Il Firenze, April 14, 2008. Berlusconi re-elected Prime Minister. Silvio Berlusconi, uniting Forze Italia and The People of Freedom parties, will form a government with a gain of 141 seats in the Senate and Chamber of Deputies. Democratic Party candidate Walter Veltroni, the celebrity mayor of Rome, trailed by nearly 140 seats. Casini, with the Union of the Centre, lost 21 seats, leaving only 39 total seats under the control of the Christian-Democratic coalition. The election was called when the government of Romano Prodi fell in February 2008 and the temporary appointment of Franco Marini proved unsuccessful.
“Did you know this guy Blackburn? The one whose body was found near Piazza Navona?” Riccardo asked. He was wearing a T-shirt supporting Veltroni and reading La Repubblica while sitting on the floor of Justine’s apartment. His attention was diverted regularly by the arrival and departure of the glass elevator attached to Dante’s house.
Justine was curled up on the couch in her pink pajamas reading the International Herald Tribune. She and Riccardo had discovered the item on the death of Robert Blackburn at nearly the same time.
Riccardo detected Justine’s emotional shift. “Did you know him?” he asked again.
“Oh . . . no, not really.”
He regarded her expectantly. “Meaning?”
“We’ve had several unexpected encounters in Italy. At least I didn’t expect them—I’m sure he planned them. Blackburn was remarkably intelligent, charming, and totally amoral. I will miss him, in a way.” She grew quiet.
Riccardo waited. Since his near-death experience in Cerveteri, he and Justine had become close friends. They didn’t need to exchange words to communicate.
Justine placed the Tribune on the coffee table and sat back into a mound of soft, gold pillows. “And then there is Andrea. I don’t know how she’ll take Blackburn’s death.”
Riccardo raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Andrea? How would this concern her?”
Justine told him the whole story. Her history with Blackburn, involvement with the Foundation. Her e-mail. She raised her palms as if to say, “There you have it.” A feeling of relief flowed through her. She was shedding secrets.
“Incredible. Have you told Amir—your mother? Your father? The authorities?”
“I’ve told Amir, but not my parents. They will both be disappointed and hurt that Andrea is not the person they thought her to be. Will the authorities do anything, even if I turn her in?”
“Probably not. Depends on their relationship with the Foundation and whether it would serve the purposes of the Vatican to bring Andrea to justice now that Blackburn is gone.”
She shifted her posture and stood up, walking back and forth across the room to realign her thinking. “That’s what Miranda said. ‘Probably not.’”
He grinned. “If you live in Italy long enough you absorb a certain form of disillusionment, a resignation to non-action, letting justice slip away like a Chekhov play.” He glanced at the elevator moving upward as he rose and moved to the couch, patting the space beside him invitingly.
She didn’t answer immediately, but moved back to the couch and sat beside him, reaching out to push on the end of his patrician nose. “You told me in the lead-up to the trial that justice here is personal. So, if justice is achieved, it’s through individual pursuit? Vigilantism?”
“Or redefining your notion of ‘justice.’ Either walk away or define it more narrowly. Like: ‘Was anyone hurt?’ The Mafia idea of justice ensures loyalty and family—all else is chatter,” he said, pulling on one of her pigtails.
“What would you do?” She smiled, thoughtful.
Riccardo paused and drew his eyebrows together into that familiar shelf. “I guess I would be as straightforward as possible. Tell your parents. Write to the Foundation. Andrea has a lot to lose, even without prison time.”
“Tell the authorities—whomever they might be?”
“Probably not . . .”
She stared fully into Riccardo’s black eyes; a flicker of pain quickly washed across her face before her left eyebrow arched, a devilish expression replacing the pain as she tented her long fingers and drew them to her lips.
“I know that look. What are you up to?” He stood up and took her hand, pulling her into his arms. “Let’s tango.”
CHAPTER 35
Out of lemon flowers loosed on the moonlight, love’s lashed and insatiable essences . . .
