by Anne Fortier
“No apple trees?” I joked, leaning out from the balcony and admiring the old vines growing on the wall. “Or snakes?”
“In all my years,” said Eva Maria, taking me seriously, “I have never seen a snake here. And I walk in the orchard every night. But if I saw one, I would crush it with a rock, like this.” She showed me.
“Yup, he’s toast,” I said.
“But if you’re afraid, Sandro is right in there—” She nodded at the French door next to mine. “Your rooms share this balcony.” She elbowed me conspiratorially. “I thought I would make it easy for you two.”
Somewhat stunned, I followed her back into my room. It was dominated by a colossal four-poster bed made up with white linen, and when she noticed my awe, Eva Maria wiggled her eyebrows exactly the way Janice would have done. “Nice bed, no? … Homeric!”
“You know,” I said, my cheeks heating up, “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about me and … your godson.”
She looked at me with something that looked an awful lot like disappointment. “No?”
“No. I’m not that kind of person.” Seeing that I had failed to impress her with my chastity, I added, “I’ve only known him for a week. Or so.”
Now at last, Eva Maria smiled and patted me on the cheek.
“You’re a good girl. I like that. Come, now I will demonstrate to you the bathroom—”
When Eva Maria finally left me alone—after pointing out that there was a bikini my size in the bedside drawer and a kimono in the wardrobe—I collapsed, spread-eagled, on the bed. There was something wonderfully relaxing about her lavish hospitality; if I wanted to, I could undoubtedly stay on for the rest of my life, living the picture-perfect seasons of a Tuscany wall calendar, dressed to fit right in. But at the same time, the whole scenario was mildly troubling. It seemed to me there was something terribly important I had to grasp about Eva Maria—not the Mafia thing, but something else—and it didn’t help that the clues I needed were somehow bobbing around aloft, like newborn balloons trapped by a ceiling high, high over my head. Nor did it help my focus, I had to admit, that I had consumed half a bottle of Prosecco on an empty stomach, and that I, too, was bobbing around in seventh heaven from my afternoon with Alessandro.
Just as I was drifting off, I heard a loud splash of water from somewhere outside and, seconds later, a voice calling me. After peeling my limbs off the bed one by one, I staggered out onto the balcony to find Alessandro waving at me from the swimming pool below, looking exceptionally frisky.
“What are you doing up there?” he yelled. “The water is perfect!”
“Why,” I yelled back, “does it always have to be water with you?”
He looked perplexed, but it only added to his charms. “What’s wrong with water?”
ALESSANDRO BURST INTO laughter when I joined him by the swimming pool, wrapped in Eva Maria’s kimono. “I thought you were hot,” he said, sitting on the edge with his feet in the water, enjoying the last bright rays of sun.
“I was,” I said, standing around awkwardly, playing with the kimono belt, “but I’m feeling better. And, to be honest, I’m not a great swimmer.”
“You don’t have to swim,” he pointed out. “The pool is not very deep. And besides”—he gave me the eye—“I am here to protect you.”
I looked around at everything but him. He was wearing one of those skimpy European bathing suits, but that was the only skimpy thing about him. Sitting there in the light of late afternoon, he looked as if he was made of bronze; his body was practically glowing, and had clearly been sculpted by someone intimately familiar with the ideal proportions of the human physique.
“Come on!” he said, sliding back into the water as if it was his true element. “I promise, you’ll love it.”
“I’m not kidding,” I said, staying where I was, “I’m not good with water.”
Not quite believing me, Alessandro swam over to where I was standing, resting his arms on the edge of the pool. “What does that mean? Do you dissolve?”
“I tend to drown,” I replied, perhaps more sharply than necessary, “and panic. In reverse order.” Seeing his disbelief, I sighed and added, “When I was ten, my sister pushed me off a dock to impress her friends. I hit my head on a mooring line and nearly drowned. Even now, I can’t be in deep water without panicking. So, there you have it. Giulietta is a wimp.”
“This sister of yours—” Alessandro shook his head.
“Actually,” I said, “she’s okay. I tried to push her off the dock first.”
