“Where do you find your own meanings, Mr. Blackburn?” Justine folded her arms in front of her and anchored her feet a foot apart. She quickly recognized the predictable stance and relaxed her arms.
“In small moments of beauty, I suppose, Dr. Jenner. A Ming vase. A Berber weaving. A silver Mayan cup. A lovely woman’s smile. Or in the beautiful discourse that is more rare than emeralds, yet can even be found among the servant girls at the grindstones. So much to appreciate.”
Justine froze in place. Where had she heard that phrase about discourse and emeralds and grindstones? Her eyes squinted, yet she paused only a moment before returning to her main point of interest. “So why steal the codex? The object itself offers little beauty.” She kept her voice unemotional now rather than accusatory.
“Ming vases are expensive. And, at my age, so are beautiful women,” he said. “I will also admit to an unpleasant little habit of ego. I like to beat the Egyptian Supreme Minister at his own game. After all, he was the first to remove the codex from his safe. Stole it from himself, you might say.”
Justine could not help but smile at Blackburn’s frankness; she hoped fervently that the shadows would mask her amusement. Yet she also knew that his charm masked sinister intentions. Blackburn would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. But what did he want now?
“I had a devil of a time finding you, Justine,” charged Andrea as she entered the hall. “Who were you talking to?” Andrea moved into the temple as though the space was hers alone. A straw purse hung from her yellow gauze–draped shoulder; a sun hat was clutched in her hand.
Justine realized that Blackburn had disappeared. “It was Blackburn. He had some news.”
Andrea’s face paled in the meager light, her lips pursed into a slit. She was suddenly older.
Justine noticed the sudden change in her friend’s demeanor, yet proceeded to relate her conversation with Blackburn. I’ll have plenty of questions at dinner. “He said I might be accused of being a thief!”
A flicker of regret swept across Andrea’s face as she sat looking at the relief of Mithras. Absentmindedly, as though she hadn’t heard Justine’s news, she asked, “What does the bull signify?”
“The ending of the Age of Taurus,” Justine offered, as though it was self-evident. “So what do you think? Is it possible that I would be brought up on charges regarding the codex?”
“Possibly.” She said almost too quickly. “Depending on what Egypt has offered the Italians. You’ll remember, the antiquities crowd here got a taste of blood with the Marion True case.” Reservedly, Andrea reached out to Justine and gave her a reassuring hug. “I’m sure you’ll be okay.”
“But why me? Surely Blackburn has the original; I only have a copy. A bit ironic, isn’t it? Why in the world didn’t the Carabinieri pick up Blackburn when you reported his whereabouts?” she demanded. Did she report his whereabouts?
“You’re better press, chérie,” Andrea was quick to say. “An American whose father is a well-known archaeologist working in Italy. And the Italians have a love-hate relationship with the notion of UNESCO heritage sites like Cerveteri. After all, it was you who found the codex. On the other hand, it could be a little game that Blackburn is playing with you. He must know that you asked me to alert the authorities about his whereabouts.”
How would he know? Does he have friends in the police force as well? “I suppose so.” Justine’s body relaxed slightly, imagining that all this could mean nothing at all. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Did you fly in last night?”
“A couple of days ago,” Andrea said with characteristic nonchalance. “I drove in from Cerveteri this morning.”
Ah, she’s taunting me again about her affair with Dad. Well, I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of seeing me overreact again. “So, any new interpretations of the three codex pages I gave you?” Justine asked innocently, as though no other topics bore weight on her mind.
Andrea looked up, amused. “Oui. Quite illuminating,” she managed to say. “The entry was a kind of note or reminder to someone else—to her nephew John, perhaps, the man who became John the Baptist. Before she died, she asked that she be returned to her family’s original home in Lydia, an area near Ephesus. As we know, John was beheaded before she could return, but we think someone took her there after her son’s crucifixion. Perhaps the Apostle John.”
