by Mary Malloy
Again he looked closely at the picture, and Lizzie zoomed in to show him details of the reliquaries, which held remnants of bones from various saints.
“Do they still have the holy relics in them?” he asked.
“I’m certain they do.”
“Can they be removed?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “I think in some cases you might have to break the reliquary to open it.”
“Well, we certainly don’t want to do that. Let me ask the cardinal about this. As it happens, I’m going to be dining with him tonight.” He added that there were plenty of relics visible in reliquaries in museums. “I saw a tooth purported to have come from the mouth of Mary Magdalene at the Metropolitan Museum in New York,” he said, “and other reliquaries with bones visible at other museums. Of course nothing like the churches in Italy; it is really quite astonishing what they have there.”
Lizzie wondered if she should mention that many of them were probably fakes, but he surprised her and said it first. “Of course, I’ve seen enough fingers of our own patron St. Patrick to give him four or five hands.” He paused. “I don’t see anything sacrilegious in showing those things in a museum at a Catholic college,” he said. “Still I will ask the cardinal.”
“There is also a sarcophagus and I don’t know if it still contains a mummy, but Professor Haworth has told me that human body parts need a special license for international transfer.”
“Will you bring the mummy?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “John Haworth thinks there probably isn’t one in the case, but I don’t want to get into the paperwork required for it and our space is fairly small. I’m just wondering if a single finger in a reliquary would require a license.”
Father O’Toole assured her that he thought whatever needed to be done in this case could be done through the cardinal’s office in Boston, and his own connections in Rome. “When you are in Bologna, make your choices and send me pictures and descriptions as soon as you can.”
“You are absolutely on the top of my list,” Lizzie assured him.
“By the way,” he said as she packed up her bag, “how is Giuseppe Gonzaga, or Carrera I think, working out as an assistant?”
“Terribly,” she said honestly. “He is lazy and unreliable for most tasks, and my latest attempt to get some work out of him has had a surprising twist.”
He gave a look indicating he wanted details.
“I asked him to work on the Gonzaga genealogy and just this morning heard a report that he is now telling people he is a prince.”
Father O’Toole laughed hard at that. “I should have warned you. Cosimo told me he was good for very little and that it would be a real favor to put him to work. I wonder how his family will greet this news?” He smiled at Lizzie and continued, “They were once a very powerful family, the Gonzagas, the Dukes of Mantua. I’m not sure how the one that married the Kelliher daughter came to be described as a prince, but I seem to remember that he was.”
“Patrick Kelliher certainly described him that way when his daughter married him,” Lizzie said.
“Well, Italians were always very free with their use of titles. I have had some correspondence with the president of the University of Bologna and he is called the ‘Rector Magnificent.’ Now there is a title.”
Lizzie was quite satisfied with the course of the meeting and shook hands warmly with Father O’Toole. “Thanks for giving me this project,” she said. “The collection is really interesting.”
“Just make me a good exhibit,” he said. “And safe home God speed you.”
It was an old Irish blessing for the road, which Lizzie’s father had often said to her when she was traveling. No one had said it to her in a long time and she found herself leaving with warm thoughts about Father O’Toole.
The information that any part of the Gonzaga collection might have been looted by Nazis during the Second World War was new to Lizzie, and she sat on a chair in the hallway outside Father O’Toole’s office to see if she could verify it. She started with the website of the International Foundation for Art Research, which maintained a list of stolen art, and from there went to the Commission for Art Recovery, but couldn’t find anything listed on either site that identified any works stolen from or repatriated to the Gonzagas.
The Nazis had stolen tens of thousands of works of art during the war, and though many were discovered at the end of the war and returned to the original owners, the process of discovering and repatriating others was still going on sixty years later. The systematic looting of museums, libraries and private homes, especially of wealthy Jews, had been done in a very thorough manner and the Nazis had kept good records of those things that were destined for Hitler’s planned “Führermuseum,” or for the private collections of high-ranking officers like Herman Göring. But there must have been individual soldiers who took things without reporting them, and if the family that was victimized didn’t report the things they lost it would be difficult or impossible to find them.
Lizzie returned to the classroom where Roscoe and Jimmy were continuing to identify objects from the list and photographs and connecting them to the seventeenth-century drawing of the collection. Justin was nowhere to be found.
Walking along the length of the board, Lizzie put her hand up and traced connections with her finger. “Wow,” she said, “you guys have done terrific work. Thank you.”
Jimmy was excited to show her the list, which he had printed in anticipation of their meeting. “There is so much great stuff here,” he said enthusiastically, “dragons, unicorn horns, magical stones and mirrors, along with these terrific wind-up machines that move up and down the dinner table dispensing salt.” He pointed to where he had identified several of these things in the drawing. “Here,” he said, pointing to a long spiral tusk, “if I hadn’t read the description of the unicorn horn I never would have recognized it.”
“It’s a narwhal tusk,” Roscoe said bluntly.
