I wasn’t sure they’d be playing the Beatles on Italian radio, but maybe the BBC. I told her I’d be happy to try. Then Max appeared in the salone with Teresa on his heels. He dispatched Mariangela with instructions to make sure she went straight to bed.
“Domani, mi raccomando,” she said to me and followed Teresa upstairs.
For a speaker of English, mi raccomando is a curious admonition. It’s a reflexive verb with its “mi” referring back to the speaker himself. Yet it’s actually a warning or an exhortation for someone else to do some task. In this case Mariangela was warning me not to forget about our appointment the next day.
With only adults left in the room, Bernie wasted no time posing a question to the group. He wanted to know what was so important about Bondinelli’s wallet.
I waited to see if anyone else had an idea. As no one volunteered, I offered a theory.
“There are two possibilities. One, the wallet is missing. Or, two, the wallet has been found.”
“Brava,” said Lucio. “Hai scoperto l’America.”
I frowned at his sarcasm. Italians are fond of telling you you’ve discovered America when you state something obvious.
“I believe that the wallet has been found,” I continued, choosing to ignore his remark. “On dry land.”
“Dry land?” asked Bernie.
“I mean not in the river. Not with Bondinelli’s body.”
“Why would you think that?”
“The inspector told us the police no longer suspect Bondinelli’s death was an accident. That tells me the wallet was not on his person when he drowned in the river. If it had been in his pocket, the police would naturally suspect accidental drowning. Or possibly suicide.”
Franco objected to this last idea. I assured him I wasn’t suggesting suicide, only that the police would have to consider it or they wouldn’t be doing their job.
“On the other hand, if the wallet’s been found somewhere on dry land, the police would naturally suspect foul play. Robbery or even murder. A thief would have relieved him of his wallet before pushing him into the river.”
“What if the wallet is still missing?” asked Lucio.
“If it’s missing, why would the inspector ask you if you’ve ever seen it? No, they’ve found it and want to know if any of you stole it from him.”
“Does he suspect one of us robbed Alberto and pushed him into the river?” asked Franco.
“Maybe. Or perhaps he’s simply trying to eliminate suspects.”
“Ellie is right,” said Max, interrupting us. “I spoke to the inspector last night by telephone. He told me the police had recovered the wallet. He wouldn’t say where, but it had been emptied of all cash.”
“How do they know it was his? Was there identification inside?”
“They found two pieces of identification. An ATAF bus pass, monthly . . .” he paused. “And a Società Filomatica Dantesca membership card.” Giuliana scoffed. “He carried that around? When or where would he ever need to present it for identification?”
Max ignored her question.
“No carta d’identità?” asked Bernie.
“Not in the wallet,” said Max.
Franco pointed out that the missing ID card ruined my theory, but Max promptly contradicted him.
“I’m afraid not. The police found it in Alberto’s vest pocket.”
I felt green. “Do you mean . . .”
“Yes, soaking wet and still on his person when they pulled him from the river.”
“Why didn’t you mention the phone call to anyone before?” asked Lucio.
“What an absurd question,” said Max. “The inspector asked me to say nothing. The police believe someone stole Alberto’s wallet and pushed him into the river.”
A sobering realization descended on the group. An accidental death was tragic enough. But murder added a whole new sinister twist to Bondinelli’s drowning. No one said a word for a long moment. Then Max urged us to make the best of what was left of the evening. Our moping wasn’t going to bring Alberto back.
“I suggest one of you tell another story,” he said.
I doubted anyone was in the mood for story hour, but I was wrong. Tato stepped forward and announced he was prepared to do the honors.
“Brace yourself,” I muttered to Bernie, who again had taken a seat by my side. I was happy for his company; things were becoming quite tense among the guests at Bel Soggiorno, and I preferred to keep my reliable friend close.
“Yeah,” he said, “I’m expecting fireworks.”
“I’ll lay you odds five to one he doesn’t finish the story.”
Bernie regarded me as if I had two heads. “I’m not taking that bet. Do you think I’m an idiot?”
