“No, I trust your judgment—in regard to wines, at least.”
Guido ordered the Le Pupille and returned his attention to Justine, eager to pursue the conversation.
Anchoring her palm on her chin, she asked, “What do you think of D.H. Lawrence’s Etruscan Places? He certainly supports the idea of an Etruscan goddess culture.” She anticipated that he would not be enamored by Lawrence.
“Quite a romantic, D.H. A novelist, not an anthropologist. I’m afraid that much of what he had to say has been discredited. But I appreciate his adoration of the Etruscans. He seems to have identified with them in a mystical way.”
“Romantic, undoubtedly. That’s what Pallottino said.” That’s what Dad says. She pronounced the name of the Nazi archaeologist slowly, as though the syllables were pointed darts.
Guido looked up quickly. “Ah, Mussolini’s old pal. I would not like to be seen in his company.”
“Nor I. Do you consider yourself a romantic?” She continued without waiting for a response. “I’m persuaded that Lawrence was more right than wrong about the Etruscans. He brought a literary eye to his study—sometimes art can tell us what we can’t see otherwise. I have an associate at McGill University who says that D.H. Lawrence got it right.” She didn’t feel free to tell Guido about the Lawrence letters. She still cherished her secret, holding the letters close as though releasing them would be like liberating a small bird before it had wings. And she had yet to consult her mother, who she now knew was strongly against public exposure of the letters. Why, she couldn’t imagine.
“Yes, I can be a romantic, but I reserve my flights of fantasy for my novels,” he said, pouring the ruby liquid into her glass. “As a biologist, I think it’s unlikely that many of Laurence’s observations are accurate. I’d say he projected his own desires for a peaceful death onto his subjects.” They held each other’s eyes. “Shall we order?” he asked.
Justine nodded. Half a romantic, she mused, lifting her glass unhurriedly toward her lips. “I like the image: fellow traveler of Lawrence!” she said, studying the menu. “Mother says that one of Annie’s specialties is Tuscan tomato-bread soup. And wild boar . . .”
“Ah, Pappa al Pomodoro and cinghiale. That’s what we’ll have, then. We can share.” He nodded their readiness to the waiter.
After Guido had ordered the desired dishes, Justine reached across the table and touched his hand, wanting to draw his attention back to the tomb—and to her. “What do you think of our investigative team?”
He clasped her hand and held it for just a moment. “Sometimes managing a diverse team like yours can be difficult.” Then he released her and slid back in his chair. “I was at a conference in London two years ago and the linguists there told us they were forbidden to talk about the origins of languages. Can you imagine? That should be their primary function. Otherwise, what good are they?”
Justine placed her abandoned hand into her lap. “Linguists can be a society unto themselves,” she said, thinking immediately of Andrea. “I’ve encountered similar precautions—sensitivities—with regard to human origins and race—”
“‘Sensitivities’ can be a euphemism for cowardice,” he interrupted. “Science stops where political correctness begins. Take evolution, for instance—”
“Ah, a favorite bogeyman of the Far Right.” It was her turn to interrupt; she leaned into the table and suspended her glass in midair. “How does that play out in Italy?”
“Same as in the States, I suppose. Although the Catholic Church is not as intent on resisting evolution as some evangelical churches are. It learned its lesson with the Galileo disaster.”
Justine laughed at the antiquity of the example. She crossed her legs and smoothed out her crepe skirt in preparation for a story. “When I was in college,” she began, “my friends—most of them ex-Catholics now—became concerned for my soul, so they arranged for me to talk with the priest who ran the Newman Center. Charming man. He told me that God had used evolution to create life; then, when animals evolved into man, He instilled a soul into every human. A convenient story.”
“Ah, si. It’s the soul that separates us from lower animals.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I don’t think there is such a thing as a soul. Whatever needs to be explained about humans can be accounted for by this magnificent brain,” he said, pointing to his temple.
“Neither do I. Even though I occasionally worry about my own.” She laughed at her own contradiction.
