“Interesting. A codex, you say? What more can you tell me?”
“According to the acquisitions director of our foundation, the codex may have some connection to the Christian Holy Family. I believe it was found in St. Sergius Church.”
“Cairo, then. Remarkable,” said Lamberti, narrowing his eyes so that his full gray brows nearly touched. “Now that would be quite a find. But I’m afraid I can’t be of help. I do have in my keeping a small codex found near Jerusalem from around 200 CE, but it lacks provenance. A serious problem these days.”
“Indeed it is,” laughed Justine with delicacy. “The authorities no longer turn their heads when a significant discovery is traded. I sympathize with antiquities dealers such as yourself. It makes life difficult.”
“I’m impressed that such an obviously accomplished woman would care. I deeply appreciate your gesture of sympathy.” He bowed and took her hand once again, raising it slowly to his lips. “Is there any way that I can reach you if I come across information of interest?”
“I’m embarrassed to admit that my purse was taken last night, Mr. Lamberti, by Romas in Piazza Popolo. As a consequence, I have none of my cards with me. But I’ve written my cell number on this slip of paper.”
Blackburn grinned, accepting the paper without turning his eyes from hers.
“It was Blackburn all right,” she said, vividly remembering Andrea’s description. “I wasn’t fooled by him, and of course he wasn’t fooled by me. You were right, he certainly is a charmer.” Justine took off her jacket and placed it over the wrought iron chair in the coffee shop near Chiesa Nova. She vigorously rubbed her arms.
“How’s the elbow?”
“Better.” The Neosporin had been cooling.
“How did you come up with the Medea Foundation?” asked Andrea. “I haven’t heard of it.”
“I made it up,” grinned Justine. “This adventure reminds me of a multi-headed monster.” They both laughed. “What will we do with the information about Blackburn? Contact the Carabinieri? Egyptian embassy?” asked Justine, stirring her coffee with unusual vigor.
“What information?” Andrea asked.
CHAPTER 9
Spaghetti alla Puttanesca
2 small (14–16 oz) or 1 large (28 oz) can crushed tomatoes
4 cloves of garlic, halved
4 or 5 anchovy filets, chopped
3 T olive oil
10–12 black olives, stoned and coarsely chopped
2 T capers, soaked and drained
2 T Italian parsley, chopped
1/2 to 1 small red chili, chopped
Salt
1 lb spaghetti or spaghettini
“WHAT ARE YOU MAKING, Mom?” asked Justine as she pulled out a stool snuggled under Lucrezia’s marble island, which was large enough to service ten chefs. Without waiting for her mother to answer, she sat down to survey the remodeled kitchen. The marble counter featured a six-burner stovetop beneath a stainless steel hood. Copper pans hung beside Tuscan baskets. A yeasty aroma floated in the air because two domes of focaccia dough sat rising under warm red cloths. Mammoth timbers crossed the high ceiling like protective arms, supporting two stories of living area above.
“Puttanesca, Justine. What do you think of my new kitchen?”
“Terrific! But since when did you become a chef?” Justine wore jeans, a blue cotton shirt, and her sandals. She had corralled her long hair with barrettes that she’d found in her old dresser. To her mother, she looked sixteen again.
Lucrezia dug her fingers into a large jar and removed a dripping palm full of capers, then dropped them into the giant crockery bowl in front of her. “I think of cooking as art,” she said. “But if it becomes routine, I find it drudgery. Besides, Maria is in Bologna with her family and since I took Lorenza’s cooking course at Badia a Coltibuono, I’ve been trying my hand in the kitchen occasionally. I remodeled this kitchen to look very much like hers. Hand me the anchovies.”
Justine carefully lifted the bowl of anchovies bathing in brine and moved it to the island beside her mother. “I didn’t know Lorenza de Medici was still giving classes. Isn’t she gallivanting around the world selling her cookbooks?” Justine walked to the sink and washed her hands, even though she hadn’t touched the salty creatures. “Stinky little things,” she said over her shoulder.
Lucrezia smiled as she sank her hands into the brine. “Her son, Guido, teaches most of the classes now, but Lorenza hosts a few friends from time to time.”