“I know,” Jimmy returned. “Geez, let me have my moment.”
Roscoe seemed contrite as he apologized, but nonetheless took over the conversation, turning it to the things he had found.
“I’m working on the Natural History list,” he said. “I’ve found two tortoise shells, several blowfish, and a bunch of eggs, from ostriches, emus and dozens of other birds.”
“I have found several pictures of these big clay vases called kraters,” Jimmy said, taking control of the exchange again. “And the subjects depicted on them are pretty hilarious: lots of sports, lots of animals, and a fair amount of sex.”
He handed Lizzie a picture of a shelf laden with large ceramic jars. Using the magnifying glass that Jimmy had at the ready, she looked at wonderfully vivid illustrations of chariots, musicians with pan pipes and lyres, a woman with a dove on her outstretched hand, and, as Jimmy had pointed out, sports, animals, and a fair amount of sex.
“If you were to choose one of these to be in our exhibit, which would it be?” she asked.
“This one is the biggest,” Jimmy said. “It is almost a meter high, but the repairs on it are really obvious.” He pointed to another one. “This is in the best condition, and I think the wrestlers are awesome, but they are maybe too realistically rendered in the wrong parts for us to exhibit, if you know what I mean.”
Lizzie could tell that he was blushing and she was careful not to look at him. “I don’t think you need to worry about it if this is your favorite,” she said collegially.
“It’s not my favorite,” he said. “It’s just in the best condition. My favorite is the one next to it, which is smaller and has some repairs, but is really beautiful.”
Peering through the magnifying glass, Lizzie could see five young women standing side-by-side, each holding a lyre. In a black and white photo it was impossible to see the colors, but the women were lighter than the background of the po
t.
“It’s sweet,” Jimmy said softly. “I read that the painter had to work on the vase while it was still wet, before it was fired, and that he couldn’t really see the image he was creating because the slip is close to the same color as the clay. It’s just impressive that he could make something so perfect under those circumstances.”
“You’re right, it has a wonderful sweetness and an impressive artistry.”
“And it’s more than two thousand years old!” Roscoe added.
“I’ll put it on the list,” Lizzie said, “and unless it’s too fragile to travel, I will make sure it is included in the exhibit.” She asked the two young men if there was anything else they would like to see included.
“There is a little dragon,” Jimmy said, showing a picture to Lizzie and Roscoe. “Of course it isn’t a real dragon, it is pretty tiny and on the list it is called a Draco dandinii, some kind of a salamander, but it has wing-like appendages and a reptile’s face, so it is very dragon-like.”
“The mounting of it is great,” Lizzie said, looking at the small animal, its mouth open and spread in a grin, clinging to a branch and looking up with its large glass eyes. “All it needs is a little flame coming out of its mouth.”
“We can add that when it gets here,” Roscoe offered.
Lizzie laughed. “And what would you choose to include?”
Roscoe said he would like to include the unicorn horn. “The narwhal’s tusk,” he said, nodding at Jimmy. “And the alligator, of course. But I imagine that both those things are already on your list.”
“They are,” Lizzie said. She asked if either of them had seen anything of the angel candleholder that was shown in the early sketch of the chapel, but neither had.
Chapter 11
Cosimo Gonzaga did not write to Lizzie often. Usually it was to answer a question about arrangements for her upcoming trip, or give details of family history, but he never sent a message that did not include thanks for taking on his nephew as an assistant. It had been understood early in the project that Justin would work with her in Bologna as well as Boston and as the time of her departure neared Lizzie felt she needed to clarify the situation. She sent Carmine an email asking to make an appointment to speak on the phone, and brought the subject up with Justin on one of his rare visits to her office.
“Are you going to Bologna this winter?” she asked, tossing the question off casually so that he would not think she expected him to help her there.
“I dunno,” he said. “I think my uncle is expecting me to help you there in May.”
Lizzie took a breath and held it. “I’m not going there in May,” she said, exhaling slowly. “I’m going next week.”
“So what’s happening in May?”
“The collection will be packed and shipped then,” she said. “But we have hired a conservator and a professional art-packing firm to do the job.”
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “But I’m sure it will be nice to have a visit with your family.”
The next morning she got up at four o’clock to talk to Cosimo. He had listed several times that were convenient for her to call him, and though the time difference made this an awkward time for Lizzie, the next opportunity he gave her was not for two days. She wasn’t in a mood to exchange pleasantries at that hour so she got quickly to the point.
“I’d like to know what your expectations are for Justin on this project?” she asked. “Beppe,” she clarified.
“Isn’t he your assistant on the project?”
“Not quite,” Lizzie responded. “He’s one of three student assistants.”
When she paused for a moment, Carmine said, “I know he isn’t a hard worker, but I hoped he might learn something about his family that would inspire him, and the fact that he is going to your school while you work on this project made it seem a natural association.”
“I think he has found interesting family information,” she said, unwilling to go further into detail. “But he tells me he is planning to work on this project in Bologna in May and I wondered if you have specific plans for him then.”
