Galileo's Lost Message

by D. Allen Henry

  The pair studied it a bit longer, neither able to discern its purpose. Paul eventually turned his attention back to the poem, positing, “Okay, I propose a different approach. Suppose we focus on stanza three – the long one. There seem to be plenty of interesting clues within that one.”

  “Va bene,” she responded. Then pausing to gaze wistfully from the window, she exhaled audibly and announced in surprise, “My goodness, I didn’t realize that it is getting towards sunset.”

  Following her gaze, he blurted, “Oh! We seem to have lost all track of time!”

  “Suppose we take a break. I’m hungry!” and she said this last with evident gusto.

  Grinning affably at her, he responded, “Of course. What do you propose?”

  “Why not give ourselves a well-earned breather. I know a ristorante in Firenze that I believe you will like. It’s named Ristorante Paoli. It is in fact several hundred years old!”

  “Ah, yes, I’ve eaten there once, Antonietta. It’s a lovely place.”

  “You know too much, my friend, far too much!” and she smiled back, clearly happy that he knew and understood something of her culture.

  “Ha!” he croaked sardonically, “I know exactly what you’re thinking, Contessa!”

  Smiling demurely, she said slyly, “And what might that be, Paulo, I mean Paul? I’m sorry, it just sounds so right to say it the Italian way.”

  “Oh, I like Paulo,” he grinned, “Please, feel free,” and, seeing that she had lost the train of the conversation, he suggested, “Shall we meet in the foyer shortly?”

  At this she posited, “Perfetto!” and so saying, she sauntered from the room.

  Perusing her departure, Paul whistled softly to himself in admiration at the wonders of nature. Ensconced within the shower a short time later, he realized that he had no idea what day it was – a sure sign that life was indeed good.

  In the end, dinner was a revelation. Paul had dined in Italy countless times over the years, but never before with a celebrity. It seemed that everyone in Firenze knew the Contessa Floridiana, and all forms of greeting included kissing on both cheeks. Indeed, they were subjected to so much greeting and kissing that Paul wondered if they would ever be allowed to actually dine. But that of course was the very essence of Italian culture, and in the end they were afforded a fine meal as well.

  Properly sated, they returned to the villa as midnight closed in. Goodnights were shared and each trundled off to their respective solitude in anticipation of the oncoming challenge.

  The Following Morning

  Dispelling the cobwebs, Antonietta arose with unforeseen excitement to face the morning light. Dressing quickly, she padded to the kitchen in search of breakfast, but upon entering the kitchen she stopped short. There he was, sipping a cup of coffee as if he had been awake for hours.

  Arching one eyebrow in shock, she stammered, “What the…and there I thought that I had found an American who could assimilate Italian culture! But here you are, up at the crack of dawn, acting just like some workaholic!”

  His smile disarming her, he countered, “Oh, I think that you will find that I have ample ability to sleep late, Contessa, but I have a good excuse today.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “I’m jet lagged…couldn’t sleep. So I got up at sunrise, and believe me, I am most definitely NOT an early riser.”

  At this she snorted and nodded approvingly, but said nothing.

  Seeing the opportunity to continue, he imparted, “And I believe I have some good news – I believe that I have deciphered a portion of the poem!”

  “Oh, that IS good news! Tell me, tell me!” she replied conspiratorially.

  “Yes, of course,” he volunteered, “But first let me get you a cup of coffee.”

  Peering doubtfully at his cup, she inquired, “Did you make that?”

  “Yes, yes, I know how to make espresso. Would you like it with milk, or straight?”

  Surprised at this unanticipated skill, she responded, “Straight, please.”

  “I should have guessed,” he replied wistfully. “I can’t do that. I drink it about half and half, and - believe me - it’s still twice as strong as Café Americano.”

  Giggling as she accepted the tiny proffered cup from him, she surreptitiously drained it in a matter of seconds.

  Gaping at her in sheer wonder, he exclaimed, “Amazing!” at which she simply smiled enigmatically.

