“Seriously, Grandpa,” she persisted, laying a hand gently on his arm. “I’m almost thirty. I have no husband. No children. Not even a boyfriend at the moment. I don’t really belong to anyone but you and Nonna—and to my career, however impressive it might seem to others. Sometimes I feel so rootless. It’s not enough for me to know that I come from a long line of Keatings who’ve lived in Connecticut for generations. There's a whole other side of my family history that I know nothing about. That no one has ever shared with me.
“Nonna never even speaks about Mom,” Nicola continued hurriedly, her voice trembling with pent-up emotion. “She keeps saying that it’s too painful. That the only way she can keep going is by shutting herself off from the past and looking ahead. Maybe that’s a sign of strength. Maybe that’s the only way she’s been able to deal with losing her only child. But you’ve told me things about Mom from time to time, and you’ve managed to cope with it.”
She wiped away a tear with the back of her hand and said softly, nearly inaudibly, “That’s all I have left of her—some second-hand memories. They’re my only link, apart from some photos. I was so young when she and Dad died. I really don’t remember very much. And I’m grateful for what you’ve shared with me. I just wish you could do the same with Nonna’s life in Italy.”
“Look, Nicola,” he finally answered, shifting his troubled gaze momentarily in the direction of the setting sun. The sky had now turned a deep violet gray, with a few last splashes of faded pink and pale gold painting the horizon. “Each of us copes differently with tragedy. Some repress it, while others are able to share their feelings. I’m sorry that Nonna and I never considered your need to know more. I guess we hoped we could spare you somehow and protect you from pain.”
He fell silent, and his eyes filled with tears as he reached out to take her hand, enclosing it tenderly in his own. “I’m sorry that I can’t say more. I made a promise to your grandmother long ago, and I’ll never break it. Not even for you, Nicola,” he said sadly. “Not even for you.”
As she walked downstairs, recalling this conversation, Nicola wondered if the time had finally come for her to explore her family’s past on her own—not that she had any idea where she could even begin. Her grandmother had never told her precisely where she had lived in Rome, what her great grandparents’ names had been, nor even if she'd had any siblings.
“I can’t talk about it, cara. I’m sorry.” That had been Elena’s stock response, time after time. “Maybe someday, but not now. Please, don’t ask me again. I beg you.” And then she would add in a strangled voice that was barely under control, “There are some things it’s best you know nothing about.”
For the time being, Nicola had had no choice but to accept the fact that, apart from Elena, she essentially had no relatives at all—or at least none she had ever met or would know how to locate. Her mother, Julia, had been an only child. Her father, Alex, had been estranged from the family that had adopted him and had had no idea who his own birth parents were. Grandpa Tom himself had been an only child. And Elena’s past was—well, a total blank.
If she had never missed having siblings or an extended family until now, Nicola realized, it was simply because she had never known what it was like to have them in the first place. But now that she was older, nearly thirty, she had begun to wonder about the possibility of feeling linked to something larger than the carefully constructed professional identity she had carved out for herself—of what it might be like to be part of a common history and a shared past, of something more fully imagined and meaningful than the impersonal, intellectual context of her work.
She hoped that someday she would find the kind of loving relationship that her grandparents had had—someday when she could also come to terms with her all too conscious fear of attachment and the likelihood, if not the inevitability, as she now saw it, of subsequent loss. She formed relationships far too cautiously, she had come to realize, because it was safer that way. After all, you couldn’t lose what you’d never risked emotionally. If nothing else, the tragic death of her parents had taught her that harsh, untimely lesson years ago.
At the moment, she was heavily invested in her career and a few close friends, and, until now, it had seemed to be enough. Or so she had persuaded herself on more than one occasion. Like Elena, she too had always repressed what was too difficult to deal with, and, in fact, they were more alike than she had ever cared to admit to herself when she was younger.
She guessed that her escape into history books as a teenager had been an unconscious compensatory gesture intended to make up for whatever was missing within her reduced family circle, however loving it had been. And likewise, she had come to recognize that her professional focus on ancient Rome was, perhaps, a thinly veiled attempt to connect with her elusive Italian heritage. But now she was at a point where her study of the artifacts of the past and the alternative emotional reality they created for her could no longer ground her nor fill the recognizably lonely gaps in her life.
Perhaps her trip to Rome would prove to be more than an opportunity to determine the provenance of an ancient crypt and advance her career. Perhaps it would also become an opportunity, however belated, for her to unearth some of the long buried fragments of her family’s past and reclaim the missing pieces of her own identity.
Chapter Two
“Matt, hi!” Nicola said breathlessly as she slid onto the dark leather banquette at a corner table of Las Ramblas, her favorite Village restaurant. Its reddish brick walls were lined with dark wooden racks of domestic and imported wines, and the lilting notes of Spanish guitar music strummed softly in the background. The pungent aroma of heavily spiced gazpacho and saffron-scented paella wafted through the air from a nearby table. “Sorry I’m late,” she apologized, glancing contritely at her watch.
