The Italian Letters: A Novel (The Justine Trilogy Book 2)

by Linda Lambert

  Justine’s mother took delight in the machinations of her namesake.

  On the morning after their arrival in Ferrara, Justine, Delmo, Amir, and Morgan left the Hotel Europa on Viale Cavour in Morgan’s SUV, following their host, Guido Barbujani. The party turned left onto Corso Martiri della Liberta, passed the Castello Estense, and entered the Piazza Cattedrale, which was crowded with students, stylishly dressed though pedaling bikes. Turning right onto Cortevecchia, Morgan turned left off the piazza into a narrow street of shops, and then left again into the narrow Via del Turco. They parked, as instructed, across from apartment house five.

  “I appreciate your willingness to meet here this morning, Justine. I needed to get the new frigorifero delivered before leaving for Sardinia,” Guido said as they stood together in his kitchen making tea. A population geneticist, evolutionist, and novelist, Guido taught at the University of Ferrara and was a sought-after consultant. A man in his late forties, Guido had hair made nearly platinum by streaks of silver and gold and startling green eyes that matched the lightweight turtleneck sweater he wore carelessly with worn jeans.

  “When you said your frig died,” said Delmo, standing nearby, “I thought you said your priest had died.” He frequently had difficulty hearing his younger colleagues.

  Guido laughed heartily. “Even such an unfortunate event wouldn’t have changed my schedule, I’m afraid. I come from a long line of anarchists. Once, in a fit of rage about Catholicism, my grandfather posted a sign on the church door that read, ‘Bankrupt!’”

  Delmo laughed at himself and lowered his aging, yet surprisingly fit, body into a kitchen chair to become a silent observer.

  “Bankrupt? An apt term. Your grandfather must have been quite a spunky character. Are you very much like him?” Justine asked, noticing humor lines fanning out from under Guido’s long lashes.

  “The spitting image,” he grinned. “I can be quite irreverent and often difficult.”

  “You must have been an exasperating kid,” Justine said, staring into his eyes with a challenging expression. “Is that how children behave in Adria?” She found him much more attractive than his photos on the Internet.

  Guido wondered how—and why—she had learned where he was born. “Most Italians have a strained relationship with the Church,” he said. “Even so, I’m sure that I often embarrassed my mother.” His platinum hair caught the morning sunlight filtering through the casement window.

  Where had she seen that grin before? For a moment she lost her train of thought. “My mother has green eyes,” she said finally. “Her name is Lucrezia.” She opened the darkened refrigerator and found a can of milk. Mildewing cheese assaulted her nostrils. She quickly closed the door, smelled the contents of a small can of milk, and poured the remains into a miniature, hand-painted pitcher.

  “Ah, another Lucrezia Borgia with green eyes! My mother insists that the green eyes make me Etruscan. I’d like to think she’s right. Sugar?”

  “So would I,” Justine said, taking the sugar bowl from his hand and placing it on the tray. She couldn’t think of anything else to say, so she picked up the tray loaded with cups and started toward the living room.

  “Can I help?” Guido asked, brushing against her shoulder and placing his tanned hand over hers on the tray handle.

  They stood for a moment, gripping the tray. She felt the warmth of his body. “I think I have it,” she said, a little breathless. “Why don’t you carry the tea?”

  The three of them made their way into the living room, Justine with the tray, Guido with the sacred pot of tea. Delmo, carrying his oversized notebook and newly acquired cane, trailed behind the bearers of libation. “A temporary tool,” he’d insisted. “Those ladders at Cerveteri are getting the best of me.”

  “ . . . for each thousand years, that would mean almost four hundred generations,” Morgan was saying to Amir. “The two women of the tomb have been on a long time-travel journey.”

  “And that translates to greater chances for substitutions—and for technical difficulties,” added Amir.

  “Substitutions?” asked Justine, placing the tray in front of the two men.

  “Substitution of one nucleotide for another, in other words, mutations, the markers on the evolution tree created by mtDNA,” offered Guido. “Such substitutions can be the result of internal evolutionary changes in the species or environmental changes. Either way, the result is nearly the same.”

