by Debbie Rix
As she got to the third level, she heard raised voices coming from the top. She stopped to catch her breath and was suddenly startled by Guido jumping in through a narrow doorway in front of her.
‘Oh!’ she said, nearly dropping her basket. ‘You frightened me.’
‘Sorry, signora,’ said Guido.
‘What are they shouting about?’ she asked.
‘Oh they shout a lot. I wouldn’t worry… we just let them get on with it. They’ll calm down soon,’ the boy said casually, ‘they usually do. Shall I carry your basket for you?’ he asked gently.
‘Thank you, yes that would be kind. I am a bit tired,’ said Aurelia. She patted her large stomach and smiled at the boy.
They carried on up to the fourth storey, the sounds of the argument raging overhead becoming more insistent. As she squeezed out through the narrow opening to the staircase, she was almost blinded by the bright sunlight that bathed the top of the Tower.
As her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw Gerardo and Deotisalvi standing a few feet away, Deotisalvi bellowing at his lapicida.
‘Listen to me – you had no right going to see the Operaio or that man Pisano. How dare you go above my head. I am Capo Magister here, Gerardo, and don’t you forget it. I gave you a chance when no one else would have looked at you. Perhaps that was a mistake; I see now that it was. You have always had ideas above your station, ideas put there by that meddling woman di Bernardo. I wouldn’t have looked at you if it hadn’t been for her.’
‘Leave her out of this,’ Gerardo shouted back, ‘if it hadn’t been for her, there would be no tower.’
‘Pah!’ exclaimed Deotisalvi, ‘what are you implying? Women have no business getting involved in architecture. What did she know of anything?’
‘She was an accomplished artist,’ shouted Gerardo, ‘and a generous patron – an extraordinary woman. But that is not the issue now, signore. We have a problem with the building and you surely must see that. The Tower is perilously close to falling down. I do not believe it is sustainable. We have to make some changes here; we cannot just ignore it and hope it will go away.’
The old man roared suddenly, unable to contain his rage any longer; he swung his hand and slapped his lapicida across the face.
Aurelia gasped in alarm. Gerardo instinctively hit back, striking the older man on the jaw, causing him to stumble and lose his footing.
Steadying himself, Deotisalvi punched Gerardo squarely on the chin, knocking him backwards and down onto the half-laid stone floor. Guido dropped the basket and moved towards them to intervene.
‘No,’ said Aurelia, ‘leave them… Gerardo will be all right.’
The boy hung back helplessly.
Gerardo clambered back up and raised his hands in front of his chest, in a gesture of conciliation. ‘Signor Deotisalvi – please.’
But the old man saw his chance and punched him hard on the side of his face.
Gerardo, caught unawares, took the full force of the blow and stumbled, lurching clumsily towards the edge of the building Tripping on a pile of stones that had been left ready for laying that afternoon, the makeshift rope barrier gave way as he stumbled, and he disappeared over the edge of the tower.
It seemed to Gerardo that he was floating. His hands, he noticed, caught the sunlight, and the almost imperceptible webs between his widely spread fingers glowed bright red shot through by the sun, revealing the complex pattern of veins moving blood around his body. Keeping him alive. The blood pumped harder now, pressing into his skull, restricting the brain until it hurt. Then nothing. A thud. And the birds free-wheeling high in the sky looked down on the body spread-eagled and lifeless in the shadow of the tower.
Chapter Thirty-Two
June 2001
It was in early June, almost exactly two years after they had first arrived in Pisa, that Sam and Michael finally returned to the city to finish the film.
Back home in England, Michael had made a good recovery and, although not completely back to his old self, was much improved. Speech therapy and physiotherapy had all played their part, and Miracle had agreed to let him oversee the project, with Sam as reporter/director.
Their relationship had gone through something of a transformation too. Sam had finally come to terms with Michael’s indiscretion with Carrie, due in part, she now realised, to her own attraction to Dario; how could she in all honesty be angry with Michael for doing something that she had herself toyed with? But more importantly, she saw how very determined Michael was to recover both his health and her good opinion of him when he returned to England. He seemed so grateful that she had not abandoned him, so delighted with his children, and ultimately, so proud of his wife and her strength of character and professional ability. He had seen, when they were in Pisa, just how much she enjoyed and relished the film-making process, and understood, for the first time, how much she had given up to try to conform to his ideal of motherhood. Ultimately, she was a professional woman who also happened to be a mother, and they resolved over the months during which he recovered from his stroke, to get more help and make it possible for Sam to go back to work. Her instinct too, about the history of the Tower, proved to him that she had remarkable depth and insight, and he was delighted that Miracle agreed with her hypothesis and interpretation.
And so, over the following months, Sam travelled to Pisa on four occasions, shooting sequences with academics at the university, filming all the pieces of ‘evidence’ she had unearthed. By now, the remarkable drawing of the Tower had now been verified by carbon-dating as originating in the middle of the twelfth century.
Michael, meanwhile, remained at home, caring for the children and, over time, their roles of parent and worker merged, and they arrived at a place of mutual respect.
Just one final sequence remained to be shot: the official opening ceremony of the Tower of Pisa on June 16th.