“No problem,” Matt answered, leaning over to give her a quick peck on the cheek. The burnished glow from the bronzed-glass candle holders on the table illuminated the sculpted planes of his handsome face and green-flecked eyes. “I figured you’d be here soon, so I took the liberty of ordering the usual—Hoegaarden and some tapas,” he said, as a waitress set down two frothy mugs of beer and a platter of assorted appetizers.
Nicola had met Matt Osborne as an undergraduate, and the two had maintained a close friendship over the years, despite the heavy demands of their respective professions. Unlike Nicola, however, Matt had taken a double major, and his degrees in journalism and art history had propelled him into a successful career as a syndicated art columnist for several major national newspapers.
“Cheers, Nicola,” he said, raising his glass mug and clinking it with hers. “Glad you could make it. I wanted to run my latest project by you since I know you’ll be in Rome for the next few weeks, and I might need to brainstorm with you by phone at some point.”
“This sounds intriguing,” she said, as she speared a spiced olive and chewed it thoughtfully. “What are you up to this time?”
“Well,” Matt began, “I’ve begun to investigate some new angles to tracing the location of stolen artwork from World War II. It seems that there are missing items that may have been expropriated from the Jewish communities of Greece during the German occupation. We know that Swiss banks and art dealers helped fence so-called mainstream European art for the Nazis, and now we’re trying to figure out what happened to artifacts of Greek provenance.”
“Is that the majestic ‘we,’ Matt?” Nicola teased, her gray eyes glinting mischievously. “Or do you have a collaborator, this time?”
“Actually I do. His name is Demetrios, a colleague from Athens. I met him at that journalism conference I told you about, several months ago, and we've been in contact ever since.”
He paused to take another sip of his beer, his face alit with barely suppressed excitement. “Anyway,” he continued, “since the Jewish communities of Greece were descended primarily from Sephardic groups that fled the Iberian Peninsula during the Inquisition, we have reason to beli
eve that there may also be artifacts of Spanish or Portuguese origin among the stolen objects. No one has ever thought of exploring this angle before, so there's potential for a really major scoop.”
“Wow!” said Nicola as she set her mug down with an audible thud. “That’s incredible! This could be the story of your career.”
“I certainly hope so,” Matt replied with a boyish grin. “Anyway, I’ve started with survivor testimonials and related documentation at the Holocaust museum in Washington, and I’ll see what Demetrios uncovers in Athens. I may need to join him there, at some point, to go over archival materials.”
He paused for a moment and ran his hand nervously through his thick straw-colored hair. “Actually,” he said, “there’s another reason why I wanted to see you before you leave for Rome. Besides to discuss my project. And please hear me out, Nicola.
“I know we’ve been good friends for many years,” he continued, choosing his words carefully, “but lately . . . well, lately I’ve begun to wonder if maybe we could take our relationship in another direction. I think we’re both at a point in our lives—or at least I am—where we’ve achieved professional success and are now ready to find someone special to share it with and build a future.”
Her grey eyes widened perceptibly and her fork dropped, clattering noisily onto the table. She pushed it aside and then began to toy with it anxiously.
“I realize I’ve shocked you,” he said apologetically, a genuine look of concern shadowing his face. “But maybe you can give it some thought. We have so much in common, Nicola. So much going for us. Maybe while you’re away you can get some perspective on what we have together. It’s been a relationship of such long duration, which, I think, speaks for itself.”
She took a deep breath and felt herself flush awkwardly. “I don’t know what to say, Matt. I’m . . . I’m very flattered,” she stammered. “But . . . I just wasn’t expecting this. I guess I’ve always thought of you, simply, as one of my best friends.”
“No pressure,” he said as he reached out and touched her cheek gently. “Just give it some thought. And if you decide that all you want is to continue the status quo, that’s fine with me too. Don’t be embarrassed to say ‘no.’ We’ll still be friends, Nicola. Good friends, I promise. Always.”
Chapter Three
Nicola deplaned with the other business class passengers at Fiumicino and began to walk towards the baggage claim area. Even the large glass of Lambrusco that she’d had with dinner on the flight to Rome had failed to relax her or help her sleep. She was still taken aback—stunned, if she were really honest with herself—by Matt’s admission that he wanted something more than friendship with her, especially after so many years.
The truth was that she'd never thought of him in quite that way, even though he was witty, considerate, and had the rugged good looks and muscular build of a football player. She was always so comfortable with him, and they had so much in common professionally. What more could she possibly want, if she considered it objectively?
She thought of all the times when Matt had put what she'd assumed to be a fraternal arm around her or greeted her with a friendly kiss on the cheek. Now she realized that those gestures might not have been as casual as she'd always supposed. When had his feelings for her changed?
She guessed that he'd finally had the courage to speak, knowing full well that her upcoming trip to Italy would provide the necessary time and distance for her to confront the true tenor of her feelings. And, perhaps more importantly, that it would blunt the edge of any potential embarrassment should she decide that friendship was enough.
Yes, she would give it some thought, or more accurately, she would try to decide whether her deep-seated fear of losing those she allowed herself to love was the real issue here.
She had kept so many potential lovers literally at arm’s length over the years, telling herself that the chemistry was wrong or that she had no time for a serious relationship. With two notable exceptions—one of which had been a cause for deep regret at her foolishness in dropping her guard—she had been focused on other things. Her career, her publications, and a few close friends had filled the empty spaces in her life in an emotionally nonthreatening way.