Guido joined in her obvious pleasure. “So what evil acts have tainted your soul?”
“Not a great deal recently, but I did get kicked out of Egypt last year.”
“So I’ve heard. Were you guilty?”
“Guilty of finding the Virgin Mary’s diary—the codex—yes. Guilty of insisting that the findings come to light? Absolutely. Perhaps even guilty of contributing to religious strife in the Middle East.” She breathed in deeply, aware of the savory aroma of the arriving cinghiale, which blended pleasantly with the masculine muskiness of her dinner partner.
“That’s quite a burden to carry,” he said, his green eyes surveying her shoulders. “I’ve picked up a few things about the Virgin’s diary from your conversations, but I have to admit I’m incredulous. Skeptical, actually. No one even knows if Mary ever existed.”
“You don’t believe it?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, I can assure you it’s true. The article that Andrea LeMartin and I planned to write was accepted by Archaeology. Moreover, the original diary has been purchased from the black market by the Maecenas Foundation.”
“Planned to write?”
“It looks as though I’ll be writing it on my own . . .” She left it at that.
Guido raised and eyebrow and paused. “Impressive, but no DNA, I’ll bet.”
“Just a comb found in the same niche! I have a copy of the DNA report.”
“Hair in a comb isn’t of any use a couple of millennia later. No chance.”
“You’d be surprised. You will be surprised. Dried hair follicles were present in the comb and the lab in Alexandria was able to extract small amounts of mtDNA,” she insisted. “I know it sounds incredible.”
“Probably polluted data. Some labs are sloppy. You must be cautious around me, Justine. My forte is unearthing frauds. The Shroud of Turin. Or the head of Petrarch. The head doesn’t belong to the body, you know.”
“It doesn’t surprise me that the linen shroud with the image of a suffering Jesus isn’t legitimate. But how did you ever convince the priests in the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist that their Petrarch’s head was a fraud?”
“Whoa . . . I didn’t say that I’d convinced the Church that it was a fraud.” He laughed. “That’s beyond the abilities of any scientist. That would take a miracle.”
“I will be careful around you.” Her lilting laugh softly filled the corner of the room. “You’re a skeptical man. Perhaps too skeptical for your own good. I’m afraid I don’t harbor many subtleties.”
Was that a warning? he appeared to ask himself, refilling her glass. “Yet I detect an air of mystery.”
“Intentional,” she said. “All the better to lure you with . . .” Justine grasped her glass and ran the forefinger on her left hand around the rim.
“Are you seducing me?” He smiled broadly, his mouth slightly open. “I surely hope so.”
She awoke in a dreamy, misty light the next morning in her new queen-sized IKEA bed. Their lovemaking the night before had been languorous, each touch adding to the arc of sensuality. Now she watched him sleep and wondered at the veil of innocence that blanketed most sleepers. Her mind began to spin once more. She had given little thought to hurting Amir when she dove headfirst into this tryst.
Guido slowly opened his eyes, stared at her, and said casually, out of the blue, “Getting a divorce in Italy is difficult.” He let the statement just sit there.
So did Justine. He need not be cautious,
she didn’t desire to own him.
CHAPTER 31
To live is so startling, it leaves very little time for anything else.
—Emily Dickinson
AFTER TWO BOWLS of Cheerios, Guido left for Ferrara around nine. Justine took a shower, grabbed her phone, and jumped back in bed.
“Miranda?” Justine asked, leaning against her grandmother’s ancient head-board with the delicately painted angels peering over her shoulder.
“Pronto. Justine?? It’s been a long time!” Still sweaty from exercising her favorite bay horse, Miranda had just come into her stone farmhouse, the lovely Il Pero, just outside of Arezzo.
Justine imagined this delightful English baroness transplanted into a historic and tastefully restored farmhouse with her husband, Baron William, and their two daughters. “I’ve followed you on Facebook and joined your fan club. But now I need to talk with you directly. Remember the night we had dinner with Andrea at Harry’s Club?”
“How could I forget! What a grand time we had,” exclaimed Miranda, peeling off her leather gloves.
