For a long moment Mirella said nothing, but sat perfectly still with fire in her eyes. Finally she spoke. “What you are experiencing is synchronicity, cara mia.”
“Synchronicity?” Beatrice liked the way the word felt in her mouth, the crunch of the consonants as they bumped up against each other, the way each syllable danced across her tongue. Whatever it meant, it had to be something wonderful.
“Synchronicity is the theory of meaningful coincidence.”
Meaningful coincidence. The words didn’t seem to go together.
“According to the theory of synchronicity,” Mirella said, “nothing happens entirely by chance. When you focus on something with enough intensity, with enough clarity of purpose, in your small way, you participate in the creative process of the universe. Events intermesh, opportunities present themselves, people who have the means to help you are thrown into your path, all bringing you toward your goal.
“Such as you running into me, for instance,” she continued. “You think it was just a coincidence? Let me ask you, what were you doing just before we met on the landing?”
Beatrice thought for a moment. “I’d been feeling really doubtful about this . . . this project I’m working on, and was on the point of giving up actually. Then I realized I just had to keep going. I have to get to the bottom of this.”
“Vedi? You see? You made a commitment, and the universe acknowledged it. Think back to all the other times you noticed these strange coincidences as you call them. You’ll find they are not coincidences at all, but the responses of an invisible force prodding you along.”
A world of possibility opened before Beatrice. Still, her skeptical side told her it was too good to be true. “How does it work?”
“Don’t worry about how. Not yet anyway. For now, just be aware. Pay attention to what is all around you, and you’ll feel the universe synchronize with your own consciousness.”
“Do a lot of people know about synchronicity?”
“Surprisingly few considering the theory was introduced by Carl Jung in the 1920s. Many scientists dismiss it, perhaps because they’ve never experienced it for themselves, or refuse to recognize it when it does occur. They believe it has no basis in science. But remember this: just because something cannot be proved, that doesn’t mean it does not exist.”
Beatrice stood up suddenly, knocking her knees against the coffee table. A fire had been lit in her belly and she didn’t have a moment to lose.
“Thank you so much for the tea, and for . . . everything,” she breathed. “I really should be going, though.”
Mirella wore the knowing smile of someone who’d lived long and seen much. She escorted Beatrice to the door, then took hold of her arm, fixing her once more with her piercing gaze. “Beatrice.” She said it the Italian way. “Synchronicity will point you in the right direction, but the rest is up to you.”
Twenty-One
A MISSING MAP
Synchronicity. She could hardly believe there was a word for what she’d been experiencing. Mirella’s words echoed in her head: Everything is connected. She’d known the legend was connected to the theft of the turtles; she’d felt it in her bones. Now she didn’t have to doubt herself anymore, no matter what Marco said. Especially now that she knew two other works of art had been stolen, not to mention the break-in at the academy. Whoever was behind these robberies was after more than just Bernini’s turtles. Who knew how many masterpieces he’d get his hands on before he was stopped?
Back in her room, she dug out the translation of the diary and reread every passage, looking for clues she might have missed. Eventually she came upon an entry she’d skipped before, and it made her heart stop.
3 February 1600
Today I found, among the many treasures here in my secret room, a chest full of documents that must have belonged to Muzio’s grandfather. Most are of little interest to me and I left them where they were, but one I couldn’t help keeping for myself. It seems the old duke made a map of these underground chambers, plotting out exactly how to get from the library to his secret room. If only I’d had it before! It would have saved me hours of searching and more than a little fear.
Of course, I don’t need it now—I’ve memorized the route down to the very last step. Nevertheless, I keep it tucked in my diary at all times, another irresistible secret.
How had she missed this before, and why hadn’t Marco mentioned it? There existed a map that showed the way to the secret room, and—Beatrice reread the last sentence with disbelief—Caterina had kept it in her diary?
