by Debbie Rix
The last time she had tried to discuss the film with him, he had effectively shut her down, and refused to countenance her involvement. But maybe he would be more amenable today…
She arrived at the hospital, as usual, with their breakfast. A physiotherapist was just closing the door behind her as Sam arrived.
‘He’s very tired,’ she said. ‘We did a lot of work this morning… and he’s exhausted, I think. I’m sure you can see him later.’
Disappointed, Sam nevertheless went into his room and sat for a few moments by his bedside. He slept soundly, snoring lightly, his face with the now familiar lack of symmetry that was the legacy of his stroke. She had hoped he might wake, but he slept on and, reluctantly, she left her husband’s coffee on the bedside table, and taking her own, left the hospital, heading for the Piazza.
The sun burned the back of her neck and she realised that she had forgotten to apply any sun cream that morning. Searching around for a shady place to sit, she noticed the museum that stood at one edge of the square. A large stone building with terracotta floors, it looked invitingly cool, and she gratefully paid her entrance fee and wandered in.
On the ground floor was an exhibition of artefacts reflecting the wealth of the Pisan people through the centuries. In the first case were displayed a large collection of housewares from the eleventh and twelfth centuries: spectacular examples of Syrian glassware, in vivid shades of yellow and green; majolica bowls painted brown and turquoise; carved wooden boxes and trunks; and a magnificent set of gold ewers in the shape of lions’ heads, where guests of a grand host might be encouraged to wash their hands at the table. The next case contained clothes of the period: two dresses – one of deep red brocade, the other of cream silk, embroidered with seed pearls, reminiscent of the dress worn by the woman in the painting with Calvo. In one case were several pairs of tiny bejewelled shoes which had belonged, incredibly, to adult women of the time. They appeared to be about the same size as the shoes she had recently bought for the twins. Looking down at her own size six feet encased in comfortable flat boots, she found herself wondering how women’s feet had ever been quite so small and so forgiving of such uncomfortable footwear. The last case was filled with spectacular examples of medieval and Renaissance jewellery: a pair of gold and amethyst brooches designed, according to the accompanying card, to hold a woman’s cloak in place; a small gold crown that had possibly belonged to a member of the Medici family; and, beside it, a large emerald and gold ring, inscribed, according to the description on the card, with the words ‘desidereo nessuno’… desire no other.
Sam looked down at her own fine gold wedding ring. Michael had it inscribed before their wedding with a similar sentiment: ‘Love me forever.’ The words had worn very thin now and were just a faint representation of their former glory. Rather a metaphor for their marriage, Sam thought ruefully.
She looked again at the emerald ring in the case. It seemed extraordinary that it should have survived at all, but equally remarkable that the engraving was still so clear. Perhaps the lady to whom it had been given didn’t wear it very often.
Walking on through the museum, Sam came to a room detailing the history of the three buildings that formed what had become known as the Campo dei Miracoli since the early twentieth century – the Duomo, the Baptistery and the Tower. There was an extensive exhibition on the engineering work that was being executed on the Tower, explaining, in a multitude of languages, exactly how the precarious edifice was to be righted by the English-led team of engineers. She found herself working backwards from the present-day rescue operation to the very beginnings of the Tower, until she came upon a small cabinet containing a brief description of how the famous monument came into being.
‘In 1172, a Pisan widow named Berta di Bernardo left sixty coins for the building of the Tower.’
Just that, nothing more.
She felt an involuntary shiver.
So that was what Michael had meant. ‘Berta – follow the money.’
Much to her irritation, there was no further mention of ‘the widow’ in any of the other displays. She went to the bookshop and bought the only books about the Tower that had been written in English. Sitting on a step outside the museum, she flicked through the index at the back, looking for any reference to Berta. There was just one, and it simply repeated the wording in the museum. ‘Berta di Bernardo – the widow who left sixty coins for the building of the Tower.’ Turning to the relevant page, she was frustrated to find there was no further information, and no image of the lady.
Her mind was now alive with questions. Who was Berta? Why did she leave this money? Was it a lot of money? Clearly it was, if it enabled the Tower to be built. It seemed extraordinary to her that these questions appeared, at least, not to have been answered by historians through the ages. Surely the person who lay behind the building of this Tower which was, after all, the most famous building in the world, deserved to have their contribution properly recognised – and not to be simply a ‘footnote’ in history. Was this something that her husband had also been intrigued by? Feeling a renewed sense of purpose, and excited that she and Michael could perhaps explore this mystery together, she walked purposefully back towards the hospital, hoping fervently that he would now be awake.
He lay staring out of the window when Sam entered his room.
‘Oh darling, good, you’re awake,’ she said, sitting down on the edge of his bed. ‘You were asleep when I came earlier… are you feeling any better?’
He shrugged his shoulders, or at least as near to a shrug as he could manage.
‘The physio said you were tired… after your exercises.’
Michael remained silent and stared moodily out of the window.
‘It’s bound to be a slow process, Michael – I guess we just have to be patient…’ Nervously, Sam stood up and began, almost automatically, to tidy Michael’s bed, pulling his sheets straight and tucking them in at the bottom, before perching once again on one edge.