“You were quite knowledgeable about the case against Marion True, the former director of acquisitions for the Getty. And how the Italian legal system dealt with the provenance of ancient artifacts.”
“One of my hobbies. The case against Marion has been settled, you know, but not the case against the Getty. The Italians are determined to get the Getty Bronze returned . . . but how can I be of help?” She sat down, balancing the phone between her chin and shoulder, and removed her leather boots, wiggling her toes.
Justine could almost see the Baroness Miranda, her blue eyes broadening into near circles. “You’ll remember that we told you about the finding of the Virgin Mary’s diary? Well, that’s finally coming to a head . . .”
“I know! I’ve read the headlines,” she said, nearly breathless. “Fascinating. When I saw you in Rome, you and Andrea were searching for a certain Blackburn. Is he the man who sold the codex to the Mycenae Foundation?”
“I’m certain of it, but there’s more to the story. Miranda . . .won’t they come under the same scrutiny about provenance that other museums and foundations have? Why aren’t they worried? Why would they pay so much?”
“Remember, the approach of that particular foundation is to shepherd the science and bring the results to publication, as they did with the Gospel of Judas. Then they’ll return the artifact to the country of origin. In this case to Egypt, probably the Coptic Museum. So they might not have to concern themselves with provenance.”
“That doesn’t make sense, Miranda. Without provenance, their publications could be discredited.” The foundation has information that I haven’t anticipated.
“Strange, isn’t it. I imagine they place their scientific methods—and good intentions—above professional protocol and the law. Like the Vatican.”
“Unless they had assurances of provenance from a highly regarded professional, like a linguist. What do you think the authorities would do if they knew who the thief really was? The person or persons who sold them the artifact?”
“Probably look the other way.”
“Ah,” said Justine. She now knew what she would have to do. She would have to handle Andrea in her own way.
“What about the Vatican? It’s up to something,” said Miranda.
“Any hunches?” She admired how Miranda could anticipate issues that hadn’t formally surfaced. Justine told her so.
“I suspect that the Vatican may not let the diary leave Italy.”
“Could it do that? Does its power supersede the law?” Justine was incredulous, but not surprised.
“Many consider its power the law. I’m sure it’ll try for an injunction, and the courts would be sympathetic. Every judge is Catholic, if only in name. So the answer is probably ‘yes.’ But remember, I’m not an attorney.”
Justine grinned. “You’re a barrister by intuition and information, Miranda. This business could further aggravate the friction between the Muslims and Catholics over the rightful ownership of Mary’s diary.”
“The Vatican could claim that since Mary and her son were the genesis of the Church, that historical provenance trumps geography.”
“Clever thought. And either Pope—Catholic or Coptic—would have good reason to bury the diary’s contents. Che sarà, sarà.”
“In bocca al lupo! Good luck,” replied Miranda. “Keep me informed and come see my new kitchen when you can.”
“I’d love to! And may the wolf die, my friend. Crepi,” laughed Justine, wishing her some Italian good luck in return.
Justine considered her usual durable clothes and shoes in the morning, but discarded them in favor of her linen slacks, a lavender silk blouse, and simple gold loop earrings. Almost a uniform, she thought as she regarded herself in the full-length mirror behind her bedroom door. She allowed herself comfortable walking shoes, for she planned to see Florence anew this morning. As an official resident now, she wanted to visit her city. And consider her planned approach to the Andrea problem.
And she wanted to visit Caravaggio again. She still cherished vivid memories of Rome’s Chiesa di San Luigi dei Francesi, where she’d first met the Baroness Miranda and felt the thrill of experiencing Caravaggio in an intimate, well-lighted setting. This morning, that hunt would take her to the Uffizi museum, repository of the greatest collection of Italian Renaissance art.
