by Debbie Rix
‘The images in the book, le imagine… sono sue? Do you have the originals here? Le original.… of people, or maps of the town – le carte?’
He nodded once again.
‘Si signora, le originali sono qui.’
‘Vorrei… I would like… un imagine della Torre… quando era construtto… when it was first built. O imagini di persone… images of people living at that time.’
The old man smiled and nodded.
She flipped the book open at Calvo’s image, and then to the Admiral.
The old man nodded and went off towards the back of the shop. He pulled open several drawers in the old plan chests that lined the back wall, muttering under his breath as he did so. Sam took the opportunity to study the dimly lit shop.
Every spare inch of wall space was covered with bookcases, filled almost exclusively with leather-bound books. No modern paperback or hardback disturbed the serried uniformity. Little notes had been stuck onto the shelves every few inches, inscribed with perfect italic writing, presumably some kind of referencing system. Down one side of the shop were three large architectural plan chests. These, too, were neatly labelled.
After some minutes, the old man returned with a large piece of vellum. He laid it out before her. It was the image of Calvo.
‘The original? Original?’ asked Sam, incredulously.
‘No – le originali sono nel museo, signora.’
At that moment, the door juddered open. Sam turned to see a familiar figure entering the shop.
‘Papa… come va?’ The man, dressed casually in a linen suit, walked across to the old man and embraced him, before noticing that his father was serving a customer.
‘Scusi, signora,’ he said, turning to smile at the woman.
‘You’re welcome’ she said, sensing the warmth of a blush beginning to make its way up her neck.
‘Aah,’ he said, ‘the lady at the airport.’
‘Yes. I’m amazed you remembered.’ The blush was well and truly established now. Sam could feel her cheeks burning.
‘Of course I remembered. I was concerned about you. Your husband... how is he?’ His eyes were warm, kind.
‘He’s not very well, to be honest. But they think he is making a little progress each day. So that’s something.’
‘Good, I’m glad. So what brings you to my Papa’s shop?’
‘Oh, of course, I should have realised he’s your father. What an amazing coincidence. Well… curiosity really. I have a book that was produced by your father. I was interested to see some of the original images.’
‘Oh yes, he’s very proud of this book. But it’s not the sort of thing tourists are usually interested in.’
‘Well, I’m not really a tourist. My husband was making a film about the Tower before he was taken unwell, and he bought the book for research purposes. I’m just doing a little work for him.’
‘Ah… il Torre. It is a source of endless fascination. And what will your husband find to say that others have failed to say before.’
‘You sound rather cynical.’
‘I’m a journalist too, so maybe it’s not surprising.’
‘Oh, I see – for TV or newspapers or…?’
‘Newspapers. I’m a foreign correspondent for La Stampa. I’m based in Rome really, but I’m spending a couple of weeks back in Pisa... visiting my dear Papa.’
He smiled indulgently at the old man.
‘So, what’s the angle?’ he asked.
‘Well, to be honest, I don’t really know.’
He looked at her quizzically.
Sam could feel her cheeks burning slightly with embarrassment. ‘My husband hadn’t really told me what the angles were, but I’ve got his notebooks. I know he was exploring how the Tower would be rescued and so on, but he also seems to have been interested in who designed it. I thought I might follow a few of his leads.’
‘Aah… that story. Many have tried and all have failed I fear,’ said the man cynically. ‘But good luck with it. So, you want to see a few images. I’m sure my father would be delighted… this place is his passion. Pisa is his passion. There is nothing he likes more than showing his treasures to people.’
The man whispered a few words in his father’s ear.
‘I’ve asked him to show you some of his special pieces – old maps of the city, as well as some portraits. Would you like that?’
‘Oh yes,’ Sam said enthusiastically.
‘And I’m Dario by the way. Dario Visalberghi, and you are…?’
‘Sam, Sam Campbell.’
‘Good to meet you at last… Sam.’