Now as she exited passport control, distracted by the turmoil of her thoughts, she saw that someone was actually waiting for her, holding up a large sign that read “Professoressa Page” in bold letters. She had not expected to be met at the airport and, in any case, was perfectly comfortable making her own way to the university guesthouse. In fact, she'd been to Rome so many times that she could give any taxi driver directions to almost any area in the city—and in fluent Italian, thanks to Elena's insistence, throughout her childhood, that she learn to speak a second language.
She looked intently at the tall broad-shouldered figure holding the sign. He appeared to be around her age, thirty-two, or perhaps a few years older, with curly black hair, dark brown eyes, and an olive complexion. He was dressed casually in chinos and a perfectly pressed open-necked shirt, but with the elegance so typical of many of the Italians she’d met in the past, who knew the importance of fare una bella figura—of looking good, no matter what the occasion. She surveyed her own rather creased beige linen slacks with a sense of dismay, feeling uncomfortably rumpled.
As she approached, he extended a hand and asked in perfect, though slightly accented English, “Professoressa Page? I’m Bruno Recanati, from ‘La Sapienza.’ Here, let me help you with that bag.”
“What a nice surprise,” Nicola replied, shaking his hand firmly, thinking to herself that based on his extensive publication record she had assumed he would be much older, not young and surprisingly handsome. Gratefully surrendering her heavy tote bag, she added, “Thank you so much. I really didn’t expect this.”
Chapter Four
Early the next morning, Nicola waited for Bruno on the broad cobble-stoned driveway in front of the Villa Mirafiori, the guesthouse at “La Sapienza.” Both she and Bruno had been offered a generous sum of money by the Pontifical Commission of Sacred Archaeology and an agent of the Marchesa to cover their work and all associated expenses. Nicola, in particular, had been pleased to see in the letter of invitation that she was free to make her own travel arrangements, including the choice of an airline, and to take care of her own hotel accommodations. She could economize or spend it all wildly, as she pleased.
While she was being paid more than enough to book a room in almost any good hotel for the duration of her stay—well, perhaps not the Hassler, she reflected with a sigh—Bruno had recommended that she stay in one of the comfortably furnished apartments at the Villa. Usually these were reserved for university guests, and though, strictly speaking, she was visiting Rome under the aegis of the Vatican and the Marchesa, she had agreed to give a lecture or two for Bruno’s department in order to make herself an official guest of “La Sapienza” as well.
Situated near the Philosophy Department and shielded from the street by a massive brick wall and heavy iron gate, the Villa Mirafiori was a squat two-storey brick building, nestled between lofty deciduous trees and dense shrubbery. A century earlier it had served as quarters for the servants and household staff of the mistress of King Vittorio Emanuele II. Beyond the campus walls, to the right of the Villa, along the wide tree-lined Via Nomentana, stood the heavily guarded Russian embassy, surrounded by carefully tended gardens and a formidable wrought-iron fence. Further down the street lay the Villa Torlonia, Mussolini's residence during World War II and the location of Jewish catacombs that had been closed to the public for years in the wake of noxious gases that had seeped into its dangerously crumbling network of crypts.
Now making their way towards Vatican City, Nicola and Bruno left the car along the Via della Conciliazione, the wide boulevard traversing the long sight line between Castel Sant’Angelo, the darkly imposing fortress that had sheltered popes over the centuries during tumultuous times, and the massive cupola of San Pietro, gleaming white in the distance.
The boulevard was lined with spotless shops that stocked the usual Vatican-inspired souvenirs and books, as well as the ubiquitous silk scarves sold all over Rome that hung from revolving display racks. Small groups of Black African vendors, hawking Gucci, Prada, and Louis Vuitton knock-offs, stood along the sidewalk, their wares dangling on their arms like so many large leather bangles.
Bruno and Nicola had deliberately arrived an hour early for their appointment at the office of the Pontifical Commission for Sacred Archaeology and sat down in a small café to discuss details of their project over a leisurely breakfast, since Nicola had admitted that she was surprisingly anxious about this initial meeting with Cardinal Rostoni, who held the most senior position at both the Pontifical Commission and the Vatican Museums.
Historically speaking, as Bruno now explained, these two positions were not generally filled by the same individual, but Rostoni’s credentials were such that he was the natural choice for both—“until further notice.” The late director of the Commission had died suddenly of a massive cerebral hemorrhage only four months ago, and Rostoni had been called in to take his place temporarily while retaining his post at the Musei Vaticani. With advanced degrees in art history from the Pontificia Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, he was the obvious choice, especially now that the Holy See found itself embroiled in a certain amount of legal intricacy in the wake of the new catacomb discovery. Rostoni was currently responsible for all of the assistant curators and restoration experts who worked in both divisions.
“You see,” Bruno told Nicola, as he led her towards a small corner table covered with a blue and white checked cloth, “Cardinal Rostoni has been around for a long time. He has a great deal of political clout and far-reaching contacts within the Italian government after years of service in the Curia.
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