He laughed. “So, you got what you deserved. Come on. You’re too far away.” He patted the gray slate. “Sit here.”
Now at last, I reluctantly shed the kimono to reveal Eva Maria’s minuscule bikini, and walked over to sit down next to him, my feet in the water. “Ow, the stone is hot!”
“Then come down here!” he urged me. “Put your arms around my neck. I’ll hold you.”
I shook my head. “No. Sorry.”
“Yes, come on. We can’t live like this, you up there, me down here.” He reached out and grabbed me by the waist. “How am I going to teach our children to swim, when they see that you are afraid of the water?”
“Oh, you are priceless!” I sneered, putting my hands on his shoulders. “If I drown, I’m gonna sue you!”
“Yes, sue me,” he said, lifting me off the edge and into the water. “Whatever you do, don’t take responsibility for anything.”
It was probably fortunate that I was too irritated by his remark to pay much attention to the water. Before I knew it, I was in up to my chest, my legs wrapped around his naked waist. And I felt fine.
“See?” He smiled triumphantly. “Not as bad as you think.”
I glanced down at the water and saw my own distorted reflection. “Don’t even think about letting go of me!”
He took a firm grip of Eva Maria’s bikini bottoms. “I’m never letting go of you. You are stuck with me, in this pool, forever.”
As my nerves about the water slowly subsided, I began to appreciate the feeling of his body against mine, and, judging by the look in his eyes among other things, the sentiment was mutual. “‘Though his face,’” I said, “‘be better than any man’s, yet his leg excels all men’s, and for a hand and a foot and a body, though they are not to be talked on, yet they are past compare. He is not the flower of courtesy, but I’ll warrant him as gentle as a lamb.’”
Alessandro was clearly trying hard to ignore the engineering feat of my bikini top. “See, that is where Shakespeare is right about Romeo—for a change.”
“Let me guess … you’re not the flower of courtesy?”
He pulled me even closer. “But gentle as a lamb.”
I put a hand on his chest. “More like a wolf in lamb’s clothing.”
“Wolves,” he replied, lowering my body until our faces were only inches apart, “are very gentle animals.”
When he kissed me, I didn’t care who might be watching. It was what I had been longing for ever since Rocca di Tentennano, and I kissed him back without reserve. Only when I felt him testing the flexibility of Eva Maria’s bikini did I gasp and say, “What happened to Columbus and exploring the coastline?”
“Columbus,” Alessandro replied, pushing me up against the side of the pool and closing my mouth with another kiss, “never met you.” He would have said more than that, and I would most likely have responded favorably, had we not been interrupted by a voice calling from a balcony.
“Sandro!” yelled Eva Maria, waving to get his attention, “I need you inside, now!”
Although she disappeared again right away, Eva Maria’s sudden manifestation made us both jump with surprise, and, without thinking, I let go of Alessandro and nearly went under. Fortunately, he did not let go of me.
“Thanks!” I gasped, clinging to him. “It seems you don’t have evil hands after all.”
“See, I told you?” He brushed aside a few wisps of hair that were stuck to my face like wet spagh
etti. “For every curse there is a blessing.”
I looked into his eyes and was startled by his sudden seriousness. “Well, in my opinion”—I put a hand on his cheek—“curses only work if you believe in them.”
…
WHEN I FINALLY RETURNED to my guest room, I sat down in the middle of the floor, laughing. It was such a Janice thing to do—making out in a swimming pool—and I couldn’t wait to tell her about it. Although … it would not please her one bit to hear that I was exercising so little restraint when it came to Alessandro, and that I paid no attention to her warnings whatsoever. In a way it was very sweet to see her so jealous of him—if that was what was going on. She had never explicitly said so, but I could tell that she had been seriously disappointed that I didn’t want to drive to Montepulciano with her, and go hunting for Mom’s house together.
Only now, with a twinge of guilt stirring me from my giddy reverie, did I notice a smoky smell—of incense?—that might or might not have been in my room before. Stepping out on the balcony in my wet kimono for a mouthful of fresh air, I saw the sun disappearing behind distant mountains in a feast of gold and blood, and everywhere around me, the sky was turning into deeper shades of blue. With the daylight gone, there was a touch of dew in the air that brought with it a promise of all the smells, all the passions, and all the ghostly chills, of night.