—Pablo Neruda, excerpt from Ode to a Lemon
JUSTINE AND AMIR sat together on the still-warm grass, watching the evening sky at Miranda and William Taxis’s family farmhouse, Il Pero. He planned to leave for Cairo the following afternoon; she would take him to the Florence airport on her way back to her apartment. For now she began to weave a story.
“One evening,” she said, filling her lungs with air so buoyant that she felt herself being lifted, her body touching lightly on the land, “the Etruscan goddess Menrva, yearning for the beauty of her Motherland, reached for her brush and, dipping it into a well of daffodils and cherries, began to paint the horizon.” Her white cotton blouse ruffled in the slight breeze, the collar brushing against her tan cheek.
“And her sister, Uni,” continued Amir, sitting with his arm around Justine, “chose cinnamon and charcoal, crimson and wine, painting with wild flourishes, her flaxen hair flying through the evening sky . . . the Etruscan sky.” Inquisitive sunflowers bent randomly with the gentle gusts of wind.
“Ah,” said Justine with soft laughter, her eyes filled with desire as she ran her fingers around the inside of his collar, “The sky welcomed their offers of beauty, but said, ‘All things are temporary, my lovely friends,’ as she dropped her ochre orb beneath the horizon and turned the sky to pumpkin.”
Amir took her face in his hands, kissing her gently on the lips. “This is an Etruscan evening, my lovely, filled with mystique. The sacred evening when ancient lovers rediscover each other and know they are fated to be together for eternity.”
Justine inhaled deeply, suddenly.
They stood and embraced for several moments, their shadows stretching toward the blood-red horizon.
As darkness fell, the two poets silently made their way back to the main house for dinner with Miranda and William.
Justine and Amir stepped through the mammoth wooden door into the main house and took the winding stairs to the loft at the top of the vast grey stone cavity. As though suspended in midair inside a cavern, the special suite hung like a stalactite from the ceiling. A bed with a hanging canopy of mosquito netting and a white linen coverlet occupied the middle of the small room. An oversized tub made from a wine barrel sat near the window. Between the two, an antique dresser and wall hooks held the few items of clothing they had packed at the last moment.
The couple sat on the bed and raised their arms dreamily as they lowered themselves back onto the bed, laughing from the pure joy of the evening, still young, still ripe for pleasure. They lay still, eyes holding each other’s, breathing deeply in rhythm. Amir rolled over onto Justine, reaching for her extended arm, and pressed his fingers into hers while he kissed her lips lightly, her eyes, her neck. They made love languidly, savoring each touch, each sensation. She released control of the question of their future together and indulged in the joy of the moment.
Baron William Taxis opened the vast royal banquet room for the occasion. Haunting in its vastness, the stone fireplace, large enough to accommodate four people standing at full height, was adorned with a crossed Valiant Armoury Celtic sword and a Viking Francisca Axe. Huge iron chandeliers about the room held forty-nine candles, washed soft light onto the wooden table long enough for King Arthur’s men. Miranda had covered it in white linen.
In Tuscany for their daughter’s spring vacation, Adriano Panatta and his wife Gabriella had driven the thirty minutes from their estate near Cortona to Il Pero for the evening. The couples had met at the Saturday market in Arezzo.
As was fitting for their elegant surroundings, Justine and Amir dressed for dinner. On her simple
black cocktail dress Justine had pinned an antique golden locket containing a picture of her Grandmother Laurence as a girl. Amir had chosen a tan sports jacket, a white shirt, and a burgundy ascot. Hand in hand, they made their way down the stairs, through the farmhouse, and up another set of stairs to the royal banquet room.
Individual salads of roasted carrots and beets tossed with walnuts, blood oranges, arugula, and a citrus vinaigrette sat before them. It was a recipe drawn from The Lake House Cookbook, by Trudie Styler—Sting’s wife—a gift from guests on another visit. Gabriella looked down at her salad, glanced up, and caught Miranda’s eyes. They both grinned.
“How did you come by your name—and your professional name, Adriano?” asked Amir, for even Egyptians knew that Adriano Panatta had been a renowned tennis player—but that didn’t explain “Leone,” the lion. Amir asked the question that must have been asked a thousand times before.
