Midnight in the Piazza

by Tiffany Parks

  Beatrice couldn’t help scowling at the man she knew was involved in a despicable crime against art, but he didn’t meet her eye again. On her other side, Ginevra’s head was down, her gaze suddenly riveted to her fingernails. As Monsieur Cambriolage passed them, he pulled his hand out of his pocket and a tiny scrap of paper fluttered to the ground near Beatrice’s feet.

  Quick as a wink, Beatrice swooped down and scooped up the paper. She crumpled it into her fist and peeked over her shoulder to make sure no one had seen her. Monsieur Cambriolage heaved himself up the last few steps, smoothed his jacket, and strutted up to the ambassador’s door.

  The stern man who had shooed Beatrice and Ginevra away just moments before flung open the door without waiting to be asked. Beatrice saw a flash of color within—gold, red, black, and green—from a fresco on the wall behind a massive oak desk. A tall, dour-looking man with a bald head appeared behind the door. The two men shook hands.

  “Ah, Cambriolage,” snarled the bald man, whom Beatrice guessed was none other than the French ambassador. “Entrez, entrez,”1 he said, his voice gruff and scratchy.

  “Monsieur l’Ambassadeur,” said Cambriolage, jolly and round as a hedgehog by comparison, and disappeared into the office. The ambassador turned to the underling who had opened the door, barked an order at him in French, and slammed the door. Beatrice was thankful she wasn’t in that meeting.

  When she turned back around, Ginevra was at the bottom of the staircase, eyeing her shrewdly. Beatrice scurried down the rest of the steps and met her tutor’s penetrating stare with a casual smile.

  “Do you know that man?” Ginevra’s tone was even but her eyes were sharp as shattered glass.

  “N-no,” Beatrice stammered, as casually as possible. “I just wanted to get a peek at that fresco you mentioned. Why, do you know him?” she countered, forcing her voice to be nonchalant.

  “I do not think so . . .” Ginevra said, turning her head, a hint of color spotting her cheeks. “He does remind me of one of my former universitee professors . . . but no, I do not theenk it was heem.” She shrugged. “Un attimo.2 I need to peek up my telefonino.” She pulled a bit of paper out of her handbag and approached a security guard seated behind a counter.

  Beatrice opened her hand slyly to reveal the bit of crumpled paper. The tiny white square read 313. Of course! It was a claim slip, identical to the one Ginevra had just handed over. Electronic devices were strictly forbidden in embassies, and all visitors—even Monsieur Cambriolage—had to leave them behind with the guard.

  Ginevra had retrieved her cell phone and was tapping away with furiously flying fingers. With her tutor’s attention absorbed, Beatrice silently slid Cambriolage’s claim slip across the counter to the guard on duty. She smiled up at him innocently. She’d never been so grateful to be a foreigner than at that moment, not expected to put words to her request. She only hoped the guard didn’t have a good memory; whatever object the slip claimed had been deposited mere minutes before.

  She held her breath until the guard, without a trace of suspicion, handed her a sleek black smartphone. Smiling her thanks, she stuffed it into her back pocket just as Ginevra looked up.

  “Andiamo?”3

  “Andiamo!”4 Beatrice replied, with a tad more enthusiasm than the situation called for.

  They walked into the blaring sunshine and Ginevra turned to her pupil. “Now, what was eet you wanted to ask me?”

  Maybe it was Marco’s recent deception, still stinging like a fresh burn, or perhaps the suspicious appearance of Monsieur Cambriolage, or maybe even the stolen cell phone smoldering in her pocket. Whatever it was, it made her hesitate, then come to a decision. She’d gotten herself mixed up in this mystery alone; she was going to solve it alone.

  She turned to Ginevra with an innocent shrug. “Must’ve slipped my mind.”

  Beatrice’s belly spun like a hamster in a wheel, but whether out of fright or glee, she couldn’t quite say. She was sure that any second a policeman would grab her by the shoulders and shake her down. But the dread of being caught with someone else’s cell phone was outweighed by the anticipation of the clues she might discover.

  Once she and Ginevra went their separate ways, Beatrice snuck down a side street and tore the phone out of her pocket. She pressed a button at random and the device flickered on. An image of an empty battery flashed across the screen: only 3 percent power left, it warned.

