by Debbie Rix
‘Oh Michael, don’t be silly. But thank you.’
‘I mean it… I’d forgotten what a talent you are. Go. Have fun.’
The meeting at Visalberghi’s was scheduled for 11 o’clock. The Professor arrived at one minute before the hour. The bookseller welcomed him with considerable deference and turned the shop sign to ‘chiuso’, pulling down the blinds.
With Dario acting as interpreter, Sam was able to follow the conversation.
‘Professor, I have something that I think would be of interest to you,’ said the old shopkeeper. He unrolled a large piece of parchment and placed it carefully on the table, setting a powerful magnifying glass next to it.
The Professor pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves, picked up the magnifying glass and studied the drawing with care. He rubbed his chin and made little clucking noises to himself. Finally he said: ‘This is extraordinary. I am amazed that I have never seen this before. Where did you find it?’
As Visalberghi explained the remarkable hiding place of the drawing, Dario translated for Sam.
They all waited, silently, as he studied the image, touching the paper delicately, examining every square centimetre with the magnifying glass.
‘The initials,’ Sam blurted out impatiently, ‘ask him about the initials.’
Dario nodded.
Professor Moretti studied them carefully. ‘They look like BP?’ he said.
‘Bonanno Pisano?’ asked Dario.
‘Pah – no it cannot be. I know everyone has always thought the Tower was the work of Pisano, but I don’t believe it. It has to be the work of Deotisalvi.’
‘Might the initials be BB – for Berta di Bernardo?’ asked Sam. ‘What about that?’
Dario translated.
The Professor looked at her in astonishment. ‘The widow!’ he exclaimed. ‘I don’t think so. No, not the widow. Perhaps it is some sort of code. I don’t know… we will have to investigate it further.’
The two elderly men then spoke together, with Dario attempting to keep up with the translation. ‘The Professor would like to study the drawing further,’ he said, ‘he’s asked my father if he it can take it to the university and show it to his colleagues.’
As they left, Sam shook the Professor warmly by the hand. ‘Thank you so much, Professor,’ she said. ‘I am beginning to understand a little of what might have gone on all those years ago. I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you.’
‘And I to you,’ he said, ‘for letting me spend some time with charming Visalberghi here and for finding this extraordinary piece of evidence about the Tower.’
‘Amico mio, non tenere queste cose per te in futuro – a lui l’interessa sempre tutto cio che ha c che fare con la Torre!’ he said cradling his arm around Visalberghi’s shoulder.
‘He says to my father,’ translated Dario, ‘don’t keep such things to yourself in future – he is always interested in anything to do with the Tower.’
As Sam and Dario walked back towards the hospital, she turned to him. ‘Dario – thank you so much for everything. Really…’
‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘It’s been a pleasure. I don’t really feel I’ve done much.’
‘Oh, you have. Your father has been pivotal, you helped me get to Moretti, you introduced me to Gina. I simply couldn’t have done it without you.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong… you could have done those things. You’d already found my father through his book. You knew about Moretti – I just acted as translator – and as for Gina, well, you’d have got there without me quite easily. You’re a good researcher, Sam. Have faith in yourself.’
Sam blushed. ‘You’re very kind. Well, let me thank you for something else then – for giving me my confidence back. The whole thing with my husband has been very hard to deal with, but if nothing else, it’s shown me that I can’t go back to the life I had before. I need my independence. Marriage can be great, having children is wonderful. But work is good too. You know, it’s strange, but I feel such an affinity with this woman, Berta. There she is – a hugely important patron of the arts, who might even have been involved with the design of this amazing building here…who knows.’
They stopped and gazed up at the Tower.
‘Either way, she was of vital importance, and it seems that she’s almost been forgotten; she’s just a footnote in history. That’s how I have felt, if I’m honest. I used to be a reporter, working all over the world. I achieved things, I was respected, if you like. And then I had my children. And… don’t get me wrong... they are the most important thing I’ve ever done; I adore them. But I am more than that – just as Berta, I believe, was more than a mere widow who left some money. Does that make sense?’
