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

by Linda Lambert

  She smiled at his insight, feeling no need to defend herself. “You wouldn’t expect it now, perhaps not next year or even the next. But eventually, I fear, you would give in to the pressure of your family’s expectations. Your culture.”

  “My culture is changing, Justine. In spite of evidence to the contrary, women are leading their own lives, getting divorces, setting new rules. Besides, I’m a modern man.”

  “Understanding the effects of your own culture, Amir, is like a fish trying to understand water. I’m afraid that culture is stronger than individual will . . .”

  “Stop being an anthropologist for a moment. We are two individuals, not one of your textbook cases.” Any tentativeness that he’d expressed earlier was gone. He also knew that this stance was losing him ground.

  Justine permitted her moist eyes to admire the garlands of festoons framing Amir. Her friend. Her lover. She gave him a long, measured look, her eyes growing moister. Is he right? Am I swimming in my own generalizations? “That may be a fair appraisal,” she finally said. “I won’t discount it. We are friends, we’ve been lovers. Can that be enough for now?”

  “Enough for now,” he said, a grin spreading across his classic Arab face. He winked, as though to say, “I’ll wait.”

  She reached out and pushed his ebony curl back into place, tightened the sash on her cashmere coat, and motioned for him to walk with her out into the cool, darkening afternoon. Parallel clouds of moisture formed in front of them. Before they reached the door of the café across the street, a rack of newspapers arrested their attention.

  Blazed across the front of the The International Herald Tribune was the headline: “Virgin Mary’s Diary Surfaces in Rome.” La Repubblica put it a little differently: “Scoperta: diario della Beata Vergine - una truffa! - secondo il Vaticano.” Discovery of the diary of the Blessed Virgin a hoax, according to the Vatican.

  Amir’s body seemed to shrink inside his heavy wool jacket, his facial muscles tightening into a mask of devastating distress. Slide into history? Mish mishkilla, no problem, he thought miserably.

  CHAPTER 27

  The history of men’s opposition to women’s emancipation is more interesting perhaps than the story of that emancipation itself.

  —Virginia Woolf

  ONCE AGAIN, Justine found herself running on the path above the San Michele, the breath clouding in front of her partly obscuring the frosted olive and cypress trees. The events in Ferrara were heavy on her mind. Guido’s charm. Amir’s near-proposal. New data on the two alabaster women. Andrea. Who is Andrea? The missing codex. How was she to make sense of these threads of the tapestry, to construct a meaningful pattern? A décollage, to an anthropologist. A type of collage that tells a story. Amir says that we create narratives and revise them as more data become available. So right.

  After reading the blazing headlines in Ferrara, the fate of the codex demanded her full attention. Since its purchase by the Mycenae Foundation, the contents had been splattered all over the Italian media. She knew without it being said that the Vatican’s ire had been aroused.

  Justine stepped onto the porch of her mother’s house, shaking out her hair and taking off her snug jacket. She sat on a bench and removed her running shoes before taking the back stairs up to her room, dropping her clothes around her in puddles of black lycra, and slipping into the warm shower. She shivered as the soothing water traveled down her cold back, remembering Amir’s hands enveloping her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. But for now, there was something she had to know.

  Once more she was Kim Novak in Vertigo: tailored grey suit, black heels, a golden bun at the nap of her neck. Elegant and simple makeup, arched eyebrows, mauve lipstick. She wrapped her beige cashmere coat tightly around her, walked unnoticed to her car, donned her sunglasses, and headed for Florence. Thirty minutes later, she found a parking spot on a side street just off Piazza del Duomo. Astounding.

  Justine stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for the second floor of the Mycenae Foundation. Liberally funded by a number of deep-pocket sponsors, the Foundation was known to be very loose about provenance when prize artifacts came their way.

  Justine walked to the reception desk and waiting patiently while the young women in bright red lipstick finished filing her ragged fingernail. She glanced up and straightened her posture. “May I help you?”

  “Yes, you may. Thank you. My name is Dr. Justine Hassouna and I’ve been commissioned to follow up on the recent sale of a certain item referred to as the ‘Cairo Codex,’ which information unfortunately seems to have been released to the media.”

