by Anne Fortier
MAESTRO AMBROGIO SAW it with his own eyes. The wagon came in from Rocca di Tentennano late at night—just as he was passing by Palazzo Salimbeni—and the Salimbeni guards did not falter in unloading their miserable cargo before the very feet of their master on the front steps of his home.
First came Friar Lorenzo—bound and blindfolded and barely able to climb off the wagon by himself. Judging by the unforgiving way in which the guards hauled him into the building, they were taking him straight to the torture chamber. Next, they proceeded to unload the bodies of Romeo, Giulietta, and Nino … all wrapped together in the same bloody sheet.
There were those who would later say that Salimbeni had looked at his son’s dead body without emotion, but the Maestro was not fooled by the man’s stony features as Salimbeni beheld his own tragedy. Here was the outcome of his wicked dealings; God had punished him by serving up his son to him like a butchered lamb, smeared in the blood of the two people he himself had sought to separate and annihilate against the will of Heaven. Surely, at that moment, Salimbeni understood that he was already in Hell, and that, wherever he went in the world and however long he lived, his demons would always follow him.
When Maestro Ambrogio returned to his workshop later that night, he knew the Salimbeni soldiers might come knocking at any moment. If the rumors about Salimbeni’s torture methods were true, poor Friar Lorenzo was likely to blurt out everything he knew—as well as an abundance of falsehoods and exaggerations—before midnight.
But, the Maestro wondered, would they really dare come for him, too? After all, he was a famous artist with many noble patrons. Yet he could not be sure. Only one thing was certain: Running away and hiding would surely fix his guilt, and—once a runaway—there could be no return to the city he loved above any other.
And so the painter looked around his workshop for anything incriminating, such as the portrait of Giulietta and his journal, lying on the table. Pausing only to enter one last paragraph—a few jumbled sentences about what he had seen that night—he took the book and the portrait, wrapped them both in cloth, put them in an airtight box, and hid that box in a secret hollow in the wall where, surely, no one else would ever find it.
[ VI.I ]
Can I go forward when my heart is here?
Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out
…
JANICE HAD NOT LIED when she said she was a good climber. For some reason, I had never put much faith in her postcards from exotic places, except when they spoke of disappointment and debauchery. I preferred to think of her lying dead drunk in a motel in Mexico rather than snorkeling around coral reefs in water so clean that you—as she had once scribbled, not to me, but to Aunt Rose—jump in like the dirty old sinner you are and come out feeling like Eve on her first morning in Paradise, before Adam shows up with newspaper and cigarettes.
Standing on my balcony, observing her efforts to climb up to me, I was struck by how much I had looked forward to my sister’s return. For after pacing up and down the floor of my room for at least an hour, I had come to the frustrating conclusion that I would never be able to make sense of the situation on my own.
It had always been like that. Whenever I would describe my problems to Aunt Rose as a child, she would fuss and fuss, but never solve anything, and in the end I would feel much worse than I had before. If a boy was bugging me at school, she would call the principal and all the teachers and demand that they call his parents. Janice, in contrast—accidentally overhearing our conversation—would merely shrug and say, “He has a crush on her. It’ll pass. What’s for dinner?” And she was always right, even though I hated to admit it.
In all likelihood, she was right now, too. It was not that I particularly liked her snarky comments about Alessandro and Eva Maria, but then, someone had to make them, and my own mind was clearly embroiled in a conflict of interest.
Panting with the ongoing effort of staying alive, Janice readily grasped the hand I held out for her and eventually managed to swing a leg over the railing. “Climbing …” she gasped, coming down like a sack of potatoes on the other side, “is such sweet sorrow!”
“Why,” I asked, as she sat gasping on the floor of the balcony, “did you not use the stairs?”
“Very funny!” she shot back. “Considering there’s a mass murderer out there who hates my guts!”
“Come on!” I said. “If Umberto had wanted to wring our necks he would have done it a long time ago.”