“Isn’t that when the collection will be packed and shipped?”
Lizzie said that it was.
“Well, our family firm will manage the shipping and I think he can learn something about it. Don’t worry,” he laughed. “I don’t expect him to be doing the heavy lifting, but certainly he can help with the paperwork.”
“Thanks,” Lizzie said, maintaining a cheery voice. “That helps. I’ll be sure to design the project in a way that takes advantage of his strengths.”
“Oh Gawd,” she said as she climbed back into bed. Martin woke slightly and asked her if anything was wrong. “The curse of the Gonzagas,” she whispered, kissing him.
“Ah, the little prince,” he said, rolling over and returning to sleep.
Lizzie pulled the covers up to her chin. “If only he was on his own planet,” she thought.
There was plenty of work to do in organizing and cataloging the Gonzaga archival material and Lizzie set up all three assistants with tasks to do while she was away. Since she now knew that Justin would actually be in Bologna when the collection was shipped, she went over the current list of what she hoped would be in the exhibit, stressing that more would be added after she saw the contents of the house.
The whole process of creating the exhibit was going so well that Lizzie thought nothing could impede its success. Armed with a computer full of images and a preliminary list that included an extraordinary selection of artifacts, she boarded a plane for Bologna with the highest expectations. She had no doubts that the exhibit and the accompanying catalog would take a very interesting and eccentric collection and give it a serious analysis without losing the whimsy that made it so charming in the first place.
Pina Corelli, another of the great-grandchildren of Maggie and Lorenzo Gonzaga, met her at Marconi Airport and drove her into Bologna. She had a degree from M.I.T. and worked for the family company.
“My Uncle Cosimo, whom you will meet tonight, has put me at your service this week,” Pina told Lizzie.
She was obviously a very bright young woman and she wasn’t exactly unfriendly, but there was nothing warm about her. They drove very fast into the city, and past many of the important monuments, without a word on Pina’s part. Lizzie asked where they were going.
“To the Gonzaga Palazzo on the Piazza Galvani,” Pina said. “That’s where the collection is and where you’ll be staying.”
“Do you live there?”
“Oh God no! It’s my Uncle Patrizio’s house. He lives there with a caretaker.” As she spoke, Pina came to an abrupt stop and turned off the busy Via Farini onto the Piazza Galvani. There was an electric gate that required an entry code, and after Pina had punched the numbers into the pad, the gate lifted and a garage door opened in the building on their left.
“You might want to get out here,” Pina said. “It’s a more impressive view to come into the house through the courtyard than the garage. I’ll come open the door for you.”
Lizzie got out of the car and stood in the plaza. It was her first chance to look at the big stone face of the Palazzo Gonzaga, about which she had read and heard so much. It didn’t look like other palaces she had seen in England and France. It was not ostentatious. It sat on a regular street in Bologna and did not stand out in any way; it was more elegant than opulent.
The house had three floors and they were distinguished on the front by the shape of the windows. The ground floor, made of dressed stone, had a large central door topped by a rounded stone archway. On either side of the door were five windows that mimicked the shape of the doorway; in each arch a perfect stone scallop shell had been carved. All the windows on this floor were closed by shutters on the inside and covered with iron grates on the outside.
> The floor above was faced with stucco, which here and there was worn away to show the bricks behind it. At one time it must have been an earthy red, but it had long ago faded to a dark coral pink. Unlike the windows below them, those on this floor were rectangular. The casements were carved into pillars holding up curve-topped pediments.
The top floor of the house obviously had a lower ceiling than the floors below it. The smaller windows echoed those below, but the pediments were pointed rather than curved. Above them was an eave that bowed out from the wall of the house. Small round windows alternated with carved alligators, dragons, and other fanciful figures that might have been in the cabinet.
Looking around the square, which was dominated on one side by the Gonzaga house, Lizzie saw a statue of a man trying to balance a tumbling pile of books on a pedestal—a kindred spirit. She walked over and read the name on the pedestal: Galvani. She didn’t know who Galvani was but she liked him, and she liked the fact that the sculptor had captured him in an awkward moment of juggling research and ideas.
When she returned to the front door of the house, she saw that the big double doors each had an alligator-shaped knocker. She had just reached out to touch one of them when the door opened behind it and Pina welcomed her inside.
Stepping through the doorway, Lizzie entered an unexpected world. She did not pass from the outside of the house to the inside, but from the street to the courtyard, an expansive open space where sunlight picked out and illuminated architectural details, even on a winter day. On this level was a series of open archways that remained in darkness, but above were balconies and windows thrown open to receive the light and air.
“It’s marvelous,” Lizzie said to Pina.
“Have you never been in an Italian house?”
Lizzie said she hadn’t. “Are there many like this?”
Pina told her that there were hundreds of houses like this in Bologna, perhaps thousands. “Most don’t have just a single family anymore, though. A lot of them have been turned into apartment flats or offices.”