The Italian Letters

by Linda Lambert

  “Toda rabah. Thank you, I appreciate your compassion. Always have.” Isaac started to cough.

  “If there is anything I can do. Do you have some help?”

  “My daughter is with me.” He paused. “Shall I send them to you?”

  “Yes, thank you. I would be so appreciative.” Justine sat up straight, alert.

  “Ibrahim sent me everything before he was killed. His notes, all of his translations, photographs.”

  “Do you have a pen?”

  “Just a moment.” His daughter came on the line.

  “I’m ready to write down your address, Justine.”

  She gave Rachel her address. “Please, take good care of your dear father. Lehitraot.”

  Justine sat still for several moments, allowing herself to be mesmerized by the lift moving up and down on the side of Dante’s house. She was startled out of her reverie by a sharp knock. She got up and walked to the front door.

  “Andrea!” Justine nearly cried. This was the last person she expected to see.

  There she stood, as beautiful as ever, half-bangs over her high forehead, yet the lines around her mouth were deepened, and her eyes revealed profound sorrow. “May I come in?”

  Wordlessly, Justine stepped aside and let her enter. They stared at one another as though remembrances of their friendship were passing between them, filling the quiet space. Several moments passed.

  “Why are you here?” Justine finally asked. She didn’t ask Andrea to sit down.

  “I know this is too late—too late for our relationship, too late to make amends.”

  “Yes it is, Andrea. What do you have to say?”

  “You know that Blackburn is dead?”

  Justine nodded.

  “I loved him, Justine, first as a lover, then as a friend and mentor.”

  “Sounds like Ibrahim, doesn’t it?” Justine charged. “Lover, mentor, father. One man fulfilling all of your needs.” She was unforgiving. “Is that where you were headed with my father?”

  Andrea flinched, her face reddened, eyes darting across the room. She clearly hadn’t seen the parallels. Finally, “I was afraid I was losing your mother’s friendship. That’s why I broke off my affair with your dad.”

  “I see. A little charity work?”

  “Justine, can’t you reconsider? Trust me again? I’ve resigned my work with the Foundation.” She was pleading.

  “I need to know, Andrea. Why did you confess in writing? In your e-mail?”

  Andrea spoke softly, pushing her bangs away from her forehead like a timid child. “I trusted that you wouldn’t hurt me.”

  Justine gulped, but was not derailed. It was too late for amends. Besides, I’m probably being manipulated again. “Where are the translations? The original codex?”

  “The codex is with the Foundation. The translations are right here.” She patted her briefcase.

  Justine arched an eyebrow and drew her long fingers close to her lips. Her stare was steely. “Why was Blackburn killed?” She needed to fill in the gaps, put the puzzle together.

  Andrea paused long enough to sit down, perspiration making her sculptured face glisten. “Robert had made a Faustian bargain.”

  “With the Mafia?”

  Andrea nodded. “He was never satisfied—lived a fashionable life—always wanting more. I assume that he crossed them in some way. He never included me in the seamier side of his life.” She paused and stared at the glass elevator for several moments. Up and down, up and down. “Could you ever trust me again?”

  Justine gazed at Andrea with a mix of pity and affection and pondered her agreement with Isaac. Did she even need Andrea’s translations, sitting within touch? She was confident that Isaac’s daughter would send his notes and Ibrahim’s translations. But what condition would they be in? Could she be sure that they wouldn’t be intercepted? She shook her head to clear it. “Trusting you again is out of the question. As I’m sure it is for my parents, and Amir as well. We have all been deeply wounded by your betrayal.” Justine decided right then that this abandonment, coupled with others in Andrea’s life, was enough punishment. She would not report to the Carabinieri, nor send her letter to the Foundation. Not that pursuing a legal path would result in any satisfying resolution. We may never know the whole story . . . About Donatello, Blackburn . . .

  Andrea gazed at Justine, eyes inflamed, and barely nodded before she turned and walked toward the door, opening it without further words.

  Justine watched her go. Her chest ached as though she had run up a steep hill without stopping. She turned back toward her living room and glanced down. Andrea’s briefcase sat where she had stood.