  She quickly tapped on the messaging app. The most recent text came from a certain Jacques Rambeau. She selected it to find a conversation made up of dozens of messages—all in French of course! Why did it seem like every time she was on the verge of a discovery, some foreign language got in her way?

  The battery flashed 2 percent just as she reached the last few messages. She was about to give up, her hope deflating, when a familiar word caught her eye: Mattei. Her heart stopped and she scanned the message in question. It consisted of a list, all in French, but even so, she managed to decipher a few words.

  Camée d’Hercule—Collection Santarelli

  La Délaissée de Botticelli—Collection Rospigliosi

  Tortues de Bernini—Piazza Mattei

  Miroir à main en bronze étrusque—Académie Américaine

  Mangeurs de Haricots de Carracci—Collection Colonna

  Putti de Raphael—Académie de Saint-Luc

  An invisible ice cube slid down her spine. There could no longer be any doubt. Monsieur Cambriolage wasn’t just after Bernini’s turtles. Those four sculptures were only the tip of the felonious iceberg, only a fraction of art he was in the process of acquiring—and not in the legal way. The Botticelli had already been stolen, and according to Mirella, so had the Cameo of Hercules. It was only too clear the turtles were next. How long would it take before Cambriolage got his hands on the rest of the items on the list?

  Then she did a double take. Académie Américaine? That could only mean one thing: the American Academy. Her dad said there’d been a break-in, but they hadn’t managed to steal anything. Maybe they’d try again. He’d lose his job and they’d be on the next flight back to Boston. Panic wrapped its bony fingers around her windpipe.

  One percent. Any second now the screen would go black. She clicked on the contact info for Jacques Rambeau. Whoever he was, he was behind these despicable crimes, and she wasn’t going to let him get away with it.

  The contact page displayed nothing but a phone number. It was a start, at any rate. She scrabbled for her own phone out of habit, only to remember the broken shards of plastic she’d shoved into her nightstand drawer. She clawed blindly in her bag for pen and paper, not taking her eyes off the number. “332-747-8992,” she said aloud. “332-747-8992, 332-747-8992 . . .” Just as she got hold of her pen, the screen went black. She scrawled the number on her palm before she had a chance to forget it. She was almost sure she’d got it right. Almost sure would have to do.

  Now that the phone was useless, she wondered, should she hang on to it? It would make an excellent piece of evidence. But what if it had a tracking device? She imagined a pair of armed thugs showing up on her doorstep in the middle of the night. No, she wasn’t about to lead them right to her. Better to take it back. But how? She couldn’t exactly saunter up to the embassy’s security guard and tell him she’d accidently taken the wrong phone. And what if Cambriolage had finished his meeting by now and had already reported it stolen?

  With her stomach churning, she slunk back to Piazza Farnese, trying to look as inconspicuous as was possible for a redheaded American girl in Rome. She waited until the guards outside the embassy were distracted, placed the phone atop one of the wooden barriers, and scampered down a side street, her heart thudding in her throat.

  She scoured the nearby streets for a pay phone. There were precious few in the city, since hardly anyone used them anymore, but at last she spotted one, its plastic hood covered with squiggles of graffiti. She scrounged in her pockets for a few coins, inserted them into the slot, and dialed the number wi
th a trembling finger.

  As the phone rang, her mind went blank. She hadn’t even worked out what to say, not that she could say much of anything—in Italian or French. What did she expect? That Jacques Rambeau would just answer the phone and give himself up? In the end, she didn’t have time to worry about it. The other line picked up and a gruff “Oui?” barked out of the receiver.

  “Uh, bonjour,” Beatrice sputtered, “Monsieur Rambeau?”

  “Qui est-ce?” came a low, threatening tone that was vaguely familiar. The words were close enough to Italian for her to make out his meaning, an ominous “Who is this?”

  Beatrice was silent, suddenly grasping the futility of her plan. She had literally nothing to say. What followed was a barrage of French in a voice growling with anger and suspicion. She closed her eyes, wincing against the unintelligible pummeling of verbal abuse. As she did so, a picture formed in her brain, clear as day: the bald ambassador barking orders at the dark-suited subordinate. She hung up the phone and exhaled deeply.

