She had alerted Riccardo that she would be riding back to Anna’s with Amir. They slid into the front seat of Amir’s rented Jeep for the short ride back to Cerveteri, where Justine expected to rent a room for the night.
Anna’s small hotel, also her personal home, surrounded a courtyard large enough for a half-dozen cars. The stucco building faced the western valley and newer part of Cerveteri. Richly waxed wooden beams supported white stucco interior walls. Anna was nowhere to be found. Justine knew by now that the lovely proprietor often went off for the day to shop, leaving the doors open.
Justine followed Amir up the back stairs to his room, kicked off her shoes, and sat casually on a small wooden box under the window. Too dirty to sit anywhere else. He stood by the four-poster and smiled at her. “What would you like for dinner?” he asked. “I could get some bread and pecorino. Wine. We could stay in.”
“If I can clean up a bit, I think I’d like to return to Ristorante Vladimiro ai Bastioni. As you’ll remember from your first night here, they boast the best Napolitano seafood outside of Rome. Dad and the others will be there.” She thought she would find sanctuary among the others since she was unsure how an evening alone with Amir would go. Besides, she had abandoned Riccardo, who had generously driven her from Fiesole.
Amir looked disappointed. He didn’t want to share her with anyone, including her father. “It will be a crowd. I was hoping for . . .” Amir was reluctant to say, “We haven’t been together since we made love in the grass at Sovana,” although he knew that she understood.
“I realize we haven’t really talked since Santa Fiora.” She smiled. “I think I’d like to take a shower. May I borrow a clean shirt?” Pulling her T-shirt, smeared with wet clay, up over her head, she accepted the white shirt that Amir grabbed from the armoire and headed for the shower. She turned on the water and left the door ajar.
Amir slid into the narrow shower stall behind her, his naked body pressing against her back and buttocks. She didn’t flinch as his hand reached for her breast, the other encircling her waist, pulling her toward him. He kissed her neck and shoulders. Trembling in his grasp, she arched her back to press more fully into his body. Shampoo floated down her shoulders and onto his chest, silken flesh sliding smoothly together. Justine turned around slowly as Amir picked her up, her legs encircling his waist. He entered her effortlessly, leaning both of them against the shower wall to keeping from falling. She cried out once, burying her face into the nape of his neck.
Amir stepped out of the shower first, leaving Justine to luxuriously finish shampooing her hair. Several moments passed as she let the warm water caress her and reflected on the joy of Amir’s caress. Then she quickly stepped out, grabbed a towel, and bent to brush the dust from her jeans. Rubbing her body and hair vigorously, while Amir watched, she slipped into her jeans, tucking in the white shirt, permitting its long tail to serve as makeshift underwear. “Shall we?” she asked, heading for the door, her wet hair forming into ringlets.
Amir had to scramble to get ready.
At dinner, Morgan looked from Amir to his daughter, noting the flushed countenance of the two lovers. Everyone around the table sensed what had transpired, and that knowledge had a discomforting effect on everyone but Riccardo, who was pleased for Justine—and for Amir.
Morgan broke the awkward silence by reviewing the culinary choices for the evening. There were few, since the chef invariably decided what his guests would eat. Tonight he offered a choice between fish and wild boar, cauliflower and aubergine. As always, the wine list was extensive. Although this was Morgan’s domain, he made no selection; instead, he nodded to Riccardo, the son of a famous vintner.
Delmo joined them late. He pulled out a chair next to Justine and explained with only a hint of apology: “I needed a rest,” he said. Age had freed him from most social protocols. “Have you ordered?”
“You’ll eat what we’ve ordered, my friend,” said Morgan playfully. “Orate alla Romana and Insalata di Rinforzo. Riccardo has decided on Brunelli.”
“Ah, the gilthead bream fish is one of my favorites. But cauliflower?” challenged Delmo, looking especially debonair with a high-buttoned, newly ironed plaid shirt and glossy hair.
“So, what do you think of our great discovery?” Riccardo asked Delmo, clearly bursting with the excitement of the day.
