The team members stared at each other in disbelief. The Etruscan finds were being buried by the linkage to Jesus. Dr. Morgan Jenner, in cooperation with the Universities of Ferrara and Bologna, had called this press conference today at the Museo Archeologico in Florence. He had planned to calmly summarize his team’s findings at the Cerveteri tomb and the tomb’s connection to Mary of Nazareth. But this was not an atmosphere that lent itself to calmness. He could hardly be heard above the noise of the crowds drifting in from the streets and the flashing of cameras. Morgan turned to Justine, Guido, Delmo, and Marco and raised his palms as though to ask, “What do I do?” However, Justine knew that her dad was also in his element. His latest thrilling press conference had been in Cuzco after the discovery of a library at the base of Machu Picchu.
Delmo dragged up a chair and sat down. Justine scanned the crowd for weapons—just in case someone tried something crazy. She was relieved to find six Carabinieri entering the side door. Marco stepped forward and started to translate into Italian. Morgan and Marco glanced at each other and nodded.
One astute reporter asked, “Is there any connection between your discoveries and the death of Robert Blackburn?” Both Morgan and Marco ignored the question and called for another question. Perspiration appeared generously on the temples of both men. Justine was taken aback and noticed that the reporter was from the Egyptian newspaper Al Ahram. It was clear that this reporter knew of the connection between the thief of the original codex and Blackburn.
The next day, The New York Times, the International Herald Tribune, and La Repubblica covered the research in detail, including the discovery of the codex, or diary, in Cairo and the tomb in Cerveteri, the mtDNA results, and the lineage of Jesus of Nazareth. The media in Catholic countries emphasized the Virgin Mary’s life along the Nile, literacy, and love of family. They did not report the most controversial revelations in the diary: Mary’s sexual relationship with Joseph; Jesus’ twin sister, Elizabeth; and the real reasons for the Holy Family’s flight from Palestine after the birth of the twins, chased by Herod’s son and his forces. Justine read of the eight-year duration of the Holy Family’s stay in Old Cairo before moving back to Jerusalem, where Jesus was crucified. And of the Etruscans’ lengthy stopover in Egypt. Thus the Al Ahram headline. How do they know so much?
“Aren’t you going to open it?” asked Guido who, at 10 a.m. on the morning after the press conference, stood in Justine’s recently transformed kitchen near Dante’s home. The ancient casement windows had been pried open and framed with yellow gauze curtains. Daffodils sprang from a clay pot that swayed in the cool morning breeze. He had shown up early wanting coffee.
Guido’s question caused Justine to momentarily abandon her hunt for the granola and eye the special delivery letter from the Vatican that had been lying on her kitchen table for more than an hour. “Can they excommunicate a non-Catholic?” she asked.
“Ah . . . there are many forms of ‘excommunication,’ but if you’re Catholic, chances are you’ll be thrown out of the church.” He walked over to her cabinet, moved a container of whole grain rice, reached in with his large, tanned hand, and pulled out the granola. Opening the refrigerator, he asked, “Milk?” Guido had stayed in town the night before, but not with Justine. He planned to return later that morning to Ferrara to teach a class.
“A little.” Justine pointed toward the pitcher. She hugged him briefly, and stepped back to pick up the letter. It bore an official Vatican stamp and had been delivered by a young man in medieval dress. She held the letter up with both hands, examining it in the light, as though to open it would be to succumb to its command.
Guido impatiently waited for her to open the letter. He was as curious as she. Reaching for two unmatched bowls, he poured a half-cup of granola for her and twice as much for himself, after which he crushed the empty box and placed it in the recycling bin under the sink. After the press conference the day before, he’d decided to stay in town for dinner with the team and give Justine a ride to work the following morning.
“We need to get on the road,” he said, running his hand slowly around the back of her neck and up through her unbrushed hair.
Justine still enjoyed his small gestures of intimacy, although she had made it clear that it wouldn’t go any further. She now felt committed to Amir—whatever that would mean. “Are you about ready?”
