A nasty mix of suspicion and outrage gurgled in Beatrice’s belly. She was about to object to his line of reasoning when she noticed the building numbers were now in the 90s. They had to be close, so she decided not to press the point.
The palaces on Via Giulia were colossal, some stretching the entire length of the block. Number 98 was an imposing gray stone structure with a white marble bench running along the length of it. It was just about one o’clock and there was nothing to do but sit and wait.
Beatrice’s stomach had taken up residence in her throat. She forced herself to sit still and reread her notes. Marco flopped down beside her, grabbed her guidebook, and flipped through it lazily.
Every time a car or scooter approached, Beatrice held her breath. She eyeballed every person who walked down the street, imagining each as the thief’s secret contact. A businessman, briefcase in hand, barking into a cell phone. A pair of tall blond tourists snapping photos at every other step. A teenage couple, their arms wrapped around each other’s waists. But no one stopped or did anything suspicious—unfortunately.
She fanned herself with her notebook. It was the middle of the day, and there was no shade on either side of the street. She could feel her freckles multiplying. By one-thirty, her nerves were at a breaking point. She was hot, sweaty, and uncomfortable. Her stomach growled at her for skipping lunch and as the clock ticked closer to two, she worried that their suspect’s appointment had been canceled. Or maybe Marco had got the whole thing wrong.
He had put down her guidebook and was doing what Italians do best: chilling out. La dolce far niente, her dad called it: sweet idleness. It looked like Marco was a pro, his head leaned back, his eyes closed, and a contented expression on his face.
“How can you be so relaxed at a time like this?” Beatrice burst out.
He slid his eyes toward her under half-closed lids. “I think one stressed-out person is enough for any team, don’t you?”
“You’re right,” she grumbled, smiling inwardly that he thought of them as a team. “Maybe I’m nervous because I’m starving!”
“There’s a café down the street. Why don’t you get some water and a snack?” Marco suggested. “Grab a water for me too while you’re at it.”
Beatrice gave him a sideways glance. She didn’t want to risk abandoning the stakeout. Still, she could use a drink of water.
“Yeah, okay,” she said hesitantly. “I’ll be two seconds. Keep your eyes open and shout if anything happens.” Marco nodded silently. “Want anything to eat?”
“No, thanks.”
Beatrice hurried the block and a half to the café, and paid for two bottles of water and a panino. While she waited for it to be wrapped up, she stuck her head out the door and peered down the street to see if she was missing anything.
She gasped.
Marco was talking to someone—a man. She couldn’t hear their voices but it looked like they were deep in conversation, gesticulating this way and that.
She headed for the door when a voice rang out. “Signorina! Il suo panino! La sua acqua!”1
She’d forgotten all about her snack. “Grazie!” she breathed, grabbing the paper bag and water bottles. She darted outside and ran back to Marco, who was sitting in the same position as before. The man was gone.
“Who was that?” she demanded breathlessly.
“Who?” he asked languidly, without lifting his head.
“That man you were talking to just a minute ago!” Was he trying to be difficult, or was it just the heat?
“Oh, him. Just some guy asking for directions.”
Beatrice had a niggling feeling he wasn’t telling the truth. “Directions to where?” She winced at the sharpness in her voice but couldn’t help it.
“To Ponte Sisto. What do you care?”
Before she could protest, a now-familiar scooter buzzed toward them, coming to a stop less than a block away. Beatrice slid back onto the bench, grabbed her guidebook, and pretended to be a clueless tourist.
After jerking his scooter onto its kickstand, the gangly thief walked up to the door less than two feet from her. He studied the list of names on the shiny brass intercom and pressed a button. Beatrice’s heart pounded and it took a will of iron not to look up. She unfolded her map instead and sat quivering behind it.
“Chi è?”2 squawked a high-pitched voice from the intercom.
“Sono io, Luca,”3 he said in low tones.
