Secrets of the Tower

by Debbie Rix

  The old man hugged his son closely before waving them off and retreating into his shop, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Something has been bothering me,’ said Sam, as they wandered back towards the Piazza, ‘… about the possibility of Berta living in that house on the Arno.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Dario.

  ‘The will… you remember. It said something like: In the house of the Opera Sancta Maria where the said Berta lives. Well that’s not the house on the Arno, is it?’

  ‘No… no it’s not.’

  ‘So did she ever live in that house on the Arno, or did she move perhaps? And if she did… how can we prove it?’

  ‘We could check to see if the operaio’s office has records of her living there…’ said Dario.

  ‘Could we?’ said Sam excitedly. ‘Would they keep records that far back?’

  ‘To be honest, I don’t know… but we can ask. I’ll make a couple of calls and see what I can arrange. But I doubt anyone will be around till after the holiday, if I’m honest. The whole town stops work over the next couple of days.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Sam, a little disappointed.

  ‘Don’t worry; as soon as the holiday is over we’ll get on with it. And in the meantime, maybe you need to try to relax and enjoy the festivities…’ said Dario with a smile.

  The following day, June 16th, was another blisteringly hot day. Sam woke early, bathed in sweat. Her window had been shut by the maid and Sam had forgotten to open it before she went to bed. She threw back the sheets, simultaneously ripping off the old T-shirt of Michael’s she had taken to sleeping in. She had bought it for him on their honeymoon in France. It was striped blue and white and, in truth, was really too small for him now. The business lunches and foreign travel had begun to take their toll on his waistline. She had been touched that he continued to pack it whenever he travelled abroad - like a talisman, or a way of keeping her close to him, or so she had thought. She took some heart that he had brought it on this trip. And now… it was just a small piece of him that represented what had been good between them and she was unable to part with it.

  She yanked open the curtains and pushed up the window. A cool breeze blew in off the Campo. She stood for a few seconds, enjoying the sensation, before she remembered that she was naked and visible to anyone on or near the Piazza. Quickly, she grabbed a curtain and pulled it around her body.

  The hawkers and traders who ran three stalls just below the pensione were just setting up for the day – the man selling imitation designer handbags, the Egyptian guy selling an unlikely combination of tea towels and umbrellas, and the old man who struck up a conversation with every passer-by, whose stall was littered with the ubiquitous models of the Tower. All three looked up at Sam’s window and waved to her. Embarrassed, and clutching her curtain tightly to her, she waved back at them before retreating out of sight.

  Sam lay back on her bed, luxuriating in the cool breeze blowing across her naked body, and thought about her discovery of the previous day. It seemed almost too extraordinary to take in. That she and Dario had uncovered something quite new in the story of the Tower. When they were first together, both working, before the children came along… before Carrie… the first person she would have shared something so exciting with would have been Michael. In the old days, they would have pored over all the details together, examining the facts. But how could she tell him about it now – after all that had happened between them the day before? It seemed pointless. Would he have even cared?

  Following their meeting with Signor Visalberghi, Dario had rung Professor Moretti to arrange to show him the find, but he had gone off to his villa in the mountains for the duration of the holiday. He would not be back until after the weekend, so things would just have to wait. But Sam was excited. She was onto something. Her journalist instincts were acute and she could ‘feel’ it.

  She looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was ten o’clock. She had a curious rush of guilt that she had slept so long and Michael had not yet had his breakfast. ‘Although why I should care whether he has bloody breakfast or not, I really don’t know’, she muttered to herself as she brushed her teeth. She showered and dressed quickly and walked through the large crowds of holidaymakers already gathered on the Campo. Preparations were in hand for the celebrations later that day and she could see officials setting out candles on the ledges of the Tower’s galleries. She had a sudden frisson of excitement that she would be spending the evening with Dario. As she bought her two coffees and brioche, she tried to analyse her feelings. She didn’t need to look too deeply. She knew what was happening: she liked him, he liked her. There was a mutual respect. And… he was very attractive.