‘Sure… but whereas we can never be sure about Berta, we can be quite clear about you… don’t lose that confidence, Sam.’
Chapter Thirty-One
April 1178
The Tower progressed at a pace. By the spring of 1178, Gerardo and his team were well on with the third storey. But whatever they did to add or subtract weight, the tower kept on leaning. Deotisalvi began to mutter about who was to blame.
‘This is all the fault of that Bonanno and his dreadful calculations,’ he said. ‘And I should never have listened to that woman. What did she know about building! A woman, for goodness’ sake.’
‘What woman – who are you talking about?’ replied Gerardo innocently.
‘Berta di Bernardo, of course. That witch! She bullied me and that idiot the Operaio into accepting this design. I always had my doubts about it; I was a fool to listen to them.’
‘She bullied you… so who designed it then?’
‘Well she had something to do with it – based on my original design, of course. That was a solid, sensible building, beautifully calculated, magnificent, strong. But that woman, or one of her acolytes, added these extra galleries, which created more weight and thus instability. I should never have allowed myself to be persuaded by them. It was a mistake all along.’
Gerardo, shocked at this revelation, thought back over Berta’s last months of life. Of her determination to get the Tower built, for Gerardo to work on it. Why, he wondered, had she never told him of her involvement?
The next day, having set the masons to work carving the arches on the third gallery, Gerardo paid a visit to Bonanno Pisano.
‘Thank you for seeing me, signore; I am grateful to you.’
‘You are welcome, Gerardo. It is a great pleasure to meet you. I have heard much about you.’
‘Really?’ Gerardo was confused. ‘From who?’
‘From Berta di Bernardo of course. She spoke of you often; she was very proud of you.’
‘She spoke to you of me?’ Gerardo was genuinely surprised.
‘She was very keen that you work on the Tower. And I am sure that she is looking down at us now, and delighted that you are doing so well. I hear the building is progressing well?’
Bonanno gestured to Gerardo to sit down.
‘Thank you, yes, in many ways it is progressing very well indeed. But there are some problems. The tower is tilting very slightly to one side. We have tried to correct it by weighting it on the opposite elevation, but I see no sign of it working as yet.’
‘Mmm,’ said Bonanno, ‘that must be worrying.’
‘It is, and I came to see you because I understand that you were involved in the original calculations for the building. Is that correct?’
‘No, well not really. Berta came to me and asked me to do the calculations, but I did not feel qualified to do it, so I took the designs and showed them to a colleague at the School of Architecture here in Pisa. He really prepared the calculations and Deotisalvi approved them, I believe. So I do not think I can be blamed for the fault.’
‘No, no, signore,’ Gerardo said, hurriedly, ‘I do not seek to lay blame at your door; merely to try to work out what is happening and what we might to do to rectify matters.’
‘Well,’ Pisano said, rising from
his chair and beginning to pace the room, ‘let’s think about that. It is a round building, which will spread the load, but of course it is quite a load. The galleries, the staircase, the sheer weight of the building, must take its toll – and the ground there, as we all know, is so silty and soft.’
‘But we put in huge foundations,’ argued Gerardo, ‘more than enough to take the weight of the tower. And look at the Baptistery: the same soil, also a round building, and no sign of subsidence there. It is a mystery.’
‘Well, the Baptistery’s got a lower point load, so it’s almost floating on the ground, but in general I agree. Your beautiful Tower seems to have struck unlucky with the soil. I am very sorry.’ Bonanno indicated the meeting was at an end.
‘There is nothing more I can add. I bear no responsibility for the faults of the tower, and I wish you well.’
Gerardo left Bonanno’s house and walked desultorily back to the Piazza. The problems on the tower were causing him to have sleepless nights. He had calculated that, at the present rate of lean, the tower would, by the time they reached the seventh storey, be unsustainable. There was even the possibility that it might fall down.
