“Well said, professor,” said Morgan. “Fear of the afterlife is universal. The Incas prepared for death just as the Egyptians did, and they feared their gods, as well as the consequences of death. No argument there.” Morgan often declared that no argument could exist in the presence of his conclusions.
Lucrezia and Justine glanced at one another and smiled.
Riccardo, unconvinced, set down his fork and wine glass, preparing to speak. “Lawrence’s essays convince me that the Etruscans joyfully embraced what would come after death. They were not like any other people. However, I have high regard for other points of view, especially yours, Dr. de Marco.” He bowed his head slightly.
“The faces on the sarcophagi certainly don’t express fear,” said Justine. She felt an urgent desire to defend Riccardo, although he had little need for defense. “They appear peaceful, even amused, or perhaps merely stoic.”
“Portraiture, Justine,” said Marco gently. “The Etruscans were the first to sculpt themselves as they were, without pretense at perfection.”
“How do you account for the serenity?”
Marco smiled, raising his palms and hunching his shoulders.
“Ah, beautiful discourse is rarer than emeralds . . . an old African proverb . . . yet it can be found among the servant girls at the grindstones,” said Andrea.
Morgan stared at her, cleared his throat, and repeated, “Beautiful discourse is rarer than emeralds.” He smiled and paused. “Anything is possible, I guess,” he said with uncharacteristic tentativeness.
“For Lawrence, death was a dance—a festival,” said Riccardo.
“Death was much like life?” said Andrea raising her glass. “I’m thoroughly seduced by the idea.”
“A toast to life,” said Morgan, touching his glass to Andrea’s. For a moment, they held each other’s eyes. “May our tomb yield up its secrets of life and death.”
“I can see I’ve persuaded you, Dr. Jenner,” said Riccardo, pleasantly surprised by the playful opening in his boss’s demeanor.
“Hardly, but I do like the images,” responded Morgan. “I’m ready to be surprised.”
“I must say,” said Marco, “your theories are appealing. But I’m afraid I need more evidence.”
Justine set a dish of Castagnaccio, chestnut cake, in front of Marco.
“My favorite! Did you get the chestnuts from Caldine?” he asked.
“The festival in October. Maria ground them into flour,” replied Lucrezia. Turning to Alessandro, she asked, “And how is the fashion business? Do the stars still want your shoes?”
“Stars and politicians, business tycoons and musicians. And women of great taste, of course. Like yourself,” said Alessandro. “Business is good. Thank you. The rich rarely experience the vicissitudes of changing markets.”
“I’ve heard that the Italian fashion industry is in trouble,” said Marco. “Is it not so?”
“Not in sales, professor, but we are losing our center. As an industry we no longer have raffinatezza, refinement! The industry is pandering to the ragazzi di strata—the street urchins! When I see my shoes walking down the street on a woman who looks like a trollop, my heart, it stops!” Everyone registered surprise at the refinement of Alessandro’s rage.
“You’ve certainly hit a nerve, Marco,” said Morgan to the startled museo director. “Tell me, Alessandro, is Italy no longer the guardian of patrician ways?”
“Surely, Italy is still seen in France as a generator of style. Italian names still carry the profession,” offered Andrea charitably.
“Miuccia Prada picked up her Miu Miu show and moved it to Paris. Traitor,” pronounced Alessandro, staring at his chestnut dessert. Andrea’s generosity failed to calm him.
“The media, the Internet, they’re polluting the minds of youth who no longer are proud of tradition or loyal to country,” said Lucrezia casually, cutting into her chestnut cake without looking up.
“That’s the most conservative statement I’ve heard from you in years, Mother,” said Justine, astonished. “Many people—and not just youth—think that Italy is old-fashioned and unable to move into the future.” Did Lucrezia’s support of Alessandro suggest they had a more intimate relationship than she was aware of?
Lucrezia blushed. “Coffee?” she asked, ignoring her daughter’s charge. Three of the guests nodded.
“We are old-fashioned to an extent, Justine. To an extent,” Alessandro admitted grudgingly. “Clearly we need to strike a balance, but the Ferragamo family is convinced that we also need to raise the standards, the sensibilities, of our youth.”