  The receptionist stared at her. “Just one moment, please.” She left the room quickly.

  Justine waited patiently, checking inside her black leather purse to make sure she had brought along the cards she’d made with her pseudonym, attorney at law title, and fake address. She casually walked to the modern orange divan and was ready to sit down when another woman walked up to her. It had been less than three minutes.

  “Dr. Hassouna?” asked the woman without blinking.

  “Yes.” Justine held out her hand.

  “May I be of service? I’m Ms. Ansaldi, Assistant Director of the Foundation. I understand that you had a question regarding the Egyptian codex.”

  “My colleagues and I were surprised to find that information about this remarkable artifact had been released to the press. This seems premature.” Justine’s voice was stern, indignant.

  Ms. Ansaldi blushed ever so slightly, embarrassment quickly subsiding, replaced by a thin bravado. “An unfortunate occurrence I can assure you. Someone in our lab, we suspect . . . So, what may I do for you?”

  “I am told that you have a couple of petitions of transfer yet to be signed. Has Andrea, Dr. LeMartin, taken care of those?”

  “I believe that Dr. LeMartin has taken care of those.” She consulted her iPhone calendar. “Ah, yes. Just last week. Is there a problem?”

  “Perhaps not. I’m sure that everything is fine . . . except for the leak, of course. I’m sure I’ll receive my copies from Andrea today or tomorrow. Thank you.” Justine turned to leave. Nausea rose in her stomach.

  “Is there anything else?”

  “Well. Since I’m here, I have been trying to reach Mr. Blackburn. Mr. Robert Blackburn. Has he already left for Sicily?”

  “I don’t know a Mr. Blackburn. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  Justine’s eyes were still moist, her breathing labored, when she sought refuge in the Lawrence letters. She could hardly believe that it was true: Andrea had betrayed her. Betrayed her profession, and the trust others held in her. Yet I suspected, didn’t I? Why else would I enter into such a masquerade?

  Her gray suit was thrown across the chair; her hair was loose on her shoulders; her black leather shoes squatted in the corner. Somehow, she would find wisdom in Lawrence and Isabella. What would she do about Andrea? Clearly she was the go-between in the sale of stolen artifacts. How long had this been going on? Had her partnership with Blackburn involved some of the most valued of lost treasures? Even the Gospel of Judas? Should I call the police? Am I in danger for knowing too much? She picked up the next letter and began to read:

  Hotel Beau Rivage, Bandol, 13 January 1929

  My Dearest Bella,

  The length of our separation steals my strength. Too long, my dear muse. How am I to write without your letters in hand? Frieda has friends about who fawn. Disgusting habit. Let them find their own pretender to some throne.

  I will go to the ranch when the weather warms. Then to Villa Mirenda. The bronchials are still a nuisance. Doctors want to putter with me. Friends too. I have finished The Escaped Cock. Will send a draft to you by the next post. I think of New Mexico so often, the exotic innocence, the cave on the Kiowa trail. Did I ever tell you that I set the ending of The Woman Who Rode Away in that cave? It’s about Mabel, you know. But my mind wanders.

  Remember the lovely little apartment near Dante’s house? I will let it aga
in when I return. I can write there once my wits are about me.

  Frieda and friends are off to Sanary-sur-Mer tomorrow. Wish I could reach out and touch you, my love. We must see each other.

  Love, David

  I know that his plans to return to the ranch never materialized. Because of his tuberculosis, he couldn’t get a visa. But the lovely little apartment near Dante’s house? Did he let it that winter? Justine reached for the next letter and, hopefully, the answer.

  Hotel Beau Rivage, Bandol, 2 February 1929

  My dearest,

  My memory of our stolen days are medicine to my soul. Your body gives me heat and sustenance, you feed my very being. I have never experienced such tender fire. Intimacy without feeling you would own me.

  Ah, so they did consummate their relationship. Sometime in ’29, at least. Soon before he died . . . how weak he must have been . . . A deep sadness gripped Justine, making her shiver yet also feel feverish.

