As always, Rick had the impression that Uncle Piero had been sewn into his tailored suit that morning. The jacket was unbuttoned now as the policeman leaned back with the satisfaction that comes from a good meal. A light blue shirt—embroidered with pf initials in the place of a pocket—framed a print tie that Rick did not remember seeing before. Perhaps, he thought, the reason Piero had never married was he didn’t want to split his wardrobe money with anyone.
“This experience in Volterra has changed you, Riccardo. I can see it in your face.” He took only a small taste of the wine, knowing it was the end of the bottle.
Rick nodded. “I suppose it did, Zio. But I don’t know which part of it changed me the most.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the whole undercover operation, if that’s the word for it, was fascinating, exhilarating, even fun.”
Piero smiled proudly. He had never made a secret of his disappointment that his nephew did not go into police work.
“Witnessing a man shot like that,” Rick said, “even though he deserved it, probably aged me a few years. I would imagine that you had that reaction the first time.”
The policeman nodded while rubbing a beard that was somewhere between a five o’clock shadow and a nearly full growth. “Yes, yes I did. What else about the experience has changed you?”
“This may sound strange, but I think I’ve become more Italian.”
“And this may sound equally strange, Riccardo, but I’m not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing. Tell me what you mean.”
Rick twisted the stem of his wine glass while forming his reply. “The way I find myself thinking about people, for example. Not as trusting? More cynical? Canopo risking his future for some extra money and paying with his life. Zerbino going against everything his profession stood for. And Donatella. She appeared to be just a good businesswoman, and look what she was up to. And…”
Piero tilted his head as he looked at his nephew. “And Erica?”
Somehow he wasn’t surprised that his uncle had brought up Erica. “Not in the same category as those others, of course, but something is stuck in the back of my mind.” Piero waited for him to continue. “Maybe it’s silly, but she’s never said if she’d called Donatella before arriving in Volterra.”
“You didn’t ask her?”
Rick drained his wineglass. “No.”
“Why not?”
Once again, Rick hesitated before replying. “I’ve asked myself that a few times and concluded that I’m afraid of what she would answer.”
Piero leaned forward and put his palms on the table. “You’re more cynical, less trusting of people, and you want to avoid confrontations with women. No doubt about it, you are Italian.” He raised his glass and tapped its rim with Rick’s. “Benvenuto paisano.” Rick forced a smile. “But let’s go back to the first part,” his uncle continued, “about the thrill of doing police work.”
“I thought you might focus on that, Zio.”
“The news of your exploits in Volterra has reached even the offices of the polizia here in Rome.”
“You of course have had nothing to do with spreading the news.”
Piero put his hand over a wounded heart. “I am forbidden to be proud of my nephew?” Rick grinned, but did not answer. His uncle continued. “Your skills were just what were needed in this case, and—you never know—they could be of value to the authorities again.”
Rick was about to take a sip of his wine but stopped and put the glass down. “What do you mean by that?”
“Well, someone in the office was of the opinion that a person with your multicultural background could be helpful in certain cases. I naturally assured them that you would consider it your civic duty to assist the police when asked.”
“Zio, don’t tell me that—”
Piero held up his hands and stared down at the table, as if his nephew was focused on trifles and it was time to discuss serious issues. “Bene,” he said, “we have established that you went to Volterra more American than Italian and perhaps returned the opposite. But, caro Riccardo, I would urge that you hold tight to your American passport to keep you from sliding completely into the cynicism you see around you. It’s your American side that endears you to me, and, I’m sure, to everyone you’ve met in Rome.” He put the spread fingers of his hands together over his chest in a gesture that was second nature for Romans. “But for the moment let’s both be very Italian and return to the important business at hand. How shall we finish this meal in true style?”
Once again, Rick thought, I must finire con bellezza. But this time it would be easier. “How about the cheese board, Signor Commissario? We haven’t had it in a while.”
“A splendid idea. But that will mean red wine. A nice Dolcetto d’Alba, perhaps. We are celebrating, after all.” He called over the waiter and gave him the order before settling back into the chair. “And what are your plans now, Riccardo?”
“My interpreting schedule is full through the holidays. I may try to do some skiing in January; a friend from college wants me to join him in the Dolomites. I’ll need a break from my work by then.”
Piero smiled. “Like the break you took in Tuscany.”
The waiter returned with a bottle of red wine, and Piero began to study its label as if it contained the missing clue to an unsolved murder.
Author’s Note
While this story and all its characters are pure fiction, Volterra is a real and thriving Tuscan city which proudly displays its rich history through the museums, churches, and public areas mentioned in this book. I have tried to describe them accurately and in the positive light which they deserve. Volterra is the ideal stop for the traveler who wants to see all the famous periods of Italian history in one place. Etruscan, Roman, Middle Ages, Renaissance—it has everything.
The Museo Etrusco Guarnacci, on the east side of the historic center, boasts the finest and largest collection of Etruscan burial urns in the world, as well as numerous other period artifacts including the haunting sculpture known as the Shadow of the Evening. A short walk away is the Pinacoteca e Museo Civico, whose collection includes, among many fine paintings, Rosso Fiorentino’s Deposition. Painted in 1521, this huge canvas is considered by many Mannerist scholars as Rosso’s most important work. A few hundred meters from the museum is the Roman theater that can be viewed from high on the wall or entered from below. One of the best-preserved Roman ruins of its period, it dates to the first century BC. Volterra’s jewel, as with so many Italian cities, is its main square, the Piazza dei Priori, the heart of civic life since ancient times. Among the stone buildings on it is the somber city hall, still performing its original function, whose façade always impresses visitors. Just behind the piazza, the city’s cathedral sits squeezed between other more mundane buildings, belying its impressive interior and beautiful works of art.
Along with traditional sightseeing, the alabaster around which this book is centered continues to bring tourists to Volterra. It is easy to visit workshops, and carved pieces of the stone are sold in shops everywhere. Visitors will also find artisans who specialize in Etruscan revival jewelry, something that fits easier into suitcases than alabaster.
Of course there’s the food, and no discussion of Italian cities can omit cooking. Western Tuscany, like every part of the region, has its culinary specialties including dishes featuring one of my favorite ingredients, wild boar, that can garnish pasta or stand alone as a main course. Set yourself up with a plate of it on a restaurant patio, add a glass of the local Montescudaio wine, and you’ll know that the real reason we love visiting Italy may not be the history and art.
I hope this book convinces readers that for anyone coming to Italy, especially if they find themselves in Tuscany, Volterra is not to be missed. And if a bed for the night is needed, they might consider the Hotel San Lino, named for the pope, which really was a convent
in a previous life.
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