“So, what is puttanesca, anyway?” Justine asked, watching her mother mash the small sardines with a mortar.
“Juice those lemons for me while I tell you the story.” Lucrezia wiped her hands on a towel. The shiny patina on the surface of her skin glistened in the late-afternoon light.
“How many do you want?” asked Justine, slicing each lemon in half and turning it upside down over the juicer, forcing the liquid into the bowl below. More pungent aromas filled the room.
“Four will be plenty. Now listen . . . this tasty sauce is related to the world’s oldest profession. It originated in Naples and the official name, Pasta alla Puttanesca, means ‘Pasta the way a whore would make it.’ Quick and easy, between tricks. I love it!”
“Devil!” Justine laughed at her mother’s delight in all things sensual. The late-afternoon sun caressed the casement windows and a crystal vase full of yellow bougainvillea.
Lucrezia grinned without turning around. “In the 1950s, brothels were state-owned and these ‘civil servants’ were only allowed one market day. So this dish, made quickly from common ingredients kept in the larder, fit the bill. With three of Italy’s choice cooking ingredients—anchovies, capers, and black olives—it’s a salty, saucy taste worthy of a king. A naughty king, perhaps. You think the men will like it?”
“I don’t understand men much anymore, Mom. Not since Egypt.” Justine slid the jar of black olives nearer her mother.
Lucrezia glanced at her daughter, who chose not to return her gaze.
Instead, Justine moved her stool to the opposite side of the island and set the bowl of dough in front of her. Only then did she look up.
“What’s going on? I hadn’t realized your self-doubt was so strong.” Her mother pulled up a stool as well, giving her full attention to Justine. Without looking down, she started to cut the peppers into thin slices.
“I’m still having trouble trusting myself. I got it all wrong with two men, one in love and one in work. Maybe three. How much worse can it get?”
“A lot worse. You could have married one of them.”
“Good point, Mom,” she laughed. “But you know how much I pride myself on being able to read people.”
“Yes, the work of an anthropologist.”
“That’s right. Well, my abilities failed me this time. I blew it.”
“You’re too hard on yourself, dear. Surely there were reasons.”
“Amir suggested that both reasons related to Dad. Ibrahim was Dad’s friend and colleague. And as you know, Nasser claimed to be Dad’s student, so I . . .”
“So you didn’t apply your usual rigorous screening,” her mother interrupted. “Makes sense to me.”
“It makes sense, but how can I trust that it won’t happen again?”
“You can’t trust that life isn’t going to throw you curves. Anyway, I understand that Amir is here.”
“To work with Dad as an archaeologist.” Justine took a deep breath.
“Well then, what’s going on? What does Amir have to do with any of this? Cute little kid, but I haven’t seen him since he was a child. Tell me . . .”
Justine told her mother about the night before: the dinner, her outburst, their making love. She kept her eyes on the focaccia.
“Ah. I see. Is it men you don’t understand, or yourself?” Lucrezia sliced into a red onion and tears ran down her cheeks.
Justine hammered at the focaccia dough with both fists. “Both, I guess.”
“I don’t mean to confus
e the two. I’ve always been puzzled by men’s egos, their need to compete, to win. Sometimes at any price. But I’ve also learned that you can’t generalize about men, or women for that matter. The best you can do is be aware, be present. Keep your antennae up but don’t be overly suspicious.”
“Like Andrea?”
“Like Andrea.”
Justine was quiet for several moments as she methodically rolled out the dough, placing it into three waiting oiled pans, pressing thumbprints across the surfaces. She had learned the traditional way to prepare focaccia from her Grandmother Laurence during teenage summers with her.
Lucrezia scooped richly scented rosemary from another bowl and handed it to her daughter, who scattered it evenly over the surface of one of the breads. She placed sliced tomatoes and grated pecorino on another loaf, and red onion and kosher salt on the third. Satisfied with the colorful focaccia, they looked up at each other, quietly savoring the bond that often grows between women who cook together.
“Where did you get your wisdom, Mom?”
“The Etruscan goddess Menrva, of course,” she laughed, taking her daughter’s face into both hands and wiping away her tears with her thumbs, leaving a residue of oil on each cheek.