‘Don’t do that,’ he sighed irritably. ‘Can’t move…’
‘Oh sorry,’ said Sam distractedly, pulling the sheets away from the mattress again so that he could wriggle his good leg.
‘You always do that…’ he murmured grumpily. ‘Don’t like it.’
‘I know, I’m sorry – it’s just an automatic thing I suppose. I do it for the children.’
‘Just too bloody tidy,’ he said with a faint smile.
‘I know. Funny that. I never used to be tidy when we first met, did I? Do you remember? You used to be nagging me all the time about the state of my flat – the kitchen, the bathroom. I can’t think why you married me really…’
There was an awkward silence, and after what seemed like a great length of time, Michael reached out and squeezed her hand.
‘Sam…’ he began.
‘I suppose,’ she interrupted, prattling on nervously, ‘that when you have three children, you have to get tidy or everything starts to fall apart; I think that’s what it’s about. I can’t just think about myself anymore, Michael. I’ve had to suppress my own personality in order to be a better mother… and a wife.’
‘Darling…’ he tried to pull himself up from the pillows, but the effort was too much and he collapsed back.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, conciliatorily, ‘I’m not trying to make some sort of point… I brought you a coffee earlier, but I suspect it’s gone cold now. Do you want it?’
He nodded and she held the cup to his lips before dipping a piece of brioche into it and offering it to him.
‘Michael – there’s something I’d like to ask you…’
‘Not now,’ he said rather miserably.
‘You don’t even know what I am going to ask you yet…’ she said, just a little exasperated. This was something that happened with increasing frequency, even before he came to Italy. He would shut her down, just as she was about to ask or discuss something. She found it both irritating and, if she was honest, rather insulting
– as if she were a child that needed to be kept in its place.
‘Please don’t do that! You have no idea what I’m going to discuss yet. I suppose you think I’m going to challenge you about that girl?!’
‘Well aren’t you?’
‘I wasn’t, as it goes, but now you’ve raised it we might as well have it out, don’t you think?’
‘I can’t face it,’ he said dejectedly.
‘Well, that’s convenient for you. I couldn’t really face it either when you left for Italy. I spent the worst few days of my life, if you want to know, wondering if our marriage was over.’
Slight alarm spread over the more mobile side of Michael’s face.
‘I was considering throwing all the photos of us away,’ she continued. ‘I had them laid out in the sitting room and seriously thought about chucking them all on the fire. I can’t believe what you did, Michael.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured incredulously, ‘Sam you’re making something out of nothing. Nothing happened. She’s nothing to me – just a friend.’
‘And you expect me to believe that?’
‘It’s the truth.’
‘Well… I suppose I can’t really argue with that… can I?’
He shrugged his shoulders again. ‘Believe what you like… but I know what’s true.’
Sam wandered over to the window and gazed out at the roofs below. She fought back tears – more of frustration than misery. Michael had always been impossibly difficult to argue against. In some ways it was one of the things she had a sneaking admiration for, but at that moment, she found his refusal to explore her distress about Carrie deeply unsettling. It implied she was imagining the whole thing. Part of her, naturally, desperately wanted to believe him – that there was nothing in this ‘relationship’. But she couldn’t quite rid herself of the nagging fear that her first instincts about this girl and the photograph in his pocket had been correct.
She turned and looked at him. He looked so wretched, and lying there in bed, desperately vulnerable; she felt a sudden wave of sympathy for him.
The hospital orderly pushed open the door and enquired if Michael wanted lunch. Sam went to inspect his trolley, lifting the lid on a vast metal vat of pale, greasy broth.
‘No! No, grazie,’ she said firmly. ‘Michael, the food here is disgusting. I’ll go out and get you something from the town – OK?’
‘Thanks,’ he said, a hint of surprise in his voice.
She waved the porter away.
‘I’ll get you some nice salad, or pasta or something. I’ll eat with you, if you like.’ He smiled, for the first time that day. Could it be that Michael was actually telling the truth about Carrie? He was obviously upset and she shouldn’t distress him when he was so ill. Besides, she desperately wanted to get him onside about the film.
‘But… before I pop out… there’s something else I’d like to raise. It’s about the film,’ she said hurriedly, hoping to sidestep any intervention on his part. ‘I know you said you’d rather I didn’t work on it… but I have read your notebooks and I found you had written a note about a woman named Berta, and the name Calvo was next to it, and then “follow the money”. I’ve just been to the museum; I hadn’t been there before, which was rather silly of me, but anyway, I found a little display in there with a note that said the widow, Berta, left sixty coins to build the tower. Did you know about that?’
‘Sure,’ said Michael. ‘It’s no secret. The weird thing though is that no one seems to know much more about it than that… I guess I was interested to know a bit more – like why she’d done it.’
‘I agree,’ said Sam excitedly. ‘I mean, why would you do something like that?
You would have to be a patron of the arts, or something? Certainly very wealthy? And for a woman, at that time, to be involved in any artistic venture – that must be unusual. I feel sure there’s something really interesting there. And who was Calvo?’