She ran to her wardrobe, where she’d stashed the original diary. She leafed through every page, looked for hidden pockets, and even gently shook it by its spine, but there was nothing there but words.
Marco! Had he taken it? A wave of nausea rose from her stomach. Had he been in on this from the start? Her mind invented a dozen scenarios of how Marco might be involved in the theft of the turtles.
But something in the back of her mind was poking her, saying, If Marco’s in on it, why did he give you back the diary? Why didn’t he just keep if for himself?
Because he didn’t want me to get suspicious! she answered back.
Then why did he translate the part of the diary that mentions the secret room and the map? Wouldn’t he have left those parts out if he were deceiving you?
The inner voice made one last attempt to defend her friend. Maybe the map wasn’t in the diary at all. Maybe it was lost centuries ago.
Beatrice ignored this last internal comment. As far as she was concerned, Marco was up to something. It all made sense now. She mulled over the signs she’d so foolishly ignored: how he’d urged her to lend him the diary, the information he knew about the Mattei family, the man he’d been talking to secretly on Via Giulia. And come to think of it, wasn’t it Marco who’d suggested she go get a snack? Had he had an appointment to meet someone there as well? Was he warning the thief not to give anything away?
She shook her head ruefully. She’d been so excited to have a friend, someone to share her adventure with, that she hadn’t taken the time to get to know him, to find out if she could trust him.
But what exactly was he up to? She paced the length of her room, imagining possible explanations. He wasn’t connected with the Mattei family, that much was obvious. Maybe he wanted to steal the turtles for himself? She thought of his father’s antique shop—those turtles would net a fortune!
Her head spun. She went to the window and leaned out, gulping down air, finally cooler now that the sun had set. Staring down at the fountain, she remembered the silly vow she’d made just hours before. What made her, a thirteen-year-old girl in a foreign country, think she could solve a crime on her own? There was only one word for the whole situation: hopeless.
When her father arrived an hour later, he found Beatrice lying facedown on her bed.
“What’s the matter, sweet pea?”
“Nothing,” she groaned into her pillow.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for someone who wallows for nothing,” he said, easing her upright. “What have you been up to all week? You’ve been so preoccupied.”
“Nothing.”
“‘Nothing, nothing . . . ,’” he mimicked. “Why won’t you talk to me? I thought we were a team.”
A sudden stab of guilt was followed closely by a burn of resentment. How many times had she tried to share her adventure with him? Explain what she was up to? Ask for advice? And every time he’d been too busy to listen, or worse, scoffed at her for being silly.
“Come on,” he insisted, “tell me what’s bothering you.”
“I’m just homesick,” she mumbled. At least that was part of the truth.
“Well, that’s normal. It takes time to get used to a new city, not to mention a new country. You’ll get the hang of it!” He rumpled her hair and she managed a weak smile. “Oh, I almost forgot; I have a little surprise for you.”
“Really? What is it?” Her spirits buoyed in spite of her
self.
“Did you know that your Italian teacher is also an art history student?”
“No.” What could that possibly have to do with a surprise?
“Well, tomorrow morning I have to spend a few hours in the library, and Ginevra has agreed to take you on a cultural outing! You’re going to visit Palazzo Farnese, a Renaissance palace designed by Michelangelo.”
Beatrice’s face fell.
“What? I thought you’d be excited to do a little culturing.”
“I am, but . . .”
“But what?”
“I haven’t seen you all week, that’s what.” She glared at him, trying to look more angry than hurt. “Tomorrow’s Saturday; I thought we’d spend the day together.” She bit her lower lip to keep it from quivering.
“Ah, my own little Bea,” her father said tenderly, enfolding her in his arms. “And here I thought you were fed up with your old man’s company.”
She buried her head in his chest, her resentment evaporating. He smelled reassuringly familiar, a combination of aftershave, typewriter ribbons, and dusty old books. She wanted to tell him how alone she felt, how out of place and out of her depth. How much she still needed him. But her voice stuck in her throat.