“That’s extraordinary!” Justine exclaimed. “Ephesus. I’ve heard that there’s a site near there called Mary’s House. Well, if she wrote that note in the diary when Jesus was just eight, I would say two things: she had a premonition about her son’s fate, and she didn’t expect to leave the diary behind.”
“Perceptive, Justine. The family must have left in a hurry. It does confirm her intent to return to Ephesus.”
“Indeed it does.” Justine exhaled slowly as the new information sank into her consciousness. The wonder of it. Mary was a real woman, with concerns and doubts like the rest of us. Much like myself. “Let’s go have some tea. It’s cold in here.”
CHAPTER 18
“The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes.”
—Arthur Conan Doyle, The Hound of the Baskervilles
THAT EVENING, Justine and Andrea sought out the Hostaria Romano. It was a lot like most Roman trattorias, which seemed to follow unwritten rules: The bread must be stale, the room must be bright like a high school cafeteria, the wine should be a dry house red, and the waiters should be grumpy old men. The menu must be Cucina Romana, traditional Roman cooking that remained impervious to change since the days of the Caesars. The only fresh features should be local, seasonal ingredients.
Justine realized that she could live in Rome for a lifetime and not find this restaurant, self-promoted as the home of the best antipasti in Rome. Tucked away down a small street off Piazza Barberini, it was staffed by waiters old enough to remember that the establishment was once a stronghold against the Nazis. Baroness Miranda, who had a habit of charming Italians out of their most closely held secrets, had recommended it.
Andrea and Justine ordered bruschetta and an antipasto of local cheeses, cured meats, small marinated fishes, and a few nondescript, crunchy finger-lings. The dry red wine was eventually delivered to their table by a white-haired waiter with a drooping mustache and four small glasses: two for the water, two for the wine.
“Mother called an hour ago,” reported Justine, appearing relaxed in white slacks and a black silk blouse, her flaxen hair pulled back into a makeshift ponytail. “An envelope of what appear to be legal papers has arrived for me at the house . . . this red wine has so much tannin I can hardly move my tongue.”
Andrea found Justine’s unperturbed façade unconvincing. “You seem quite calm, given the circumstances. Did Lucrezia open the envelope?” Andrea waved a piece of bruschetta in the air, the sensual aroma of toasted bread, garlic, and fresh tomatoes saturating her senses.
Actually, at first Justine had panicked, felt her stomach wrench into a knot, but since then she had permitted her attention to move to a different kind of hunt, one that sharpened her instincts and evoked her scientific curiosity. “I asked her to open it while I held on. The letter and supporting materials are from the Florence magistrate’s office: a ‘request’ to appear for an interview regarding some missing artifacts. I had her read key parts to me. It was very vague, although it does hint at possible extradition.” This last word stuck in her mouth.
“To Egypt? If so, that means the Egyptians have requested the inquiry. Do you want me to come with you? I could arrange it.”
“I think I would. And perhaps a representative from the American Embassy. And possibly Riccardo, since he knows a great deal about the Italian legal system. I’m sure Dad and Amir will insist on being there.” The elderly waiter approached their table with bowls piled high with marinated sardines, breaded onions, sautéed eggplant, a tangy celery salad, mushrooms and baby artichokes, potato croquettes, and firm ricotta. “No sal
ami?” Justine teased in her broken Italian. He didn’t smile.
Both women stared at the antipasti that was intended to be the first course. They laughed. Andrea picked up a sardine by its greasy tail and asked, “Do you think Blackburn had anything to do with it?”
“I’m sure of it. How long have you known him?” Justine cut off a piece of the ricotta and placing it on top of her bruschetta.
Andrea was silent, staring hard at the sardine held suspended in her fingers. “How did you know?”
“A little proverb about conversations and emeralds and servant girls . . . you used it at the dinner party in Fiesole. Blackburn used it today in San Clemente. How long?” she demanded.
“About fifteen years. We were lovers for a while. A few seasons. Then we ended it.”
“Too much alike?” Justine asked in a solemn tone.