  Apparently embarrassed, he blurting somewhat inanely, “Okay, so where was I? Oh, yes, stanza number three! Let’s see here,” and at this admission he fumbled through a newly arisen stack of papers for the translated verse, subsequently announcing, “Right…look here, Contessa. It’s ten lines long, and it is clearly divided into two parts. The first two lines are instructions detailing what to do, and the last eight lines tell you where to go. So it’s clear, there are eight different cities that we are instructed to visit. See?”

  “Yes, I do see,” she replied and, frowning with intensity as she studied the poem, she posited, “So, I assume we’re off to Firenze again today.”

  “Right you are, Contessa!” he responded with obvious astonishment.

  Glancing knowingly at him, she surmised, “What? Did you think I didn’t know who the dome inventor was? Everyone in Italy knows that.”

  “Right,” he responded sheepishly, not wanting to irritate her further, “But I confess, I myself was not certain at first that line three refers to the Brunelleschi Dome. There are in fact two other very famous domes in Italy, and both existed in Galileo’s time. Either of them could be the dome referred to in the poem. The first is of course the Dome of the Pantheon in Roma. The second is the Dome of St. Peter’s Cathedral, also in Roma. It took me quite a while to rule these other two out.”

  “And how did you do that, Paulo?” she queried.

  “Both of these are most likely out for the same reason – there is already another tomb that we are supposed to visit in Roma.”

  Perplexed, she asked, “And what might that be?”

  “Look at line eight.”

  Frowning in deep concentration, she carefully read the eighth line of the fourth stanza. After further contemplation, she said, “I don’t get it…”

  “Hooray!” he replied gleefully, “Then I’m not as stupid as I thought I was! It took me a couple of hours, but I kept wondering what ‘the utmost’ meant. Put in the context of a tomb, I am thinking it means ‘the tomb of the most important person’. Now, in order to decipher the meaning of that, I think that we need to put ourselves in Galileo’s shoes. There can’t be many possibilities from his perspective, but I am betting our Galileo means The Tomb of St. Peter!”

  “That’s perceptive,” she replied matter-of-factly, “But wait a minute…IS there a tomb of St. Peter?”

  “Yes, it’s right under St. Peters’ Cathedral, where one would expect it to be.”

  “I didn’t know that!” she answered with surprise.

  “Don’t feel bad, I didn’t either. A friend told me about it a few years ago, and I managed to arrange a visit to the tomb. You can only see it by special invited tour.”

  “Do you think we could get in to see it, Paulo?”

  “Actually, with this poem we have, I think we could indeed!”

  “Non!” she almost screamed.

  “What the…” he stumbled backward, shocked by her strangely emphatic response. He subsequently replied in apparent confusion, “What was that for, Antonietta?”

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you, but to be honest, I do not think that informing members of the Roman Catholic Church about Galileo’s document is a good idea.”

  At this he blurted, “Surely not, Antonietta. Surely they’re not still after Galileo after more than three hundred and fifty years!”

  She gazed downcast towards the table for a few moments, then admitted tersely, “I have not told you everything, Paul,” thereby casting an immediate pall over the pair. “You see, I have a past. I
was married to a count, as you are well aware.” She hesitated momentarily, then murmured softly, “He is Mafioso, Paulo. I am, you see, quite fortunate to be alive. No one escapes the Mafia.”

  His eyebrows arching skyward in astonishment, he blurting impertinently, “Why on earth did you marry him in the first place, Antonietta?”

  “He was good looking! And, after all, he IS a count!”

  At this he responded with nothing more than a perplexed stare, as if to say, “So what!”

  Distraught by her obvious loss of standing in his eyes, she sought for an explanation, responding weakly, “I didn’t know, Professore….” and then, as if to herself, she whispered, “I didn’t know. I was very young…” and at this she began to sob.