  In a flash she was running straight for the Ghetto. Suddenly she didn’t care about her suspicions or the harsh words that had passed between them. In that moment, she had to find Marco.

  She reached Via del Portico d’Ottavia out of breath, a stitch in her side. The usually bustling street was eerily quiet. Besides a few ambling tourists, no one was out. All the shops were shuttered, the restaurants closed.

  Mr. Morello’s shop was as deserted as the rest and Beatrice stomped her feet in frustration. Where was everyone? It was Saturday, for goodness’ sake.

  Then she realized with a crash of disappointment. It was Saturday—the Sabbath. Any practicing Jew would be at home or at the synagogue to observe the holy day. No wonder the Ghetto was a ghost town.

  Sabbath ended at sundown. Beatrice squinted in the direction of the blinding orb, but it was still high in the sky, and wouldn’t go down until after dinnertime. Even if her dad let her out of the house at that hour—which was, let’s face it, never going to happen—she didn’t know where Marco lived. How would she even find him? And by that time, would it be too late?

  Twenty-Four

  A CONCERT IS PROPOSED AND A DOCUMENT DISCLOSED

  “So? How was Palazzo Farnese?” asked her dad when he walked in the door a few hours later. “What did you think of those frescoes by Carracci?”

  “Pretty impressive,” said Beatrice distractedly.

  All in all, it had been a successful mission. But even with this new and devastating information, she still had no feasible plan of how to save the turtles—not to mention the other works on Cambriolage’s troubling list.

  “Did you learn a lot?”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said, with more meaning than her dad could have guessed. “But it would’ve been more fun if you’d been there.”

  “You’re right, sweet pea, I’ve been neglecting you dreadfully! But I’m going to make it up to you. Tonight.”

  “Tonight?” Beatrice squeaked.

  A grin spread across her father’s face. “I got us tickets to a concert!”

  “For . . . tonight.” It seemed as though Beatrice’s good luck was turning.

  “The concert starts at eight-thirty. I know it’s a bit late, but things happen later in Italy, and anyway, tomorrow’s Sunday. We can sleep in.”

  “What kind of music?” she asked, playing for time as she racked her brain for a believable excuse.

  “Classical.” He pulled the tickets out of his pocket. “Chopin, Brahms, and Beethoven piano sonatas in the courtyard of Palazzo Mattei di Giove.”

  “What?” The spinning world screeched to a halt.

  “Chopin, Brahms—”

  “No, no, the last part. Palazzo . . . ?”

  “Palazzo Mattei di Giove.”

  “That’s just across the square!” She didn’t add that it was one of the four palaces that made up Isola Mattei.

  “I know, that’s why I got the tickets. I thought it might be fun to explore one of the palaces in the neighborhood, and hear some great music at the same time.”

  Beatrice couldn’t believe her luck—no, it wasn’t luck. It was synchronicity: another meaningful coincidence. She had no idea where the night would lead, but she’d better be prepared.

  Back in her room, she gathered a few indispensable items, a compact flashlight, a compass, a box of matches, a canvas tote bag, and an empty backpack, and squished them into her roomiest shoulder bag.

  She grabbed the floor plan of Isola Mattei that she’d photocopied from her father’s book and studied it for the millionth time. In just a few hours she’d be in the courtyard of Palazzo Mattei di Giove, but she needed to get to the palace next door. Were the two connected somehow? Was there a way to get from one to the next? The complex diagram offered no obvious solutions.

  Dismissing the minor detail of how she’d break into the palace, she did have a plan for what to do once she was there. She grabbed Marco’s translation of the diary and flipped through it until she found the passage she was looking for.

  . . . in a part of the library I had never explored before . . . behind the globe and an armchair, in the corner, with very poor light . . . a slender volume of Aristotle . . . I tugged the book . . . an entire section of the bookcase shifted. It was a secret door . . .

  Beatrice’s breath came short and quick as she imagined herself discovering the secret passageway. If it really did exist, all she had to do was find the right book, and pull. But then what? Who knew what kind of convoluted maze the passage led to? If only she had the map.