“Justine! You’re accusing me of some sinister actions—I’m wounded.” Andrea paused. “Yes, we were too much alike.” She laughed. Not light and joyful, instead derisive and indignant.
“And now, Andrea? Are you working together?”
“No, Justine, we are not working together. We have stayed in contact, but that is all. I was not involved in the theft of the codex, if that is what you’re suggesting.”
“But you knew where his shop was. And you asked me to visit the shop and confront him. Why?”
Andrea nodded and returned to the panoply of food before her. “He wanted to meet you.”
So she is still doing his bidding. What else is she involved in? The theft of the codex itself? I know she didn’t steal it, but what other essential role might she have played? In spite of these troubling questions, she decided to believe her for now. Justine took several deep breaths and a sip of the high-tannin wine, and gazed at Andrea with guarded affection. “I see,” is all she said.
Andrea appeared released, liberated from her near capture as a would-be villain. She continued on as though nothing had happened. “There are many possibilities besides Blackburn. You’re sure to be the target of the director-general, the Catholic Church, other Christians, and the entire nation of Islam . . .” She grinned at the absurdity of her statement, although it was not far from the truth. Omar Mostafa, Director-General of the Supreme Council of Antiquities in Egypt, had an ego that stretched from Cairo to San Francisco. A favorite of National Geographic and Discovery television, as well as American museums, he did not take kindly to losing something as important as the diary of the Virgin Mary. Especially when he had assured Islamic and Christian leaders that the most provocative of the findings would not see the light of day. Now he had lost control of any translations that could be made public.
“What is that other old proverb? Judge me by my enemies? I seem to be in season,” Justine lamented, savagely stabbing a mushroom.
CHAPTER 19
. . . in all matters of emotional importance, please approach the supreme authority direct!
—D.H. Lawrence, excerpt from Intimates
THE HEAT OF SPRING had already closed in on Rome when Justine escaped to the north, although Fiesole offered little relief. The drive back from her visit with Andrea had been especially tiring. She had chewed over the conversation with Blackburn and Andrea and the delivery of the potentially threatening legal papers to her mother’s home. Is it possible that I could be extradited to Egypt to stand trial?
Her secret cache of letters from the trunk and the adventures of her great-grandmother, Isabella, awaited her at home. A worthy diversion from the stress of other realities. She sat cross-legged on her bed, daydreaming of life in Fiesole in 1927. Where had she left off?
. . . Frieda insists we go to Baden Baden next week. Her three children are there and we usually stay with her sister, Else. But this time we will stay with friends, Edith and Charles Stein. The Steins are respectful of my need for solitude to write there, as long as the weather isn’t damp. Tea before we go?
Will you and your husband be in Fiesole through the summer? We are certain to return to Villa Mirenda by early autumn, or be off to the ranch in Taos. Please write. Your letters feed my restless soul, my sympathies are aroused by your voice.
Yours, David
He is making love to her in the words he used in his literature to describe those most haunting of emotions—“restless soul,” “aroused sympathies.” It can be no other than Lawrence. Justine’s forehead felt hot to her own touch . . .
Villa Mirenda, 27 May 1927
Dear Isabella,
I still find myself mesmerized by your thoughts on the Prophet Jesus, who needn’t be divine. Perhaps the followers of Mohammed are right. Why would God need an earthly son? Indeed. I’ve just painted a piece on the resurrection and am working on a story called The Escaped Cock, named after a queer little toy that Brewster showed me in Volterra. I hope you’ll approve. In it, Jesus tires of the old gang and sets out to find Isis.
We are eating our first cherries and fat asparagus and beans. The garden here is glorious, so abundant. Is your garden lush with good eats and whimsical flowers? Wisteria wraps her legs around the olive trees. I am provoked to paint and capture this spring on canvas.
It is getting humid. Not good for my bronchials. We may return to the ranch by August. Not sure as yet.