  The worst having momentarily passed, she drew her hands across her face, in the process smudging her eye liner. She now crossed her arms defiantly and, a look of misery pasting her visage, she simply glared silently at him

  Softening at her forlorn attempt at defiance, he murmured regretfully, “Let’s just forget it. It’s none of my business. I am truly sorry, Contessa. I can see that you have suffered,” and, suddenly appearing to regain his train of thought, he added surreptitiously, “But what does all that have to do with the Church?”

  At this change of tack she twittered hopelessly and, once again pulling her now entangled hair back, she explained, “Nothing and everything!” Narrowing her eyes piercingly, she disclosed, “Paulo, the system is rotten to the core. The whole of Italy is a quagmire of corrupt officials. Surely you know what I am talking about – you, who are a well-known historian of Italian culture and history.”

  “Well, that may be true, Antonietta, but my grasp of Italian history stops about two hundred years ago. Of course, I knew that Italy was corrupt in the Roman Era, The Middle Ages and the Renaissance. But how could I have known that it has persisted right up to this very day?”

  “Always...always, Paulo, for the entire history of Italy, it has been corrupt. There doesn’t seem to be any way to change it. And here is the worst part of all – they are all entwined together – the politicians, the polizia, the clergy, and the mafiosi. They are all corrupt. So you see, I was married to a mafioso, and they have infiltrated the Roman Catholic Church!”

  “But what could they possibly want with this document, Antonietta?”

  At this, she nearly shouted, “Don’t be obtuse, Paulo, it’s worth a fortune!”

  Peering at her, he concurred, “Of course, I knew that.” He then halted and, glancing downward, he seemed to ponder the reality of the situation. After several moments, he glanced towards her and probed, “So what am I doing here, Antonietta? Why did you call me? I am by no means anything resembling a James Bond.”

  At this admission, she threw her head back and laughed deeply, “Ah, that’s the spirit, Paulo. You will help me, no?” and she knew she had him - it was clear by his every reaction.

  “Aw, crap…” he mumbled, “Yes…yes…I suppose so. I never could resist a great puzzle, much less a gorgeous woman in the offing,” and at this he smiled bravely, obviously unable to resist or even attempt to hide her power over him.

  Her mood now turning somber, she cautioned, “But we must be careful, Paulo! We must be very careful. So far as I can tell, no one knows about the poem but us, but of this I cannot be certain. There are those who were at the auction who may ‘smell a rat’, as they say in your American gangster movies. So, need I say - we must move cautiously.”

  At this pronouncement the blood seemed to drain from Paul’s face. He nonetheless replied sternly, “I hear you, Contessa. Well then, shall we begin?”

  “Begin? Begin what?” she looked startled and confused.

  “Why, begin the pilgrimage, of course, as our Starry Messenger himself has termed it.”

  “Certainly,” she replied, her enthusiasm now visibly restored.

  “Excellent, Contessa,” he responded deftly, “And now, let us be off!”

  “Yes, yes, but where are we going?”

  “Why, to Firenze, of course, to see Brunelleschi.”

  “Yes, I understand, but where exactly is his tomb, Paulo?”

  “Ha, you’re like a New Yorker who has never been to the Statue of Liberty! His tomb is beneath the Cathedral, of course!”

  “At the risk of sounding stupid, what cathedral, Professore? Firenze is filled with cathedrals!”

  “The Santa Maria del Fiori! I should have thought that would be obvious. For his magnificent feat, he was entombed within the very cathedral that he spent fourteen years of his life crowning.”

  “Ah, excellent!” she posited.

  He then added, “We must also visit the dome, it’s behind Giotto’s campanile…” but at this point he paused and, a strange look coming over his face, he abruptly stammered, “Behind…on the back…” and it was clear that he was engrossed in some new profound revelation.

  A perceptive look suddenly coming over him, he exclaimed, “This may be a waste of time, but before we go, I think that we should look on the back.”

  Completely lost, she responded quizzically, “On the back? On the back of what, Professore?”

  “On the back of the poem, of course,” he replied diffidently, “Somehow we seem to have overlooked that.”

  “Why would you think that there might be anything on the back of the poem?”