  Her gut tightened as she envisioned Marco pocketing it. But was he really capable of such a thing? She ran her finger along a line of his cramped handwriting, grazing the words he had so diligently translated.

  Overcome with uncertainty and regret, she threw the notebook aside and flung herself onto her bed. She lay facedown, her head lolling over the side, wondering how she’d ever be able to thwart this crime all on her own. Not to mention the ones that were bound to follow.

  Her nose wrinkled at the mess lurking under the bed: a pair of mismatched sandals, a stray headband, a piece of folded yellow paper, and the new earphones she thought she’d lost, all keeping company with a litter of dust bunnies. She reached for her earphones, nearly toppling off the bed. As she pulled at the cord, one of the earbuds caught the edge of the folded paper, dragging it from under the bed.

  It looked enticingly ancient, with peeling edges and as many wrinkles as the back of Mirella’s hand. Beatrice snatched the yellowing parchment and blew off the dust. She unfolded it incredulously, holding her breath, not daring to hope that it could possibly be the thing she needed most. But as soon as the aged document lay open before her, she knew without a doubt it was the map to Caterina’s secret room.

  But where had it come from? And what had it been doing under her bed?

  She recalled the night she’d fallen asleep while reading the diary, and woken up to find it open on the floor. Had the map slipped out and blown under the bed?

  She slid onto the floor and spread it out with trembling hands.

  The lines were faded but she could still make out the fan-shaped diagram of an ancient theater, just like the one in her guidebook only a hundred times more detailed. As she studied the distinctive half-moon shape, an image flashed into her mind: an old-fashioned mahogany desk littered with papers, a diagram like this one sitting right on top. The image staring up at her, as far as she could remember, was identical to the one she’d seen in the Mattei library. A gush of vindication flooded her and she bent down to take a closer look.

  The stage ran vertically along the right side, and the seating area—the cavea—curved out to the left. The splayed lines that echoed the rounded shape of the cavea were clearly foundation walls, but she couldn’t begin to make sense of the rest of the markings.

  She followed the sweeping arc of the cavea with her fingertip, searching for clues. Shaky markings, so faded they were barely discernible, led from a hand-draw
n staircase, around a corner, and straight between two of the cavea’s foundation walls. There, scratched ever so faintly, was an unmistakable X.

  Victory bubbled up within her, but just as quickly it fizzled, like a can of soda suddenly gone flat. Marco. Her stomach twisted with guilt for assuming he’d stolen the map. Now she didn’t know what to think. She’d convinced herself he was planning to betray her, to steal the turtles for himself. It all seemed a bit far-fetched.

  She couldn’t help wishing he were with her now, puzzling over the map and scheming to get inside the palace. She gazed out the window over the rosy roof tiles that stretched into the distance. The Sabbath sun was setting on the Ghetto, but as to which rooftop was sheltering Marco, it was as much a mystery as the fate of Bernini’s turtles.

  Twenty-Five

  BRAHMS, BEETHOVEN, AND A BUSINESS CALL

  Stars glinted over the courtyard of Palazzo Mattei di Giove and a lemon-wedge moon slipped behind the wisp of a cloud. Along the pale yellow walls stood dozens of statues, some headless, some armless, keeping watch like wounded sentinels. Marble busts peeked out of niches on the upper level, and the arches of a loggia soared above them.

  The heat of the day, which had lingered long past sundown, was abated by a gentle breeze that carried with it the scent of wild jasmine. Elegant women with bare shoulders and tanned men in linen shirts chatted happily. Everyone seemed without a care in the world, with nothing on their minds but the evening’s entertainment and the long weeks of late summer ahead.

  Everyone but Beatrice.

  She sat beside her father in the fifth row wearing a red cotton dress with white polka dots. She’d chosen it for its most convenient feature: pockets. Her foot tapped distractedly and she clutched the straps of her bag to keep her hands from shaking. Inside was everything she needed to recapture Bernini’s turtles—everything except a plan.

  “You see those ancient sculptures?” her father whispered, making her jump. “If any of them were back home, they’d be locked up in a museum, but here in Rome, they’re just—everywhere.” His eyes wandered up the walls of the courtyard. “Who do you suppose brought them here?”