  “Ah,” said Justine, slipping into the overstuffed chair facing the divan, crossing her long legs, covered in denim that was tucked into brown leather boots. She had brushed out her hair, which draped over a yellow silk blouse. “I understand mtDNA, lineage, and mutations . . . but remind me, how does mitochondrial DNA work?” She paused, a spark of mischief in her eyes. “Chemically, I mean.”

  “A little 101, Professor, if you please,” said Morgan, who was eager to renew his relationship with Guido. They had worked together on Crete in the late ’90s. On this dig, their work together had begun when the Cerveteri samples from the women in the tomb were brought into the Florence lab and a duplicate set sent to the University of Barcelona.

  “If you like,” said Guido, bowing slightly toward Justine as he settled back into his white denim divan. “Mitochondria are structures within cells that convert energy from food into a form that cells can use. Each mitochondrion contains thirty-seven genes, thirteen of which are involved in cellular respiration, meaning that they remove electrons from organic compounds like food and pass them through a series of electron receptors that convert them into energy.” He turned to Amir, “Is that right?”

  Amir nodded in agreement. The conversation was interrupted by the clamor of a lumbering delivery truck filling the narrow street below.

  “Ah, my frigo,” Guido said, acknowledging the arrival and then turning his attention back to Justine. He remained seated, knowing full well that it would take a while for the men to wrestle the refrigerator up to the third floor.

  Amir raised his voice to command his host’s attention. “But what do the chemical aspects have to do with the functional uses of DNA, Professor?” He was well acquainted with the archeological uses of DNA, but not necessarily the chemistry.

  Justine slid forward in her chair, preparing to pour five cups of tea. She knew the preferences of everyone in the room, except Guido, toward whom she silently lifted the sugar bowl and raised an eyebrow.

  Guido shook his head. “As you know, Amir, mitochondria contain their own DNA, which is what we use to reconstruct genealogical trees. In a dead body, most DNA will be in bad shape, but since each cell contains a lot of mitochondria, each contains several copies of its own DNA. By working on mitochondria you have a better chance of finding some intact DNA fragments. Nuclear DNA is still difficult to type, and there is a high risk of contamination . . . that is, of reading the DNA of somebody else, an archaeologist or a biologist who happened to touch the specimen, rather than the specimen’s DNA.” The clamorous knock of a fist on the apartment door prompted Guido to get up and greet the two heavyset deliverymen.

  “So you can expect the roots of the teeth of these two women to still possess mtDNA and perhaps some nuclear DNA?” questioned Justine, watching Guido closely, his body moving comfortably within his comfortable old sweater and close-fitting jeans. She quickly turned toward Delmo. “I know that nuclear DNA has very different properties than mtDNA. Right, Delmo?”

  Guido was now laughing with the two panting deliverymen. He smiled encouragingly at Delmo, his longtime mentor from Bologna.

  “Nuclear DNA exists within the nucleus of the cell itself and is like an individual fingerprint,” began Delmo, pleased to assume his favorite role. “Unique.” He made a circle with his thumb and forefinger and pointed to the center. “On the other hand, mtDNA is not necessarily unique, but is more likely to remain consistent within and among populations over time, interrupted only by mutations. Nuclear DNA is the result of the influence of both parents.” He paused. “Ho
w am I doing, Guido?” As he became more animated, his cane fell to the floor. He promptly kicked it out of the way, just in time to keep the deliverymen from tripping as they wheeled the refrigerator toward the kitchen. An expression of disdain for his temporary handicap washed across his face.

  “Excellent,” Guido nodded, standing by the kitchen door. “The notion of ‘consistent within and among populations over time’ is key here. And it’s important to obtain more than one sample from a region, the area where most substitutions occur. Multiple samples give us the sequencing pattern, or haplogroup.”

  “So, what can we expect to learn from the DNA of these two women?” asked Justine.

