by Gigi Pandian
“We are?”
“It’s a real connection between the Orsinis and the Allegris.”
“A ghostly connection. Which doesn’t seem very real.”
“Have you no imagination? There’s something going on here. The rain. It can’t be a coincidence that Lazzaro’s notes talk about finding him when it’s raining, and this historical ghost story has to do with the rain.”
“I hate to break it to you, JJ, but that’s the very definition of a coincidence.”
“If Francesco hadn’t been dragged back to work by his supervisor, I would have asked him more about Vicino. Maybe he knows something about Michelangelo too. I’m going to have another talk with him.”
“Not alone,” my sensible brother said. “Remember someone has already killed once.”
“I thought you didn’t believe me.” I studied Mahilan’s face to see if he was being serious. His lip wasn’t curling as it did when he suppressed a smile, and there was no amused glimmer in his green eyes, so I determined that he was.
“Things keep getting weirder and weirder,” Mahilan said. “I’m inclined to either believe you completely or dismiss everything outright. The only problem is I can’t decide which to do.”
“You don’t seriously think Francesco could be the killer, do you? A frustrated actor who works in a quaint Italian village across the world from California?”
“Nobody spends time with that man alone,” Mahilan said. “I mean nobody.”
“I agree,” I said.
“You do?”
“Don’t look so surprised, Fish. I don’t think any of us should go off on our own with suspects until we know more about what’s going on. I’ll go with Ava to see Francesco.”
“Have you suddenly become a folklorist instead of a historian?” Mahilan asked. “I thought we were looking for Lazzaro’s art studio that’s supposedly hidden somewhere in these woods.”
“Folklore is based on fact. He could be a great resource to point us in the right direction.”
“Or lead us astray,” Ava pointed out.
“The ghost story is just one example,” I said. “It’s not the embellished ghost story details I’m interested in. It’s all the local history that’s buried in there—true facts we can look up. Vicino Orsini created that macabre Renaissance garden. I haven’t been able to figure out the exact dates of his birth, death, and when he was a prisoner of war. Nobody even knows with certainty the identity of the architect who realized Vicino’s vision for these gardens. If I can pin down information that’s been passed down locally, but not to Renaissance scholars or hobbyists posting on online encyclopedias, I can fill in the blanks about the creation of Vicino’s garden, Michelangelo’s possible involvement, and how they both knew Lazzaro Allegri. Someone had to know where Lazzaro’s studio was hidden.”
Mahilan’s expression morphed from a skeptical scowl to an open grin. “You would have made a great lawyer, Jaya. The way your mind fills in the missing pieces.”
“Right now it feels like it’s all missing pieces. Even though Francesco didn’t think a main set of town archives exist, I want to find a local library.”
“With you being oh-so fluent in Italian?” he said.
I glared at my brother. “I’ll get someone to translate. Ava, are you all right?”
“It’s later than I realized, and I want to get something into the post for Carey today.” She polished off her small glass of wine and stood up. “I think I’ll make a sketch of Francesco. Maybe I’ll turn it into the start of a comic strip with that ghost story. You two stay out here and enjoy the view. It’s too bright to draw.”
“She’s a great mom,” Mahilan said once Ava had closed the balcony door behind her.
I couldn’t place the emotion in his voice. Pride? Happiness? Or could it be…
“You’re in love with her,” I said.
He didn’t look at me, keeping his eyes on his fingers as he twirled the stem of his glass. He set the glass down and met my gaze. “You know me, JJ. I fall in love every other day.”
“I know. But not like this. You really—”
“I know. Scary, right?” He added more wine to his glass. A lot more. Like the Italians, Mahilan knew how to live well. “I don’t know what it is, JJ. I’ve never felt like this before. It’s so real. So raw.”
“That, Fish, is love.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes. How could I pretend to know what love was? My relationships had always been passionate, but was that love? Why did my insides feel so twisted up as I sat there?
The balcony door slid open and Ava stepped back outside. “What do you think of this?” She handed Mahilan a postcard-sized sheet of thick paper with a pen and ink drawing. Francesco’s animated face had been captured in a few deft strokes of Ava’s pen. In the background was the scene he’d described: a mournful woman standing atop a hill in the rain, looking out over an empty, winding path.
“It’s beautiful,” Mahilan said. “Just like the woman who drew it.” He pulled her into his lap, leaving me feeling like a third wheel even though this trip to Italy had been my idea in the first place.
“What’s the plan, you two?” Ava asked, extricating herself from Mahilan’s arms.
“I’m going to do some more research into Bomarzo and Vicino Orsini, and if the facts support it, we need to go back to the Park of Monsters when there aren’t people around.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Ava said.
“You mean right when it opens?” Mahilan asked.
Ava and I shared a look. “Not quite,” she said.
“We need to go when it’s closed,” I added.
Mahilan crossed his arms and smirked. “How are we going to manage our own private viewing? I suppose you two are going to charm the owner like you did Francesco.”
“It’s not like there’s an electric fence surrounding the park,” I said. At least I hoped not.
Mahilan gaped at us. “Breaking in? You’re seriously suggesting breaking and entering? In a foreign country?”