Justine made her way through the narrow streets of small shops buried in stone walls, down Via del Proconsolo to the glorious Piazza della Signoria, then northwest from the Piazza toward Via Calimaruzza. Once again she was struck by the fondness Europeans project for their old cities. So unlike America, where inner cities are relegated, run-down, to the poor, those without resources to sustain shops, theaters, museums, and historical architecture. Thankfully, that trend of neglect was beginning to reverse itself in cities like Oakland and New Orleans. Soon, Via Calimaruzza emptied into Piazza di Mercato Nuovo, the pathway to Via Porta Rossa. A slight left at Via de Torn-abuoni would take her to the Palazzo Spini Feroni and Salvatore Ferragamo.
Justine had been frugal since coming into her Grandmother Laurence’s trust at the age of twenty-five. The funds had allowed her the freedom to educate herself thoroughly—at least in the academic sense—as well as take some time off between jobs. To secure and furnish her own apartment. It was not that she sacrificed unnecessarily on her linen slacks—or shoes—or silk blouses—but . . . she had grown up as a fat child, which forever casts a shadow over self-image. It wasn’t until she put on running shoes that her life began to change. She arrived at Ferragamo.
Encased in a centuries-old stone building, the mammoth windows of the original, and still most glamorous, of the Italian clothing establishments provided a museum-quality showcase for the world’s most chic fashions, embracing generously spaced red leather purses and chunky gold belts, leather coats and cashmere. Each item was, indeed, a work of art. Then she saw it: a full-length buckskin suede coat, matching knee-high boots, tan leather shorts, and a cashmere turtleneck sweater clasped by a gold belt.
“Justine!” cried Alessandro when he spied her in the shoe department. As a store manager and now partner, he projected a stunning figure in his deep blue Alfani suit, ivory shirt, and matching ascot.
“Alessandro. Hello.” Mom’s tastes in men certainly lean toward elegance. But haven’t they always.
“Shopping for a special occasion?” he asked.
“Not really. I’m considering changing my style—taking on a more modern Italian look,” she said, pointing to the stylish boots.
“If you need any help, we have a few excellent fashion consultants in the store. I’m more of a businessman myself.”
“I’m doing fine, thanks,” she said. “How’s the shoe business?”
A slight redness moved through Alessandro’s temples. Then he laughed. “I certainly let my hair down at your dinner party, didn’t I?”
“A bit,” she grinned, holding his gaze. S
he liked his directness.
“Too much good wine.” He let the topic drop, shrugging off the momentary embarrassment. “Come by my office when you’re finished? Say, how about lunch?”
Justine graciously turned down his lunch invitation, but stopped by his office on the way out. She wasn’t quite ready to become adjusted to a new father. Thirty minutes later she stepped out of Ferragamo with her new attire, feeling reassured that if her mother decided to marry Alessandro, he wouldn’t be a poor choice. There was something very real and playful about this man.
Turning on her new heels, she made her way along the Arno to the Uffizi, her wandering gaze taking in the many small boats on the shimmering silver surface. Guido had erected a firewall this morning with the comment about divorce. He seemed so familiar to her—more familiar than their brief time together warranted. Then it struck her: D.H. Lawrence. Guido. So much alike. Intensely sensuous, romantic, yet skeptical and satirical. She felt a little melancholy.
Justine climbed the few steps into the Uffizi—formerly the offices of Cosmo de Medici—paid the entrance fee, and asked where she might find the Caravaggio Room. Glancing down the long, narrow internal courtyard opening onto the Arno, she reminded herself that this unique haven for great art had existed for nearly 500 years. Although the niches between piers were filled now with sculptures of famous artists of the nineteenth century, she wondered who had filled them originally. Heading for Room 43, Justine stopped briefly to view Michelangelo’s Holy Family, thoughts of Mary flooding her mind. Everywhere she turned in Florence, she was there: the Virgin Mary carved or painted, captured as a passive yet compassionate saint. If Florence only knew the real Mary . . . independent, reflective, an intelligent teacher of her legendary son. The Church certainly could not have denied the idea of strong, unconventional woman then.
“Which do you prefer?” the male voice asked, almost reverentially. “The Sacrifice of Isaac or Bacchus?”
The Italian Letters Page 22