Signor Visalberghi shuffled over to one of the plan chests and pulled open a drawer. From amongst the dozens of old manuscripts and hand-drawn maps, he removed one that bore a close resemblance to the map she had seen in Michael’s book and laid it out ceremoniously for her to see. It was at least two feet across and the detail was extraordinary.
‘He says this is one of the earliest maps of the city. It is very valuable.’
After a few moments, he covered it with a perspective drawing of the city dated 1730.
‘I can’t believe,’ she said, ‘how close to the sea the city used to be. It was basically a coastal town then, wasn’t it… and yet now it’s almost… what… a mile inland?’
She studied the image, taking in the mountains of Monti Pisani in the distance, the flat plains surrounding the city dotted with trees and fields, a viaduct – presumably carrying water to the city.
‘It’s beautiful – no?’ said Dario. ‘Papa wonders if you would like to see one of his real treasures?’
‘You mean there’s more? Yes, of course, thank you,’ said Sam, excitedly.
At the back of the shop was an anteroom that served as office-cum-storeroom. Piles of boxes jostled for space with office equipment. An old desk was piled high with invoices and bills; an ancient typewriter sat incongruously next to a state of the art photocopier. Visalberghi guided them past further book cases packed with leather-bound tomes, towards a metal spiral staircase that led down to the basement. The pungent smell of damp filtered up from the darkness below. The old man flicked an ancient light switch at the bottom of the staircase, revealing a stone-flagged floor, peeling plaster walls and, at the end of the room, a large cupboard with panelled doors, carefully padlocked. Signor Visalberghi reached beneath his crumpled linen jacket and drew out the bunch of keys that jangled from his belt. The key to the padlock was smaller than the rest and silver in colour. He found it quickly, and the padlock snapped apart with a satisfying ‘click’. The door creaked open and he withdrew a sheaf of papers interleaved with tissue paper, which he laid delicately on the table nearby.
On top of the pile was a pen-and-ink sketch showing half a dozen spectacular tower houses well spaced out on the shores of the Arno. One in particular struck Sam as especially magnificent; it had towers on either end, and a large balcony across the front of the building.
Signor Visalberghi moved the image carefully to one side, revealing a portrait of a man with a neatly clipped beard, dating from 1250. The subject of the painting stared back at the viewer, his moustache spreading out on either side of his fine-boned face, his neat beard beneath.
‘He was an admiral here in Pisa in 1250 – working for Frederico II in Garfagnana,’ Dario translated.
‘I recognise him,’ said Sam, ‘this image is in his book.’
Moving the admiral to one side, Signor Visalberghi revealed a portrait of a man and a woman. But unlike the admiral, who was looking directly at the painter, this couple stood in profile, on the loggia of a building, looking almost wistfully out towards the river below. The man was in the foreground. Darker and sturdier than the admiral, he wore a little pointed cap, his dark hair escaping untidily at the sides. He had a small beard that did not quite conceal his slightly jowly appearance, and wore a rich dark red velvet tunic with a silk shirt beneath. Standing just behind him was a woman. Tall and regal-looking, her dark red hair fell in a
cascade of curls down her back. It was held in place by a cream cap, decorated with tiny seed pearls. Her dress, also cream, fell in elegant folds over her slender body. The wall behind them was decorated with frescoes – of galleys at sea, their sails unfurled. It was dated 1150, and the name at the bottom was Lorenzo Calvo, mercante.
‘Lorenzo Calvo!’ said Sam. ‘You have another image of him in your book. But who is this with him? His daughter? She looks very young.’
Dario quickly translated her question to his father. ‘He doesn’t know,’ he said, ‘maybe his wife, maybe his daughter. He doesn’t know.’
Sam studied the face of the woman. She was a beauty, but there was a steely quality about her that drew the eye. Situated in the foreground, the man – her husband or father – was obviously intended to dominate the picture, but nevertheless the observer’s gaze was drawn to the woman standing behind.
‘I’d love to find out more about them both,’ said Sam. ‘Maybe I could come back sometime and look at the picture again?’