Aurelia tried to lift his spirits when he returned home that evening. ‘Gerardo, darling, come and see the baby. He is so clever, Gerardo; he has said some words, come and listen.’
Baby Gerardo was sitting on the floor with his grandmother Violetta, clutching the wooden camel that Carlo had carved for Gerardo all those years before.
Aurelia knelt down on the floor by his side, and pointed to the camel.
‘Gerardo… baby… what’s that?’
The baby laughed and blew bubbles at his mother.
She laughed back, but asked again, pointing at the camel, ‘What’s that? Tell Mama.’
‘Camel,’ said the baby, throwing it on the floor.
Gerardo swept his baby son in his arms and kissed him. ‘Clever boy, clever boy. Well done.’
The child buried his head in his father’s neck and said very softly, ‘Papa.’
Later that evening, as Aurelia lay contentedly in Gerardo’s arms, she asked, ‘Is he not clever, our darling little boy?’
‘He is, cara, very clever.’
‘Does he make you proud?’
‘Of course, Aurelia, of course he does.’
‘And would it make you happy to know that I am carrying another child?’
‘When? How soon?’ he asked excitedly.
‘A while yet, I think; before Christmas.’
That summer, the weather was very hot. Aurelia’s belly grew, along with the tower. By the autumn, the third storey was complete. Gerardo, who agonised about the instability of the tower, had concluded, after much thought, that the staircase was the cause of the problem. He tried to discuss this with Deotisalvi.
‘Magister, forgive me for troubling you, but I am concerned about the tower. I fear that the wide staircase is the problem: it’s adding too much weight to the structure and is causing the instability.’
‘You are the lapicida, Gerardo. You are not paid to design buildings, but to build them. Get on with your work and leave the design to me.’
Unhappy with this response, he took his concerns to Benetto Vernacci, the Operaio.
‘I am sorry to disturb you, Signor Vernacci,’ Gerardo said nervously, as he entered the Operaio’s offices on the Campo.
‘Not at all, not at all,’ Vernacci said, beckoning him to a chair. ‘It is good to see you, Gerardo. What can I do for you?’
‘I am concerned about the tower, signore.’
‘Really? It all looks splendid to me,’ the Operaio said airily. ‘What can be so worrying that you have had to take time out of your day to see me?’
‘The tower is unstable, signore. It has begun to sink into the ground on the southern elevation. We have tried to weight it on the opposite side to right it, but nothing we have done works.’
‘Surely, this is something you should raise with the Capo Magister and not me.’
‘I have tried, signore – believe me – but he will not listen.’
‘I see,’ said the Operaio. ‘Well, Signor Deotisalvi can be a little stubborn at times, we all know that, but really I must insist that you raise any concerns you have about the building with him. I am sorry, Gerardo – there is nothing I can do to help you.’
‘It is the staircase, signore. That is the problem,’ Gerardo continued desperately, ‘it is too wide, too heavy. It is making the building unstable. I believe we need to remove it. I know it’s there so that visitors can easily climb up to the seven galleries, but if it is making the building unsafe. Could we not manage with something simpler, lighter – perhaps a ladder could suffice?’
The Operaio, irritated to be hectored in his own office by a mere lapicida, stood up, indicating that the meeting was at an end. ‘This building is intended to reflect the glory of Pisa at the height of its powers, Gerardo. We chose the design – a design that was submitted by your patron Berta di Bernardo – precisely because it featured seven galleries. Galleries that will allow the great citizens of Pisa to stand and look out over their city, in particular to observe the procession of the citizens into the Duomo by the East Doors on the Feast of the Assumption. I do not think ladders will suffice, do you?’
Sensing that there was no purpose in continuing the argument, at least for that day, Gerardo withdrew. But his doubts and concerns grew, and as summer turned to autumn, and the birth of his second child drew near, he was unable to take pleasure in either his family or his work, so fearful had he become of a disaster looming on the Piazza del Duomo.
Aurelia fretted about Gerardo.
‘Mamma,’ she said one morning to Violetta, ‘he has barely slept this week. I’m so concerned when he goes off each morning that something bad will happen. He is exhausted all the time, and it’s risky working on such a high building.’
