“Really. What were they talking about?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t want to be too obvious.”
“Perhaps he was asking for directions to the men’s restroom?” she asked in all sincerity.
“Perhaps. Perhaps you are right, but he looked somehow suspicious to me, Antonietta.”
“I find that interesting, because to me Figlio Giuseppe seemed suspicious.”
“Oh, really? In what way,” he responded with newfound interest.
“I don’t know. I can’t really put my finger on it. He seemed too nice, maybe. I’m not sure.”
“Okay, well, let’s try to be careful, okay?”
“Yes, I agree,” she replied thoughtfully. “Did you find any clues during the visit, Professore?”
“Not a one. How about you?”
“Me either,” she replied tersely. But, suddenly lurching forward in her seat, she slapped her hand to her forehead and exclaimed, “Wait a minute! Oh, stronzo! You’re right, Paulo. Oh, no…”
“What is it? For God’s sake, what is it, Contessa?”
“I’ve seen that man before. He was in the Camposanto in Pisa. Paulo, he’s following us!”
Chapter 7
Siena
What has philosophy got to do with measuring anything?
-Galileo Galilei (1564-1642)
Arcetri - 1997
Antonietta and Paul arrived at the villa none the wiser. Now burdened with considerably heightened apprehension, they nonetheless planned to visit Siena the following day.
That evening Antonietta inevitably wandered into the study where Paul was ensconced, his head propped within his hands. Noticing the wine glass nearby, she sensed that he was in an advanced state of inebriation.
Glancing up, he instructed, “Here, look at this, Contessa. I redrew the Hell map with the abode names inscribed in the order we discussed.”
Frowning dubiously at the drawing, she queried, “What are you up to, Professore?”
Betraying his state with a lugubrious grin, he responded, “So far, I’m up to three…ha,” his head lolling precariously, he continued, “Would you mind getting me another one?”
At this she tilted her head disparagingly and, drawing one arm to her chin, she concluded that he was well on his way to a state of uncontrollable silliness. Her interest piqued, she brought him another glass of chianti and shoved it toward him.
Taking the proffered item, he took a ridiculously large gulp, smiled up at her, and gurgled, “What I meant to say is – no good.”
Having completely discarded the train of thought, she blurted, “What on earth is that supposed to mean?”
“I’m answering your first question. I’m up to no good,” he offered with a sheepish grin, and pointing haphazardly, he commanded, “Here, look at this map, please.”
Placing her hands on her hips in apparent frustration, she stared at it for a moment and barked, “Yes, I see it.”
“What’s wrong with it?” he queried.
“I should think that would be obvious,” she replied condescendingly.
Frowning at it, he growled, “Obvious, schmobvious…there’s nothing obvious to me!”
“You’re missing the eighth abode,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.
“What?” He stammered and, abruptly grabbing the map, he held it far too close to his face and began counting. “One, two three, four…one, two three…one, two…,” at which point he pulled his head back from the page as if it were blurry to him and announced, “It’s smudged. Could you count for me?” and by this point his voice was also beginning to become a bit smudged.
“Don’t count the circles, Sherlock. Try counting the dots instead!”
At this he peered carefully at the map and observed, “Oh, yeah, right. One, two….Seven!” and, glancing toward her, he inquired, “Aren’t there eight places listed in the long stanza?”
“Yes, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. If you weren’t halfway to dreamland you would know that, you fool!”
“Aw, now, don’t get down on me, Tonyett-a, I needed something to give me a different angle on things. I was stumped, you see. And it looks like it might be working. See, we already figured out one’s missing. Now, which one do you suppose could it be?”
Her aggravation growing by the moment, she responded curtly, “Firenze…”
“Firenze?” he mumbled, “How’d you know that?” He frowned at the map in disbelief, then back at her, and yet again at the map. “Damn, I think you’re right, Contessa…beautiful Tessa.” Pointing at the circles to accentuate his newfound deduction, he volunteered, “But where could it belong, there’s no more room for it.”
“Try putting it at the center of the map, Professore.”
He scratched his head as if lost in thought but, his face suddenly lighting up, he stammered, “Oh…right…I knew that…”
“Actually, you did know that. At least you did yesterday, before you became a self-induced blubbering buffoon. You’re the one that told me we should put Firenze at the middle.”
“Oh…” he blabbed inanely and, studying the map yet again, he announced, “But that doesn’t make any sense.”
“And why is that, pray tell?” she replied in obvious exasperation.
“There are only seven levels of Hell. At least, that’s what I always thought. But what do I know. Maybe there’s an eighth one, and it’s Firenze. At least, that’s what our buddy Galileo seems to be telling us right here on this page.”
At this she intimated, “I believe that if you read Dante’s Inferno you will actually find that he wrote of nine levels in Hell, seven of which describe the seven deadly sins.”
“Really? I didn’t know that. I confess I’ve never read it,” he replied.
At this Antonietta volunteered, “Well, I did some checking after you wondered about it the other day. Regardless, I still don’t think that the map has anything to do with Hell. Have you ever considered the possibility that it might be something else, Professore?”