“You never know when these people will suddenly snap!” Janice finally got up, brushing off her clothes. “Especially now that we have Mom’s box. I say we get out of here prontissimo, and—” Only now did she actually look at my face and notice my red and puffy eyes. “Jesus, Jules!” she exclaimed. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said, dismissively. “I just finished reading about Romeo and Giulietta. Sorry to spoil the plot, but there’s no happy end. Nino tries to seduce her—or, rape her—and she kills herself with sleeping potion, just before Romeo comes blasting in to save her.”
“What the hell did you expect?” Janice went inside to wash her hands. “People like the Salimbenis don’t change. Not in a million years. It’s hardwired into their system. Evil with a smile. Nino … Alessandro … cut from the same cloth. You either kill them, or you let them kill you.”
“Eva Maria is not like that—” I began, but Janice wouldn’t let me finish.
“Oh, really?” she sneered from the bathroom. “Allow me to broaden your horizon. Eva Maria has been playing you since day one. Do you seriously think she was on that plane by accident?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” I gasped. “No one else knew I was arriving on that plane except—” I stopped.
“Precisely!” Janice tossed aside the towel and threw herself down on the bed. “They’re obviously working together, her and Umberto. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re brother and sister. That’s how the Mafia works, you know. It’s all about family, all about favors and covering each other’s ass—mind you, I’d love to cover your boyfriend’s ass, except I’m not sure I want to end up sleeping under a floor.”
“Oh, would you give it a break!”
“No, I won’t!” Janice was on a roll, feet in the air. “Cousin Peppo says that Eva Maria’s husband, Salimbeni, was a bastardo classico. He was definitely into some über-organized badass behavior with limos and guys in shiny suits and Sicilian ties, the whole scene. Some people think Eva Maria had her little sugar daddy put down so she could take over the biz and get rid of the limit on her credit card. And your Mister Candypants is obviously her favorite muscle, if not downright toy dawg. But now—ta-daa!—she’s sicced him on you, and the question is: Will he dig up a bone for her, or for you? Can the virgitarian turn the playboy from his wicked ways, or will the scary godmother prevail and steal back her family jewels as soon as you get your cute little hands on them?”
I just looked at her. “Are you finished?”
Janice blinked a couple of times, recovering from her solo flight of fancy. “Definitely. I’m so outta here. You?”
“Oh, crap!” I sat down next to her, suddenly exhausted. “Mom was trying to leave us a treasure. And we’ve screwed it up. I’ve screwed it up. Don’t I owe it to her to straighten things out?”
“The way I see it, all we owe her is to stay alive.” Janice dangled a pair of keys in front of me. “Let’s go home.”
“What are those for?”
“Mom’s old house. Peppo told me all about it. It’s southeast of here, in a place called Montepulciano. It’s been empty all these years.” She looked at me with guarded hopefulness. “Wanna come?”
I stared at her, amazed that she could bring herself to ask. “You really want me to come?”
Janice sat up. “Jules,” she said, with unusual sobriety, “I really want us both to get out of here. This is not just about a statue and some gemstones. There is something really spooky going on. Peppo told me about a secret society of people who believe
there is a curse running in our family, and that they need to stop it. And guess who runs the whole show? Yes, your little mobster-queen. This is the same kind of sick stuff that Mom was into … something about secret blood rituals to conjure the spirits of the dead. Excuse me for not being enthusiastic.”
I got up and walked over to the window, frowning at my own reflection. “She has invited me to a party. At her place in Val d’Orcia.”
When Janice didn’t answer, I turned to see what was wrong. She was lying back on the bed, clutching her face. “God help us!” she moaned. “I don’t believe this! Let me guess: El Niño is going, too?”
I threw up my arms. “Come on, Jan! Don’t you want to get to the bottom of this? I do!”
“And you will!” Janice sprang from the bed and started stomping back and forth, fists clenched. “You’ll end up on the bottom of something, that’s for sure, with your heart broken and your feet in cement. I swear to God … if you do this, and you end up dead like all our ancestors that are supposedly buried under Eva Maria’s front steps, I will never speak to you again!”