Going back into my room and turning on a lamp, I saw that a dress had been laid out on the bed for me with a handwritten note saying, “Wear this for the party.” I picked it up in disbelief; not only was Eva Maria once again dictating my apparel, but this time she had set me up to look ridiculous. It was a floor-length contraption in dark red velvet with a severe, angular neckline and flared sleeves; Janice would have called it the latest scream for the undead and tossed it aside with a scornful laughter. I was tempted to do the same.
But when I took out my own dress and compared the two, it occurred to me that, maybe, flitting downstairs in my itsy black novelty on this particular evening would turn out to be the biggest faux pas of my career. For all Eva Maria’s plunging necklines and risqué comments it was entirely possible that the crowd she was hosting tonight was a bunch of prudes who would judge me by my spaghetti straps and find me wanting.
Once dressed—obediently—in Eva Maria’s medieval outfit, and with my hair piled on top of my head in an attempt at a festive do, I stood for a moment at my door, listening to the sounds of guests arriving below. There was laughter and music, and in between the popping corks I could hear my hostess greeting not only darling friends and family, but darling clergy and nobility as well. Not sure I had enough backbone to dive into the fun on my own, I tiptoed down the corridor to knock discreetly on Alessandro’s door. But he wasn’t there. And just as I reached out to try the door handle, someone put a claw on my shoulder.
“Giulietta!” Eva Maria had a way of sneaking up on me that was deeply unsettling. “Are you ready to come downstairs?”
I gasped and spun around, embarrassed to have been caught where I was, almost trespassing into her godson’s room. “I was looking for Alessandro!” I blurted out, shocked to see her standing right behind me, somehow taller than I remembered, wearing a golden tiara and—even for her—unusually dramatic makeup.
“He had to run an errand,” she said, dismissively. “He will be back. Come—”
Walking back down the loggia with her, it was hard not to stare at Eva Maria’s dress. If I had toyed with the idea that my own attire made me look like the heroine of a stage play, I now realized that, at best, I had a supporting role. Dressed in a vision of golden taffeta, Eva Maria shone more brightly than any sun, and as we sashayed down the broad staircase together—her hand clasped tightly above my elbow—the guests gathered below were helpless to ignore her.
At least a hundred people were standing around in the great hall, and they looked up in silent wonder as their hostess descended in all her splendor, graciously escorting me into their circle with the gestures of a flower fairy spreading rose petals before woodland royalty. Eva Maria had clearly planned this drama well in advance, for the whole place was lit exclusively by tall candles in chandeliers and candelabra, and the flickering flames made her dress come alive as if it, too, was on fire. For a while, all I could hear was music; not the classical favorites you would expect, but live music with medieval instruments coming from a small group of musicians at the far end of the hall.
Looking out over the silent crowd, I was relieved at having chosen the red velvet dress over my own. To suggest that Eva Maria’s guests this evening were a bunch of prudes would have been a phenomenal understatement; it would be more accurate to say they looked as if they belonged in another world. At first glance, there was not a person in the room under seventy; at second glance, it was more like eighty. Someone charitable might have said that they were all dear old souls who only went to parties every twenty years or so, and that none of them had opened a fashion magazine since World War II … but I had lived too long with Janice for that kind of generosity. Had my sister been there with me and seen what I saw, she would have made a scary face and licked her fangs suggestively. The only upside was that if indeed they were all vampires, they looked so fragile that I could probably outrun them.
As we reached the bottom of the stairs, a whole swarm of them approached me, all talking to me in rapid Italian and poking me with bloodless fingers to make sure I was for real. Their amazement in seeing me suggested that—in their minds—it was I, and not they, who had risen from the grave for the occasion.
Seeing my confusion and discomfort, Eva Maria soon began shooing them off, and we were eventually left with the two women who actually had something to say to me.