“There’s no breaking,” I said. “Simply taking a stroll after hours. Maybe a little bit of harmless fence-hopping.”
“It’s trespassing, at worst,” Ava said.
“Et tu, Ava?” Mahilan said. “I give up. When do we break into this damn Park of Monsters?”
Chapter 26
We made plans to break into the park late that night, around eleven o’clock. I doubted it needed to be that late, except the villa’s restaurant wasn’t even open for dinner until eight, and Mahilan insisted on having a proper dinner. Which, since we were on vacation at a fancy Italian villa, meant a four-course dinner with wine pairings.
With four hours until dinner, Mahilan and Ava wanted to go look at nearby Etruscan ruins. I wanted to get some research done before we went back to the park, so I stayed in the suite with my laptop and internet connection.
“You’re staying here with the door locked, right?” Mahilan said.
“Of course, Fish.”
Half an hour into my research, I hadn’t found any more than I had before I left San Francisco. The internet was the same in Italy as it was in the U.S., except for defaulting to Italian sites.
I’d promised Mahilan I wouldn’t talk to anyone who could be dangerous. I agreed with him. So I called the flirtatious teenager who wanted to practice his English.
Niccolò had just gotten off work and said he would be delighted to drive me to a library. He warned me it was expected to rain that evening and suggested I bring a jacket and hat.
When Niccolò pulled up at the villa, I saw that he hadn’t followed his own advice. He was dressed in the same half-buttoned style of shirt as he had been the day before. He tossed his movie-star hair as he stepped off his moped to greet me.
“La biblioteca will be closed now,” he said, “but I know the librarian
. I tell him we will bring him wine. He will meet us there to let us inside.”
Fifteen minutes later, as the sun hung low over the vineyards, Niccolò and I pulled up in front of an ancient stone building. The baby blue scooter kicked up dust on the dirt clearing that served as a parking lot and road.
A tiny white-haired man stood in front of a door twice his height. He greeted Niccolò in rapid Italian and kissed his cheeks, then kissed my cheeks as I handed him two bottles of wine.
“He is from the south,” Niccolò said, as if I needed an explanation. The enthusiastic kisser was introduced as Orazio Benedetti; Signor Benedetti, as Niccolò respectfully addressed the older man.
Jangling a set of skeleton keys, Orazio opened the heavy wooden door and let us inside.
I explained to Niccolò what I was after, and he translated for the librarian. As I expected, only a small fraction of the books in the library were in English. As I hadn’t expected, the “small” library stretched on for what seemed like miles. Not all in one direction, but through winding staircases so narrow I could barely squeeze into them, leading up to a mezzanine and hidden rooms. Niccolò got to put his English skills to the test as he translated the volumes Orazio brought for me.
“This book, it says there are many ideas behind the Sacred Wood. This is another name for the Parco dei Mostri, yes? These ideas, they compete with each other. The historians are not sure why Vicino Orsini built his garden as he did.” He frowned. “They did not teach us this at the park. They tell us he devoted the beautiful gardens to his departed wife. That the darkness was his grief, and the beauty was in honor of his wife. But this book says the great man did not truly love her.”
“Lots of materials I read said he kept mistresses,” I said.
Niccolò waved his hand dismissively. “This is not the same thing as not loving a woman. He is an Italian in the—” He broke off and counted on his fingers. “An Italian man in the 16th century. Of course he had mistresses.”
“I’m not judging him. I’m more interested in information on what his gardens looked like when first constructed.”
“No carvings have been destroyed,” Niccolò said. “Some pieces are lost, like the nose, but they are all there.”
“I mean the landscape.”
He looked at me blankly.
I tried again. “The land. The forest. Streams that may have once existed but have now dried up.”
“Sì, I will look for this.”
Orazio found an early map of the Park of Monsters. Niccolò had been right. There were no streams to explain Lazzaro’s note.
My musings were interrupted by a sudden exclamation from Orazio. He called out with a string of rapid Italian phrases and thrust his head over a precarious wrought-iron railing above us.
“What’s he saying?” I asked Niccolò. “Did I hear fotografia? He found photographs?”
“Your italiano is perfetto. Soon you will have no use for me.” He winked at me. “Sì, he says he found photographs.”
They were black and white prints from the 1930s and ’40s. Orazio chuckled and pointed at one that showed sheep grazing in front of outraged stone monsters.
“One last thing,” I added. “I’d love to find any references to a ghost story about people who were contemporaries of Orsini.”
“Contemporaries?”
“People who lived at the same time as Vicino Orsini.” I didn’t want to say the name Allegri for fear of biasing my research. I wanted to see if Orazio would independently find the same story that Francesco had told me.
“Ah. Contemporary.” He spoke the word slowly as he typed it into a collection of English notes on his phone.
While Niccolò consulted with the librarian, I browsed through a row of beautiful books. Many of them looked like antiques. Lane would have loved this place.
“Signora,” Niccolò said. “I believe it is our famous ghost story you speak of. Signor Benedetti found one of the original printings of this story.” He held up a pamphlet-sized book, its leather cover faded and torn. “It is many centuries old. Orazio only trusts me with it because he knows me since I was a baby.”