“Hard to tell,” he responded. “But one thing we can agree on: it’s unlike anything we’ve seen. The rolled linen used for wrapping the bodies seemed like that of the Zagreb mummy in Egypt. Then there’s the rolled parchment we found alongside the two women. It excites me the most. And, of course, the mitochondrial DNA options are incredible.” His passion mounted as he spoke.
“And the Egyptian goddesses carved into the sarcophagus,” Justine exclaimed, “This find could turn upside down everything we thought we knew about the Etruscans—couldn’t it?”
There were nods around the table, but no one answered her question.
Instead, Amir asked, “What happens next, Morgan?” He reached for Justine’s hand under the table. She pulled away gently, resisting any display that might signal possession.
“There are firm protocols. First thing in the morning we’ll notify the local superintendent’s office, then the lab in Florence . . . and Francesca at Villa Giulia. She needs to know. Possibly Barbujani at Ferrara.”
“Too many people, I think, sir. Are you sure you want to announce the find so broadly, so soon?” asked Riccardo. “Could get messy.”
“You may be right, Riccardo. What do you think?” Justine asked her father.
Morgan turned to the younger Italian. “Riccardo has a good sense of the scientific community here. Such an observation could be made in the US or Egypt as well. Okay, let’s just start with the superintendent’s office and the lab.”
“I’m afraid we can expect the local office to put a freeze on the work until they’ve done their inspections. Perhaps I should keep the parchment with me for safekeeping.” Delmo turned on an unusually charming grin. “Molto delicato.”
Morgan knew that this offer was highly irregular. He also knew that Professor Della Dora fully understood the implication of what he was asking. Morgan stared at the elder linguist for some time, slowly sipping his Brunelli.
Justine watched her father with unveiled curiosity, knowing that he had landed in hot water over an archeological dig in Egypt when he had withheld a stele, an ancient stone slab that suggested an alternative story of the Exodus. Then it had disappeared.
“Very generous of you. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to such a treasure.” Morgan had just consigned the scroll to Delmo.
Amir and Riccardo looked surprised.
Justine narrowed her eyes. You’re on dangerous ground again, Dad. “What he means, Professor, is keep it safe until the inspectors get here. Right?”
Delmo looked like a young boy who had just lost the boxcar derby. But at least he knew that he would have the scroll to himself for a few days.
Morgan smiled with gratitude and embarrassment. He nodded, then busied himself, extracting some small bones from the bream.
The following day, Justine took the train back to Fiesole. Riccardo needed to stay at the site. Amir had offered to drive her, but she’d declined. She needed time to think, rightfully concerned that he might expect that their new intimacy would naturally lead to marriage. It might start with equality, Justine thought once again, but would Amir want a more traditional Arab marriage later on? Her mother had prepared her for the danger inherent in relationships with Arab men.
After a full day of travel, she stepped into her mother’s kitchen and picked up a note:
Dear Justine,
Alessandro and I have gone to Lake Como for a few days. We’ll be at the Grand Hotel Villa Serelloni. Will be back in time for the hearing.
Love, Mom
CHAPTER 22
Love is the flower of life, and blossoms unexpectedly and without law, and must be plucked where it is found, and
enjoyed for the brief hour of its duration.
—D.H. Lawrence
ONCE AGAIN JUSTINE sat cross-legged on her bed, her mauve robe tied loosely around her waist. She held the legal papers from the Florence court in one hand and a bundle of D.H. Lawrence’s letters in the other. She glanced down at the appearance date on the legal papers—three days away—and threw them on the floor. Then she sought refuge once again in the long-silenced, unfolding drama of her great-grandmother. Reading the letters had become her secret obsession. She was sure now that her mother had never seen these letters or she would have shared this treasure with her.
Villa Mirenda, 28 February 1928
My Bella,
The Martins are leaving today, thank the goddess. They hate Italy. They have a peculiar stiffness, like cutout dolls. Seem unable to breath deeply or turn their heads in the presence of beauty. Why do we host them, you might ask. You see, my darling, they host us in New York. Tit for tat.