  CHAPTER 39

  “In a time of deceit telling the truth is a revolutionary act.”

  —George Orwell

  JUSTINE STOOD STARING from just inside the Chapel door—behind her, her parents, and Amir, who had just flown in from Cairo. For a couple of days, he claimed. Guido was unable to attend, although she had invited him. He had read and applauded Justine’s speech outline.

  She scanned the ceiling, swarming with frescos of Christian dramas: Genesis, the creation of the universe, Adam and Eve’s expulsion from the Garden, the cataclysmic finality of the Last Judgment, the spirited lives of Moses and Jesus. The scenes tiered in three massive layers nine stories in all, divided by horizontal cornices, the lowest scenes sketched into visual narrative tapestries. At the altar, a fresco by Perugino depicted the Virgin of the Assumption, to whom the chapel was dedicated. Effigies of early popes, from the greatest of papal persecution, stared ominously from niches.

  Such are the traditional theatrics on stage in the Quattrocentro interior of the Sistine Chapel. Each sublime panel is electrified with life, animated with Biblical characters performing God’s deeds, which take on new proportions depending on where each gazer stands in the vast room. A visitor to the Chapel may turn around quickly, startled by the illusion that one of these actors of faith is following him. Although these lively wall paintings were executed by many artists, including Perugino, Botticelli, and an exquisite star-flung sky by Piero Matteo d’Amelia, the room is considered chiefly the creation of Michelangelo. Even so, his Genesis disappoints many, for, like Mona Lisa in the Louvre, it is smaller than one would imagine and is not readily found, even though it is on the ceiling in the middle of the room. Yet as a woman who had last been there as a young girl, Justine found the Sistine Chapel a wonder to behold.

  Lowering her eyes, she observed the Reverend Angelo Lombardi, the Vatican’s Director of Communication and Protocol, making his way toward them. Behind him were members of the press, with cameras held discreetly at their sides. Justine made the appropriate introductions to Reverend Lombardi, whom she had met earlier in the day and who was now charged with leading the guests of honor across the marble mosaic floor toward an elaborate screen and the seated Pope Benedict XVI. The pontiff’s snow-white hair fluttered from under a towering white and gold brocade mitra that appeared too heavy for such an elderly man. His matching cape was clasped together by a golden broach, a cross dangling from his chest. On either side of the Holy See, two middle-aged men in cherry red woolen gowns overlaid with white linen smocks, appearing ready to catch the hat, or the man himself, if need be.

  “Your Holiness,” said Justine, bowing deeply and shaking his extended hand, cool as untended clay. She looked directly into his clear, piercing eyes, and he responded, “Thank you, my child, for bringing the words of the Mother of God to us.” She smiled, as did he. For a moment, she felt the sensation that there was a secret connection between them; what that meant she couldn’t fathom.

  The moment passed and the pontiff turned toward Morgan Jenner: “I know of your work, Dr. Jenner. Tell me about Cerveteri . . .”

  Respectfully retreating from the private conversation, Reverend Lombardi nodded to Justine, indicating an end to the formalities and the invitation to talk privately. She caught her mother’s attention and then walked alone with the Reverend t
o the center of the great room.

  “That is quite a discovery you’ve made, Dr. Jenner,” he said stiffly. “You must know that the Church is most grateful that such a treasure was unearthed. And the Italian heritage of the Mother of God and her Son is without price.”

  “Thank you, Reverend Lombardi. I was astounded myself. The Blessed Mary is a historically, as well as religiously, significant leader. Lombardi’s smile is artful and practiced, she thought. Patronizing and sardonic as well.

  “We have never thought of the Mother of God in that regard, Dr. Jenner,” he said, his voice growing tense. He paused for gravitas, and to segue to a new subject. “You know of our injunction against the Mycenae Foundation.”

  Ah, here it comes. She nodded.

  “. . . Amazing claims in this codex. Yet we cannot deny the scientific confirmation of its physical origin. Such a treasured artifact belongs in the Vatican.”

  “I detect a somewhat cynical attitude toward the intention of the codex, yet I am attempting to remain neutral in regard to the injunction. Although I do have a personal preference for its eventual residence.”