The old man nodded.
‘And do you know where the picture was painted…?’ asked Sam.
‘Judging by the placement of the river and the other buildings visible, it is on the south side of the Arno,’ said Dario, ‘probably in an area called Chinzica; it was famous as the centre of the mercantile district.’
‘How fascinating; do you think the house still exists?’ asked Sam.
‘Possibly,’ said Dario. ‘One or two of the houses on the southern bank are from that period; and the open gallery, where they were positioned in the picture, is quite distinctive. Why?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I just rather fancied seeing if I could find it. I’m trying to get a sense of people’s lives at the time the tower was built. And this man Calvo was alive then, so I guess that’s the interest. Thank you, though, both of you, it’s been fascinating. I think I ought to be off,’ said Sam. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time already. Thank you both so much.’
As Dario ushered her back up the spiral staircase, she heard Signor Visalberghi carefully putting his treasures back in the locked cupboard before he followed them breathlessly up the staircase and into the shop.
They said their goodbyes to the shopkeeper and once outside on the pavement, Dario said: ‘Well, it’s nearly lunchtime, and I ought to be getting on. I hope that was useful?’
‘Yes, yes very. Thank you… I’m really very grateful.’
‘Well, goodbye then,’ he said, smiling. He reached down and kissed her lightly on both cheeks.
She blushed slightly, taking in the delicate, lemony smell of his aftershave.
‘Well,’ she said slightly awkwardly, ‘I should go. See you soon I hope.’
‘Yes. Look – here’s my card. Do give me a call if you need any help with your research. I’m at a bit of a loose end for the next week or so.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You already gave me one of these at the airport, but I’ll take another.’ And she slipped the card into her jeans pocket. ‘And thank you; I might well get in touch… yes.’
Sam gazed after Dario as he headed towards the Piazza. He had a graceful, loping walk. He took long strides and held his jacket casually over one shoulder. As he reached the end of the street, he turned and looked back at Sam. He raised one hand in salutation and Sam, once again, blushed, embarrassed that he had caught her watching him. She raised her own hand nervously before turning round, in what she hoped was a decisive manner, and striding off in the opposite direction.
Within minutes, she found herself in the Renaissance square known as Piazza dei Cavalieri. From there, the streets became narrower as she walked through the medieval section of the town. She wasn’t exactly sure where she was going, but instinctively she headed towards the Arno. The quiet pedestrian streets soon gave way to the main artery that ran alongside the river. The lorries and cars roared past and the sun burned the back of her neck.
Crossing the river, she turned right, gazing at the impressive houses that stood on that southern side. She thought back to the images of large houses on the banks of the Arno that she had just seen in Signor Visalberghi’s shop, and wondered if she was actually looking at the original buildings in those illustrations. Walking along, with the river on her right, she could tell that most dated from the fifteenth or sixteenth centuries, but from time to time, wedged between these buildings, the outlines of medieval tower houses were clearly visible, in spite of a later façade. One such building still had the open gallery on top of one of the towers, from where the owners, back in the twelfth century, would have surveyed the city below. Drawn to this large palazzo with impressive views of the river and the city, she stood gazing up at the gallery, wondering if this, perhaps, could be the house that featured in the picture of Calvo and his lady. She was about to carry on walking, intending to continue until she reached the Ponte della Cittadella where she would return to the northern side of the city, but she noticed a small path leading down the side of the house. Following her nose, she walked down the path, enjoying the shade, until she came to a pair of huge wooden gates that, she reasoned, presumably led to the garden at the back of the house. Suddenly filled with curiosity, she gently pushed the gate, and was surprised when it gave way under pressure, opening to reveal an extraordinary, overgrown garden. She peeked inside; the house was almost obscured from the garden by a vast fig tree. Hoping this would make her invisible to anyone inside the house, she slipped into the garden and began to explore.