  Michael was awake when she arrived.

  ‘Thank God you’re here. I’m hot… couldn’t sleep.’

  His room was like a furnace. Not for the first time, Sam struggled to force open the metal casement window. It would not budge. Sweat began to trickle uncomfortably down her back. Finally, it gave way, and the room flooded with cool air.

  ‘So…’ she said at last. ‘I imagine you had a bad night – with it being so hot.’ Their conversation of the previous day lay like an unnavigable chasm between them.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said desultorily. ‘Sam, I’m so sorry,’ he mumbled at last.

  ‘I know – you said… yesterday.’

  ‘But I am, really.’

  ‘OK,’ she said, uncertain how to respond.

  ‘Please talk to me, Sam…’

  ‘It’s just so difficult, Michael. I know we need to talk, but I don’t want to say anything that I’ll regret later. I think we both have a lot of thinking to do. And maybe we need to just be a bit kind to each other today… you know?’

  He slumped acquiescently back into the bed.

  The rest of the day dragged by. Many of the staff had taken a couple of days’ holiday, so there was no physiotherapy to break up the monotony of Michael’s day. Sam did some of his exercises with him, but her heart was not in it and early in the afternoon, when Michael finally fell into a deep sleep, she left the hospital and went onto the Campo.

  She had intended to go back to her pensione but found herself walking instead towards the Arno. Her route took her past Signor Visalberghi’s shop and she stopped outside, gazing at the books in the window, thinking about the pile of documents he had discovered. She realised that she and Dario had not studied the letters or accounts that had been found with the drawing of the Tower. Frustratingly, there was a blind pulled down over the glass door and the sign clearly read ‘chiuso’ – closed. Just as she was about to leave, irritated with herself for not retrieving the documents the day before, the door juddered open and Signor Visalberghi emerged, blinking, into the bright light.

  ‘Ah, signora,’ he smiled and held out his hand in greeting.

  ‘Signor Visalberghi… how lovely.’

  Somehow, with a few words of Italian and lots of sign language, Sam explained that she would love to be given access to the package of letters they had seen the day before. He took her inside and retrieved the documents from his safe. Once again, she asked, in her faltering Italian, whether it would be possible to obtain photocopies of the originals in order to get them translated.

  ‘Si, si,’ he said obligingly. The photocopier blinked into action.

  After much ‘grazie,’ ‘prego,’ nodding and smiling, she left the shop clutching the papers, and retraced her steps to Michael’s room, stopping at the little ice cream stall in Via Santa Maria.

  It was four o’clock, and the sun was reaching the end of its trajectory across the sky, creating lengthening shadows across the square.

  Michael was awake when she returned. She fed him a few spoonfuls of lemon sorbet – his favourite.

  ‘I thought I would pop out and get you something to eat this evening. I know how you hate the food here.’

  ‘OK,’ he replied. ‘Will you eat with me?’

  It was the first time he had asked this of her since
she had arrived.

  ‘You think that’s a good idea?’

  ‘Yes… Sam I meant it – about being sorry.’

  ‘So we have a quick supper and it’s all forgiven, is that it?’

  He began to protest.

  ‘Well, I can’t, as it happens.’

  ‘Why, got a better offer?’ he said, smiling at his own joke.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied starkly.

  ‘Oh!’ he looked a little surprised.

  ‘Yes, someone who’s helping me with my research. He’s a journalist here in Italy. He’s invited me to see the celebrations this evening.’

  ‘What celebrations, what journalist?’

  ‘It’s the Feast of San Ranieri today, the patron saint of Pisa; and there will be fireworks, candles all over the town and so on. It sounds rather magical and I thought I’d like to see it.’

  Michael turned his face towards the open window and slumped down into his bed, his voice muffled by the sheet.

  ‘Who is he? This journalist? How do you know him?’

