Michelangelo's Ghost

by Gigi Pandian

  I was exhausted from making it through finals week, helping students and grading papers, so I’d slept on the flight. Now I was fully awake. While Ava rested her head on Mahilan’s shoulder in the town car, I sat in front with the friendly driver. After only a few minutes on the road, Mahilan and I turned to each other and burst into laughter.

  “What am I missing?” Ava asked.

  “It’s just like India,” I said.

  “Nobody picks a lane,” Mahilan explained. “Drivers hover between lanes, always looking for a better way to get where they’re going.”

  “The difference here is that they’re speeding rather than inching along in traffic,” I said.

  “And no rickshaws—but just as many scooters.”

  We cut through Rome and headed to Bomarzo on Via Salaria, the old salt road, which gave way to a larger highway. Medieval walled villages were perched on hilltops overlooking canyons, vineyards, and in the modern world, the Autostrade highways.

  Within two minutes of leaving the highway, it was as if we had entered another world. With the freeway hidden by an overgrowth of trees, and hilly vineyards dotted with stone houses in front of us, I saw no evidence it was the 21st century.

  The driver stroked his goatee and frowned as we made a sharp turn onto an even smaller road. I followed his gaze. Along the side of the road was the first blot on the landscape I’d seen on our drive. A group of abandoned stone buildings covered in moss and ivy might have looked like picturesque ruins except for the fact that graffiti covered them. To my architecturally untrained eye, the crumbling construction appeared similar to the houses and churches in the medieval villages we’d passed, but the other buildings hadn’t been deserted. As the driver continued on the rural road that wound around the ruins, we passed what was once the entrance. A crooked wooden sign read Castello del Fantasma.

  “Castle of the ghost?” Ava said. “That’s a cool name for a winery. Too bad it went out of business.”

  I noticed, then, that the silhouetted shape of a wine bottle had been etched onto the sign. I was surprised to see half a dozen tiny cars in the gravel parking lot. I reminded myself that the cars weren’t actually tiny for Italy. I’d only just landed, so I was still in my American mindset, where the classic roadster I’d inherited was considered a small car.

  The town car jerked as we continued onto a steep section of the road. I twisted around to get a better look at the parking lot. A hand-painted sign rested on the ground next to the stone archway of the one building with a proper door. The sign simply read: Bar. I smiled and turned back to the steep narrow road the driver was expertly navigating. I had no idea what would happen if another car came along from the other direction. Gravel scraped against the undercarriage of the car as the road crested and revealed what would be my home base in Italy.

  The villa near Bomarzo that Mahilan had booked wasn’t simply a self-contained resort. It was its own medieval walled village. I knew from the promotional materials he’d shown me that it was located on an isolated hilltop overlooking a forest punctuated by vineyards, twenty private cottages and suites placed around a central main street with the reception area, two restaurants, a bar, a spa, a gym, and even a one-room art gallery. But that description didn’t prepare me for the splendor of a true medieval village.

  Two staff members showed us around the grounds, pointing out the hidden paths, flower gardens, and outdoor sculptures that were replicas of famous Renaissance works of art. Subtle placards in both Italian and English noted that the unhewn stone walls were made with materials from nearby quarries, all of the art in the gallery was by local artists, and most of the food in the restaurants was grown onsite.

  It made sense to stick together, but I wasn’t entirely happy about being in such close proximity to the lovebirds. The suite had two bedrooms, each with a private bathroom, plus a shared sitting room in the middle. It wasn’t just Mahilan’s love life that was going better than my own. During finals week at home, Tamarind had helped me with further research, but half the time she gushed about Miles, my poet neighbor she was now dating.

  I wished yet again that I could have told Lane what I was doing. I was perilously close to calling or emailing him, but I knew he’d believe I was in danger and try to talk me out of it.

  In the common room, I fixed myself a sugary espresso from the in-room espresso maker. The walls were so thick that even though the windows were large, not as much natural light fell into the room as I expected. I took my coffee and phone to the window overlooking the vineyards and hopped up to sit inside the two-foot-thick stone windowsill. I brought my knees up to my chin and looked at the photograph on my phone: the raven Lane had given me. My protector.

  “Oh, Lane,” I whispered.

  “Did you say something?” Ava asked.

  I nearly dropped the phone and spilled my coffee. “I didn’t hear you come in.” I climbed down from the window nook. “I thought you two were taking a nap.”

  “I’m here to collect you for lunch. Your brother is famished.”

  Mahilan, Ava, and I sat down to a late lunch on a courtyard overlooking the valley with the vineyard.

  The three of us shared a bottle of Rosato wine and sopped up fresh bread with olive oil and vinegar while we waited for our food. Mahilan pulled his phone from his pocket to snap a picture of me devouring a fat slice of bread while Ava cheered me on, but Ava blushed and covered her face, saying she must look awful from jet lag.

  I stuck out my tongue and made a face. “Now I look far sillier than you, Ava. And that photo better not end up on social media, Fish.”

  “Cousin Connor is going to love that photo,” Mahilan said with a wicked grin, as he took a close-up of my face.