With no action riding on the outcome, we settled in to listen to the evening’s entertainment.
“Aren’t you going to accompany me on the guitar?” Tato asked Lucio. To be accurate, he didn’t so much ask as sneer.
“Tato, try to understand. We didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Silenzio. It’s my turn to tell a tale. You’ve had yours. With the storytelling and with Giuliana.”
Lucio groaned. Giuliana didn’t react at all.
“You all must listen,” concluded Tato, then he began his story. “There once lived in our fair city a beautiful but perfidious young widow named . . . Giuliana.”
“Oh, come on!” she said. He’d finally succeeded in getting a reaction out of her.
“Sst!” he answered with the Italian version of shush! “I am king and you will listen. As I was saying, there lived in our fair city a duplicitous, wretch of a whore named Giuliana and her black-hearted lover, Lucio Pugnalaspalle.”
A roar of protests arose from the crowd, and Franco, who hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol that evening, stepped up to the plate to lecture Tato. “Either you speak respectfully of Giuliana and Lucio, or you will say nothing at all. We shall not listen to such insults.”
Sensing he might lose the crowd, Tato promised to steer clear of foul words in his story. We were all skeptical, but it was agreed that he’d have one last chance to finish his tale.
He nodded and continued.
“I will now amuse you with the story of a young scholar returning to Florence after years of study in Paris. One day, near the Feast of the Nativity, as he crossed the Ponte Santa Trinita, deep in reflection of the lessons of philosophy and rhetoric and astronomy he’d acquired abroad, he happened upon the ravishing widow Giuliana, who was in the company of her maid. Just as the poet Dante Alighieri, who was said to have espied the virtuous and angelic Beatrice on that very same bridge, our scholar, whose name was Tato Lombardi, fell hopelessly and completely in love with the beautiful widow.”
“Real subtle about the names,” whispered Bernie.
Santa Trinita. Again that bridge troubled me. This time I intended to get to the bottom of the mystery. I raised my hand. “Una domanda.You mentioned the Ponte Santa Trinita. Was it really there in Dante’s time?”
Tato bristled at the interruption but confirmed that it had been. Bernie, the human encyclopedia, added that a famous painting by Henry Holiday depicts the scene when Dante encountered Beatrice on the bridge.
“I’ve always thought Dante looks like a hood in that painting,” he said with a chuckle. “Watching the pretty girls go by. Beatrice’s body language is definitely telling. She refuses to greet him. And, of course, the stone bridge is an anachronism. It was made of wood in Dante’s day. The current bridge was built in the seventeenth century.”
“But I don’t remember a stone bridge from my first visit after the war,” I said.
“I think I know why you’re confused,” said Bernie. “The Germans destroyed it when they were retreating from Florence in forty-four. It was a tragedy. So many bridges blown up just to prolong the war. So many treasures razed to the ground.”
“And they built a temporary bridge after the war, didn’t they?” I asked.
Bernie nodded. Max chim
ed in to say he remembered it well. “Made of wood and steel. A Bailey bridge, built by the Royal Engineers. Later they pulled the stones and debris of the original bridge out of the river and rebuilt it.”
I knew that bridge had been made of wood when I’d last seen it. I wasn’t losing my mind. “And when was the reconstruction completed?”
“Fifty-seven or fifty-eight,” he said.
“Excuse me. May I continue my story?” asked Tato. “I am the king today. You must do as I say.”
Happy that my memory still qualified as top drawer, I apologized and yielded the floor. Tato cleared his throat and resumed.
“As I was saying, the scholar saw his beloved on the bridge. But unlike Dante’s Beatrice—the lady to whom the poet owed his salvation—this Giuliana, though beautiful, was una troia, una disgraziata, una zoccola che tromb . . . with my best friend!”
I’ve purposely left the offending slurs in Italian, as they are words I do not favor.