A zing of excitement hit me as I thought about the person who wrote the local legend for posterity, and the hands of people from so many generations that had held the book over the centuries.
“Someone has already told you the ghost story?” he asked hesitantly.
“Francesco.”
Niccolò shook his head. “He should not have told you.”
“You think I’ll hear the woman’s mournful wail now? And that as a foreigner, I’ll be possessed to go in search of a murderous ghost, like the unfortunate actor? Surely you know that’s a superstition, Niccolò. He was probably on LSD or some other drug. It was the sixties.”
“You have not heard this, mia Bella. If you had, you would not think us foolish.” His face was deathly serious.
“I’m sorry. I don’t think you’re silly.” I hoped I hadn’t offended him. I knew it was only a superstition, but when everyone around you believed something, it was difficult not to believe it too.
“I will read to you the story of Marguerite and Antonio Allegri?”
“Allegri,” I whispered. “Yes, Niccolò. Please do.”
It was true. The locally famous ghost story was about a relative of Lazzaro’s. But what was Lazzaro Allegri’s connection to Pier Francesco ‘Vicino’ Orsini, the creator of Bomarzo, where Lazzaro had hidden his paintings?
Niccolò’s phone rang. He gestured animatedly with his hand that wasn’t holding the phone as he spoke spiritedly and resentfully to the person on the other end of the line. My guess was that it was a family member.
“Mi dispiace,” he said as he hung up. “I must bring my sister home. I will not be long. You stay with Orazio, yes?”
“Um, sure.” I hoped he’d be back early enough that I’d beat Ava and my brother to the villa.
Niccolò put his hand on Orazio’s shoulder and murmured something while Orazio nodded.
“A dopo,” Niccolò called out, twirling his hand as he descended the narrow staircase to get back to the front door of the library.
“Un momento,” Orazio said. He disappeared through a doorway that I would have sworn was a bookshelf and emerged less than a minute later with two wineglasses in one hand and an Italian/English dictionary in the other.
He popped the cork of one of the bottles of wine I’d brought, which he’d put in a miniature fridge to chill as soon as I’d arrived. Niccolò had been the one to pick out the white wine that was a blend of chardonnay and pinot grigio. The seventeen-year-old was the one who explained to me how the volcanic earth of the Lazio region was especially good to produce white wine, and who steered me away from the bottles of wine with the prettiest labels.
With Orazio’s print dictionary and my phone translator, the old librarian and I learned we had a lot in common. He’d studied history in college, but wanted the security and community of staying close to home, even when many of his friends left for Rome or America.
He knew about the ghost story but didn’t seem bothered by it. He was more interested in the people left behind. “Lazzaro Allegri,” he said. “Sì. Friend of Vicino Orsini. Eccentricissim.” He paused and looked at his dictionary. “Eccentric men.”
Orazio didn’t know anything about a hidden art studio, but said the Allegri family had written Lazzaro out of the family bible, so he wasn’t surprised. I wasn’t either. I asked him what he knew about Michelangelo. He didn’t think very highly of Michelangelo’s personality. Like Francesco, he acted like he took it personally. Unlike Francesco, Orazio didn’t think he’d lived through the Renaissance. He simply felt passionately about history.
“Michelangelo visit Bomarzo,” Orazio said.
I nearly knocked over my glass of wine. “He did?”
He consulted his dictionar
y again.
“Sì. Visit is correct word. He visit short time, no live here.”
I asked him if he’d heard that Michelangelo had designed the Park of Monsters, as Stefano had mentioned was one theory.
“No,” Orazio said emphatically.
There went that idea.
When Niccolò returned an hour later, Orazio and I were sitting on the floor surrounded by historical photos of the region. The bottle of wine was nearly empty.
Niccolò grinned. “Vino makes for good friends, yes?”
Niccolò translated the short story as he read. I occasionally corrected his English, but it was quite good and didn’t need much help. There was no date attributed to the legend, but this book had been printed in the 16th century, so the timing fit. It was the same tale that Francesco had told—except for the ending.
“I translate well?” he asked with a shy smile, after he wrapped up the chilling tale.
“It was perfect. There was only one thing you said incorrectly several times. You kept saying the ghost was the husband, not the wife.”
“Husband is the man, yes?”
“That’s right.”
“I have read the story correctly. This book speaks of the husband who misses his wife while at war. Then he dies of grief when he returns home to find she has died.”
“You mean it’s the ghost of a man?”
“Sì. I always heard the story as being the ghost of a woman.” He shrugged. “Maybe I remember it that way because I have always thought the ghost sounded like a woman.”
“You’ve actually heard the ghost? This isn’t just a story you believe?”
“We have all heard her. And when the rains begin, signora, she will find you too.”
Chapter 27
Niccolò was silent as we drove back to the villa. I wasn’t sure if he needed to concentrate in the darkness or if the ghost story had shaken him. The rain Niccolò predicted hadn’t broken, but a cool summer wind blew around us, causing the small moped to veer precariously when bursts of wind snuck up on us.