“Ascoltami bene,”4 said the other voice. It came harsh and metallic through the tiny brass speaker, yet for all that, it sounded vaguely familiar.
Luca the thief cast a suspicious glance at Beatrice and Marco. Beatrice froze, but Marco acted quickly. “I know you want to see the Vatican, sis, but I want to go to the Colosseum!” He indicated the guidebook, slapping the page for emphasis.
Beatrice immediately picked up his cue. “Oh, please can we go to the Vatican?” she whined. “We can see the Colosseum tomorrow!”
“Excuse me!” Marco looked up at Luca. “Do you speak English? We’re a bit lost and need to get to the Colosseum,” he said with an exaggerated American accent.
“No,” said Luca contemptuously. He turned back to the intercom. “Dimmi.”5
The exchange was brief, but Beatrice couldn’t follow a single word. Even had she been able to understand Italian, the voice from the intercom was garbled and tinny. She could only hope that Marco was getting everything.
When the conversation was over, Beatrice and Marco kept up their fake argument as Luca hopped on his scooter and sped away. When he was out of sight, Beatrice turned to Marco expectantly.
“Well? What did they say?” she asked, with a minuscule prick of suspicion. Would Marco tell her the truth? Was he hiding something? She dismissed the thoughts as silly. He wanted to save the fountain as much as she did.
“Come on, let’s get out of here.” He tugged her arm and they turned their steps toward the Ghetto. After walking in silence for a minute or two, Beatrice could stand the suspense no longer. “Tell me what’s going on!” she burst out. She felt the language barrier more strongly than ever, and vowed to study Italian harder.
“The woman on the intercom gave Luca another appointment, for tomorrow night, at midnight.”
“Did she say where?”
“No, but she told him to deliver the ‘merchandise’ to the Frenchman.”
“The merchandise?” Beatrice yelped. “You think he meant the turtles?”
“Well, they didn’t actually say the word, but that’s what it sounded like.”
“Then that means they’ll be handed over tomorrow! We’ve got to stop them!”
“I know! We can hide somewhere nearby and wait for him to remove the turtles from the fountain.”
Beatrice stopped in her tracks. “What are you talking about?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Luca’s going to steal the turtles tomorrow night!”
Beatrice let out a frustrated breath. “I’m telling you, he already stole them, on Monday night—I saw it. He replaced them with replicas, and the real turtles are stashed away somewhere. If my intuition is correct, they’re in Caterina’s secret room, in the ruins under the Mattei Palace.”
Marco shot her a patronizing look. “First of all, you don’t solve crimes with intuition, you solve them with facts. And second, there’ve been too many coincidences; it just isn’t plausible.”
“What coincidences?”
“Like you getting into the palace, seeing Caterina’s portrait, just happening to find her diary? I’m sorry, but it seems a bit far-fetched.”
His words were like a punch in the gut. “You think I’m making it all up?”
“Of course not, but I just don’t see what the theft of the turtles has to do with the diary or that secret room. You’re making all these connections with no evidence to back them up. And even if you’re right, how would we get down there? You said yourself the ruins are closed to the public.”
“I didn’t say it would be easy,” Be
atrice muttered. She smarted at his cynical words, but was he right to doubt her? Was she putting too much stock in hunches?
They made their way down Via Giulia in silence. At the end of the street, the Tiber River greeted them. They gazed into its murky waters as if it held the answers they needed.
Beatrice broke the silence. “I read in one of my dad’s books that Palazzo Giacomo Mattei is part of a larger structure, the Isola Mattei.”
“The ‘Mattei Island’?” he translated dubiously.
“Four separate palaces that belonged to different branches of the Mattei family,” she explained, satisfied she knew something about the Ghetto he didn’t. “It takes up an entire city block. Look.” She unfolded her map and traced her finger around the streets that bordered Isola Mattei. “Maybe the palaces are connected somehow—if we can get into one of the others, maybe we can find a way into Palazzo Giacomo Mattei,” she said, her enthusiasm mounting, “and from there, the ruins and the secret room!”