We all might have suffered a few moments more of Tato’s story—just to see how far he intended to go—its violent profanity and all, had he not lunged at Lucio’s throat mid-sentence, swearing he was going to kill him for his betrayal. Franco and Bernie tackled him before he could lay a hand on Lucio, who vaulted the divan and was hiding behind our host. Max, by the way, had made no move to intervene. Veronica ran from the room screaming. Giuliana blinked the slowest blink I’d ever seen, a sure sign of her exasperation and humiliation. But she still said nothing.
Tato didn’t put up much of a struggle. In fact, before ten seconds had passed, he went limp, abandoning all resistance and aggression, and was apologizing to everyone in the room, Lucio and Giuliana included, for his outburst.
“Forgive me,” he said, tears in his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
We helped him to his feet, brushed him off, and—keeping a close eye on him lest he charge Lucio again—watched as he shuffled, head bowed, out of the room and up the stairs.
“Do you think he’ll be all right?” I asked.
“We were never together,” said Giuliana. “We’re friends, nothing more. I never gave him any reason to believe . . .”
“Ego te absolvo,” said Franco, making the sign of the cross in her direction. “That poor ragazzo is brokenhearted and all you can say is it’s not my fault? Have some pity, Giuliana.”
“I’m going to check on him,” I said, making for the door.
Lucio stopped me. “No, I should go. He’s my friend after all.”
The tension in the room eased slowly, almost as if a valve had been opened. We all sat down and drew a breath. Then a sip of our drinks or a drag on our cigarettes. Giuliana slipped out of the room without a goodnight, leaving Bernie, Franco, Max, and me. At length, Bernie spoke.
“He was trying to tell a story from the eighth day,” Bernie said in English to me. Franco and Max were well within earshot and were welcome to listen in.
I must have looked confused.
“The Decameron,” he said. “Tato was following the precedent set by Lucio and Giuliana. And I think we all noticed he changed the names.”
“How did that story go?” I asked. “Tato didn’t get very far.”
“The part about the scholar returning from Paris was pretty faithful to the original. And the beautiful young widow. I don’t recall their names off hand. The rest is a tale of how the widow tricks the scholar in the cruelest, most selfish manner in order to prove to her lover that he has no reason to doubt her devotion to him.”
“What does she do to him?”
“She convinces the scholar that she loves him and will give herself to him, but instead she leaves him locked in her courtyard on a frigid snowy night. Then she and her lover watch for hours as he nearly freezes to death.”
“How awful.”
“Yeah, the poor guy spends the entire night in the icy snow while the two lovers . . . um . . . well, you can guess what they do—several times—in the warmth of her bed.”
“And that’s how it ends?” I asked. “Not a very good story.”
“No, the scholar realizes how foolish he’s been and plots his revenge. Months later he gets the chance when the widow’s lover leaves her for another woman. The scholar hatches a plot involving black magic that he promises will win her her lover back. She buys it, and somehow he gets her to take off all her clothes and climb a high tower where he strands her totally naked in the blazing hot sun.”
“I see. Nice symmetry there. A little obvious and rather unlikely, but I suppose it works. Does that mean Tato is planning his revenge on Giuliana?”
“If I am any judge of human behavior, I’d say no.” This was Max tossing in his two cents, also in English. “That young man will beg to have her back again. And she might accept him. Once Lucio finds another.”
“You don’t believe in their love?” I asked with a wink and gob of sarcasm heaped on top besides. “Giuliana’s and Lucio’s, I mean.”
Max clicked his tongue. “They are young and finding their way in life. Their love affair is just a pleasant diversion until they grow older and more serious.”
How sad, I thought, that love affairs were so frivolous. Then I stopped myself. It was different with me. I wasn’t looking to grow old and serious, so I could permit myself some frivolity.
I realized that Franco might be at a disadvantage with the change in language, but he seemed to be following. Still, to get my mind off my own thoughts, I told him in Italian he’d behaved admirably this evening, not like the night before. I kept that last bit to myself. He blushed and said he’d been ashamed by his behavior and promised to monitor his drinking more carefully.