  ‘He’s someone I met here… at the airport actually. He’s a journalist for La Stampa. He’s visiting his father who owns the shop where you bought that amazing book… Signor Visalberghi. It was just a coincidence that we met, but he’s been so helpful. He’s in Pisa for a couple of weeks’ holiday, so he’s at a loose end at the moment. Really, I’m so lucky that’s he’s been available to help. He can translate when I meet Moretti, his father is obviously rather useful, so it’s all a bit of luck. And he’s being rather supportive. It’s been good to have someone to talk to while I’m here.’

  Michael turned over in bed and looked at his wife. ‘I bet he has. Supportive, hmph.’

  ‘Well, Michael… you should know.’ Her voice, she was aware, was a little harsh.

  Michael looked at her. ‘So you’re getting your own back; is that it?’

  He blushed a little as she snapped back: ‘No, Michael, that’s not it. I’ve not slept with him, if that’s what you’re asking. Which I’d like to point out puts me in a slightly more elevated moral position to your good self. I’m sorry that I won’t be around to have supper with you, but I want to see the celebrations and that’s that. I don’t think you really can have any objection, do you?’

  ‘No, of course not, I’m sorry.’

  It gave her no pleasure to see her husband so deflated. ‘Michael, there’s nothing going on here. I just need a night off, that’s all. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you go. Have fun. You deserve it.’

  Sam left Michael’s hospital room racked with a complex combination of emotions. A sense of self-righteous anger pervaded all that she did since his admission of the affair, but there was an undercurrent of pity for her husband, tinged, if she was honest, with just a small portion of guilt that she was about to go out to a party with a man she hardly knew, leaving her husband unwell in a hospital room.

  In the old part of the town she found a charming little health food shop and bought a picnic supper of quiche and tomato salad – something she knew Michael adored. When she returned to the hospital she sat on the edge of his bed and fed him mouthfuls of supper. When he had finished eating, the two sat in silence for some moments. Michael stared sullenly at the wall. Anxious that they should part on good terms that evening, she tried to make conversation:

  ‘The children are well…’

  ‘Are they? Good.’

  ‘Freddie got ten out of ten for a spelling test, Mum told me. Can you believe that?’

  ‘Did he? Good lad.’

  ‘Mmm… and the girls went to a party – fancy dress I think. Poor Mum had to make them a costume each. She is a star’.

  ‘Sam!’ Michael interjected. ‘I am interested in the kids, of course, but is this what we ought to be discussing?’

  ‘Maybe not, but I can’t think what else to talk about. Everything else seems to be so upsetting… I’m making good progress with the film.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. His lack of interest was palpable.

  ‘Or is that something else you’d rather not discuss?’

  ‘No… no’, he said more magnanimously, ‘Go on’.

  ‘We’ve found a new piece of evidence. It’s rather remarkable actually and I’m going to show it to Professor Moretti next week hopefully.’

  Michael continued to stare miserably out of the window.

  ‘I’ve found some interesting letters – I’ve got them with me, as it happens… I wondered if you’d like to take a look at them.’

  He remained resolutely silent.

  ‘I’d really appreciate your thoughts, Michael’, she cajoled, ‘your judgement… you know?’

  He turned, at last, to face her.

  ‘My judgement!’ he almost laughed. ‘I think I’ve demonstrated a woeful lack of that recently – don’t you?’

  ‘Well, that’s honest at least. But it doesn’t mean you’ve suddenly become a terrible journalist. Please, Michael – just take a look at them. Here they are… some builders found them whilst doing some work on a very old house on the Arno – we think Lorenzo Calvo and Berta may have lived there…’

  She laid the photocopies down on the bed.

  Michael listlessly picked one of them up.

  ‘They’re in Italian – but an old dialect,’ he said desultorily. ‘Can’t see what this has to do with the tower anyway.’

  ‘Well, neither can I just at the moment, but… I wondered if you might be able to translate them for me.’

  He stared at her: ‘Me?’

  ‘Well you speak good Italian… I just thought.’

  He picked one up and screwed his eyes up with the effort of concentrating.

