Secrets of the Tower

by Debbie Rix

  She slipped off the dress, and putting her jeans back on, tried on the top. The edges were decorated with red and blue cross-stitching, the neckline gathered with a blue ribbon that adjusted so the blouse just slipped off one shoulder. The shop assistant brought her a leather belt and cinched in the blouse around Sam’s waist. It suited her.

  ‘Grazie.’

  ‘Le piace?’ the woman asked brightly.

  ‘Si, molto bella… grazie.’

  Sam left the shop, shading her eyes against the sun. She carried an elegant shopping bag containing the dress, a pair of shorts, the top and the belt. She avoided the expensive handbag shop next door, and went instead into a small shoe shop up a side street. There were summer shoes in all colours arranged outside. She selected a pair of leather sandals tied round the ankle with ribbons in a shade of green that would match the dress. Flat espadrilles in bright stripes also caught her eye and she bought a pair in blue, striped with red and bright green that reminded her of a pair she had bought in a small market in France when she was eighteen and on holiday with a friend.

  Back at her hotel, she removed her jeans and tired T-shirt – throwing them into the bag with Michael’s clothes ready to take to the laundry. She put on the shorts and peasant blouse along with the espadrilles and studied her reflection in the mirror. Not bad, although her legs, she was mortified to find, were pale and pasty.

  At five to two, she was just heading out, when she remembered Michael’s phone. It was fully charged and she turned it on. The message function flashed. She opened the text message box. There were more than twenty messages. Most from Miracle Productions. A couple from his Italian researcher Mima with details of meetings and three from a number with no name assigned to it. She opened one up.

  ‘Hey sweetie – how ya doing? Miss ya… Cxxx’

  ‘Hi – just heard what happened – please text me.’

  ‘Mikey – really worried now… Miracle say you’re in hospital. I love you, darling – please send word to me.’

  Sam closed the phone and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. She thought about their last conversation, when Michael had flatly denied any ‘affair’. In truth these messages did not actually prove an affair, but how many ‘good friends’ wrote ‘love you’ in a text message. A combination of anger and disappointment welled up inside her, mixed with a kind of shame that she had allowed herself to be convinced of his innocence.

  ‘God I’m a fool,’ she said out loud. She opened the phone again. The dates on the three messages confirmed they were sent after his stroke. There were none before that time. If there had been any, Michael had obviously deleted them as soon as they arrived. There were no replies either; he’d certainly covered his tracks.

  She checked the address book. There was no listing for Carrie; he had not saved her number in his phone. Sam sat for some minutes staring into space, reading and re-reading the text messages.

  The cathedral bells chimed once for the quarter hour. Sam checked her watch hastily. It was quarter past two. She threw the phone into her bag and rushed out across the Piazza. Dario was sitting outside the café at a table on the corner of Via Maria. He leapt to his feet when he saw her.

  ‘Hi… I was getting worried that perhaps I’d got the wrong place. And I didn’t know how to get hold of you.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I was just caught up in something, and forgot the time.’

  He kissed her on both cheeks and guided her into a chair facing the square. He waved discreetly at the waiter.

  ‘What will you have? Coffee?’

  ‘A glass of wine, I think – I need it.’

  He smiled and ordered a carafe of local white wine.

  ‘Problems?’ he said kindly.

  ‘You could say that… just some bad news that I’d been trying to close my eyes to.’

  He looked puzzled.

  ‘It’s fine, don’t worry about it,’ she said, picking up the carafe and pouring them both a large glass.

  ‘Cheers,’ she said brightly.

  ‘You look nice,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you. I just bought these today. I came out here in such a rush, I didn’t really have any suitable clothes with me, and it’s getting so hot I needed something a bit cooler.’

  ‘Well, they suit you. And it’s good to see you. Now, how can I help you?’

  At this, she burst into tears. It was virtually the first time she had cried since she had arrived in Pisa, and his kindness broke her reserve. He looked on, slightly alarmed. He reached across the table and touched her arm.