Clearly lost for the moment, he queried, “Like what?”
“I have no idea,” she answered derisively, “But if you were to sober up, you just might think of something.”
“Now see, Contessa Netta…mmmm, that has a nice ring to it…I’ll have to remember that…” he babbled, “See, we’re making headway. That right there is signicifant progress.”
“Significant,” she mumbled under her breath.
“What?” he responded.
“Nothing, nothing at all. I think you need a nap, Professore, and no more chianti. You have a very low tolerance level.”
“That’s completely wrong!” he blurted, “I tolerate you, don’t I?”
“Har har,” she responded deprecatingly, “I see that there is no communicating with you at the moment. I will check back with you a little later. Now, sober up young man!”
A little later turned out to extend all the way to the following morning, at which point Paul somehow managed to show up looking none the worse for wear. Acting as if he had in no way made a fool of himself the previous evening, he announced gregariously, “Good morning, contessa!”
“Good morning, Professore! So, are we off to Siena today?”
“Absolutely. When can you be ready?” he replied with obvious anticipation.
“Give me half an hour. How’s that?”
“Perfetto!” he replied. “But before we go, look at this. I corrected the Hell map.”
Glancing at his latest rendition, she responded, “Yes, well, as I said last night, I have my doubts about that.”
“What, you don’t think Firenze belongs in the middle?” he replied.
“No, not that. I think Firenze does belong in the middle, but I seriously doubt that it is a map of Hell.”
Scratching his as yet unshaven chin he pondered the map carefully, but all that he could think of to say was, “Oh.”
Siena - 1587
Galileo hunched over his notes, attempting to understan
d all of the details contained within The Inferno. Outside his tiny apartment the rain fell in a continuous drizzle. The room was drafty, his fingers were frigid, and the grim look on his face betrayed his abject misery. At times like these he questioned his decision to pursue mathematics against his father’s wishes. His mind wandering for a moment, he contemplated what he would be doing now if he had pursued medicine. Doubtless he would be better off than this, stuck in this backwater town, his financial circumstances so dire that he was forced to tutor wet-nosed teenagers in math just to eke out an existence.
He was certain in his heart of hearts that he was better than this, but he couldn’t help but question his choice of careers. He understood all too well that he was a romantic, obsessed with pursuing his love rather than the pragmatic solution - working at a highly regarded profession. But he just could not dispel his belief that mathematics would someday also be highly regarded. In his own conceited way, he even hoped that he might be one of those who brought sufficient attention to the field to make his chosen avocation accepted as an academic profession.
So here he was, with his precious little spare time, using Dante’s Inferno to determine the volume of Hell. Completing one calculation, he was surprised to find that Satan was indeed quite a large specimen. Pondering this revelation, he hoped that he would never have the opportunity to verify his calculations first hand. At this thought he smiled to himself for a moment and returned to his calculations. Since his first lecture on the subject would be in two days, time was of the essence.
As he labored, he thought to himself how absurd this entire project was. He himself could not come to believe the writing of Dante as anything more than conceptual, as he was also certain that Dante himself had believed. In his mind Dante had been a man of towering intellect, one to match his own. Thus, surely Dante had meant The Divine Comedy as an allegorical tale. But somehow it had been received by generations as literal fact.
In truth, Galileo was somewhat ashamed of himself for pursuing this ludicrous project, but he was desperate. He had to escape Siena in order to move up the ladder. He needed to begin his profession. Tutoring mathematics would not hold up against his father’s scrutiny for long. Sooner or later he would be forced to return home in disgrace, and he did not want to think what that would lead to. Thus cornered, he redoubled his efforts to complete his calculations.
1997
Paul and Antonietta arrived in Siena just before lunchtime. Although there was light drizzle trailing from an overcast sky, it was an otherwise pleasant day. They parked near the fortress and strolled to the Basilica of San Domenico. As they walked Paul could not resist providing a discourse on Galileo, “So Galileo lived here as a young man. While he was here he was challenged by a friend to enter a contest to calculate the volume of Hell. He was already showing signs of that genius that would recur throughout his life.”
“Calculating the volume of Hell was genius?” Antonietta replied doubtfully.
“Antonietta, look around you. What do you see?”
“I see Siena.”
“Exactly, you see a medieval city, virtually unchanged since Galileo’s time. Galileo lived in an age that was barely beyond The Middle Ages. Most people were still illiterate. The few people who could read believed Dante’s Inferno to be fact. Galileo didn’t calculate the volume of Hell for religious or philosophical reasons. He did it to show off. He wanted to demonstrate his mathematical skills in a profound way, and what more visible way to do so than to calculate the volume of everyone’s greatest fear? It was shear genius, and it got him the Chair of Mathematics at Pisa.”
“Okay, I see now. When you put it that way it makes sense. So you don’t think he actually believed that stuff do you?”
“Who knows, Contessa. Who cares? At that point in his life he may have wanted to believe such nonsense, but later, when he had acquired so much scientific evidence that contradicted Church doctrine, I feel confident that his view of the world departed radically from the accepted views of his time. That, of course, is how he ended up getting into so much trouble later on in his life. My point is to make it clear that the self-same person that wrote the poem that we are at this moment attempting to decipher was, at least for his time, a quite credible mathematician, something that we would do well to remember in our search.