Your presence in my life is the fresh air of the mountains I love so deeply. What is it you are feeling? I must know. Your letters are so careful, while I want to sit on top of San Francesco hill and sing your name to the birds. When first we met I felt an instant and holy sympathy and that is how we connect to those who are meant to reflect our lives back to us. That is one way we express ourselves—by instinctual sympathy with those to whom we are drawn, as I was immediately drawn to you, dear soul. The meaning of this intuitive connection may never be fully revealed. Never have I been in the presence of a woman who allowed the quiet space inside my chest to flourish uninterrupted.
Will you go into Florence this week? There is a lovely little exhibit at Dante’s home. You know the church nearby? Where he saw his Beatrice? Perhaps I would see you there?
Amore, David
Justine stared out her window, focusing intently on two hummingbirds circling the feeder, suspended in space by their wing beats, as though frantic with passion. Have I felt such intense emotion for a man? Been so enveloped in a connection that treasured my identity? Unsure, she turned to the next letter.
Villa Mirenda, 7 March 1928
My dearest Bella,
I regret that you are feeling closed in, suffocated. Virginia Woolf insists that women need a room of their own. Women are born with creative souls striving to free themselves, to release their voices into an undeserving world. Do you have such a room? A small corner? I do suspect, my Isabella, that you may never become a real writer, for you are not sufficiently detached, separated. Even so, writing clears the soul. Best you not be stigmatized as a writer like me. A lonely business, that. You tell me that my vitality is beautiful. I am at a loss to understand this. Vitality is not my frequent visitor. Only when I am with you, my lovely muse.
What think you of Mussolini? Have you met him? Power is obsolete, you know, but this little manikin ignores history. The rich families pander to him. Order! Order! That is all they care about, as long as their jewels and wine and fashions are protected.
Frieda likes him, but then she likes Baden Baden. Someday leadership will die and be replaced by a tenderness of reciprocity, such as we have.
Amore, David
Justine laid the letter down on her folded leg. She wondered how she’d react if someone, even someone she loved, told her she’d never be a real writer. It would anger her so—she might not write again. She knew that Virginia Woolf thought Lawrence a misogynist. History holds many opinions about that charge. How patient Isabella was with him. Was she a good writer? Has mother stashed away some of her poems?
Villa Mirenda, 13 March 1928
My dearest Bella, my muse,
You are angry with me. I’m sorry that my comment about being a real writer hurt you. But you have a much greater gift . . . kindness, losing yourself in another, tolerance for stupidity. Writers are selfish. They turn inward when they ought to turn outward. I will always tell you the truth, my love. Even though truth often gets me in trouble. Do not let my flares of honesty terrify you. And never doubt that you will write lovely poems.
London will be printing John Thomas and Lady Jane soon. They want to call it Lady Chatterley’s Lover, and of course they cut out some of the passages I find most endearing. The English are such prigs. I am printing the unexpurgated edition here in Florence, but it won’t be ready until autumn. I don’t want to lose one word of the tenderness you evoke in me. Of phallic consciousness, that sensitivity to others. I can see the pink blush on your cheeks, but know that you secretly obsess about love as I do.
We may need to travel to America when the prudish version comes out. Publicity. America and Italy may be the only markets. Leaving you even for a short time consumes me with sadness. But I do want to get to the ranch.
My health continues to bore me. Coughing fits and weakness from time to time. The rains will surely stop soon. Love, David
So, he apologized. Quite inadequately, I would say. Isabella was a patient woman, yet the love and regard she found in her affair with Lawrence must have overshadowed any slight to the ego. Was it an affair at all? These love letters serve as an affair, even if it were not sexual.
Villa Mirenda, 18 March 1928
My dearest Isabella,
Huxley is coming next week. His wife Maria is a lovely soul. I hope you will be able to meet them. He wants me to read his latest. I don’t know why he is so daring, he knows what a harsh critic I am of his fantasies. But we have good talks and he is interested in my ideas and my letters. Don’t gasp, my Bella, I shan’t part with yours.