Justine took the stairs to her room two at a time. She needed to run. Running was her emotional equalizer. When she was stressed or worried or angry, it cleared her vision and released muscle tension; when she was happy, the run heightened her joy, her energy, opening up possibilities. She slipped into her black running shorts, remembering how violated she’d felt on her run that first morning in Cairo when a stranger’s hand had reached between her legs. After that incident, she’d worn only loose clothing on the streets of Egypt.
Justine started up the pathway leading across the Fiesole hills, behind the Villa San Michele, and upward into town. At first her pace was uneven, her heart beating wildly. Wild sweet peas, poppies, and orchids reached for her ankles, and the scent of lemon and mulberry trees filled her lungs. Honeysuckle and wild roses clung to terraces nearby. Glorious, she thought. Such beauty inevitably rested Justine’s life in perspective. Her heart slowed and her pace evened. She knew that life was uncertain, and wondered why she had to be reminded.
I create my own cages, she thought, taking a deep breath, pulling her shoulders back, and stretching her arms forward onto her knees. She turned to watch the late-afternoon sun being pulled toward the Arno and reflecting off the ochre dome of the Duomo. After she’d run herself out, at the crest of the hill just below the Aurora terrace, she turned back for home.
Justine entered the parlor at twilight, her cobalt blue dress resplendent in the evening light. Her chestnut hair was combed back from her face to show off sapphire earrings, a graduation present her father had brought back from India. She was meeting him; he had driven up from Cerveteri with Riccardo once more for a traditional glass of sherry. Once again, Amir had chosen to stay behind. He had used the excuse that he needed to meet with the regional superintendent.
“Amir is better at politics than I am,” Morgan said.
When Justine filled Morgan in on the visit to Rome, he casually revealed that Andrea had stopped in at Cerveteri on her way to Rome. Justine chose not to comment on this news. She and Morgan both seemed to get involved with sudden affairs. She wasn’t sure where she stood with Amir; he’d sent but one casual e-mail, was clearly avoiding her.
By eight o’clock the sun had abandoned the mountainside, leaving behind ribbons of purple and rose. The table was set in the china and linens Justine preferred: beige ceramic plates painted with whimsical willows. The tablecloth and napkins were bright yellow linen, and clusters of daffodils sprung unevenly from crystal vases.
This was Andrea’s last weekend in Fiesole for a few weeks. Lucrezia had invited Marco de Marco, the director of the Zona Archeologica in Fiesole, and another friend of hers, Alessandro Cardini, a manager with Ferragamo in Florence.
Radiant in her flowing kaftan and turquoise jewelry, Lucrezia began serving the puttanesca. She was one of the few women in Italy who would risk eating pasta in white linen.
Andrea sniffed the pasta dish, wrinkled her nose, and turned to Morgan. “What is this?” she whispered. He hunched his shoulders.
“What you smell is anchovies,” whispered Justine. After learning from her father that Andrea had stopped by to see him in Cerveteri, she was puzzled by her feelings, and pondered how she would respond to her French friend this evening. What is it about daughters and fathers? Jealousy? She turned her full attention toward Marco and her mother.
Lucrezia slowly curled her spaghetti around her inverted fork as Marco quizzed her on the legacy of Benvenuto Cellini and her villa, and the repair of the Chimera.
“Delightful story, as I recall,” said Alessandro. “About Zeus and the winged horse Pegasus. Perhaps I should persuade Ferragamo to add wings to some of our shoes. Love this puttanesca, Lucrezia.” His deep tan complemented his cream-colored linen suit and matching buckskin shoes, a magnificent representation of his company.
A strikingly handsome man, Justine mused, though she noted that his ears were slightly too large for his head. A petty observation.
“Grazie. Another helping?” Lucrezia asked. Marco grinned and shook his head.
“You know I love your cooking, my beautiful friend, but I’m not crazy about these smelly little fishes,” whined Andrea. “But this wine . . . ah, paradiso. Did you bring it, Alessandro?” She tilted her head to one side, a gesture that rarely failed to captivate.
Alessandro noted the flirtatious gesture and smiled broadly.
Morgan’s dimples tightened, and his eyebrows moved closer together. His fingers grasped his fork, momentarily turning pale pink. But almost as quickly as his reactions to Andrea’s flirtations arose, they dissipated.