Adriano graciously responded, a fresh answer to an old question. “My parents were avid tennis players, and since our family name was Panatta, they named me after the famous tennis king—who just happened to win the French Open the year I was born. But my father often referred to me as the Little Leone because I had a full head of wild hair. Then, when I was just getting started in the music business, Amir, I decided to use only my nickname, Leone. Along with Sting and Bono—Madonna—single names had become the rage. While young people today rarely know of the tennis giant, a leone, a lion—everyone can imagine this majestic image.”
“And now you’re the most famous Italian recording star today,” observed Justine, tilting her head and smiling broadly. “No longer a little leone.”
“Sadly so, after the recent death of my friend Luciano,” replied Adriano, giving Justine an enigmatic smile.
“What was it like . . . singing with Pavarotti?” she asked.
“Sublime. He was so relaxed, larger than life. Luciano embraced his voice as a gift from God and was dismayed when it began to abandon him.” Adriano held her glance for several appreciative moments before turning to William, fine lines of grief registered on his face, even a year on since Pavarotti’s death. “And what do we have here, Baron?”
“Frescobaldi Lamaione,” he said, holding the glass to permit the newly lit fire to evoke a brilliant ruby glow. “A hint of tobacco, clove, cinnamon . . .”
“. . . a generous weave of tannins, not too much acidity,” offered Amir, to Justine’s surprise. Egyptians rarely had experience with fine wines.
“I’m fond of the fruitiness, can even forgive the tobacco leaf,” added Gabriella, her blond hair lightly brushing a collar of lavender linen. Justine thought she looked sophisticated, but also delicate.
“We discovered this bottle of rubies when I asked our neighbor to give me advice on our vines. Glad you like it,” said William, handing the bottle to Adriano so he could examine the label.
“Why don’t you tell us about Il Tuscan?” asked Miranda. “Still picking your own olives?”
“I find it therapeutic living here, although we’re not here often enough to keep me wholly sane. Gabriella’s commitment to running does that.” The couple exchanged glances suggesting that nearly twenty years of marriage and separate, demanding careers had not dampened the romance between them.
Justine had the fleeting sense of being a voyeur, a witness to an intimacy that warmed and pleased her. She turned to Amir and found him looking at her. They both smiled at the same time, then she picked up her fork and plunged into the inviting salad.
“I saw an Etruscan wall near your vines,” said Amir, turning to William. “Quite a find. I would hope someday to have some land and a few walls of my own, but I’m not sure where. Someplace in the Nile Delta, I suppose.”
Justine winced.
“We do cherish those walls,” said Miranda, noticing Justine’s reaction. Clearly, the couple had decisions to make. “We’re reminded every day of the thousands of years that these generous lands have been expected to offer up treasures to intruders. Amazing, but hardly a sustainable practice.”
“You’ve used the magic word, Miranda,” said Gabriella. “I wish such respect for sustainable land was universal. The degradation of the environment is an international crisis. I’m not at all sure that the betrayal of the earth can be slowed enough to save our planet. Or that the betrayal of women can be rectified.”
“As you may know,” interjected Adriano, evident pride washing over his face as he watched his wife, “Gabriella has been working with the UN on a number of issues. She founded Women’s World nearly twenty years ago.”
“We started the foundation,” Gabriella corrected. “He’s so modest. The work is satisfying, even if progress is slow. We’re making inroads with the rights and safety of women in many places, including the recent tragedies in Guatemala and the Congo, where rape is often used as a weapon of war.”
“Me? Modest? What an accusation,” Adriano teased, turning his attention to the hosts. Adriano’s sinewy physique was tanned, and his full head of black hair framed a disciplined face with prominent cheekbones and a square jaw. “Tell me about this dish, Miranda. The sauce on this delicious branzino, or sea bass as you English call it—a family secret?” His intense, dark eyes met Miranda’s.