I wandered about to my Etruscans with Brewster again, set on finishing the book sometime this year. All of my writing has been an expression that leads toward the state of perpetual wonder I feel in the presence of the Etruscans—and with you. My Lady Chatterley has been awakened to wonder, as was the gamekeeper of my very first novel. And when I was standing in the presence of these Etruscans I knew at once that I was one of them. In Tarquinia, the tombs are painted like caves in New Mexico, but more like Egypt, I suspect. How did these ancient peoples come to think so alike? Almost enough to make you believe in some divinity. But I’ve not weakened in that regard. The religious are bores. Like scientists, and for similar reasons. They both rob life of its mysteries.
I suppose this may be the last letter before you leave for Egypt. How long will you be gone? I already ache for your return. Write from Cairo.
Arrivederci, my love. David
Justine changed into her running clothes and headed down the back stairs. Lawrence’s thoughts on the Etruscans were as refreshing and new as though he were speaking today. How does life manage to echo the past? It was almost too much to take in. At one moment she is in an Etruscan tomb, and the next reading letters written decades ago by a brilliant writer who could infer truths unimagined by others.
She headed northwest across the Fiesole hills, behind Villa San Michele and up through the Aurora restaurant terrace. The flora that usually captured her attention remained merely a blur; she was conscious of little except the sound of air moving in and out of her chest.
She crossed the main square, crested the hill, and approached the Zona Archeologica of the Etruscan Museo. She entered with the season pass she had pinned to her shirt. Only when her feet touched the edge of the Roman bath did she become truly aware of her surroundings. Her feet found station in deep green grasses and red poppies. Olive, cypress, pine, and mulberry trees surrounded the massive zone of Etruscan, Roman, and Longobardi ruins laid horizontally next to each other. It looked as though it was one architectural site when in fact it was three, created over a thousand years. She turned to face the Etruscan temple of Menrva. Here she sat down.
Menrva, ancestor of the Roman Minerva, sister to the Greek Athena. What do you have to say this morning? Offer me some of your wisdom. Help me to understand the plight of Isabella. Courageous, intelligent muse to one of the world’s great writers. What was it like for her, a young girl bound by tradition, culture, physical control? She wondered if—hoped that—she
had inherited some of Isabella’s traits, temperaments, and gifts, although Justine knew that compared to Isabella, she was as free as the raven atop the temple in front of her. Could she possibly comprehend Isabella’s world?
She knew she shared a need for independence and sovereignty with her great-grandmother, grandmother, and mother. Justine knew she came by her extraordinary drive for freedom naturally, as well as through the unmistakable influence of these remarkable women. Hasn’t she always known this? But why, then, was Isabella drawn to Lawrence’s despair, that spiritual cage that denied him joy in almost every situation he encountered—except in love with her? Perhaps Isabella needed to be the conduit of his convictions, his hopes, that the long convalescence that occupied his mind and body would someday end. Do all women want to rescue?
Occasionally, when plagued by self-doubt, Justine wondered if her need for freedom at the sacrifice of a committed relationship was the result of selfishness, inevitable in an only child. She couldn’t discount that possibility, or that self-centeredness was part of the mix of her character. Or am I just too hard on myself? Would a man even ask himself if the need for autonomy is selfish?
Justine smoothed her hand across the temple wall, wondering again what Menrva would have advised. “Don’t take yourself too seriously,” Menrva whispered. “Talk to your mother and decide how to deal with the letters.”
“And leave my feelings behind? Just move on?” There was no answer.
“And how is your conversation with Menrva going this morning?” asked Marco, standing in front of her now, bemused by her preoccupation. His familiar Outback hat shaded his eyes.
She hadn’t noticed the museo director’s approach. How long has he been there? She laughed. “She advises me wisely as usual, Marco. How are you this beautiful morning?”
“I understand that your father has made quite a remarkable find in Cerveteri,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
The Italian Letters: A Novel (The Justine Trilogy Book 2) Page 16