  ‘I’m sorry; you are obviously very upset about your husband. I understand.’

  ‘I am, yes… but not for the reasons you think.’

  Sam rummaged in her bag for a tissue and wiped her nose.

  ‘It’s complicated… I’m not even sure if he’s going to be my husband in the future.’

  Dario looked surprised.

  ‘It’s not me… I’m not deserting him when he’s ill or anything. But he’s… got someone else.’

  ‘Oh… I see?’

  ‘And I didn’t know… well not really. Not until just now actually. And I’m not quite sure where I stand. It’s a bit of a shock, you see?’

  He took in her long fair hair, a couple of sun-bleached strands sticking to the side of her cheek. Her sharp green eyes filled with tears. She had faint freckles across her nose. ‘I’m sorry. It must be very hard for you – especially now.’

  ‘Yes, yes it is. I’m not quite sure how to deal with it, if I’m honest.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him about it? It might just be a casual thing. I can’t imagine him leaving you. He’d be a silly man to do such a thing…’

  ‘You’re very kind. No, I’ve not really spoken to him about it. He won’t discuss it with me. It’s all just a bit of a bloody mess, quite honestly.’

  She gulped down her wine. Dario refilled her glass.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I don’t usually drink during the day – I’ll feel dreadful later.’

  ‘Not on this,’ he smiled. ‘It’s local, and has no bad side effects at all. It will do you good.’

  ‘Look, I’m really grateful to you for meeting me. I’m sorry to be in such a state. I was intending to come over here and talk to you about the film. But I just don’t know what I’m doing here now really. The whole thing seems rather pointless suddenly. This business with my husband… you understand? I’m so cross with him, but I can’t desert him – not now. He’s so unwell and it wouldn’t be right. But in many ways I feel trapped. To be honest the only thing that’s keeping me sane is this investigation into who built the Tower. It’s a sort of reminder of who I used to be – capable, independent. Do you see? Before I had the children.’

  ‘How are the children?’ he asked kindly.

  ‘Oh, they’re well. My mother is there and is looking after them. They’re fine – it’s me who misses them really.’

  ‘It must be very hard for you,’ he said filling her glass with the last of the wine. Her eyes, he noticed, had filled with tears, which she wiped away roughly with the back of her hand. She attempted a smile as she drained her glass.

  ‘Look, why don’t we go for a walk – would you like that?’

  ‘Yes, that would be very nice. Thank you.’

  Dario paid the bill and taking her arm, he guided her towards the square. ‘Have you seen the Camposanto yet? It’s lovely on a hot afternoon…’

  ‘No, no I haven’t.’

  They walked across the Campo dei Miracoli towards the ticket office. Dario bought two tickets and a guide-book, and they entered the dark, cool confines of the Camposanto – the old cemetery on the northern edge of the Piazza.

  ‘“Built in 1278 on the ruins of an old baptistery and finished in 1464,”’ Dario read aloud. ‘So, it’s later than the Tower and the Duomo.’

  ‘I wonder where they buried people before that?’ asked Sam.

  ‘It suggests they just buried people around the cathedral… bu
t they moved them here to “gather them into hallowed ground”… interesting. Apparently they brought fifty-three ship loads of soil from Mount Calvary in Jerusalem to fill the interior courtyard – I suppose that’s the bit now covered in grass over there. It has a wonderful sense of peace, don’t you think?’

  They wandered onto the green lawn that stood at the centre of the cloisters; Sam involuntarily knelt and touched the grass, surprised at her need to make contact with the consecrated soil.

  They appeared to be the only people visiting the holy place, and Sam furtively slipped off her espadrilles, feeling the cool smoothness of the marble beneath her feet. The thick walls of the Camposanto were lined with ancient tombs, and she stopped to read who lay in each one. Looking down, she realised the cool marble slabs on which she walked were in fact tombstones too, bearing inscriptions detailing who lay beneath. Some, she was surprised to find, were of people who had only died within the last hundred years. But here and there were older graves, the clarity of their engraving worn down by the thousands of feet that had shuffled across them. Many dated from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, but one or two much older stones had survived.