Marco shrugged. “Sounds like a long shot.”
“You have a better idea?” she asked tersely.
“I don’t know, Beatrice. I just know there’s a lot more to Rome than you’ll ever find in some book.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You show up a month ago and think you know everything there is to know about the Ghetto.”
“And?”
“And, there’s no way some Bostonian knows my city better than I do.”
Something inside Beatrice snapped. She’d had it with his contemptuous attitude and constant skepticism.
“Fine,” she hissed. “I’ll stop boring you with my ideas since you disagree with all of them. If you won’t help me, I’ll just do it myself.” She snatched her map out of his hand and stormed off without a backward glance.
Twenty
SYNCHRONICITY
Beatrice dragged herself home, knee-deep in resentment and frustration. More than ever since her arrival, she felt utterly alone. She thought she’d found a friend in Marco, but all he did was criticize and doubt her.
As she walked the narrow, winding streets, his words clattered around in her head like a defective wind-up toy. Intuition . . . coincidences . . . long shot . . . far-fetched . . . One moment she’d been convinced she had it all figured out, but one word of doubt from Marco had her believing she was rushing to improbable conclusions.
Was she silly to think she could trust her intuition? Or follow a trail of unlikely coincidences? Was she seeing connections that didn’t exist?
With these questions stirring in her head, Beatrice’s feet led her back to Piazza Mattei and the Turtle Fountain. The bronze boys were still laughing, ignorant of what had been stolen from them. The fake turtles were poised to plop into the upper basin. Someday the city would discover they were imposters, but by that time, Bernini’s true sculptures would be long gone. It was up to her, she realized with a lurch of responsibility. She alone held the pieces to this puzzle.
She took a deep breath. “I’ll find your turtles, if it’s the last thing I do!” she vowed, staring up at the sculpted boys. With renewed purpose, she ran up the stairs of her building, taking them two at a time. As she reached the top floor, Signora Costaguti was exiting the rickety elevator under her helmet of white hair. Her arms were full of groceries and her tiny dog yapped at her feet.
“Let me help you!” Beatrice offered. The prim old lady gratefully handed over the groceries and unlocked her door with a trembling hand.
“Grazie, cara.” The door swung open with a creak. She held it for Beatrice, who hovered on the threshold. “Come in, come in, the kitchen is this way.”
Beatrice stepped inside and followed Signora Costaguti through the labyrinthine apartment. It could easily have doubled for an antique shop, with old-fashioned furniture, black-and-white photographs in silver frames, and porcelain figurines sitting on spindly-legged tables. Lining the walls were books, books, and more books—even more than her dad had back in Boston. Only the kitchen was modern, and Beatrice lugged the grocery bags inside and set them on the counter.
“Well, here you go,” she said. She shifted from one foot to the other, looking for a polite way to make her exit.
“Please, stay and have some iced tea,” Signora Costaguti offered. When Beatrice hesitated she added, “I insist.”
Beatrice had a feeling she meant it. She obeyed the old lady’s instructions to wait in the salone. The sofa was upholstered in powder blue velvet, with a straight back and fussy curlicue legs. It was every bit as uncomfortable as it looked. Beatrice’s eyes roamed the room, noticing what looked like important works of art. Maybe Signora Costaguti would be at the Mattei auction on Sunday—she clearly liked old stuff.
On the polished coffee table sat a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses and a newspaper, open to a section titled Arte e cultura. She picked up the paper and gave it a cursory glance. “Capolavoro rubato!” read the headline. “L’Abbandonata di Botticelli sparisce dalla collezione Rospigliosi.” Only two of those words held any meaning for Beatrice—Botticelli and Rospigliosi. But they were enough.
As Beatrice stared at the article in vain, Signora Costaguti appeared holding a silver tray with a crystal jug of iced tea and two matching tumblers.
“Such dreadful news!” the signora clucked, glancing at the paper. “Another priceless work of art, this time a Botticelli, stolen! And the authorities are useless!”