“Listen.” He took hold of her shoulders. “You know how important my research is. I’ve got to get in as much work as I can before the library closes for August. After that, I’m all yours. I promise,” he added with a wink. “You’ll have a great time tomorrow. I’ve heard that palace is just dripping with art. And you like Ginevra, don’t you?”
“Sure.” She shrugged. “She’s nice, I guess.”
“She seems like a bright young woman. She’s charging me an arm and a leg, but I suppose she’s worth it. She’ll certainly be able to tell you a lot more about the palace than I could.”
“You mean you don’t know everything?” Beatrice teased, her eyes wide with mock astonishment.
“Believe it or not, there are one or two subjects your otherwise omniscient father hasn’t fully mastered,” he humbly conceded.
Her left eyebrow rose. “Only one or two?”
“Maximum three. Just promise you won’t tell my students.”
Beatrice smirked. “I guess I have to go then, so I’ll be able to teach you a few things.”
Especially, she added silently, since my investigation is turning into a big, fat flop.
Twenty-Two
AT THE FRENCH EMBASSY
If Beatrice had been impressed by Palazzo Giacomo Mattei, she hadn’t seen anything yet. As she and Ginevra swept up the grand staircase of Palazzo Farnese, practically as wide as it was long, Beatrice’s eyes bugged with wonder.
“This place is huge,” she said, “and practically empty!” There wasn’t a guidebook-toting tourist in sight, only suit-clad professional types.
“Thees ees the seat of the French embassy, and the public are never allowed open access to an embassy, no matter how artistically important the palace ees.”
“Then how did we get in?”
“Let us say . . . I know people. In Italy, you cannot do anything without . . .” She paused, as if searching for the right word. “. . . connections.”
And in fact, when they had approached the behemoth palace, a hulking cube of stone that dwarfed every other building in sight, Ginevra had given her name to a pair of police officers stationed at the front doors. They had consulted a clipboard and waved them inside.
Beatrice wandered from room to opulent room, feeding her pupils on marble sculptures, trompe l’oeil ceilings, ancient artifacts, and a seemingly endless number of frescoes.
“I can’t believe all this belonged to a single family!”
Ginevra sneered. “The Farnese family were obscenely wealthy. They had more money than they knew what to do with, more money than God. They even tried to build a private bridge across the river, connecting this palace to their villa on the other side!” She snorted with contempt. “Reech people always theenk they are better than everyone else,” she added under her breath.
Every so often, Ginevra stopped in front of a work of art and rattled off an explanation about the artist’s style, the subject of the work, or the history of the Farnese family. It wasn’t that Beatrice wasn’t interested. Ordinarily she’d have relished having an expert all to herself to describe what she was seeing, to make the art come alive.
But she couldn’t help it; her mind kept flitting back to the turtles. She sneaked a peek at her watch. It was almost one o’clock: in just eleven hours, the turtles would be in Cambriolage’s hands. They’d be as good as gone. But what was she supposed to do to stop it?
If only she had Caterina’s map. The moment that thought darted into her brain, Marco’s betrayal pierced her afresh. She’d pushed the memory down into the crannies of her mind, but here it was, bobbing back up like a cork, reminding her she no longer had a partner in this daunting task. She tried, without success, to kick the thought away.
They ambled into a massive barrel-vaulted gallery with frescoes on every inch of the walls and ceiling. In spite of her swirling thoughts, Beatrice was dumbstruck. Her eyes didn’t know where to look first.
“Ah, eccoci, here we are,” Ginevra said. “The galleria of Annibale Carracci: the masterpeece of the palace.”
Ginevra narrated the complicated myths, featuring pagan gods Beatrice was vaguely familiar with—Jupiter, Juno, Venus, Bacchus—depicted in the frescoes. As Ginevra spoke, stories of love, courage, and victory exploded into life before Beatrice’s eyes.
