thread. I will tie one end to the bookcase and unravel it as I go. When I need to find my way out, I will just follow the thread.

  Beatrice was giddy with anticipation. She turned the page, certain it would reveal directions to the secret room. But as she read the next entry, and then the next, there was no further mention of it. Caterina just kept on writing, as if nothing had changed.

  Beatrice looked at Marco with disappointment. “Did she find the room or not?”

  “Oh, she found it all right. See?” He flipped ahead several pages and indicated a few other entries. “She mentions it here, and here. But read this first.” He flipped ahead farther still.

  5 December 1600

  I am afraid that Muzio is beginning to suspect. I spend nearly all of my time in the library these days, searching for new books and sneaking down to the secret room to read or write. More than once, he has asked me where I’ve been, and I have had to lie.

  I worry about his wrath if he were to discover what I am doing, so I try to go there only when he is not at home, or early in the morning, when I know he is asleep. I cannot bear the thought of giving it up altogether. Since I came here, I finally have a place I feel is truly my own, where I can get away and be alone with my own thoughts. Not to mention, this underground room is the perfect hiding place for my diary—he’ll never find it here.

  “‘He’ll never find it here,’” Beatrice repeated. “‘He’ll never find it here’!” Time seemed to stop, and Beatrice sat immobile, staring into space. A warm sensation seeped through her pores as her thoughts shifted into place like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. She didn’t even realize Marco was talking.

  “Beatrice? Hey, Beatrice! What planet are you on?”

  She jolted back to the present to find Marco shaking her shoulder. She turned to him with triumph in her darkening eyes. “I know where they’re hidden,” she announced.

  “Where what are hidden?”

  “The turtles.” She spoke with a still, quiet voice and Marco gaped at her with a look of bewilderment. But she just sat there, smiling to herself.

  “Where?” he finally burst out.

  “In Caterina’s secret room, of course.”

  Seventeen

  CATERINA’S CURSE

  Beatrice felt strangely serene. She would have expected to be jumping up and down, clapping her hands. Instead she sat calmly as the picture in her mind came into focus.

  She’d been led to that diary by some mysterious force, just as she’d been led to Caterina’s portrait. And now it all made sense. What better hiding place for the turtles than a secret room?

  “Yeah, that could be,” Marco ventured, “but it doesn’t seem very likely. I mean, even if that room still exists—which is doubtful after four hundred years—how would the thieves know about it?”

  “Maybe it’s described in some historical document?”

  Marco rolled his eyes. “Not likely.”

  His words were like a bucket of cold water dumped on her head. A moment ago she’d been convinced, but two words from him had her doubting her instincts again. Was he right—was she jumping to conclusions?

  Still, her heart was tugging her rational mind back around. “No, I’m sure of it,” she said. “This is the clue I’ve been looking for.”

  “If you say so,” said Marco with a curling lip.

  Beatrice’s stomach tightened. It was cool having someone to throw ideas around with, but when she did things on her own, at least no one scoffed at her ideas. It was bad enough that her father believed she was delusional, she thought, recalling their conversation from the night before.

  “Oh, that reminds me!” she exclaimed. “A famous painting—a Botticelli—was stolen last night!”

  “Really? From where?”

  “Some rich family’s private collection—Rospi-something or other. You don’t think it could have anything to do with the disappearan
ce of the turtles, do you?”

  Marco considered for a moment before shaking his head. “Naaah, there’s always break-ins in summer. So many people go out of town, burglars figure it’s not as risky. And usually they get away with it. Practically everyone I know has had their place robbed at least once.”

  “But this wasn’t just some random burglary. They took one specific work of art. Whoever took it must have known it was there.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe they did. Still doesn’t mean it has anything to do with the turtles.”

  But it did. Because they were both priceless, centuries-old works of art. It couldn’t just be a coincidence.

  “I’m starting to think we should go to the police.”

  Marco chuckled. “Honestly, Beatrice, don’t bother—unless you like to waste your time.” Before she had a chance to protest, he continued. “First of all, they won’t take you seriously. They wouldn’t take me seriously, and I’m from here. And secondly, they’ve got enough to do, fighting the mafia and dealing with violent crime. By the time they got around to looking into our case, we’d be out of college already.”

  Beatrice sighed. He was probably right. It’s not like they were in a small town where the worst thing the police had to deal with was some old lady’s missing Pekingese.

  Her mind flicked, almost instinctively, to her father. Could she try mentioning it to him again? Would he listen to her now that she had a theory? She pictured him smiling disdainfully and laughing off her childish ideas, and stuffed down the thought. Looked like she had no choice. Whether she liked it or not, she and Marco were in this alone.

  “So,” Marco said, “can you believe that part about how Caterina cursed the Mattei family?”

  “What?”

  “Here.” He flipped toward the back of the notebook. “Read this.”

  15 October 1601