“Another work of art?”
“Yes, that’s twice in as many weeks. An ancient cameo depicting Hercules was stolen from the Santarelli collection not ten days ago!” She poured the tea while Beatrice digested this latest morsel of information. One stolen work might have been unconnected to the turtles. But two?
Signora Costaguti arranged herself in an armchair like an ailing queen and took a dainty sip of tea. Despite her age—she looked at least ninety—she was still a striking woman. She had high cheekbones, a swan-like neck, and piercing blue eyes. She seemed proud, but in a good way, like she’d spent her life doing what she loved, and doing it well. Still, there was something unsettling about her. Her eyes gleamed as if she grasped far more than you were telling her.
“Well, go ahead,” the old lady said abruptly. “Drink your tea. You look thirsty.”
She was right. After Beatrice’s long walk in the midday sun, she was parched and light-headed. She lifted the glass to her lips and drank deeply. The lemony liquid cooled her from the inside out.
“You seem like a clever girl.” Signora Costaguti fixed Beatrice with her penetrating glare. “Now, tell me, just what have you been investigating?”
Beatrice felt like she’d been tossed into a tub of ice water. What did she know? How did she know it?
“Signora Costaguti, I don’t—”
“Please.” She held up a hand, white and speckled as a quail’s egg. “Call me Mirella. You might as well tell me what you’ve been up to. It’s useless to deny it; I’ve seen you prowling around.”
Beatrice’s mouth went dry. Was she threatening her or just being a busybody?
“Go on.” Mirella stared her down.
Beatrice wasn’t about to reveal her secrets, but maybe she could tell her a half-truth?
“Well,” she hesitated, “I’ve been . . . researching some of the art and history of the neighborhood, just to, you know, keep myself busy. And I’ve discovered some unbelievable things.”
“What sort of unbelievable things?”
“Oh, I don’t know, the fact that the turtles on the fountain are the work of Bernini, that under the palace across the square are ruins of an ancient theater . . .”
“That’s not unbelievable, my child—that’s Rome! There’s an entire ancient city down there; everything is built on top of something. And as for Bernini, there’s scarcely a piazza or church in this city that doesn’t contain one of his masterpieces.”
Beatrice mulled this over. “Yeah, that must be it. Everything in Rome seems to have some crazy history.
Every time I think I understand something, the reality is a thousand times more complicated than I’d imagined—and goes back a thousand more years.”
“In Rome, past and present are inextricably linked. This city has seen three thousand years of human existence, three thousand years of love and war, life and death, joy and despair. That kind of past leaves its mark on a city. Every building has a story behind it, every piazza has memories, every work of art was influenced by an older one. Everything is connected.”
Goose bumps crept up Beatrice’s arms as the words seeped into her soul. Everything is connected. It was as if Mirella had read her unspoken questions and given her an answer.
Mirella narrowed her eyes shrewdly. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
Beatrice sat silently, deciding how much to reveal. “Well, you see,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “I’ve been trying to shed some light on a . . . a disappearance—”
“A disappearance? That sounds serious.”
“More of a mix-up, really,” she said hastily. “The weird thing is, every time I’m missing some important piece of the puzzle, it just magically appears.”
“Magically?”
“I don’t mean wizard-type magic, with wands and spells and stuff. More like strange coincidences that keep pushing me in the right direction. At least, I hope it’s the right direction.”
“For example?” Mirella sat even straighter, if that were possible.
“Well, the other day I was looking for some very specific information, and I just happened to find this . . . this book that told me everything I needed to know. And I keep meeting people who know all about the subject I’m researching. And I know it sounds crazy, but I saw this painting and I felt like it was . . . communicating with me somehow.” She looked down, afraid she’d said too much. “It’s as if, everywhere I turn, whatever I’m looking for pops up right under my nose, even when I didn’t know I was looking for it.”
Midnight in the Piazza Page 10