She looked at me belligerently, and I stared back in disbelief. This was not the Janice I knew. The Janice I knew could not have cared less about my movements, or my fate, except to hope that I failed miserably in everything I set out to do. And the idea of me with my feet in cement would have made her slap her knees laughing, not bite her lip as if she was just about to cry.
“All right,” she said more calmly, when I remained silent, “go ahead, then, and get yourself killed in some … satanic ritual. See if I care.”
“I didn’t say I was going.”
She deflated a bit. “Oh! Well, in that case, I think it’s high time you and I had a gelato.”
WE SPENT A GOOD CHUNK of the afternoon sampling old and new flavors in Bar Nannini, an ice cream parlor conveniently located in Piazza Salimbeni. Not exactly reconciled, we had at least come to agree on two things: We knew far too little about Alessandro to be comfortable with him driving away with me tomorrow, and, secondly, gelato was better than sex.
“Just trust me on that one,” said Janice, winking to cheer me up.
For all her faults, my sister had always had tremendous perseverance, and she single-handedly kept watch for over an hour, while I was crouched on a bench in the far corner of the shop, mortified in advance at the idea of being discovered.
Suddenly, Janice pulled at me to get up. She didn’t say anything; she didn’t have to. Peeking out through the glass door together, we watched Alessandro as he crossed Piazza Salimbeni on foot and continued down the Corso.
“He’s going downtown!” observed Janice. “I knew it! Guys like that don’t live in the burbs. Or maybe”—she made eyes at me—“he’s going to meet his mistress.” We both stretched our necks to see better, but Alessandro was no longer visible. “Damn!”
We shot out of Bar Nannini and cantered down the street as best we could without attracting too much attention, which was always a challenge in Janice’s company. “Wait!” I grabbed her by the arm to slow her down. “I see him! He’s right—uh-oh!”
Just then, Alessandro stopped, and we both ducked into a doorway. “What’s he doing?” I hissed, too afraid of disclosure to see for myself.
“Talking to some guy,” said Janice, stretching. “Some guy with a yellow flag. What’s up with the flag thing? Everybody has a flag here—”
Moments later, we were once again on the prowl, slithering along shopwindows and doorways to avoid detection, following our prey all the way down the road, past the Campo, and up towards Piazza Postierla. He had already stopped several times to greet people going the other way, but as the road became steeper, the number of friends increased.
“Honestly!” exclaimed Janice, when Alessandro stopped yet again to goochi-gooch a baby in a stroller. “Is this guy running for friggin’ mayor?”
“It’s called interhuman relationships,” I muttered, “you should try it.”
Janice rolled her eyes. “Why, listen to the social butterfly!”
I was brewing a retort when we both realized our target had disappeared.
“Oh no!” gasped Janice. “Where did he go?”
We hurried up to where we had last seen Alessandro before he vanished—practically across the street from Luigi’s hair salon—and here we discovered the entrance to the tiniest, darkest alley in all of Siena.
“Can you see him?” I whispered, hiding behind Janice.
“No, but it’s the only place he could have gone.” She took my hand and pulled me along. “Come!”
As we tiptoed down the covered alley, I could not help giggling. Here we were, sneaking around hand in hand the way we used to when we were children. Janice glanced at me sternly, worried about the noise, but when she saw the laughter in my face, she softened and started giggling, too.
“I can’t believe we are doing this!” I whispered. “It’s embarrassing!”
“Shh!” she hissed, “I think this is a bad neighborhood.” She nodded at the graffiti on one of the walls. “What’s a galleggiante? Sounds pretty obscene. And what the hell happened in ’92?”
At the bottom, the alley turned a sharp right, and we stood for a moment at the corner, listening for disappearing footsteps. Janice even stuck out her head to assess the situation, but she pulled it back again very quickly.
“Did he see you?” I whispered.