  “You may assume that I—and my colleagues within the Church—take exception to a few of the claims. Yet we are overcome with pleasure in regard to Her direct relationship to Italians. That confirms the wisdom—long denied—of the placement of the Holy Church here, rather than Constantinople. Further, Catholics identify with her loss and take comfort in her love, which is a love only a woman can express.”

  “And yet the Church accords lesser authority to women than men . . . In any case, I see nothing in the diary that would detract from Mary’s devoutness.”

  “The Holy Mother offers more than devotion. She is no ordinary woman. The Mother of God is a symbol of unattainable perfection. That makes her a saint. People revere what they themselves cannot achieve.”

  Justine’s eyes once again sought the Genesis scene on the ceiling. God reaches out to Adam, below his feet is Eve. “An interesting observation, Reverend. It could also be said that humans revere achievement, often to the detriment of others.”

  “You will understand that we would not want to compromise the Mother of God’s role in the Church. We feel that some information in her diary need not be made public.”

  Justine smiled with an innocence that could be interpreted as assent.

  The Reverend examined her face closely, bowed with utmost courtesy and said, “If you’ll excuse me.” Assured of his victory, he turned and walked across the room toward a gathering of men in scarlet robes, leaving Justine standing alone in the middle of the Sistine Chapel.

  She turned to observe American Ambassador Ronald Spogli approaching. A man taller by a few inches than Justine, with thinning hair. He wore a gray suit subtly enlivened by a lavender tie. Dark, full eyebrows dominated his otherwise pallid complexion. He smiled and extended his hand, which Justine clasped warmly.

  “Great to see you again, Dr. Jenner. Washington is most pleased that you are accepting this award from the Vatican.” He held his smile while his eyes, already close together, appeared to move closer beneath those bushy eyebrows. “We can use a little reprieve from the recent tensions. These unfortunate scandals have colored the waters between the United States and the Church.”

  “I’m gratified that Washington is pleased, Mr. Ambassador. I’m aware that our relationship with Italy has improved in the last few years,” she said, stepping closer to heighten the intimacy of her remarks. “You are to be congratulated.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Jenner. If I’ve had a small hand in creating closer business and military relationships, I am most grateful for the opportunity. We have seen some major breakthroughs in economic development here. More entrepreneurship. We’re optimistic that Italy is once again becoming an important partner. It has the world’s seventh-largest economy, you know.”

  Justine hated to dampen his enthusiasm, but she needed to prepare him. “I should tell you that my acceptance speech is unlikely to please the Vatican.” She smiled broadly as though to soften the effect of her words.

  The Ambassador stared at her. “Should I worry?” he asked, forcing a smile of his own.

  “Perhaps so,” she admitted, placing her hand on his gray cashmere sleeve.

  As Justine walked toward her parents, who were seated in the front row of chairs set up for the occasion, she saw the Pope rise from his throne-like chair and move slowly toward the lectern near the marble screen. Reverend Lombardi approached Justine once again, and they walked toward the stage. Pope Benedict XVI, surrounded by the gathering of gowns, nodded slightly toward Justine and stepped forward, standing just to the right of the lectern, now occupied by Cardinal Benedetto.

  After welcoming the few dozen guests in the room and establishing the purpose of the proceedings, the cardinal began, “It is my honor, on behalf of the Holy See and the Holy Church, to present the Grand Cross of the Papal Order of Saint Gregory to Dr. Justine Isabella Jenner, esteemed American anthropologist, in recognition of her discovery of the sacred diary of the Virgin Mary, Holy Mother of God.” Benedetto was triumphant, turning his best side to the flashing cameras. It had been his idea to make this unusual award to the American woman. A gesture toward the Americans was useful, the cardinal had reasoned.

  Justine had been coached to step forward and accept the award from Pope Benedict, his powdered, fleshy face now non-expressive. Yet as he presented the award, his aging eyes registered mild affection. Much taller than the pontiff, Justine bent her head low so that the Grand Cross could be placed around her neck. She reached up and grasped the cross, holding it tight for few moments while observing the pontiff’s pointed red shoes.