‘Come with me, Michael?’ she had asked.
‘You don’t need me there,’ he’d argued.
‘Yes I do. I’ve got an important piece to camera I want to write – and I could do with your editorial judgement. Come… please – for me.’
Sam and Michael arrived in Pisa the day before the official ceremony. They were staying in a large hotel on Via Santa Maria, and met the crew that evening to plan how they would shoot the grand opening.
Sam was decisive: ‘We’ll need one crew at the bottom of the Tower to cover the official opening sequence and shoot wide shots of the Tower. Michael… will you take charge of that? And the rest of us will wait at the top, ready to shoot the guests as they make their way up and shoot the speeches that take place up there. I’ll do one piece to camera there, and then I think the final piece down on the Campo.’
Michael smiled in agreement.
The following day, the crews in position, the guests assembled at the foot of the Tower of Pisa for the grand celebratory opening. Soldiers dressed in medieval Pisan costume, with daggers, swords, muskets and pikes, stood guard around the Tower and the Duomo. Attended by the world’s press, there were prayers, music, tributes and speeches – most memorably by Professor Moretti who thanked the team of engineers led by the British engineer, John Burland, for his ‘invaluable contribution to the saving of the Tower’. The crowd cheered as Professor Burland then returned the key of the campanile to the Operario, in a symbolic gesture. A ribbon was cut, and guests were duly invited to cross the threshold and climb to the top of the Tower, for the first time in eleven years.
As the visitors made their way up, slowly climbing the 296 stairs, they were able to admire the city, looking out through the narrow windows set into the thick walls – at the terracotta roofs, the cupola of a distant church, and the waves of apricot buildings. Once at the top, the group admired the view and then stood respectfully as Moretti addressed them once more, this time pointing out some of the restored features of the bell chamber. He was coming to the end of his speech, and Sam tapped the cameraman on his shoulder delicately, indicating
that he should zoom in a little.
‘I am more grateful than I can ever say,’ he said, his voice slightly cracking with emotion, ‘for the help and dedication of Professor Burland. Without his hard work and inspirational leadership, this Tower might not have had the happy outcome that it now enjoys. A few years ago we were very concerned that this beautiful monument to the glorious past of the city of Pisa might very well collapse… a tragedy of incalculable proportions. But now, thanks to him and his team, we are proud to be able to open this, the most popular and most recognised building in the world, to the visiting public again.’
The Professor wiped his eyes with a tatty handkerchief as the audience applauded loudly. Sam looked around at the assembled guests. Professor Burland, a diminutive, almost humble figure, in a simple grey suit, stood surrounded by the other thirteen members of the Commission set up to oversee this latest rescue of the Tower, and by senior dignitaries representing the city of Pisa, resplendent in their formal robes of office – the mayor, the president of the Opera Primaziale Pisana… even the archbishop and his entourage were all there.
‘Finally, I would like to thank one other person. Many of you living in Pisa will know him well, but he is not a man who has sought an international reputation. Signor Lino Visalberghi has made it his life’s work to research and collect images of our beautiful city. He has one of the most splendid collections it is possible to imagine. Just two years ago, he unearthed a remarkable new image of the Tower, dating, we now know, from the middle of the twelfth century. It is remarkable, because there are virtually no plans or drawings of buildings at that time; architects worked from models. The drawing is signed too. We believe it says BB. We are uncertain who that was. Might it have been a misnomer for Bonanno Pisano, or perhaps a pseudonym for the man I believe to have been the designer – Deotisalvi? I think we will never know. But I am indebted to Signor Visalberghi nevertheless.’
The audience applauded loudly. Sam looked around and smiled at Dario who stood near to his father.
The cameraman zoomed in on Moretti as he grasped Visalberghi’s hand.
As the guests then began to make their way down the winding staircase, Sam rushed over to Dario and his father. ‘I’m so delighted you could be here,’ she said. ‘How are you, Signor Visalberghi?’
Dario translated, as always. ‘He is well thank you – and delighted to be here today.’
‘And you… how are you, Dario?’
‘I’m well. Busy as always, but well. And you?’
‘I’m good – thanks.’
‘And your husband?’
‘Much better and… we’re much better too,’ she smiled and a faint blush spread almost imperceptibly up her neck. It did not go unnoticed. The older man moved off to speak to Professor Moretti.
‘Look Dario, I’d like to credit you on the film – as an assistant producer or something,’ she said
‘Don’t do that; I’m not sure my employers would be very understanding about me moonlighting on my holiday. No… seeing you here and happy again is thanks enough.’
At that she leant up and kissed him lightly on the cheek, inhaling once again the lemony scent of his aftershave.
‘And if you ever change your mind… about your husband,’ he whispered into her ear, ‘you know where I am.’
She smiled. ‘I won’t, but thank you.’ She squeezed his arm, before going over to Signor Visalberghi and the Professor and shaking them both warmly by the hand.
Dario indicated it was time to leave, and taking his father’s arm, together they began the long descent to the Campo.
‘OK,’ said Sam briskly, ‘let’s get set up for the final pieces to camera.’ She brushed her hair, adjusting her appearance reflected in the camera’s big lens, before taking up her position near the edge of the Tower.