Janice drew in air. “Come!” She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me around the corner before I could protest. Fortunately, there was no sign of Alessandro, and we scampered on in nervous silence, until we suddenly caught sight of people guarding a horse at the far end of the narrow alley.
“Stop!” I pushed Janice up against a wall, hoping no one had spotted us. “This is no good. Those guys—”
“What are you dong?” Janice pushed away from the wall and continued down the alley towards the horse and its handlers. Seeing that, thankfully, Alessandro was not among them, I ran after her, pulling at her arm to make her stop.
“Are you crazy!” I hissed. “That’s gotta be a horse for the Palio, and those guys don’t want tourists running around—”
“Oh, I’m not a tourist,” said Janice, shaking off my hands and walking on, “I’m a journalist.”
“No! Jan! Wait!”
As she approached the men guarding the horse, I was filled with a strange mix of admiration and the desire to kill her. The last time I had felt quite like this was in ninth grade, when she had spontaneously picked up the phone and dialed the number of a boy in our class, merely because I had said I liked him.
Just then, someone opened a pair of shutters right above us and, as soon as I realized that it was Alessandro, I sprang back against the wall, pulling Janice with me, desperate that he shouldn’t see us there, sniffing around in his neighborhood like lovesick teenagers.
“Don’t look!” I hissed, still shell-shocked from the near miss. “I think he lives up there, on the third floor. Mission accomplished. Case closed. Time to go.”
“What do you mean, mission accomplished?” Janice leaned back to look up at Alessandro’s window, eyes gleaming. “We came here to find out what he’s up to. I say we stick around.” She tried the nearest door, and when it opened without a problem, she wiggled her eyebrows and stepped inside. “Come on!”
“Are you out of your mind?” I eyed the men nervously. They were all staring at us, clearly wondering who we were and what we were up to. “I am not setting foot in that building! That’s where he lives!”
“Fine by me.” Janice shrugged. “Stay here and loiter. I’m sure they won’t mind.”
AS IT TURNED OUT, we were not in a stairway. Walking along in the semidarkness behind Janice, I had been afraid she would race me all the way to the third floor, determined to kick in Alessandro’s door and bombard him with questions. But seeing that there were no stairs, I gradually started relaxing.
At the end of the long corridor a door was ajar, and we both stretched to see
what was on the other side.
“Flags!” observed Janice, clearly disappointed. “More flags. Someone has a thing with yellow around here. And birds.”
“It’s a museum,” I said, spotting a few cencios hanging on the walls. “A contrada museum, just like Peppo’s. I wonder—”
“Cool!” Janice pushed open the door before I could protest. “Let’s see it. You always liked dusty old junk.”
“No! Please don’t—” I tried to hold her back, but she shook off my hand and walked boldly into the room. “Come back here! Jan!”
“What kind of man,” she mused, looking around at the displayed artifacts, “lives in a museum? It’s kind of creepy.”
“Not in,” I corrected her. “On top. And it’s not as if they have mummies here.”
“How do you know?” She tipped open the visor on a suit of armor, just to check. “Maybe they have horse-mummies. Maybe this is where they have those secret blood rituals and conjure the spirits of the dead.”
“Yeah.” I threw her a hairy eyeball from behind the door. “Thanks for getting to the bottom of that when you had the chance.”
“Hey!” She all but gave me the finger. “Peppo didn’t know any more than that, okay!”
I stood and watched her as she tiptoed around for another minute or so, pretending to be interested in the exhibition. We both knew she was only doing it to irritate me. “Okay,” I finally said, “have you seen enough flags now?” But instead of answering, Janice simply walked through a door into another room, leaving me to stand there, half hiding, all by myself.
It took me a while to find her; she was walking around in a tiny chapel with candles burning on the altar and magnificent oil paintings on every wall. “Wow!” she said when I joined her. “How would you like this for a living room? What do they do in here? Read entrails?”
“I hope they read yours! Do you mind if we leave now?”