“And you, Alessandro, are not part of the family?” asked Morgan.
“In spirit, but not blood, Dr. Jenner. Italy is a tribal society run by blood and favors,” he said bitterly. “I perform many favors.”
That’s quite an admission for a mature man, thought Justine, looking from Alessandro to her mother, who looked away. The slightly embarrassed guests ate without speaking for several minutes. Nightingales could be heard in the silence, their song floating in on the chilling night breeze.
“I have a challenge for all of you,” said Marco, finally breaking the tense silence. “Saturday next, I’m co-hosting a costume ball at Villa San Michele. A benefit for the museo foundation. Each of you is invited to come in costume that most closely represents your idea of the Etruscan afterlife. What do you say?”
“You’re on,” replied Morgan enthusiastically. “Andrea, will you still be with us?”
“I’m afraid not,” she replied, and rose to help clear the dishes.
CHAPTER 10
Synchronicity is a meaningful coincidence of two or more events, where something other than the probability of chance is involved.
—Carl Jung, psychotherapist
WHO WILL BE THERE? Dante’s Beatrice? Machiavelli? Grand Duke Cosimo I de’ Medici? In Florence, these characters never die. Surely, I can expect them to make an appearance, thought Justine as she pondered her costume for Marco’s masquerade. Who will I be in the Etruscan afterlife? An angel dressed in gauze and lace? A goddess? Lilith with her snake? Who am I most like? It may be easier to pretend than to figure out the answer to such an impertinent question.
Lucrezia had suggested that Justine search for costume ideas in her grandmother’s old trunk in the attic. She hadn’t even known such a trunk existed. How strange, she thought, as interested as I am in historical artifacts.
Justine walked to the spare bedroom at the far corner of the second floor and peered up into the narrow, winding stairway to the attic. She took the steps two at a time, feeling a rush of impending discovery. As she reached the top, her head popped through a canopy of cobwebs. Freeing herself, she noticed narrow ribbons of light from cupola windows dancing in the dust across piles of old furniture, probably seventeenth-century Italian. An Egyptian harem scene, brass tables, rolls of tapestries. Three table lamps, parchment shades imprinted with Gregorian chants. Small end tables of various sizes with mother-of-pearl insets. The astringent smell of mildew assaulted her. What a find! When the time comes, I can furnish my apartment with these gems.
In the darkest corner of the room sat the target of her hunt: a large trunk bound with leather straps. The switch by the staircase lit only a single bulb, so she drew out the flashlight in her pocket. Kneeling, she lifted the hinged brass lock on the trunk and creaked open the heavy lid, causing the fabrics inside to draw up in the air current like rising bread. She stared hungrily at the feast before her. History in a box, she thought.
She propped the flashlight on a nearby table and carefully began to remove each item: a wedding dress in white satin with puckered lace, browning with age, a velvet cape with a maroon satin lining. Petticoats of gauze and cotton, a black woolen suit with a long slim skirt. Tucked along the edges of the truck in tissue paper were nylons with back seams, lace handkerchiefs, and hatpins in padded jewelry boxes. Where are the hats? A fringed drawstring bag held a string of pearls.
She sat ba
ck on her heels. Will Amir come to the masquerade? She would tell him, encourage him, ask him. Yes.
Justine leaned back into the trunk. As she withdrew the sack of pearls, a fine lace shawl cascaded to her knees, the frayed edges catching on a thin splinter of wood arising from the floor of the wooden trunk. Lifting it ever so slightly, she patiently untangled the aging lace so as not to snag it further. For several moments she stared at a slight crack in the edge of the lifted, displaced bottom panel. What? She furiously began to empty the remaining garments from the ancient trunk. Red garters, a blue satin camisole, a white peasant blouse with drawstrings . . . Ah, just a stiff paper lining, she thought, running her hand across the lining, curdled by age.
A voice from the foot of the stairwell cried out, “Justine, are you up there?”
“I’m here.”
“It’s Amir, he says it’s important.”