Enjoy Egypt, dear Isabella, and write soon. Ciao, David
My great-grandmother Isabella, Muslim follower and scholar. Did she convert from Coptic Christianity for her husband—my great grandfather Ahmed? Not surprisingly, issues that concern Muslims in Cairo in this century are not so different than those she spoke of eighty years ago. “The Escaped Cock” must have become “The Man Who Died,” an immensely provocative short story. Isabella might not have had anyone else in her life who treated her as an intelligent woman—one worthy of the attentions of a famed author, to be sure. What would that have felt like? So seductive. Justine picked up the next letter.
Irschenhausen, Germany, 13 September 1927
Dear Isabella,
I found your letter from Egypt enchanting. Your descriptions of the ancients bring them to life for me. Surely they must have known the Etruscans. And your etchings from the railing of the lighthouse in Alexandria offer the breath of fresh air I crave. I crave you as well. Write as often as you can.
We went into Munich for my birthday—an old man in my forties now, you know. I’m afraid the depression is making life difficult for the Germans, even Frieda’s family. And the little clown they call Hitler marches in parades. We sneer at him over our aperitifs.
I don’t require much, a small amount of food, a little wine, a place to write. And letters from my Isabella.
It is nippy now, autumn can’t be far off. Winter comes too quickly here.
We are sure to be back in Italy before October leaves us chilled to the bone. I will soon see you in your Egyptian frocks and golden jangles, eyes made vivid with charcoal.
Tante bella cose, and love, David
She stared at the letters for a long time, as though waiting for the characters to step forth from the pages. D.H. Lawrence, D.H. Lawrence, she repeated over and over to herself, the mantra holding her awareness. And the little clown. Little did Frieda’s family know what would happen in the following decade, but by 1931 she would be secure in Taos with her Italian lover and Lawrence would be dead of tuberculosis.
Justine was still in shock that such letters existed—were even written. And hidden in her grandmother’s attic, no less. D.H. Lawrence. David? David Herbert. Signing this last letter to my great-grandmother with “love.” Where was my great-grandfather? Did he know about Lawrence? Did she love both men?
Lawrence, the very man riveting attention on theories of the afterlife, whose visits to Cerveteri gave special meaning to the village where her father was digging. More than a coincidence? Many cultures believe there are no accidents. What do I believe? So amazing—events that seem related but are obviously not caused by one another. What are they caused by? Is cause and effect too Western an idea?
; Grandmother Laurence might say that the two men were drawn to Cerveteri by the hand of a deity. Mother might relate their interest in the Etruscans to Jung’s collective unconscious. But Dad would probably say that this household has always welcomed the renowned: Picasso, Stein, Pound, Berenson, Stark, Lawrence. She paused and gazed out the window. I think Dad has it right. Florence, like Cairo, is a small town, especially where expatriates are concerned. Yet . . .
“May I talk with you for a moment, Prego?” Justine motioned to the two chairs in the center of the garden.
Prego eagerly obeyed, relieved to have the opportunity to sit down. He stepped aside to let her precede him to the small patch of grass bordered by rosemary, hydrangea, and boxed topiaries. They sat in the wrought iron chairs facing each other.
“Prego, you remember so much about this home. Did you ever hear your family talk about visits from a man called D.H. Lawrence? A famous writer.” She spread her booted feet and leaned forward, elbows on her thighs, hands clasped.
Prego fidgeted for a few moments, taking his hands from his pockets and folding them in on each other, covering his dirt-encrusted fingernails. “Si, signorina. My mother, she was impressed by his gentlemanly manners. Hid his books under her bed, sometimes beside the flour bin in the kitchen. I find them. One time Mama took the stick to me for reading Lady Chatterley.”
Justine smiled warmly—the adventuresome boy, the cautious man. “Did she ever tell you that she knew the author?”
“No, but I think she did. Mama. She talk about him, what he wear. Once, when she prepare tea, she say he like limone only.”
The Italian Letters: A Novel (The Justine Trilogy Book 2) Page 14