“I am. I just need my jacket.” She walked part way across the room, suddenly spun around and demanded, “Give me that.”
He handed her the envelope and she tore it open with trembling hands. She froze.
Guido gently lifted the letter from her hands and read it aloud:
“‘His Holiness Pope Benedict XVI Bishop of Rome and the Apostolic See, The Vatican, Rome, Awards the Grand Cross of the Papal Order of Saint Gregory to Dr. Justine Isabella Jenner, on this day of our Lord, 19 April 2008.’ Impossible,” he exclaimed. “This just isn’t done for a non-Catholic. And a woman?” He sat down.
Justine’s shock turned to excitement. “What does it mean, this Order of Saint Gregory?” She plopped down on a chair next to him, staring at the letter.
“I’m not entirely sure, but I’ve heard that it relates to a person’s special meritorious service to the Church.” He placed his forefinger on her nose and moved it back and forth, savoring the minute intimacy of the moment.
“This is crazy!” She jumped up and began to pace. “Of course we know what this is about. Mary’s diary. Jesus. The Etruscans. But I’m not the most directly responsible for the ultimate find. Amir is.” She turned to the second page of the document. “Ah,” is all she said.
“But you did find the diary originally. And you may be a safer bet in this case: a woman is more sympathetic, less controversial. The Church would hardly give the award to an Egyptian when it has just secured an injunction to keep the diary out of Egyptian hands.”
“So I’m the most likely recipient.” She stood and stared into his eyes, although the gaze was distracted.
“You’ve got it. And being able to declare Jesus Christ is part Etruscan—therefore Italian—would be among the dearest wishes of any Pope,” he said, gazing at Justine with a desire aroused by the fragrance of her lavender shampoo.
“Also quite a distraction from less desirable notoriety—”
“—the child abuse scandals in the States, Ireland, Germany.” He paused as though saddened by his own remark. “Will you accept the award?”
“Will I accept it?” she repeated in a flat tone, lost in reading the details of the award document. She finally looked up. “Should I?”
CHAPTER 37
“A secret’s worth depends on the people from whom it must be kept.”
Carlos Ruiz Zafón, The Shadow of the Wind
WITHIN MINUTES, Guido was making his way back to his office at the University of Ferrara, and Justine was pulling on her running clothes. She called Marco to say she would be late for the planning meeting on the new Etruscan exhibit, a job she had undertaken recently. Working with her father had proven too complicated, although she remained on his team. Stepping into the narrow street, she turned right and began to run toward the east. She had decisions to make.
As Justine’s feet pounded the pavement, she began to review the previous years—what had catapulted her into this place in her life. It had been exactly a year since she’d arrived in Cairo to begin work in the Community Schools for Girls and made her visit to St. Sergius. If she hadn’t picked up that small book at her feet during the earthquake, she would still be working in Egypt. But then she would not know the true story of Mary of Nazareth and the story that would come as a relief to women the world over. The real Mary was a virtuous woman—but not a virgin mother.
But how would she write the story without the translations? There had been three linguists: Ibrahim, Andrea, and Isaac Yardeni, the Israeli scholar. Is he still even alive? How complete are his notes? Does he have a copy?
Her thoughts turned to Amir and Il Pero. His se
xuality often overpowered her, his character and spirit enchanted her. What would Isabella do? While she was a modern woman at heart, Isabella had been bound tightly by two cultures: an Egyptian in the Italian world of the 1920s. Could she even find parallels in their two lives? Yet she also knew that women were more alike than different—hadn’t she discovered that in the pages of Mary’s diary? And Sappho’s poetry, a testament to our commonalities. For each of us, desire and intellect pushes at the constraints of culture.
Justine awakened from her musings just in time to avoid the rearview mirror on a parked Mercedes. She’d nearly had her head lopped off; she pictured it rolling down the busy thoroughfare. Stopping on the curb and panting, she glanced into the mirror and noticed a man she’d seen cross the previous square. Was he was following her? Yes! But with distance enough so she couldn’t make out his face. Who . . . who is it??