Justine laid the clothes from the trunk carefully on the seat of the old rocker and hurried down the stairs, excited to hear Amir’s voice. But what could he want?
“My grandfather’s dead, Justine. Ibrahim is dead.” His voice was tight, constrained.
“Ibrahim El Shabry?” Even though he was in his late eighties by now, she was incredulous.
“Yes,” he said simply, his voice hoarse.
“What happened? Do you know?” Justine could hear a light sob over the wire.
“Apparently, he fell down the stairs in the Rare Books Library. You know how unsteady he was. The cane and all.”
“Have you told Dad?”
“Yes.”
Justine was quiet for several moments, suppressing her welling emotion. Amir was quiet also. Wrapping the phone cord around her fingers over and over, she looked at her mother. Lucrezia had not seen Ibrahim for years, but he had been her first lover, a lifelong friend, and a colleague to both her and Morgan.
The morning light began to whirl in Justine’s line of vision. “An accident?”
Amir was slow to answer. “I don’t know. We knew he was risking his life when he gave you the copy of the codex. And he knew too much. Nothing would surprise me.”
“Will there be an investigation?”
“Our family will see to it.” He hung up.
She reached for her mother, drawing her close.
CHAPTER 11
. . . and that is the true Etruscan quality: ease, naturalness, and an abundance of life, no need to force the mind or the soul in any direction.
—D.H. Lawrence, Etruscan Places
THE VILLA SAN MICHELE began its glorious life as the monastery of St. Michael the Archangel in the fifteenth century. It seemed only fitting that Michelangelo served as artistic midwife, designing the imposing façade and loggia of stucco, crowned with lions’ heads. As Justine drove her Spider up the steep winding road to the front entrance, she once again admired the most romantic hotel in the world.
Her daily runs took her across the high path behind the Villa and into Fiesole, but tonight she was a guest at the benefit for the Etruscan Museo Foundation—an ethereal guest in white gauze, her grandmother’s long lace shawl, a tiara, and satin in places that could not be seen. A lively Etruscan ghost.
At the last minute, she had decided to live eternally in the Etruscan world, floating in the firmament with her friends. Ibrahim and D.H. Lawrence and Grandmother Laurence, she thought. The afterlife will be as I wish it to be, if it exists at all.
A young man in a white tuxedo opened her door as she gathered layers of white into her left arm and stepped from the car, revealing silver slippers with Aladdin curled toes. His gaze met hers through the small openings in her silver mask, a fleeting, sensual moment. She smiled and handed him the keys.
Gliding up the rose-lined pathway toward the hotel, now owned by the Orient Express, she imagined Michelangelo beside her, explaining his designs: Gothic arches, nine supporting Ionian columns, ochre tile roof, high Renaissance art.
The lobby entrance was surprisingly small for such an imposing structure. Royal Egyptian armchairs lined one side of the lobby; Persian carpets accented mahogany desks with modest table lamps. Ancient statues and romantic period paintings adorned the sienna-colored patina walls.
A tall, upright lion walked toward Justine. Taking her by the arm, he led her toward the loggia. Her arm felt the warmth of his golden fur, his scary saber teeth nearly touching his chin. Justine shivered at this unknown creature with abundant fur.
“Amir?” she finally asked, unsure. The giant head nodded assent.
“You look beautiful, Justine,” the lion mumbled.
“I didn’t know you were back from Cairo. And the funeral.”
“Just last night. An excellent service, fitting for a man of my grandfather’s status. My parents are doing well.” Now side by side, pensive, they stared at the city of Florence spread out below.
Justine placed her hand on the lion’s paw and left it there. “Amir, I’m so sorry. I know how much you loved him. And I loved him. He was so wise, so dedicated to Egypt.”
“I did, yes. More than I knew. I’m sorry that I had to fly out quickly; the Rome airport is so near to the work site. As you know, our services are immediate. Without an autopsy.”
She pondered whether to follow up on her suspicions. Turning to the immense face with liquid black eyes, she began, “Amir, I . . .”
He interrupted her. “I share your fears, Justine. I wouldn’t be surprised if he were pushed down the stairs. As you’ll remember, they curve and are quite treacherous.”