  “It’s just a hunch, but Galileo was after all blind. Mistakenly assuming that it was in fact the front, he may have written something on the back of the poem.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she replied. “Surely he could have felt the ink on one side.”

  “Not necessarily, Contessa. Parchment was often rough, as well as somewhat porous during his time, so that enough ink might have diffused through to the other side so as to render it impossible for a blind person to tell which side was the front.”

  “Well, there is only one way to find out,” she replied doubtfully.

  They stepped into the study and located the original of the poem. Antonietta carefully grasped it and turned it over, thereby eliciting an immediate audible gasp, “Oh! Oh, my goodness, you were right!”

  Paul approached the parchment and, carefully examining it, he observed the following:

  After meticulous examination, Paul announced cautiously, “Well, I’m no handwriting expert, but I am as certain as I can be that this is Galileo’s signature. Admittedly it is a bit messy, but one must remember that he was at this point totally blind, and it appears that he had some difficulty with the quill that he was using. I am quite familiar with Galileo’s signature, and this appears to be consistent with what his signature would look like once he lost his sight.”

  At this Antonietta exhaled audibly, to which Paul turned and queried, “What is it?”

  “Nothing. I was just holding my breath,” she replied in apparent relief.

  Tilting his head in mystification, he responded, “Why?”

  “I was afraid it might be a forgery, that’s all. But since it isn’t - that’s good!” She halted for a moment, and seeing the doubtful look nonetheless clouding Paul’s visage, she added, “Er, at least I think it’s good.”

  “Oh, it’s good alright. I would say that it is better than good. I would say that this is absolute confirmation that Galileo is the author.”

  “Even though the signature is on the back?”

  “On the contrary, precisely because the signature is on the back. No sighted forger could have possibly conceived of such an error.”

  “But what does ‘Linceo’ refer to? I didn’t know that he had another name,” she queried, a frown on her face.

  “It’s not well known today, but Galileo was admitted to the Lincean Academy in 1611, and thereafter Galileo was seen to sign his name on many occasions as you see it here. I cannot say that it has any hidden meaning with respect to the poem, but we will explore every possibility.”

  Antonietta responded, “Sounds good to me!”

  Steering the conversation
back to the subject at hand, Antonietta queried, “So it’s genuine?”

  Turning to face her, he replied reassuringly, “My dear Contessa, I promise you, this is the real thing.”

  Slowly rising to her feet, she stood quite still for a moment, then hopped once, and with a slowly expanding smile pronounced succinctly, “Va bene!”

  Taking her cue, Paul stood as well and, hopping once himself, he exclaimed, “Anch’io! Anch’io, Contessa!”

  Suddenly, the pair embraced in a friendly hug and, simultaneously hopping up and down, their jubilation somehow evolved into nothing short of a comical jig.

  Chapter 2

  Firenze

  Truth emerges more readily from error than confusion.

  -Francis Bacon (1561-1626)

  1575

  Vincenzo Galilei called playfully to his son, “Galileo, stop running! You will tire yourself out before we even begin the assent. Stop! Come back here. First we must see the famous Ghiberti doors!”

  Having been running to and fro within the piazza, the young boy halted and returned to this father, blubbering rapid-fire, “Aw, Papa, do I have to? I love coming here. I want to see more! Can we go up the duomo? I’ve never been up the duomo!”

  The elder Galilei remonstrated, “Yes, my son, of course we can, but you must wait for your brothers. You are the oldest, and your brothers cannot run so fast as you. You must set a good example for them, Galileo.”

  “Yes, sir,” Galileo replied and, taking one of his brother’s hands, he set off once again.

  Signore Galilei halted to explain the Ghiberti doors but, having seen them many times, Galileo’s attention was focused on the dome. As he had never been up the dome, he was excited beyond belief. He was desperate to know how it was built, how it could have been made. It was so big! It was the biggest thing he’d ever seen in his life. Someday he wanted to build something that big. Someday he wanted to be like Filippo Brunelleschi, the builder of the duomo, the man revered by all Florentines.