‘He left her the money… Moretti knows more,’ said Michael, his eyelids drooping.
‘Oh you’re tired, Michael. I’m sorry. I’ll go and get that food now. I know this is so hard for you... stuck in here, not feeling well. But the doctors do keep reassuring me that you will make a good recovery; they’re very pleased with how things are going. I want you to know that I am with you in that recovery… every step of the way… OK?’
Michael smiled faintly and nodded.
‘But... I need you to understand something about me. I’m lonely, Michael, all by myself in that little hotel without you, without the children. I know you’re here, but it’s not the same. Do you understand?’
He nodded again, but his eyes narrowed a little, querying.
‘The thing is, Michael… the thing is… I’d like to carry on researching the film.’
He raised his hand.
‘No, don’t say anything, please. I know you don’t want me to, for some reason – either you don’t think I can do it, or you don’t want to be bothered, or something… but it would help me, Michael. It would give me something to concentrate on. Please, Michael.’
He closed his eyes and murmured, ‘OK.’
Chapter Fourteen
September 1171
A few days after the party, Berta sent word requesting a further meeting with Deotisalvi. Somewhat reluctantly, for the old man rather resented her interference, he had agreed to meet her in his elegant home near the Piazza.
After the usual niceties, Deotisalvi came, rather bluntly, to the point. ‘So signora, the last time we spoke you persuaded me, probably against my better judgement, to take on your young protégé and his grandfather, in return for some investment.’
‘Indeed, and they will turn out to be a good investment, you will see.’
‘I hope so. I met with them yesterday and the old man certainly has a great deal of experience. We start in a few weeks, so time will tell. But the point is, signora, that I have fulfilled my part of the bargain; now it is time for you to fulfil yours.’
Berta rose from the chair where she had been sitting and walked to the window that overlooked the Piazza.
‘Yes, of course, my investment. A campanile that could grace this beautiful Piazza should be the most wonderful campanile that anyone has ever seen. The investment will have to be large and the person who funds it will have to have deep pockets. I feel sure that I can persuade my husband to fund such a project, if I may say so, it is rare that he refuses my requests. Also, he has made some excellent investments over the last few years, and I’m sure he can be persuaded to help us with this,’ and then she added, with a smile, ‘he is as anxious as anyone to ensure his place in heaven. He has already donated the money to create the great new doors for the Duomo, if you remember.’
Deotisalvi snorted. ‘Mmm… those doors; why Bonanno was chosen for that I have no idea.’
‘Signore,’ Berta’s tone was playful, almost flirtatious, ‘because he is a magnificent sculptor, as well you know. And a great designer and a fine capo magister. But it is you who the city have approached about the tower, and not him. You have no need for such jealousy.’
‘Jealousy!’ the old man exploded. ‘I am not jealous of that jumped-up little man. It was me the city came to when they wanted a design for the Baptistery. And it was to me that they came about the campanile.’
‘Exactly so. But Bonanno has his supporters,’ said Berta. ‘I hear that there was a contingent who wanted to offer him the campanile. Some say there was a vote.’
‘Well, if there was,’ shouted the old man, ‘it was a vote that I won.’
‘True, true… but nevertheless, whoever designs the tower, we are still short of the money to get the job started. Do you agree?’
He nodded.
‘So, my family will provide the money. But Lorenzo will insist on seeing your initial sketches and workings. It is not his custom to purchase something he has not seen.’
The old man thought long and hard, before calling to his servant to bring a box of draw
ings from another room. As the oak casket was unlocked, he rummaged amongst the rolled sheets, finally bringing out the largest roll, tied with a dark red ribbon. The servant was dismissed and the architect untied the ribbon and laid the plan out on the table. It revealed a design, not unlike the campanile he had designed for the Church of San Nicola. As with that campanile and his design for the Baptistery, the base of the tower was dominated by blind arcades. Above, the tower was relatively plain, faced in marble. Supremely elegant, it was a classic piece of Romanesque architecture. It was also a perfect example of mathematical precision.
‘It is beautiful,’ murmured Berta. ‘May I have a copy of the design to take away? I promise it will be safe. I will only show it to Lorenzo.’
Reluctantly, the old man rolled up the plan and handed it to Berta. ‘I have others in the strongbox. Take this one. But keep it private. This is not for everyone to see.’
‘Of course, signore. We will get this tower built, you will see. And it will be the most wonderful campanile the world has ever seen.’
When Berta returned home, she found Aurelia weeping in her room. Since the night of the party, she had observed that her maid was near to tears almost constantly. Berta, by comparison, felt energised; both by her new-found love for her young protégé, and her excitement about the campanile.
‘What on earth is the matter, Aurelia?’ she asked rather tersely. ‘Are you unhappy in your work here?’
Unable to explain her distress, Aurelia said bravely: ‘It is nothing, Mistress – I miss my mother.’
‘Well,’ Berta replied kindly, ‘we shall send word to her in the next day or two that she may visit you – would you like that?’