  ‘Difficult, it says something about the Operaio… thanking him, I think. I don’t know…’ he muttered impassively, ‘I can’t make it out.’

  ‘Michael, aren’t you interested in anything that I’m doing?’ Sam asked exasperatedly.

  ‘Not really, no,’ he said harshly. ‘The film… all that… means nothing to me now.’

  ‘And me? Do I mean anything?’

  ‘Yes, of course. You’re my wife. Don’t be silly.’

  ‘Silly… I’m silly.’ She rose from the bed.

  ‘Sam, I didn’t mean…’

  ‘What! What didn’t you mean? Michael, I think you need to do some serious thinking. I don’t know what you want from me any more. I have been faithful and loyal to you for years and look where it’s got me. You have a girlfriend, you have no respect for me, you think I’m just… what… the mother of your children and that’s it?’

  ‘She’s not a girlfriend,’ he replied.

  ‘Oh really? Tell her that.’ And she threw his phone down onto the bed. ‘Here, ring her. Or shall I?’

  She picked up the phone and flicked through the text messages until she found the ones from Carrie. She dialled the number. It rang.

  Michael made a clumsy lunge for the phone, but Sam evaded his hand easily.

  ‘Michael? Thank God.’ Carrie’s voice was higher, lighter than Sam had expected.

  ‘Michael… is that you? Are you OK? I’ve been so worried, darling.’

  ‘No,’ interjected Sam curtly, ‘this is not Michael. This is his wife, Sam. I’ve got Michael for you…’

  And she chucked the phone at her husband before turning on her heel and leaving the room.

  But halfway down the corridor she stopped. She walked quickly back to the door of his room and stood silently, breathing heavily, trying to hear what Michael was saying.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘I can’t talk now, Carrie.’

  ‘Maybe… I’m not sure.’

  ‘Carrie – please. I just don’t know.’

  Sam’s mind was a whirr of conflicting emotions and questions: What didn’t he know? Maybe… what?

  She regretted giving him the phone; it was a childish thing to do. He’d had a stroke. She was supposed to keep him calm. She stood fo
r a few moments, uncertain whether she should go back into his room and apologise. Then, of course, he would know that she had been listening. And after what he had just said, or not said, why should she say sorry? It was he who should apologise to her. He was the one at fault here, not her. Conflicted and confused, she wandered slowly down the corridor and out of the hospital. In the courtyard, she turned on her heel intending, once again, to go back and apologise. But she stopped at the door to the hospital, resolving… finally… to let it lie. He’d be asleep soon, she told herself. And they could talk about it the following day.

  Chapter Nineteen

  October 1171

  Resolving Lorenzo’s complex financial affairs was a lengthy business. Day after day, Berta sat with the notary, poring over ledgers containing details of goods in and out, monies paid and owed. A large loan had been acquired from the Uguccio family. Benedete Uguccio owned an alum mine in Phoenicia and had a monopoly on importing this vital dye into Italy, where he processed and exported it to the cloth industry. He had become fabulously wealthy and, like Lorenzo, was one of the few merchants at that time to possess his own fleet of galleys. But he carried no debt and owned his fleet outright. Lorenzo, having overextended himself with his latest addition to his fleet, had been forced to seek a loan from his rival. Had Lorenzo lived, Uguccio would have been content to wait for his money, but with his death, he was anxious to clear the loan.

  Massoud was dispatched to ask for more time to pay the debt. But Uguccio had refused and insisted on a meeting with Berta herself.

  And so, ten days after the death of her husband, Berta, dressed elegantly in dark green brocade, sat across the table from Benedete Uguccio.

  ‘I need to understand, signora, how you are to clear this debt of your husband’s. It is a considerable sum that he owes me.’

  ‘I am sure you will appreciate,’ the widow said, ‘that there are many dealings, none as significant as yours I hasten to add, that require my attention. I am working very hard to understand what has gone on in my husband’s business and am committed to clearing any outstanding debts as soon as at all possible.’