The area at the bottom of the garden, furthest from the house, consisted of an overgrown vegetable garden. Beans, courgettes, peppers and tomatoes jostled for position amidst weeds and stray bits of rubbish that she deduced had been thrown over the garden wall. She bent down and picked a tomato, its skin bursting with juice and sweetness. Sucking the tomato, she turned now to face the back of the house. Four vast olive trees, covered with fruit, were set into a scrappy lawn, like gnarled old sentries standing guard over the house. Beyond them were overgrown box hedges, unkempt and shaggy, surrounding herbs of every description. And there, near the house, stood a vast fig tree, hanging heavy with fruit. Wasps swarmed around it; the air was filled with their buzzing as they hovered near the ripest figs. She reached up and snapped one from the branch, glancing up at the house as she did so. Nervous now that she might be discovered, she retreated through the open gates, pushing them shut behind her, and walked back up towards the Arno. She crossed the road and stood leaning against the wall that lined the river, gazing up at the house, sucking the fig, enjoying its cloying sweetness. The windows were all closed at the front and she could see no sign of life there. But there was a sign in one of the downstairs windows that said ‘vendesi’.
She crossed the road, compelled to try to see inside the house. She rang on the old bell that hung at the side of the door and stood back and waited. No one came, but backing down the steps towards the street, she bumped into a smart young man in a suit, with a leather folio underneath his arm.
‘Buongiorno, signora,’ he said.
‘Buongiorno,’ she replied
‘Che fa? É venuta vedere la casa?’
‘Mi scusi, I’m English… non capisco,’ she said apologetically.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I am here to show the house to a client. It is for sale; I thought it might be you. Signora Capelli?’
Seizing the moment, and anxious not to lose this opportunity to see inside the house, she said: ‘Yes that’s me. Well, it’s not me. I’m not Signora Capelli, but she couldn’t come and she asked me to come instead. I hope that’s all right?’
Surprised at the little lie she had just told, she wondered if the young man would see through her deception, but he merely shrugged and nodded before taking a large set of keys from his leather case. He unlocked the heavy oak door and ushered Sam into the dark lobby of the house.
He fumbled near the door in the near darkness before finding an ancient light switch. As the hall light came on, it revealed a vast marble hallway
with a wide staircase that swept up towards the first floor. He moved confidently into the room at the side of the hall and, brushing away a dense layer of cobwebs and dust, he opened up the shutters that had been clearly closed for some time. Light poured into the vast room. It had been decorated and altered many times. Cornicing had been added – presumably at the same time as the Victorian bookcases has been fitted. Elderly bergère chairs lay dusty and abandoned. A sofa, covered in a white dust sheet, took pride of place in front of a vast marble fireplace. Round the edges of the room were Louis XVI chairs, their tapestries worn thin, threadbare in places, the gilding faded and distressed. It had the air of an abandoned furniture repository rather than a home.
‘Would you like to see the kitchen?’
Eagerly, Sam agreed and followed him down the stone steps, worn in the centre by centuries of domestic traffic. In spite of her previous fears, she had begun to enjoy this unofficial tour of one of Pisa’s oldest houses. The young man was friendly, he had good English and was fresh-faced and enthusiastic.
The kitchen had the feel of a museum, and reminded Sam of the one she had visited many years before at Chartwell in Kent: everything left exactly as it had been in its heyday.
‘How old is the house?’ Sam asked.
‘Very old… it is one of the oldest houses still standing in Pisa. We think it is around 1150, roughly the same age as the Tower, but a little less crooked of course!’ And he smiled and laughed at his own little joke.
At one end of the kitchen was a vast fireplace. A huge wooden table stood in the centre surrounded by chairs. It could have accommodated at least twenty people. A long ceramic sink with a couple of rusty taps was the only indication of modernity – that, and a vast range that had probably been put in some fifty years before. Sam noted a door that led to the garden.
‘Can we go out there?’
‘Yes of course… if I can find the key.’
He jangled the huge ring of keys and finally found the one he needed.
As he opened the old door, he had to push hard to shift what looked like years of debris that had lain behind it.