  “Two things, hopefully,” said Guido, pausing to sign the bill of sale and provide a small gratuity to the men. “One, are these two women related? And two, are they related to other samples of lineage from Italy or elsewhere? MtDNA will tell us that.”

  “Why don’t you explain what mtDNA tells us about lineage?” invited Morgan.

  “Explain it as you would in one of your novels,” interjected Justine.

  “Ah,” said Guido, laughing softly as he pulled his chair into the circle. “Since we’re looking for markers, or patterns of mutation, let’s say that a mutation is a paper clip on a long, lovely, blue satin ribbon.”

  Justine grinned and recalled the lovely blue satin ribbons on the Lawrence letters. Guido began to spin his metaphorical web. Nasser, she now remembered. His grin reminds me of Nasser. She was stunned to think that her intense physical response to Guido might be connected to her Egyptian lover. She forced her attention back to the conversation.

  “For instance,” Guido began, “suppose we have some credible samples from the Phoenicians and the Lebanese. If the paperclips match up, that would strongly suggest that the former are somehow the latter’s ancestors. Is that what you meant?”

  “Exactly, professor,” Morgan said. “Well done. But what use are your ‘paper clips’? Can we date these women through mtDNA?”

  Amir interrupted. “Actually, no.” He walked across the room and leaned against the wall facing Morgan. “Dating will need to come from the carbon dating of the linen, parchment, and sarcophagus patina—but it’s quite feasible. This isn’t the first time such products have given us a historical map. In Egypt—”

  “And, fortunately, these two are women,” said Guido. “We biologists prefer women, at least their remains.” He immediately regretted his interruption of Amir.

  “Why the preference?” Justine asked, glancing at Amir. Does he realize what is happening to me? Her eyes reflected an inner fire, as well as the morning sunlight.

  “MtDNA comes from the female and is handed down through the female only, my dear,” said Morgan. “Oddly, mussels and fruit flies are the exceptions. Right, professor?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “MtDNA in males that might have been passed on to future generations is either destroyed by the egg or early on in the embryo. Males retain their own capacity for developing energy sources, but they don’t tell us much about their ancestors. You must know this is difficult for me to admit, since I’m often deemed a misogynist.”

  “Not always, Dad,” laughed Justine. “But don’t try to pass that trait off as DNA-related!” Her playful eyes moved from one man to the other, “So what do we know about our two women?”

  “Amir?” invited Morgan. “I think you have some preliminary findings.” He had become aware of the preliminary report from Barcelona that morning.

  “I do,” said Amir, walking across the room to his valise. “The Barcelona lab has not sent us the results, but if they confirm what we found, it would seem that the two women are close relatives, maybe even sisters.”

  “Sisters?” piped Justine. “I guess we shouldn’t be surprised. They certainly look alike. How helpful is it that they are sisters?”

  “The information is more solid,” offered Amir. “We need to confirm the results by two independent laboratories, that is the rule of the game. But if the results are the same, these efforts will have been very helpful,” he concluded.

  Guido nodded, glancing from Justine to Amir. He squinted. “When will we have the final mtDNA information, Amir?” Then he asked a second question of Delmo. “And the translations from the linen and parchment?”

  “In other words,” added Justine, “when will we get the full picture?” She sensed that Guido had become more distant, had smothered the sparkle in his eyes.

  “I would expect to have our translations ready quite soon. Within the week,” said Delmo.

  “And the other data,” offered Amir, “at about the same time.”

  Morgan’s face flushed with both consternation and excitement. “We may finally have the story of the Etruscans!” he exclaimed, his controlled demeanor turning ebullient.

  “Or whoever they were,” added Justine, stretching her arms in the air to signal her interest in bringing the conversation to a close.

  “Come,” said Guido, standing again as though she had signaled him by raising the flag at the start of Il Palio. “Let us go eat . . . then I will feed my new frigorifero. Ferrara food. Cappellacci di Zucca. We call those little dumplings Venus’s belly button. Then Salama da Sugo and our infamous Comacchio eel . . .”