“But I digress. Today we are here on a pilgrimage to see Santa Caterina, and serendipitously, here we are at her doorstep,” and they were indeed at the door to the Basilica of San Domenico, thereby allowing him to suggest, “Shall we go inside and see what we can discern?”
“By all means, Professore, lead on, please.”
Once inside they were treated to the necessary but repulsive view of Santa Caterina’s head. Fortunately, it was encased in a bronze facade.
“Where is the rest of her body, Professore?”
“Oh, she’s buried in the Santa Maria sopra Minerva Basilica in Roma.”
“How did all this happen?”
“Oh, well this is not all that unusual. People do strange things. In the case of Santa Caterina, she was quite a woman if you believe the accounts. She apparently thought that she had been married to Christ in a dream or something, and as a result she became infatuated with Mary Magdalene. It is said that Mary Magdalene fasted for something like twenty-five years, so Santa Caterina followed suit. It probably killed her, around the age of thirty-three, I think. She died in 1380, in Roma. She was there at the time because she was greatly venerated by the Holy See.
“Anyway, she was buried in Roma, but more and more miracles were reported at her tomb in the Santa Maria sopra Minerva, and this caused the people of Siena to request that her body be returned to them. Well, the holy See refused, so they stole her head!”
“You have GOT to be kidding!” Antonietta replied with disgust.
“No, I’m afraid not. But as I said, this was considered to be acceptable culture six hundred years ago. We shall have to go see the rest of her when we visit Roma.”
“What does all this have to do with the poem, Professore?” she queried doubtfully.
His own doubt apparent, he responded, “Not sure, but the poem refers to her specifically, so we are leaving no stone unturned. For now, suppose we go visit the Palazzo Pubblico in the Campo. I want to show you something.”
By the time they arrived at the Campo the sun had finally begun to peek through the clouds, thereby casting a glorious light into the center of the piazza.
“Fabulous! I love it!” Paul giggled, “The home of the Palio, horse racing’s most ridiculous event in all the world.”
At this Antonietta laughed and suggested, “I couldn’t agree more. Shall we go inside?”
Once inside the Palazzo, Antonietta was quite surprised to find an entire art gallery. “My, it is impressive. You do know your Italian art, Paulo. I will give you that!”
“Thank you, Contessa. Now please, follow me,” and he directed her to an inner room. “Look,” he said, pointing to a fresco high on the wall. She gazed up at it for a few moments, and then he said, “Turn around, look behind you.” She did so. He gave her a chance to absorb it. Then he queried, “Remind you of anything?”
“Yes, the good and bad angels in the Camposanto in Pisa.”
“Va bene! It’s fabulous, isn’t it? It’s called the Allegory of Good and Bad Government. It’s by Lorenzeti. He painted it not long after Giotto painted the frescoes in Assisi. Unfortunately, the black plague got him in 1348. It wiped out a lot of people, about a third of Europe.”
She studied it for several minutes and suggested, “We should require all government officials to come look at this fresco.”
“Would that we could, would that we could. The point of this stop is to remind us of the world that enveloped Galileo when he lived in Siena. Somewhere within the walls of this city, he has provided us with a hint, a hint that will help us solve the riddle of the poem. Okay, next stop - the zebra cathedral!”
1588
Galileo climbed and
climbed, eventually emerging onto the landing at the top of the Campo Clock Tower. There were several teenagers already encamped, waiting for the Palio to commence. Galileo detested large crowds, which is why he had picked The Clock Tower to view the race. This year they were supposed to have both buffalo and donkey races. The Contrade seemed to be going to greater and greater lengths to make the Palio into an enormous festival - anything to increase commerce within a failing city.
Once he came out into the cramped landing at the top, he realized that he had made a mistake. It was very difficult to see out, and it was nearly impossible to see the Campo below. He had to lean out over the brick facing and look straight down in order to see the Campo, from whence he could make out the peculiar shape of the pattern within the piazza. The view was indeed impressive, but the strain induced by stretching oneself out to gain such a view made it impossible to maintain such a position for very long.
He decided that it was not possible to see the Palio from this vantage point despite its lofty location. There was too little space and there were far too many people on the landing, thus forcing him to reluctantly descend the staircase. But as he descended below the landing he caught site of the clockworks of the enormous clock that was the center of Sienese commerce. Being incorrect much of the time, the clock had become infamous. He found himself remaining there for nearly an hour, examining every detail of the mechanism. It was obvious to him that the way that the weights were used to drive the arms on the clock would not produce a sufficiently steady circular motion of the arms. In his mind, this approach to keeping time was doomed to failure by its very design and should therefore be discarded. That revelation in turn made him wonder exactly what approach might be used to design a better mechanism for measuring time. It wasn’t exactly mathematics, but there might be the promise of money in the solution to that problem. He therefore resolved to look into it further when time permitted.
Galileo's Lost Message Page 14