‘OK, Fabio?’ she said to the cameraman.
‘Si, we’re good… cue.’
‘And so this remarkable and unique building has, at last, been rescued. For the first time in over a thousand years the Tower dominating the Campo dei Miracoli is safe.’
The cameraman panned round to a stunning wide shot of the Piazza.
The crew then moved their equipment down to the square and Sam set up for her final remarks, with the Tower, in all its glory, behind her.
‘Fabio – I’m going to do the first bit of the piece to cam in a tight shot, then can you zoom out to reveal the whole Tower behind me?’
‘No problem… OK, cue’
‘But what of the other mystery that hangs over this tower. The question of who designed it? Why does that remain unsolved? Could it be that the shadowy figure of the widow, Berta di Bernardo, holds the key to that mystery? Could the drawing of the Tower that has recently been discovered, signed with the enigmatic initials BP or BB, provide the answer? The academics find it hard to accept our theory about Berta’s possible role… because she was a woman, and women in medieval times had little or no status. The question of Berta’s involvement with the design of the Tower will now be up to the academics to decide. But whether they accept our new evidence or not, I have a gut feeling that she was much more than merely a footnote in the history of architecture. To me, she was a heroine, a woman who not only wanted to give a lasting legacy to her beloved city, but more importantly, with her dying breath, yearned to be a key player in the creation of this extraordinary edifice.’
The cameraman zoomed out to reveal the Tower glistening in the evening sunlight.
‘So here it stands, in all its flawed glory, still leaning, but no longer in danger of collapse. A testament to the vision of its designer and the many people involved in its construction over 200 years. A unique masterpiece, whose imperfection has made it the most famous building in the world.’
‘OK,’ said Sam, ‘do we have it?’
Michael, who had been watching his wife on a monitor, gave her a thumbs up.
‘Perfect, darling – couldn’t be better.’
‘Fabio… good for you?’
‘Si – all good.’
‘Well, it’s a wrap then. Thanks everyone. Drinks in the Bar Duomo on us in half an hour?’
The crew packed up their gear and went to load it into their cars.
Michael wandered across to Sam and put his arms round her. ‘Well done, darling. You’re going to create quite a stir with this, you know.’
‘I don’t know… I somehow doubt it. The establishment will close ranks, and it’s just a theory after all. But if it makes people think a bit… and wonder about the people, and most especially the women, who history forgot, then I’ll be pleased’.
The two of them turned round to face the Tower. The sun had begun its slow descent, and cast a warm apricot glow on the Tower. It shimmered in the evening light.
‘Michael, this Tower was Berta’s artistic vision, her opportunity to do something extraordinary. And in some very tiny and humble way, I feel this beautiful campanile has provided me with a creative opportunity too.’
‘It helped you and me too, didn’t it?’ said Michael. ‘To bring us back together, I mean.’
Sam smiled, nodding gently.
‘I’m a very lucky man, aren’t I,’ said Michael, taking her hand and kissing it.
‘I think, perhaps, that you are… yes,’ said Sam.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Siena 1203
The little boy ran through a field of barley, his hand brushing across the prickly surface of the crop, tickling his palm. At the edge of the field, he grasped a stalk and pulled upwards, stripping it bare. He sat down and played with the creamy ears, pouring them from one hand to the other.
‘Pico, Pico…’
He heard his name, but ignored it. The sun was hot on his back and he felt safe, surrounded by the tall barley crop. His grandmother would not find him here.
Moments later, she stood over him, blocking out the sun. ‘Pico, what are you doing here? I’ve been calling you for hours. I need your help with the milking. Come…’
‘Gerardo, I told you Pico and I would do that – go back inside and rest.’
‘No, cara, I want to do it. I’ve had a siesta and feel fine. I’ll do it with little Pico – you go back inside and organise Angela. She’s such a terrible cook.’
‘All right, if you’re sure. Pico, look after nonno will you?’
The little boy nodded earnestly and sat obediently at the side of his grandfather, pushing the wooden bucket under the udders of the cow as he milked.
Later that evening, after supper, as they sat around the wood fire, Pico nestled at his grandmother’s feet as she sewed.
‘Tell me, nonna… about the Tower?’
‘You’ve heard all our stories, Pico.’
‘Please, Nonna, please tell me. I want to know about nonno and how he fell.’
‘You ghoul… I don’t like to talk about that. You know very well… he broke both his legs and arms. It was a miracle he survived.’
‘He floated like a bird… he’s magic,’ said the child.
‘He’s not magic, silly boy. He was just lucky. We were lucky.’
‘And is the Tower finished now?’ asked the boy, knowing the answer.
‘You know it is not. It is just as your grandfather left it – four storeys high. But maybe one day, someone will finish it. But it won’t be grandpa, he’s much happier living here in the countryside.’
Gerardo, who had been dozing by the fire, listening to the familiar conversation, thought back, as he often did, to the days when he was young and fit. He opened his eyes and looked lovingly at Aurelia… her fair hair greying, her hands a little rough from farm work, but her eyes still the colour of the Madonna’s dress.