  The north wall of the Camposanto was decorated with frescoes – faded a little, but nevertheless beautiful – illustrating life in medieval Pisa. One in particular showed masons standing on bamboo scaffolding surrounding the Duomo – chiselling, chipping, carving. Boys working with men, stripped to the waist, hauling huge pieces of stone onto the scaffold with simple pulleys and weights.

  ‘It’s extraordinary isn’t it,’ she said, ‘to think of all those young men – some of them no more than children, creating these remarkable buildings. It seems almost impossible.’

  Her feet were feeling chilly and she dropped her espadrilles onto the floor to put them back on. Looking down, she realised she was standing on yet another gravestone. The writing was worn so as to be virtually invisible. But she could make out a couple of the letters of what might have been a name: L.O.E. Then a gap, a ‘C’ and an ‘L’. L.O.E… C.L. Her crossword-trained brain began to fill in the missing letters excitedly. She skipped ahead to the dates, surprised by how fast her heart was beating… MCLXXI – 1171.

  ‘My God,’ she said out loud, as a tiny nun walked past her on her way to prayer in the chapel. She nodded her head in approval at the kneeling woman, and scurried away.

  ‘Dario – look… I think this might be the grave of that man Lorenzo Calvo – do you remember… in your father’s book?’

  ‘Oh yes… maybe,’ he said. ‘Is it important?’

  ‘Well… not in itself. But there was something I was going to tell you – about Calvo and the Tower. All this business with my husband rather got in the way and… I forgot!’ They emerged, blinking, into the bright sunlight of the Campo. Sam put on her sunglasses and they walked towards the Tower, their fingers just touching.

  ‘So, what did you want to tell me?’ asked Dario.

  ‘I went to the museum the other afternoon and I found out who Calvo was… and, more importantly, who Berta was. She was the widow who left the money for the Tower to be built. They had a tiny little notice in one of the glass cases there. They didn’t actually mention Calvo, but my husband had obviously also discovered there was a link between them – I found a couple of references to them in his notebooks. Berta was Calvo’s heiress apparently – so presumably his wife, or maybe his daughter.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ said Dario, ‘ I should have realised. I did know about the widow who left the money, but I didn’t know she was called Berta.’

  ‘Well, it seems we are not alone in being ignorant about her – remarkably little has been written about her.’

  They arrived at the base of the Tower, encircled by barriers to protect the building works from the visiting tourists. As they stood gazing up at the building, Dario tentatively put his arm around her shoulder. She felt herself leaning in towards him.

  ‘The other thing I don’t understand, Dario, is why no one signed the building? I understand that all buildings at that time were signed by their architects – but not this one. The masons did carve things above the main entrance – the two galleys there, for instance, which I suppose signify Pisa’s marine success. But there is no indication of who designed the building. It just doesn’t make any sense. And if it was Deotisalvi who built it, which is the current theory, I gather, then that makes even less sense. He signed the Baptistery over there, and also the other Tower of San Nicola. He always signed his buildings. So why not this one?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Dario, ‘we should find out…’

  ‘I agree. My husband has a contact here in Pisa – a Professor Moretti. He’s the Professor of Medieval History at the university and is the resident expert, from what I can gather. Surely he would know more about her? I’ve looked him up in the phone book and I’ve got his number, but I’m nervous of calling him. My Italian is just not very good.’

  ‘Do you want me to call him for you? We could go and meet him if you like…’

  ‘Oh would you? Do you have the time?’

  ‘I told you… I’m here for two weeks kicking my heels. Sure. Let’s do it now.’

  Half an hour later, they were walking towards the Professor’s apartment, through the spectacular Piazza dei Cavalieri and on into the old medieval part of the town, until they came to a tiny little square near the church of San Frediano.

  Dario stopped outside a tall tower house. He rang one of the six bells that were set beside the large wooden door. The buzzer sounded and Professor Moretti’s voice filtered through the intercom. ‘Vi entrare.’