“Yes,” was all she said, pausing for a deep breath of the evening air, allowing herself to be momentarily distracted by the fresh scent of lemon. “I think there is substantial evidence that he was in danger.”
The massive head turned toward her; he held her hand firmly.
“There you two are,” accosted their host, Marco de Marco, hardly recognizable inside a mythical creature costume—part snake, part lion, part dragon. “I’ve been looking for you. Won’t you join us in the garden?” He took Justine’s hands into his own, kissing one, then the other, and drew her toward him.
She smiled and took the arm protruding from the chest of the Chimera. She glanced back over her shoulder toward Amir. “I’m coming to Cerveteri tomorrow. We can talk then.”
Justine and Marco walked through the arcade, followed by the lumbering lion. Far below, a lavender mist moved in from the Arno, mingling with the earthbound sky of lights flickering throughout the valley. In the garden, candles and lanterns softly lit round tables with linen cloths elegantly set for the glorious and grotesque gathering in conversation.
Near the southern ledge of the garden stood Lucrezia, Morgan, and Alessandro, who wore a tuxedo with tails and a black felt fedora. He appeared not to be playing the game. Lucrezia, on the other hand, was stunning in a gold lamé gown caught in the twine of a huge cobra whose ferocious head looked out over her right shoulder. Morgan wore a leopard body suit with wide whiskers, small ears and two fangs. A cobra and a leopard—my parents.
Seated with a view of the valley below sat Riccardo, attired in a shirt with white flowing sleeves, a leather vest, and a red sash. A hefty hat with a huge red feather shadowed his rakish eyes, which peered through a red mask. Justine admired his playful spirit. She’d liked him from the day they’d met in Cerveteri.
Marco liberated three glasses of champagne from a waiter’s tray and handed two off to Justine and Amir. “Here’s to the afterlife you desire,” he said. Justine knew that Marco was still unconvinced that the Etruscans viewed the afterlife as a welcome experience, but he was a gracious host.
“Here, here,” all of the guests replied, caught up in the spirit of the moment, although deep sorrows plagued Amir and the Jenner family.
“Now,” Marco began, “each of you must explain to us your vision of life ever after.” He turned first to Riccardo, who was fondling his red feather.
“I’ve always wanted to be a pirate,” exclaimed Riccardo. “Pirates may have been scoundrels—
and still are—but they probably enjoyed life. Hanging out on tropical gardens with tawny, raven-haired beauties. As Morgan knows, I have a penchant for romanticizing. That includes death.”
Suddenly, without warning, Morgan exploded, his body stiffening, the leopard prepared to attack. “Damn romantic! Is nothing sacred to you? Death is no laughing matter,” he snarled, then turned away, his tragic features cartooned by whiskers and ears.
No one spoke. Riccardo stared down, then whispered, “I’m sorry, sir.” That was all. He knew about Ibrahim and his death.
Justine stared at her father with a mix of pity and affection. She understood that her father’s outburst had little to do with Riccardo. Of course, she also knew that Riccardo wouldn’t understand, be able to separate himself from Morgan’s grief.
Lucrezia’s eyes glistened with moisture.
Alessandro, clearly discomforted by the confrontation, yet willing to attempt a rescue of his friend and host, took a deep breath and launched in. “You may be wondering if I’d decided not to play our little game,” he said. “N’est-ce pas. I’m dressed for the eternal party . . . champagne . . . sparkling conversation . . . elegant surroundings . . . everlasting romance . . .” The last word seemed to catch in his throat. He lifted his glass and winked at Lucrezia, who appeared not to notice.
“But a fedora?” challenged Justine as she moved toward Riccardo, intent on comforting the young historian.
“A lasting tribute to Humphrey Bogart. Forgive me, I have my Hollywood obsessions,” said Alessandro, laying his forefinger on the rim of his hat and bowing to the group.
Justine smiled and raised her glass to the Bogart aficionado. “And Mother,” she invited, moving forward to stroke the head of the cobra. “Tell us about your friend here.”
The Italian Letters: A Novel (The Justine Trilogy Book 2) Page 8