  Justine graciously thanked the pontiff and turned toward the cardinal, whose huge, hanging golden cross glistened in the camera flashes. “May I say a few words in appreciation?” she asked.

  Although caught off guard by her unexpected request, Cardinal Benedetto nodded his permission, comforted by the knowledge relayed by the Reverend that Dr. Jenner understood the vital role of the Holy Mother within the Church.

  “Thank you,” she said, stepping forward and placing both hands on the lower edges of the lectern erected near Mino da Fiesole’s carved pulpit. She slowly scanned the room. Since her words were being broadcast, most members of the press stood a respectful distance away, although photographers had edged forward, eager to capture the image of the first American woman to speak in the Sistine Chapel. The stunning young woman in sapphire silk would make good copy the next day for La Repubblica, The International Herald Tribune, and the thousands of papers served by Reuters.

  “First, I would like to thank the Holy See and the Holy Church for this great honor, and recognize a few of the special guests in this remarkable chapel—Ambassador Spogli and his wife, Rebecca; my parents, Lucrezia and Morgan Jenner; and my colleague, Amir El Shabry, the Egyptian archeologist most responsible for identifying the link between Mary of Nazareth and the Etruscans.” All eyes turned momentarily toward Amir, press members silently shuffling for space to situate themselves closer to the Egyptian archeologist.

  “In 1924,” she continued, “my great-great-grandfather, The Honorable Baraka Mohammed Hassouna, was most honored to come to Rome as the Egyptian Ambassador to the Vatican. With him were my great-great-grandmother, Samira Hassouna, and their daughter, Isabella, my namesake. I stand before you today, the daughter of an Egyptian mother and American father, with great love and respect for Italy. So it is with great humility and pleasure that I accept the coveted Grand Cross of the Papal Order of Saint Gregory awarded in the name of the noble and humble physician of the soul who found peace in service to others. I honor this man who led an austere life despite his station in life and in the Church.

  “Curiosity about and admiration for Saint Mary led me on a path that resulted in the discovery of her diary under Saint Sergius Church in Old Cairo on April 12, 2007, during a major earthquake. With this ancient codex, or diary, we discovered the Holy Mother�
�s own voice and reflections, telling all of us more than we’d known about this remarkable woman of intellect and compassion. This diary is a testament to her efforts to teach the values of humanity and tolerance to Jesus.” The pontiff shifted uncomfortably in his chair. According to Catholic theology, Jesus had no need to be taught these values, for he himself was always the teacher. The silence in the room felt impenetrable, as though seeking to resist the strain that was forthcoming.

  “I have had the unparalleled privilege of learning some of the deepest desires of Saint Mary through the pages of her diary.” Justine paused, noting the Reverend’s sharp intake of breath. “The desires of Mary for women are evident . . . that they learn to read, to seek knowledge and freedom, to express their wisdom in raising their children. Taught by her Grandmother Faustina that inequalities are the source of evil, Mary, I am sure, would wish women to have equitable standing within the Church and society. Such standing would honor the life of Saint Mary. I am hopeful that the Church will continue to honor her by returning the coveted diary to its country of origin.”

  The collected gasp from the cluster of men to her right was audible across the room. “Once again,” Justine continued with unwavering confidence, “I thank you, your Excellency, for this incomparable honor.”

  As Justine turned toward the pontiff, she noted that a flicker of fear moved rapidly through his eyes. Scattered applause traveled from sections of the room, pockets of silence were even more pronounced. The cardinal failed to step forward to escort Justine from the stage. She stood before him patiently, waiting for him to regain his composure. Cameras continued to flash; reporters scrambled for the exits.

  CHAPTER 40

  There are no secrets that time does not reveal.

  —Jean Racine, French Dramatist

  “YOU WERE EXCEPTIONALLY confident today,” observed Lucrezia. “I had no idea that you would speak with such aplomb and authority in the Sistine Chapel.” She and Justine stood alone in the kitchen of the family home in Fiesole. Their exit from the Chapel had been hectic, the press for interviews nearly smothering all of them on their way back through the labyrinth of the Church. Amir had kissed her good-bye and headed for the airport. All he’d said was, “I’m proud of you.”