  They pushed the heavy door open and stepped into a dark tiled hall.

  ‘He’s on the fifth floor, I think. There’s no lift by the look of it. Ready to walk?’

  They arrived a few minutes later, slightly out of breath, and were greeted by the Professor, beaming from ear to ear.

  ‘Benvenuto,’ he said warmly.

  The apartment was tiny, consisting of one room which obviously served as both sitting room and office, an unseen bedroom, a small bathroom and tiny galley kitchen. After the formalities of greeting, the Professor brought in coffee and a little plate of almond biscuits for his visitors. Sam was invited to sit on the elderly sofa, and gratefully accepted the coffee. Dario sat on an old leather armchair, ready to translate.

  ‘Now,’ the Professor said, when they were all settled, ‘how can I help you?’

  ‘Professor,’ began Sam, ‘I am so grateful to you for seeing me today at such short notice, and for taking time out of your busy life. I think you may already know my husband Michael, a television producer from England making a film about the Tower. I think he may have written to you? I’m not quite sure... but I don’t think he had a chance to meet with you yet – unfortunately he was taken ill a couple of weeks ago here in Pisa, and I…’ she faltered slightly, ‘have taken over this project whilst he is in hospital.’

  She waited while Dario translated.

  ‘He says he had been looking forward to meeting Michael and is very sorry to hear that he is unwell, and hopes that he makes a speedy recovery.’

  ‘Thank you… grazie. E molto importante per me… to meet you today. I need to find out as much as I can about the Tower from you… the world’s greatest expert.’

  The Professor smiled graciously.

  ‘It is his pleasure to be of help,’ Dario translated.

  ‘There are so many details I need to know about the Tower. I have read quite a lot about it, of course, and know that it took several hundred years to complete. I know, too, that there is some question mark over who designed it. I am eager to understand as much as possible about its history; who built it, why it began to lean, and so on.’

  ‘Well,’ began the Professor, leaning back in his chair, as Dario began to translate: ‘It is important that you first understand that Pisa was, at that time, one of the most powerful city states in Italy. There was much rivalry with Genoa, Venice, and
later with Florence. Wars were fought and so on. The elite of this city were desperate to demonstrate their wealth and power to the rest of Italy. But most significant of all was their need to demonstrate their supremacy over the Muslim world. Pisa was central to the shipment of crusaders to the Middle East. Merchants in this city made fortunes trafficking men south – to rape and pillage and conquer. On the way back they filled their ships with plunder and goods of all kinds. It made them rich, and the people of Pisa were determined to show their superiority by building something which would honour their Christian God. And so began the development of what we now call the Campo dei Miracoli. First, the Duomo, designed by Buscheto, a great architect, begun in 1064 and not finished for three hundred years. Then the Baptistery, designed by Deotisalvi, another great architect, the first stones laid in 1153. Then, finally, the ultimate architectural glory… the Tower. Now, of course, there were hundreds of towers built in Italy at that time. But this tower, with its magnificent bells, was to be the best of all. It was positioned at the end of Via Santa Maria, the main artery through the town at that time. A showstopper, something to take the breath away. And those who were lucky enough to be allowed to climb up it would get a fantastic view of their Piazza, the city and the sea beyond, where all the galleys that brought goods to Pisa were moored. And the bells at its summit would, of course, call the faithful to prayer.’

  ‘Are there good written records of how it was built and so on?’ asked Sam.

  ‘Some, yes. But there are not as many as you may imagine. It was a long time ago – when written records were not so common.’

  ‘And who designed it?’ Sam asked, scribbling in her notebook. ‘I understand there is some doubt about that.’

  The Professor stood up and wandered absent-mindedly over to his desk, piled high with papers and books.

  ‘Well, that is a bit of a mystery,’ he said.

  ‘Mystery? Why?’

  ‘Well, frankly, we do not really know who designed it. We are clear on the other buildings at the Campo. Architects at that time signed their buildings and so it is quite straightforward. But with the Tower…’ he turned away and gazed out of the window.