“I’m also embarrassed for having lied to the police. Yes, I saw Alberto that day, but we barely said hello. I don’t know why I lied.”
I climbed the long stairs to my room and wished Bernie goodnight. He lingered just a touch longer than necessary, which told me all I needed to know. He wouldn’t have turned down a chance to see my etchings. But I wanted no part in ruining a good friendship. Sure, he was tall and good-looking in an offbeat way, but an hour or two of pleasant diversion would surely lead to an awkward tomorrow. Perhaps if he hadn’t been so close to my father, I might have invited him into my room, just on a lark. But I liked Bernie too much to stoke a fire I had no intention of tending. I kissed him on the cheek and pushed him off toward his room down the hall. He made a pit stop at the bathroom.
I waited and listened until I was sure Bernie had performed whatever exigencies nature had required of him, then I slipped into the bathroom to do the same. Back in my room, I undressed and slid between the sheets. That’s when I noticed the envelope propped up on the bedside table.
CHAPTER THIRTY
I recognized the letter immediately as the one Bondinelli had addressed to me. The one that had disappeared from the table in Piazza della Signoria on Thursday afternoon. Rising from the bed, I covered myself with a robe. Those old Italian country houses had no closets, but there was an armoire standing against the wall. It was too small to hold a grown person, of course, but I opened it just the same. Nothing besides my clothes inside. Then I peeked under the bed. All clear. Confident the room was free from unwelcome guests, I locked the door with its church key, slipped between the sheets again, and took up the sealed letter. I opened it with my fingernail. Written in an elegant hand, it read:
Friday, September 27, 1963
Carissima Sig.na Stone,
I trust your stay in our beautiful city has been a satisfying one. By now the symposium has ended, the visiting scholars have left to return home, and we are all happy with the achievements of our little conference. It was a supreme honor for me to present you with the medal honoring your distinguished father. As you know, I met him a few times many years ago, and his memory is still fresh in my mind.
The purpose of this letter is to thank you for your participation in the symposium. Florence is a long way for a young woman to travel alone without a husband, and I understand you�
��ve spent the past ten months perfecting your Italian. Complimenti! You have earned full marks. I shall be forever grateful to you for your wholehearted enthusiasm and good will, both of which helped make our symposium a success.
Finally, I’d like to divulge a secret. You may not realize that you and I have more in common than a passion for medieval literature and your father’s work. In fact, dear Eleonora, you and I share a name. Or at least we once shared a name for a time. I do not wish to say more in writing for fear it might be discovered by someone else, but I shall be happy to explain it to you over the weekend in Fiesole, when we will have time to chat at our leisure.
Remember that this is something I’ve never discussed with anyone. I know I can count on your discretion.
It was a pleasure to meet you in person, and I look forward to seeing you at Villa Bel Soggiorno.
Tante grazie e distinti saluti,
Prof. Alberto Bondinelli
I sat on my bed, letter in hand, perplexed by the riddle I’d just read, never mind the absurd suggestion that I had some kind of passion for medieval literature. What on earth did he mean that we had once shared a name? Had he called himself Eleonora at some point in his ever-changing life? Had I been Alberto once upon a time? Or was it our last names?
Unable to answer any of those questions, I read the letter again. Then once more. I took note of the date: Friday, September 27, 1963. That meant one of three possibilities: one, he’d written it two days after his death; two, someone else had forged it; or three, he’d post-dated the letter. I immediately discounted options one and two, settling for number three.
I could understand why an organized man might write a note of thanks in advance. He’d left the information vague enough for that scenario to be believable. Yes, I was convinced the letter had been composed in anticipation of a successful symposium, at the latest the previous Tuesday, but possibly months earlier. Why not?
The thankyou was generic, but the tantalizing mystery was anything but. He’d intended to fill me in over the weekend, but that, of course, was not in the cards. Was the secret of the name tragic? Scandalous? Amusing? And why did he want to keep it a secret? I couldn’t fathom a guess. I wondered if anyone else at Bel Soggiorno could fill in the blanks.
Turn to Stone Page 25