“Si, signora. The wine is called Asprinio de Aversa, from one of the world’s smallest and most obscure appellations. Like an exotic perfume of jasmine and wild mint, don’t you think? Crisply acidic and dry, yet with a hint of almond,” offered Alessandro with the pride of the vintner himself.
“Well described, my friend,” said Riccardo. He raised his glass and smiled, whereupon his discordant facial features settled into a more attractive arrangement.
“Riccardo, how did you ever get involved in history and archaeology in the first place? I understand it’s not a family tradition.”
“Not a direct tradition, no, but in a way it’s all about aesthetics.”
“Aesthetics?” asked Justine. She would soon learn that the answer to her question led to deeper roots and some old wounds.
“Beauty, art, the sublime—the soil, the vine, the wine,” said Riccardo, pleased with his poetic turn of phrase.
“In Italy, beauty has meaning beyond the smell of the rose, beyond the visible,” remarked Marco, swept up in Riccardo’s lyrics. “The desire for beauty permeates everything.”
“More to the point of your question, as Dr. Jenner would say, when I was fourteen I read D.H. Lawrence’s Etruscan Places and became fascinated by his interpretations. So rich. So imaginative,” said Riccardo. “After being pummeled by Dante in Catholic school, I appreciated the Etruscans’ ideas about death.”
“But surely you don’t subscribe to those ideas?” challenged Morgan, feigning amazement. He had dismissed them the first time he’d read them.
“I think I do,” said Riccardo, without apology. “For the Etruscans, everything is about life. Even death. Life for them was a thing of ease. And they felt no need to force the mind or the soul in any direction. Death was a pleasant continuance of life. This is what Lawrence taught me.”
“A most romantic view, I’m afraid,” interjected Morgan without looking up. He finished off the remaining mozzarella and salami in the antipasti.
“I’m afraid I must agree with Dr. Jenner on this point, Mr. Chia,” said Marco, slowly sipping his wine. “A significant amount of evidence indicates that the Etruscans were frightened by death and the afterlife.”
“What evidence?” asked Lucrezia over her shoulder, slipping out to the kitchen to snatch serving plates of Pollo Arrosto with roasted peppers. As she reentered through the swinging doors, Justine took the steaming plates from her mother and placed them in front of their guests.
“The recent finds of La Tomba della Quadriga Infernale,” said Marco, preparing to slice his chicken into thin strips.
“Please translate,” asked Andrea.
“It means ‘The Tomb of the Devil’s Chariot,’ signora,” said Marco. “A quadriga is a chariot drawn by four horses. This discovery at Sarteano is exceptional. The paintings are vivid and beautiful, typical of Etruscan work in the fifth to fourth century BCE. The Devil drives the dead to the boundaries of Hell, where they are met by a three-headed snake.”
“Hadn’t heard of the discovery . . . remarkable,” exclaimed Riccardo, separating the peppers and sprig of rosemary to one side of the plate and plunging his knife into the roasted chicken. “But the Etruscans were often merely amused by Greek myths, legends, portrayals. Perhaps these creatures were playful cartoons, like superheroes.”
Marco laughed wholeheartedly. “The Greeks were not the first to portray the afterlife as frightening. Images similar to theirs appeared in Tarquinia and Vulci before Greek art and myths were brought to Etruria.”
“Snakes were often depicted as symbols of rebirth, new beginnings, Marco,” said Lucrezia. “Consider also the Snake Goddess of the Minoans. She ruled without fury or spite. Hindus and Buddhists consider snakes to be guardians . . .”
“In Egypt, the cobra was the patron and protector of the country, and the pharaohs,” added Justine. “They also possessed the all-seeing eye of wisdom and vengeance.” She peered at Marco. “On the other hand, for Abrahamic religions, snakes represent deceitfulness. Am I right?”
“There is truth in what you say, ladies,” responded Marco, convinced of the veracity of his argument. “The snake is not always a loathsome image, but the preponderance of monsters and devils in Etruscan tombs suggests to me that fear accompanied death.” He turned to the multicolored peppers.
The Italian Letters Page 7