The man slowly but steadily gained on her, enough so that she now recognized him. Justine picked up her pace for the next block, weaving in and out of heavy foot traffic, behind cyclists, Vespas cutting in and out. Ahead, a city bus bound for Santa Maria lumbered carelessly down the middle of the street.
Justine veered in front of the bus, so close that her left shoulder touched the immense front fender. Then she heard it. A heavy thud, human screams blending with screeching wheels. She stopped and turned around, walking back toward the inanimate body. She stared at the dead man, took out her iPhone, and called 118 for emergency medical services. Her breathing was labored; she could hear her heart beating as though it would escape from her chest. She had killed a man. Not personally, but not entirely accidentally, either. Hadn’t she just wanted to lose him—to scare him off?
Justine turned back toward her apartment, then pivoted her body toward Fiesole and began to run. For fifteen minutes she continued alongside congested traffic, ducking under overhanging tree limbs on the four-mile uphill journey. Turning right onto the short stretch of Largo de Vinci at the bottom of the Fiesole hillside, Justine ran close to the high stone wall until she reached the back door of her mother’s home.
She was surprised to find her father standing comfortably at the kitchen window with a coffee cup in hand, his thick hair uncombed and shirt un-tucked. Her mother stood near the stove dodging bacon sizzle. Both were equally startled to see their daughter enter the back door, although they didn’t allow themselves to show it.
Nonplussed, Lucrezia threw her daughter a hand towel. Justine caught the towel in midair and began to dry her hair with one hand. Both parents looked up expectantly. Justine regarded their non-expressive faces closely.
“I just killed a man,” she confessed.
Her parents were speechless. Finally, her father rose and walked toward his daughter, taking her in his arms.
Justine began to shake, then she let her body crumple into sobs while her father held her.
Several moments passed before her mother took her by the shoulders and helped her into a chair. Lucrezia kneeled in front of her daughter. “Tell us about it.”
Justine slowly described her distracted run through Florence, being followed, veering in front of the bus. The man’s body. “I should have stayed to identify the body. I realize that now.”
“You knew him? Who?” her father asked.
“Donatello,” is all she said.
Morgan and Lucrezia stared at each other. He released a low whistle, as though expelling air caught in his lungs. “I notified the Carabinieri when you told me he was mixed up with Blackburn. And probably the Mafia. They still harbor the desire, you know, to project the Etruscans as the great warriors and founders of Rome. A goddess culture would certainly not sit well with them. But I’m more practical than that. There had to be money involved.” He paused, as though reviewing the steps leading up to this moment. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks, Dad, but I’d prefer to handle it myself.” He gave a short nod. Justine took her cup of tea and stood gazing out the French doors, as though in a trance. Breathing deeply, she felt energy revitalizing her arms, her legs. Regaining her composure, she turned around and pulled the Vatican letter from her pouch and gave it to her mother, who read it in silence and handed it on to Morgan.
She was prepared for her mother to be skeptical and her father to be practical. Perhaps they would surprise her.
“What does Guido think?” Lucrezia asked.
Justine was caught off guard; her mother had no reason to assume that she was with Guido this morning. “He thinks I should accept,” she said simply. “What do you think?”
“I don’t trust them,” began her mother, standing and walking around the counter to turn off the fire under the popping bacon, now burnt. “But then that won’t surprise you. I can’t understand their motivation. Since the injunction, they already have access to the diary—how will this help?”
“A distraction? An extended hand to America? Women? A display of modernism by appearing to accept the science verifying the discovery?” Morgan pressed his large frame against the south wall, and grew quiet as he pondered his own words. “But your thoughts are more sinister, Creta,” he said invitingly.
Lucrezia’s thin eyebrows moved together, her dark eyes coming to rest on her ex-husband’s face. She pursed her lips. “Sinister? Absolutely. They’ve always got something up their flowing sleeves . . .”