But after a good twenty minutes, the nervous tickling in her belly returned. It was all well and good to try to distract herself with art, but the hour of truth was ticking closer.
As they continued through the last few rooms of their tour, none so impressive as the galleria, Beatrice tuned out her teacher’s melodic voice and let her mind wander. If the turtles were being handed over to Cambriolage tonight, they’d have to be taken from their hiding place in the Mattei Palace. If she were going to have a chance of stopping it, she had to be there.
“Beatrice?”
But how in the world was she supposed to sneak into a private palace on her own?
“Beatrice??”
It wasn’t as if she could just walk up to the front door and ring the bell.
“Beatrice!”
She spun around. She was so caught up in her thoughts that she’d failed to recognize the Italian version of her name.
“Sorry,” she said sheepishly, “I must’ve zoned out. You know, looking at all the art.”
Ginevra glared in disapproval, but the spark of mischief that danced in her black eyes convinced Beatrice she wasn’t as angry as she pretended to be. Suddenly the answer was clear—it was standing right in front of her. Ginevra knew people. She had connections; she’d said so herself. If she’d had no problem getting into the French embassy, a palace that was about to be auctioned off would probably be a piece of cake.
Beatrice had been reluctant to let any adults in on her investigations, but what choice did she have? If she couldn’t find a way inside the palace, the turtles would be lost forever. And with those mischievous eyes lurking behind a severe facade, Ginevra looked like a person who’d relish an adventure. Not to mention her obvious passion for art. She’d probably want to help.
The question was, would Ginevra believe her? Beatrice didn’t exactly have any proof, as Marco had helpfully pointed out. She felt another stab at the memory of his mocking tone.
What was it Mirella had said? She could hear the old lady’s voice in her head, a whistle cutting through the babble of her muddled thoughts. Opportunities present themselves, people who have the means to help you are thrown into your path, all bringing you toward your goal . . .
Beatrice drew in a deep breath, stretching it out as long as she could, as if to give herself time to change her mind. “Ginevra?” she finally ventured.
“Sì?” The fake furrow melted off her forehead.
“Well, it’s
slightly off-topic, but I was wondering . . .”
“Just a moment. I want to show you one more room.” Behind Ginevra’s green-framed glasses, her eyes brimmed with the promise of a spectacular sight.
They made their way along a wide corridor, hung with heavy tapestries, each one woven with gold and scarlet thread. As they approached a set of carved wooden doors—themselves a work of art—a man in a somber black suit stepped in front of them.
He and Ginevra exchanged a few words in rapid Italian, Ginevra’s voice rising slightly in objection. Even though Beatrice didn’t understand a word, it was clear that they were being turned away.
“Peccato. What a shame,” said Ginevra as they headed toward a marble staircase. “I wanted to show you a magneeficent fresco in the ambassador’s office, but the ambassador ees inside, so we cannot go een.” She clucked with contempt, as if the French ambassador being in his own office was highly inconsiderate.
Beatrice wasn’t so sorry. Her eyes were on overload from all the art she’d just gorged on. Besides, she had other things on her mind. Like getting up the nerve to ask Ginevra the big question, wondering how much of her illicit plans she’d have to reveal.
She was steeling her nerve when a tubby, middle-aged man came huffing up the stairs in their direction. He sported a neat gray beard and a smart gray suit, and as he came closer, his gaze fell on Beatrice with a glimmer of recognition.
Twenty-Three
ENTER JACQUES RAMBEAU
Beatrice’s blood froze as she locked eyes with Cambriolage, the man who had ordered the theft of Bernini’s turtles—if not for himself, then someone he was working for. The Frenchman’s gaze flicked to Ginevra, then back to Beatrice with a look of confusion so fleeting she couldn’t be sure if she’d seen or imagined it.
What was he doing here, of all places? On second thought, it was the French embassy, and he was French, after all. Maybe it wasn’t such a coincidence.
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