  “You’re friends with Connor?” I asked. “Of course you are. You get along with everyone. He’s not exactly your cousin, you know.” I tried to grab his phone to delete the photo but gave up. The formal waiter looked horrified when he appeared at the table with our antipasto and the three of us broke down in a fit of laughter.

  “What’s that?” Mahilan asked, pointing his fork at my plate.

  “Carciofo romanesco. The artichoke of Rome. Fried, in this case.” I took a bite of the warm and crispy artichoke. The olive oil and garlic brought out the nutty flavor, and the preparation made it melt in my mouth.

  “I didn’t see that on the menu.”

  “You were too busy making eyes at Ava when he told us the specials.”

  “When in Rome,” Ava said, raising her glass.

  Mahilan scowled at us, then promptly forgot about being upset as soon as he took a bite of his own appetizer. He closed his eyes as he savored his Arancini, rice balls stuffed with mozzarella.

  Without realizing it had happened, I was beginning to relax. Could this be becoming a real vacation? A working vacation in which I’d look into Lilith’s last wishes and help art history scholars locate a lost set of Renaissance paintings linked to India, but a vacation nonetheless. Nobody suspicious had appeared, after all. Had my imagination gone too far, as Lilith’s often had?

  “The Park of Monsters is open for another couple of hours,” I said. “Do you two want to come with me?”

  Mahilan eyed me as if I’d grown a second head. “We’re not scheduled to visit until tomorrow.”

  “We could do both, you know. It’s only something like six Euros for the entry fee.”

  “I don’t care about the money. Even though it does sound rather irresponsible to pay for such a brief visit.”

  “Is he always like this?” Ava asked, laughing and sticking out her tongue at Mahilan.

  “Our schedule,” a reddening Mahilan said, “has us relaxing this afternoon to get over jet lag.”

  It was my turn to be horrified. “We’re in Italy. Italy, Fish. You’re going to stay inside the villa instead of exploring?”

  “We each have our own ways of co
mbatting jet lag. I, for one, scheduled a massage.”

  “I’m going to check out the outdoor yoga class happening soon,” Ava said. “Have fun at the monster park.”

  I wanted to go on a run to make sure I slept well that night. In the meantime, since the Park of Monsters was only open for another couple of hours, I decided to do that first.

  The villa was about ten kilometers from Bomarzo’s Park of Monsters, farther than I wanted to run. I phoned the front desk and asked the concierge to call me a taxi.

  “Where are the bambini?” a portly diver asked me when he arrived at the reception area ten minutes later. He wore a jovial smile and bobbled back and forth as if he were bouncing invisible babies on his knees.

  “It’s just me.”

  “No family?” He swung his hands through the air.

  “What am I missing?” I had no idea what his gesture had meant. “Do I need a kid to get inside the park?”

  He grinned at me. “No, signora. But you’ll see. Scusi. Un momento.” He stepped aside and answered his buzzing cell phone, leaving me inside the reception area.

  “Has everything met with your satisfaction so far?” the elderly concierge asked.

  “It’s so perfect that your villa has already made me forget this is a research trip. Grazie.”

  “Prego,” he said, acknowledging my thanks.

  “What’s the history of this place?” I asked. “I didn’t see it in the pamphlet inside the suite.”

  He pretended to cough to cover a laugh. “Most of our guests wish to know of local wines and the menus of our restaurants. Not local history.”

  “But you know the history?”

  “Un poco. This hilltop village is over nine hundred years old. Fifty years ago, the residents began to leave. This was when the winery at the bottom of the hill closed. Only twenty years ago did the villa buy the property.”

  “I’m surprised they didn’t buy the abandoned winery too.”

  “You said you are here to visit the Parco dei Mostri?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You will enjoy the Sacred Wood, signora. Most visitors to our local gardens have not traveled as far as you, but I have always thought it should be more of a destination for all people who wish to understand the unique opulence of Renaissance gardens.”

  “I’m hoping to explore more of the area on foot as well.”

  He pushed a map across the desk and circled our location and that of the Park of Monsters.

  “Are there good paths to go running?” I asked.

  “Sì.” He traced a few small roads for me. “But stick to these paths,” he added. With wrinkled fingers, he tapped the map with vigor.

  I couldn’t imagine the roads around here being too crowded. “Are the other roads private property?”

  His eyes flitted around the reception area, avoiding mine. He straightened an already perfectly neat stack of papers on the high counter. He hadn’t appeared to be a nervous man until that moment. He nodded, as if he’d made a decision and whisked a thick black marker from underneath the counter. With the marker, he crossed out an area of the countryside not far from the running paths he’d marked.

  “What’s there?” I asked. I squinted at the map, trying to make out what he’d crossed out. “A quarry? Or a private section of the nature reserve?”

  “That, signora, is an area where you must never, ever go.”

  “Why not?”

  “Ah! Your driver has returned. I wish you a wonderful visit to our Parco dei Mostri.” The concierge pressed the map into my hands and lowered his voice. “Please do heed my words, signora. We have much to offer visitors, but there is nothing but death in those woods.”

  Chapter 18

  After the unsettling encounter, I asked the taxi driver about that area of the map the concierge had blocked out.