“Not at all,” she said. “It’s a simple artichoke caponata—artichokes bathed in white wine, tomatoes, olives, and pine nuts—all lovely Italian ingredients.”
Justine watched Amir discreetly now. As he ate. As he conversed with William or Adriano. His classless strength, confident shoulders, hands that claimed the air as he spoke. He was comfortable in his skin. Would it be possible to have the kind of relationship with Amir that Adriano and Gabriella appear to have? Yet his comment about the Nile Delta troubles me.
“What do you know about these Etruscans, Amir?” William asked. “Where did they come from? Mythology is so rampant here it’s hard to get a straight answer.” Side conversations ceased as all eyes came to rest on Amir.
“Your timing is excellent, William. We,” he said, motioning toward Justine to include her in the response, “do have some new information about those rascals—isn’t that true, Justine?”
Justine nodded gratefully and extended her open hand by way of invitation. “You tell the story . . .”
Bowing toward Justine, he began, “Well, our story started with an Icelandic volcano . . .” For the next ten minutes Amir spun a captivating narrative of the tomb of the two sisters; the destruction of crops by volcanic ash, causing the Etruscans to leave Lydia; their time in Egypt; their journey to the peninsula that is now Italy. The ideas they brought with them. The goddess culture. The other diners were enthralled and astounded.
“Etruscans can now take their rightful place alongside the Romans,” exclaimed William, turning toward his wife. “And land with Etruscan walls will increase in value. We’d better reassess our investments.”
“To the Etruscans!” declared Adriano, lifting his glass to lead a toast. The others followed. “Tomorrow I’ll walk our acreage in search of Etruscan remains.”
“All 800 acres?” Gabriella teased, “We’d better run.” Turning to Amir, she asked, “Then D.H. Lawrence may have been right?”
Justine looked up in surprise. “What do you mean—Lawrence was right?” she asked innocently, without waiting for Amir to respond. Miranda stared knowingly at Justine.
“Well,” continued Gabriella, directing her comments to Justine. “Lawrence speculated about the origins and culture of the Etruscans, the role of women, their view of death. Not the warriors that the fascists would have liked. Isn’t that true?”
As though to give Justine time to respond, Miranda replied simply, “My great-grandfather knew Lawrence, at least for a short time in Rome. They were both there during the early days of Mussolini.” She passed the basket of warm breads she had made especially for the American in their midst. “At first Lawrence was an admirer of the dictator, but he became disillusioned when he saw what he was up to. My great-grandfather
spoke of a girl, a daughter . . .”
“A daughter?” Justine nearly whispered. “But Lawrence had no children, none that we know of . . .” The fire and chandeliers gave her skin the tone of alabaster white. She fell silent.
“It was an off-handed comment, Justine, rather hush-hush, I believe. Perhaps only a rumor, not to be taken seriously.” Miranda gazed at her visitors one by one, fully noting that Justine looked pale and distracted. She would speak to her later; in the moment, though, she could appreciate the energy each guest brought to her table, as though to express, This is turning out to be a rather remarkable Etruscan evening.
Justine and Amir gazed at each other, eyes locking in desire. She knew that Amir would be leaving tomorrow for Cairo and she had no idea whether or not he would return.
As dinner drew to a close, Adriano began to hum the melody to “Fields of Gold.” William picked up his guitar and the others moved wordlessly to sit on small upright logs near the fire. April evenings in the country could still be chilly.
CHAPTER 36
APRIL 19, 2008
La Repubblica, Rome—Gesù Cristo è etrusco
New York Times—Speculation: Jesus of Nazareth is Etruscan
Le Monde, Paris—Jésus, le Christ est étrusque.
San Francisco Chronicle—Jesus Etruscan??
Al Ahram, English version, Cairo—Christian Prophet is Egyptian
ALTHOUGH THE TEAM should not have been surprised, they were met with crowds of flashing cameras, reporters edging each other out, chaos. Crowds outside held up conflicting placards. The persistent theme: Jesus is Italian!! We were right all along! Jesus lives in the Vatican!!
The Italian Letters Page 25