  I’m feeling better, although it changes from day to day. Can we dream of a life together? I know you say it is not possible because you are Egyptian and being with another man would be unforgiveable, even though your husband was chosen for you. Have you no right to also choose? To be free of the shackles imposed by others? My own freedom has been largely stolen by this damned consumption that saps my breath and energy. I don’t know how to free my own body. Here we are my darling, two prisoners marking time.

  You ask about Frieda. Yes, she would be disturbed if I left, but only because she had lost a possession, not out of passion for our marriage. She insists on winning, even as she entertains her lover in Baden Baden, and now some Italian peasant as well, I suspect. I’m afraid I have devised a weakened sort of dependency on Frieda. But I must fight this darkness in me.

  Love always, David

  How devastating it must have been to give up his muse, his love, to be torn between desire and duty. Could he have left Frieda? Would Isabella have dared to leave her husband? Unthinkable in those days. How painful this affair of the hearts—for both of them. Justine lifted her hair from her perspiring neck and twisted it into a temporary bun. Is freedom always an illusion? Did my great-grandfather love his wife? Was he a good man?

  Since the day Justine told her father about the letters, he’d pressed her to let him read them. She wasn’t sure why she’d resisted his entreaties, perhaps because she hadn’t told her mother as yet. What am I waiting for? She picked up another letter and lovingly fingered the texture of the eighty-year-old envelope. How many hands have held this treasure?

  Suddenly, her eyes alighted on an oddity: the postal stamp on the letter read “Grand Central Station, NY, May 3, 1929.” But he wasn’t in America after ’25. How was this letter mailed?

  Hotel Principe Alfonso, Palma de Mallorca, 3 May 1929

  My dearest Bella,

  My American editor arrived this morning. He had promising and troubling news about Lady Chatterley. Otherwise he is an old woman. Martin and Huxley conspire with this quack who calls himself a physician. They wring their hands about my health, insisting that I return to high dry air, but that a New Mexico trip would be too difficult right now. I need to get back to the ranch. Next spring perhaps. With you?

  I’ve enclosed my new poem, “How Beastly the Bourgeoisie Is.” Tell me what sensations it evokes. Do you think that my stanza, “Full of seething, wormy, hollow feelings, rather nasty”—is a bit too hateful? Too strident? Men are such empty vessels, my dear. If only we could feel as you do.

  We were in Paris last month with the Crosbys. They will probably print The Escaped Cock and Lady Chatterley given time, and if he can hold himself together. A queer fellow. His wife, Caresse, is all right. But Paris is not. A dark, hateful blanket has descended over this glorious city and they cry out for someone to blame.

  Enough of me. I did so love your poem. Do I see hidden symbols of our devotion? Optimism abounds, nature and its children thrive. How do you manage to stay afloat in this miserable life?

  Am sending this letter with Hux to mail from America. Can’t trust the mails in Europe anymore.

  All my love, David

  Justine pursed her lips and read on.

  Hotel Principe Alfonso, Palma de Mallorca, 4 June 1929

  My dearest Bella,

  Wish I could get to Taos. The dryness and that dreary American doctor could offer some reprieve from this damned malady. Tuberculosis, they’re calling it now. Brewster tells me to try deep breathing and Buddhism. Since we found the Etruscans together, he is a good friend, but the way of Buddha takes him into foreign ways, I’m afraid.

  I’m calling my little book of poetry Pansies. It will be out this month. Somehow I’ll get a copy to you. Let me know what you think. Your beautiful eyes see beneath the words. I did a drawing of myself to send along. Don’t know if you’ll like it, I look a bit long in the tooth. But sanguine.

  Hoping to get to Florence next month. Will be staying at the Lungarno Corsini or Hotel Porta Rossa. My hands yearn to touch you.

  Lilacs are gone. When I can’t do this writing, I’ll surely take up gardening. What do you say?

  Love, David

  He shared with her as an equal, a colleague, as well as a lover. A relationship to be coveted. Justine folded the letter and carefully put the stack back into her drawer. She was now rationing herself, stretching out the joy of reading, as though each letter influenced her identity, told her more about who she was.

  The joy was short-lasting, as her gut tightened once more with the tragedy that was Andrea. What will I do now??

  CHAPTER 28

  What is it that women most desire?