Justine interrupted their speculations. The run could have cleared her head, although it was mottled by Donatello’s death. “Here’s how I see it. The Vatican could interpret my acceptance as supporting the seizure of the diary. An artifact that rightly belongs to Egypt. On the other hand, the award also means the Vatican is willing to risk going public with the existence of the diary, possibly ensuring two things: making it obvious they possess an Egyptian artifact and legitimizing the diary—codex—as an accurate historical document. I can’t understand why the Vatican would want to do either.”
“Astute, my dear. Why, indeed?” said Morgan, pulling his buckskin boots on over his stockinged feet.
Justine stared at her father’s feet for several moments, then turned her gaze toward her mother, who had returned to her breakfast tasks. “What are the implications of a refusal?”
“A refusal would be a serious affront to the Church and to Italy, I’m afraid,” admitted Lucrezia, gripping three plates so hard that her knuckles were turning pale. “The consequences might not be worth taking an honorable stand. Although you know my attitude: spit in their eye.”
“I think your mother is right—with her first statement, at least. It’s difficult to anticipate the results of a refusal. However, your integrity may require nothing less.”
Justine winced at the Solomon’s choice before her. Slowly removing her running shoes, she walked further into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of lukewarm coffee. She turned and faced her parents. “I have another tragic story to tell you.” She took a sip of her coffee, deciding how to start.
Her parents stared, cups suspended in midair. Her mother plopped down on a kitchen chair as though to ask, “What now?”
She told them about Andrea. How she’d made the connection with Blackburn. Her visit to the Foundation. Her suspicions confirmed by e-mail, which she now extracted from her pants pocket. Justine handed the crumpled page to her mother.
Lucrezia slowly smoothed the message on the kitchen table, Morgan leaning over her shoulder. As she read, her eyes grew moist, the linings darkened into deep pink. She began to cry.
Morgan’s body and face muscles tightened, eyelids narrowed. They both looked up.
“It can’t be true,” Lucrezia cried. “I’ve known and loved Andrea for twenty years, and all the while . . .”
“I knew there was something too mysterious, too exotic about her.” Morgan straightened and stared out the window.
Justine imagined that her father had been desperate to find a credible reason why Andrea dumped him. That there had to be something wrong with her.
“And then there’s the codex tra
nslations,” Justine began.
Morgan turned toward his daughter, sternness flashing through his eyes, a lion ready to protect his daughter. “The codex translations?”
Justine reminded her parents that there were three major linguists involved: Ibrahim, who was dead; Andrea, who was inaccessible; and Isaac Yardeni, the elderly Israeli. “And I don’t even know if he is alive.”
“I know Yardeni. Good man. But I’ve heard that he’s been ill . . .”
“I think I have a solution—to the translation issue, at least. I have to try,” she said finally. Sliding onto the long bench, Justine placed her arm around her mother’s shoulder and hugged her while she trembled, seeming to shrink in upon herself. Justine held her for several moments, then asked softly, “May I use your computer?”
CHAPTER 38
“It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend.”
—William Blake
JUSTINE’S IPHONE RANG, announcing “Unknown Caller.” While she didn’t usually answer an unknown caller, she was waiting—but waiting for what?
“Justine?” the aging voice asked.
“Isaac? How are you?” She put the phone on speaker, leaned against the wall of her apartment, and slid down to the floor.
“Not well, I’m afraid. An old man, ready for his maker. But I have something to tell you, and should have done it months ago. Before Ibrahim died, he sent me the translations of the codex. And a summary to the communication minister, I believe.”
Al Ahram.
“He knew he was in danger,” Isaac continued slowly. “He had been interrogated, told them nothing, but returned home a beaten man.”
It was almost too much to process. Tears burst onto Justine’s flushed face.
“Justine, are you there?” Isaac nearly shouted into the phone.
The Italian Letters: A Novel (The Justine Trilogy Book 2) Page 26