‘I know,’ said Violetta kindly, ‘but Gerardo is strong, try not to worry. Think about the baby, Aurelia… that’s all you need to do. Gerardo will sort out his problems; he’s a very experienced lapicida.’
‘But he says that no one will listen. Deotisalvi flies into a rage each time he mentions his concerns about the tower; Pisano won’t help him, or can’t. He went to see the Operaio a little while ago, and he just washed his hands of the whole affair. Why can’t they see that he is just trying to save them from a potential disaster? He is worried the Tower could actually fall down. I can’t believe they won’t take his concerns more seriously.’
Aurelia paced the kitchen, ringing her hands. Little Gerardo sat in front of the fire, playing with his wooden camel and a kitten that the family had recently acquired. The kitten, tired of his game, scratched the little boy on the hand. He began to scream – a high-pitched, penetrating wail.
‘Gerardo, stop it,’ she snapped, ‘stop crying.’ She grabbed the kitten and almost threw it outside into the well-stocked garden at the back of the house.
Violetta picked the boy up and kissed his scratched hand. ‘There, there Gerardo, nonna will make it better. I shall put a little poultice on the nasty scratch.’ She carried the boy out into the garden and picked a few leaves of wild garlic, which she brought back into the kitchen. She mashed them up in the big stone pestle before laying the crushed leaves on the boy’s hand.
‘You should be ashamed of yourself, Aurelia,’ Violetta said harshly. ‘I suggest you occupy yourself with something practical and stop this worrying. Gerardo will be fine. Why don’t you make him a nice picnic and take it over there this afternoon for his lunch. He would appreciate that far more than knowing you were fretting at home and failing in your duty as a mother.’
‘I’m sorry, mamma,’ Aurelia said, wounded by her mother’s words. ‘I know you’re right. But I have been so worried about him; I keep dreaming terrible things – and I’ve got myself into a state about it all.’
‘What things?’ asked Violetta.
‘I have recurring dreams of seeing Gerardo f
alling, mamma… off the tower, I think… or at least from a great height. I had the dream again last night. And when I woke myself up from it, because it was so frightening, I couldn’t go back to sleep. Maybe I woke Gerardo too with my restlessness, because he was sitting in the chair in our room, working at the little table by the window, sitting so silently in the moonlight. I said, “Gerardo come back to bed, you will be so tired tomorrow,” but he didn’t hear me. He just went on writing. I don’t know what exactly, but calculations I think they were. He looked so upset, so wretched, mamma, and I am at my wits’ end.’
Violetta put the little boy down on the stone floor and hugged her daughter.
‘Cara… all will be well, you will see. Now prepare that picnic; a little tart, perhaps, or a rice pudding… you know he likes that.’
For the next hour, Aurelia busied herself preparing Gerardo’s lunch. While Maria packed it into a small basket, Aurelia went to her bedroom and changed into her pale blue gown. Taking her cloak from behind the door, she picked up the laden basket and set off for the Campo.
As she walked up the wide avenue leading to the Piazza, she could see the tower ahead of her. Now four storeys high, the building was covered in raffia scaffolding. Blocks of stone were being hauled up to the top storey on pulleys, and bowls of mortar winched into position. Dozens of men and boys hung off the scaffolding, laughing and joking. They brought back memories of Gerardo when she first saw him all those years before, hanging precariously on a piece of scaffolding on the Baptistery.
A young mason, a sixteen-year old boy named Guido, recognised her as she walked into the square.
‘Hi Aurelia, good to see you,’ he called down to her.
She waved her hand in greeting. ‘Is Gerardo at the top?’ she asked.
‘Yes… up there with the capo,’ said the young man.
She began the long climb to the top of the tower. The stairwell was dark, in spite of the bright light outside which spilled through the narrow windows on each level, illuminating the small landing leading to the open galleries. There was a rudimentary handrail made of rope that she hung on to as she climbed.