  FLAMES FROM THE CRACKLING fire reflected in the hanging copper pots and teakettle in Lucrezia’s kitchen. My favorite place, thought Lucrezia for the hundredth time, tying her white cotton kaftan more tightly around her. She turned toward the door as Morgan stomped into the room, disheveled and frenzied. His sweatshirt announced, “Dig Deeper. Come to Crete.”

  “She dumped me, Creta. Just like that. A little note. A note!” he exclaimed, plopping into an antique wooden chair by the French country table. It creaked as he relaxed his large frame.

  Lucrezia walked to the long granite counter, opened a translucent jar with a blue ceramic lid, and pulled out two almost-warm chocolate chip cookies. She placed them on a napkin in front of Morgan. “Are you surprised?” she asked gently.

  “Of course I’m surprised. Why wouldn’t I be?” He took a bite and registered pleasure. “I’m dashing. Handsome. Some women think I’m quite a catch.”

  “Humility was always one of your best attributes, my dear.” Lucrezia could not help but find her former husband charming and frequently amusing. This morning, she also found herself empathizing with the father of her only child.

  “Milk?” he asked. “You understand, Creta, that I’m devastated.”

  “And embarrassed.” She restrained the smile that had begun to form on her lips.

  Morgan shrugged, and reluctantly repeated, “And embarrassed. Justine warned me and was cautious about getting Andrea’s full participation in the Cerveteri project. Now everyone will know.”

  “Andrea can be discreet when she wants to. In this situation, I suspect that she will be. Because she’s working with Justine on the codex and the writing project, she’s in the center of something new, even for her. A group that includes a former—may I refer to you as former?” Morgan grinned weakly. “Former lover, a longtime friend and former wife of her lover, a young colleague who just happens to be the daughter of her lover . . .”

  “I get it, Creta,” he interrupted, looking pained. “You can stop the recitation.”

  Lucrezia was quiet for several moments. She turned her back to Morgan and poured herself a cup of coffee, then continued without turning around. “You knew who she was, Morgan. Like me, only more so. More independent, certainly more experienced in affairs of the heart. More secretive. Where did you think this would end up?”

  “To tell the tr
uth, Creta, I thought I’d changed enough to make this work. And I thought she was enamored enough with me to tolerate my rough edges. I made a real effort to listen, not to talk over her. I wasn’t demanding. Well, less demanding than I’ve been in the past . . .”

  “What about jealousy? How did you react when she was around other men? Or when she couldn’t be contacted immediately? Or when she broke an engagement?” Lucrezia turned and looked straight into his cobalt blue eyes.

  He winced. His temples flushed. “Damn it, Creta. What do women want anyway?”

  “I’ll tell you an old story, my friend. Just relax. Sit still. Have some more milk.” She placed the cookie jar in front of him.

  “This is the story of Sir Gawain and Lady Ragnell. Do you know it?”

  He shook his head.

  “Well . . . one day, as the story goes, King Arthur returned from the northern lands after an encounter with the fearsome Sir Gromer, and told a most troublesome story to his young nephew, Sir Gawain. It seems that Sir Gromer had agreed to spare Arthur’s life if he would return within a year with the answer to the question, ‘What is it that women most desire?’”

  “Ah, yes, what do they desire?”

  “Be patient.” She continued, “Sir Gawain assured Arthur that together they would find the answer, but after almost a year, they failed to do so. King Arthur turned to the grotesquely ugly Lady Ragnell, an animal-like sorceress, in desperation. She agreed to give him the answer if Sir Gawain would willingly marry her. ‘Impossible!’ raged Arthur.

  “But he related the demand to his generous nephew, who promptly agreed to marry Lady Ragnell.”

  “Amazing sacrifice,” exclaimed Morgan, reaching for another cookie.

  “Well, Morgan, his uncle’s life was at stake. What could he do? So Arthur reluctantly agreed to accept his nephew’s sacrifice and received the answer from the fiendish lady. When King Arthur related the answer to Sir Gromer, he was enraged because the answer was correct: ‘What a woman desires above all else is the power of sovereignty—the right to exercise her own will.’ You may not be surprised that the hideous Lady Ragnell, upon her marriage to Sir Gawain, turned into a beautiful damsel.”