  “Superstitious old man,” he said dismissively. But his carefree smile had been replaced with a tight-lipped one.

  “Superstitious of what?”

  “It does not matter, signora. Why spoil such a beautiful day?”

  Twenty minutes later, after driving through a series of winding roads in the tiny Volkswagen that barely contained the driver’s girth, I saw what he meant about kids being the heart of the park. Laughing children ran through the gardens, their parents in tow. The macabre Renaissance garden had become an amusement park for local families.

  I picked up a map of the gardens and compared it to Lazzaro Allegri’s sketches. My goal was to head straight to the Underworld Ogre from Lazzaro’s notebook, but I didn’t get far. I couldn’t help stopping every few yards. Even crowded with people, the Renaissance garden’s mysterious presence permeated the grounds.

  Two kids ran circles around weathered gods of antiquity flanking the sphinxes that greeted visitors as they stepped through the castle-like stone arch to officially enter the gardens. The Latin inscription on the slab underneath the main sphinx had been translated for visitors. He who does not visit this place with raised eyebrows and tight lips will fail to admire the seven wonders of the world.

  Past the sphinxes and gods, a startling sea monster appeared on the winding path. Framed by lush forest behind it, the stone figure emerged from the ground as if the earth were the sea. Its hungry mouth was lined with teeth, each one as large as my head. Only the top of the monster was visible, as if he was peeking above a crest of waves in the ocean. His wide eyes and flared nostrils suggested he was about to swallow an unwitting victim before plunging into the dark waters below.

  The carving was so evocative that I found myself shivering as I remembered my own encounter plunging into the cold dark waters outside of Mont Saint-Michel in France. I tasted salty water on my tongue and felt the sand under my feet. Overcome with an intense desire to get away from the sea, I stumbled backward.

  I couldn’t even pretend to blame my inelegant retreat on my high heels, because I’d sensibly worn boots to explore the woodland park. The taste and physical sensation must have been my imagination. If there was any place on earth where it was forgivable to succumb to fanciful imaginings, this was the place.

  I willed myself to pull my attention from the treacherous tides of Mont Saint-Michel to the stone monsters connected to Michelangelo’s protégé. Which, I reminded myself, was a fanciful idea itself. Lilith had no evidence, at least none that she’d given to me before she died. And I had no evidence that another person had a hand in her death. What did I owe Lilith and her crazy ideas? She’d lured me to Italy as Bahadur Shah had lured Lazzaro to India.

  I glared at the sea monster. It must have been Proteus, the carving Lilith’s mistranslation had led her to believe was near Lazzaro’s hidden art studio. My eyes followed the lines of stone, which morphed from sea creature to frothy waves. A globe and castle, also made of stone, were affixed to the monster’s head. The pamphlet suggested the castle represented the Orsini family’s power in the world. Even though Stefano had corrected me about the translation’s more likely meaning, I thought it was worth checking out. Especially since I knew Lazzaro’s paintings wouldn’t simply be resting inside the shelter of the Orcus.

  A low wooden fence kept visitors from stepping off the sanctioned path. Having recovered from my memories, I was about to hop the fence for a closer look at Proteus when I spotted two men in green shirts chastising a father and son. I didn’t understand the Italian words they spoke, but the message was clear. People weren’t supposed to climb on the statues. I’d have to come back later. With one last glance at the sea monster, I wasn’t sure I was disappointed.

  I continued along the path that coiled through the forest in unexpected loops. From a distance, the moss-covered stones tricked you into thinking they were natural formations. But as I stepped closer, their animated visages became clear. Descending farther into the labyrinthine park, the statues became more obvious. And more monstrous. I’
m not sure I would have wanted to spend time with Vicino Orsini. If this was his idea of honoring his dead wife, I would have hated to see what he envisioned for his enemies.

  A mother held her son so the boy could reach the “mouth of truth” of a Medusa-like creature with an open mouth. The boy shook his head furiously, refusing to put his hand inside. His sister marched past him and squealed with delight as she placed her hand in and out of the monster’s mouth.

  More men in green t-shirts walked the grounds, making sure nobody climbed on the stone carvings. The staff dressed and acted casually, but they did their jobs. One castigated a mother who was helping her daughters climb the trunk of an elephant. I watched them for a moment before realizing the elephant was eating a man.

  One of the green-shirted men stood out from his fellows; unlike the others, this man wore a hat. But this was no ordinary hat, meant to shield one’s face from the sun, and the man wasn’t strolling casually down the path with the others. He was crouched behind a weather-worn wall of stones next to Neptune, the top of a black pirate hat peeking over the mossy stones.

  As a family stopped and pointed at the giant figure, the man jumped up and raised his hands above his head and roared.

  The father screamed, the wife laughed, and their two children clapped their hands in joy. The comedian proceeded to recite what sounded like an epic poem.

  “Bellisimo,” the laughing wife said, kissing her fingertips and flicking her hand in the air.

  “Francesco!” snapped a young green-shirted man with perfectly tousled hair.

  The joker removed the pirate hat from his head, and the two men entered a heated exchange in Italian. Unable to understand them, I moved on, reminding myself I wasn’t there to absorb Italian culture, as fascinating as it was.