  Amir looked as though a mild nausea was moving through his body. Like most of his countrymen, he was attached to his native foods and not adventurous in the culinary arena. Justine wondered if there were other arenas in which he was not adventurous. Ones she didn’t know about.

  “Wines?” asked Morgan, predictably.

  “The excellent appellation wines of Bosco Eliceo,” said Guido with pride. “The only grape that will grow in the sandy soils near the Po River.”

  “And of course your world famous Coppia Ferrarese,” added Delmo. “Breads twisted like a fisherman’s rope, originally created by none other than Cristoforo of Messisbugo, the master of banquets at the Este Court.”

  Guido nodded, picked up his hat and a woven cardigan that reminded Justine of Hemingway, and started for the door.

  At lunch in the delectable local restaurant near Guido’s apartment, Justine noticed two Senegalese going table to table, selling leather accessories. What struck her most markedly was the invisibility locals accorded these attractive, youthful men. Unlike the seething tension regarding immigrants beginning to boil over in Castelvolturno and Rosarno, Ferrarans appeared not to notice them. Over Delmo’s obvious disapproval, Justine engaged the young men in conversation and bought herself a red leather belt. When she didn’t haggle over the price, Guido smiled in approval.

  After lunch, Guido returned to the university, Morgan set out to investigate the hydrology used to regulate the nearby canals, and Delmo returned to the Europa Hotel. Amir and Justine decided to visit the Municipal Palaces and the salon of Lucrezia Borgia.

  “You were very silent during lunch,” Justine said to Amir, but her eyes were elsewhere. She was examining the panels of cupids and sirens adorning the salon as though she expected them to come alive and join them in conversation. Columns, supported by carved female figures known as caryatids, divided the room. Sebastiano Filippi’s grotesques blended the fantastic with the realistic throughout the ostentatious room. What is Amir thinking?

  The silence in Lucrezia Borgia’s salon, devoid of other visitors, was compounded by Amir’s quietness. “I was thinking of my grandfather,” he said, reading her mind. “If he hadn’t become involved with the codex, he would still be alive.”

  Justine turned, cringing, scrutinizing his expression carefully. His facial muscles were relaxed, his pupils enlarged, reflecting the abundant golden threads of a nearby tapestry. Amir’s head was cocked to one side, waiting. Words nearly failed her. “You’re blaming me? Because I insisted you take me to see him? Take the codex to him?”

  “No, of course, not. Perhaps it was fate. Everything evolved naturally from the first time you told me you needed to visit him. He was your father’s mentor . . . and he found his final challenge in the
codex.”

  “You wouldn’t be connecting the events unless you thought it was murder,” she said, reaching for him, touching his cheek with her cool palm.

  That errant ebony curl fell over one eye again as he placed his arm around Justine’s waist and led her to a nearby bench, where they sat facing each other. He didn’t answer. Then, his eyes narrowed as he asked, “Would you ever consider marrying me?”

  “Are you proposing?”

  “No,” he said firmly. “But you know I’ve loved you since we worked together in Egypt, and our recent relationship has deepened that love. And expectation.”

  She was taken aback with his paradoxical response. Yes, he loves me; no he is not proposing. He is afraid of my answer. “Tell me what our life together would be like.”

  He received this question as a good sign. “A home. Children. Pleasure of each other’s company. Travel . . .”

  “My work?” she interrupted, one eyebrow raised.

  He responded quickly, “By all means. Yes, your work. Very important.” His face drew tight around his cheekbones and temples.

  He is almost irresistible. “Where would we live?”

  “In Egypt, most probably,” he said simply.

  “I’m persona non grata there. You know that.”

  “After the Italian court’s decision in your favor—and with time—the whole incident about the Virgin Mary will slide into history. Besides, you’d be married to an Egyptian,” he said with unabashed pride. He was floating into this fantasy.

  “I still have to learn what freedom requires of me. I also need to know what compromises marriage will demand.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to compromise, Justine. I don’t think that’s your forte.” He managed a grin.