“This is Monna Teresa,” explained Eva Maria, “and Monna Chiara. Monna Teresa is a descendant of Giannozza Tolomei—just like you—and Monna Chiara is descended from Monna Mina of the Salimbeni. They are very excited that you are here, because for many years they thought you were dead. They are both knowledgeable about the past, and know much about the woman whose name you have inherited, Giulietta Tolomei.”
I looked at the two old women. It seemed perfectly reasonable that they should know everything about my ancestors and the events of 1340, for they looked as if they had taken a horse-drawn carriage right out of the Middle Ages to attend Eva Maria’s party. They both appeared to be held upright exclusively by corsets and the lace ruffs around their necks; one of them, though, kept smiling coyly behind a black fan, while the other looked at me with a bit more reserve, her hair done up in a way I had only ever seen in old paintings, with a peacock feather sticking out. Next to their antiquated forms Eva Maria seemed positively juvenile, and I was happy that she stayed right beside me, on tiptoes with excitement, to translate everything they said to me.
“Monna Teresa,” she began, referring to the woman with the fan, “wants to know if you have a twin sister, Giannozza? For hundreds of years it has been tradition in the family to call twin girls Giulietta and Giannozza.”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” I said. “I wish she was here tonight. She”—I looked around at the candlelit hall and all the bizarre people, swallowing a smile—“would have loved it.”
The old woman erupted in a wrinkly smile when she heard that there were two of us, and she made me promise that, next time I came to visit, I would bring along my sister.
“But if those names are a family tradition,” I said, “then there must be hundreds—thousands—of Giulietta Tolomeis out there apart from me!”
“No-no-no!” exclaimed Eva Maria. “Remember that we are talking about a tradition in the female line, and that women take their husbands’ names when they marry. To Monna Teresa’s knowledge, in all these years, no one else was ever baptized Giulietta and Giannozza Tolomei. But your mother was stubborn—” Eva Maria shook her head with reluctant admiration. “She wanted desperately to get that name, so she married Professor Tolomei. And what do you know, she had twin girls!” She looked at Monna Teresa f
or confirmation. “As far as we know, you are the only Giulietta Tolomei in the world. That makes you very special.”
They all looked at me expectantly, and I did my best to appear grateful and interested. Obviously, I was delighted to learn more about my family, and to meet distant relatives, but the timing could have been better. There are evenings when one is perfectly content talking to elderly ladies with lace ruffs, and evenings when one would rather be doing something else. On this particular occasion, in all honesty, I was longing to be alone with Alessandro—where on earth was he?—and although I had happily spent many wee hours absorbed in the tragic events of 1340, family lore was not what I felt most like exploring on this particular night.
But now it was Monna Chiara’s turn to grab my arm and talk to me intently about the past. Her voice was as crisp and frail as tissue paper, and I leaned as close as I could to hear her and avoid the peacock feather.
“Monna Chiara invites you to come and visit her,” translated Eva Maria, “so you can see her archive of family documents. Her ancestor, Monna Mina, was the first woman who tried to unravel the story of Giulietta, Romeo, and Friar Lorenzo. She was the one who found most of the old papers; she found the trial proceedings against Friar Lorenzo—with his confession—in a hidden archive in the old torture chamber in Palazzo Salimbeni, and she also found Giulietta’s letters to Giannozza tucked away in many places. Some were under a floor in Palazzo Tolomei, others were hidden in Palazzo Salimbeni, and she even found one—the very last—at Rocca di Tentennano.”
“I would love to see those letters,” I said, meaning it. “I’ve seen some fragments, but—”
“When Monna Mina found them,” Eva Maria interrupted me, urged on by Monna Chiara, whose eyes were aglow in the candlelight, yet strangely distant, “she traveled a long way to visit Giulietta’s sister, Giannozza, and to give her the letters at last. This was around the year 1372, and Giannozza was now a grandmother—a happy grandmother—living with her second husband, Mariotto. But you can imagine what a shock it was for Giannozza to read what her sister had written to her so many years earlier, before she took her own life. Together those two women—Mina and Giannozza—talked about everything that had happened, and they swore that they would do everything in their power to keep the story alive for future generations.”
