'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you,' the man said, stepping out of the shadows. No more than five feet tall, his face was lined and worn. He was wearing a scruffy overcoat and a trilby hat, under which his long white hair trailed to his shoulders. Taking a step towards Jeff, he leaned heavily on a wooden cane with a highly polished metal top. 'My name is Mario Sporani,' the old man added. 'You don't know me, but I have some information I think you'll find interesting. Could I possibly impose on your hospitality? It is a little chilly.'
' What kind of information?' Jeff asked, eyeing the man suspiciously. 'A matter of history.' 'History?'
'My apologies. I have travelled this evening from my home in Florence. I was once the warden of the Medici Chapel. There's a matter of great importance I need to discuss with you,' and he handed Jeff a frayed black and white photograph. It showed a much younger Mario Sporani holding a black cylinder about twelve inches long. At one end of the tube Jeff could just make out a crest, an arrangement of five balls and a pair of crossed keys: the Medici coat of arms.
'I'm one of only a handful who have seen this object in five hundred years,' Sporani continued. 'And now it has disappeared from the face of the Earth.' Jeffs sitting room was spectacular, a vast open space, furnished in a contemporary style, all brushed steel, dark woods, soft cream and white fabrics. The wall facing the doorway was taken up with massive windows looking out on to San Marco, the Campanile and S. Giorgio Maggiore beyond. To the right of this room lay the kitchen, and to the left, a shadowy corridor led to the bedrooms.
Mario Sporani stood in the doorway taking it all in silently, his eyes glinting with appreciation. 'Beautiful' he said simply, and Jeff indicated he should take a seat. The place was silent. Rose and Maria were apparently in bed.
Jeff went to the kitchen and started to make coffee. He kept an eye on Sporani who was gazing around the room and through the windows as if in a rapture. He watched him get up to admire the paintings and then to study a set of glass shelves containing a collection of artefacts.
A few minutes later, Jeff was standing beside him with a tray in his hands. Sporani was staring up at a painting of a reclining nude.
'At first glance I would have sworn this was Modigliani's Nude Sdraiato, but there's something wrong.'
Jeff appraised the old man. 'It's a very early work from his days in Venice at Istituto per le Belle Arti di Venezia; from about the time he first got into smoking hashish actually. Modigliani moved to Paris the following year and reworked this picture.' Sporani shook his head slowly. 'Fascinating.'
Jeff placed the tray on a stainless-steel table between two sofas close to the windows.
'OK' he said, handing Sporani a cup. 'What's this all about?'
'Naturally you're sceptical, Mr Martin. I too would have reacted the same way forty years ago.' He took a sip of coffee. 'As I said, I was the warden of the Medici Chapel, until I retired a few years ago. I was in charge of the chapel when the terrible flood of November 1966 struck Florence and destroyed so many wonders.'
Jeff watched him in silence. He guessed that Sporani was probably about seventy but he looked older than his years.
'The morning the waters broke the banks of the Arno and came into our district in a great torrent, I managed to struggle through the storm to reach the chapel. My worst fears were realised: the crypt had flooded and the bodies of the entombed Medici were in danger of being swept away.
'I was young and impulsive. Without a thought for my own safety, I rushed down into the burial chambers and was almost drowned, escaping by the skin of my teeth. I could do little to protect the crypt, but mercifully, although the waters caused immense damage, the worst of outcomes was avoided and, by that evening, the flood water in the district began to recede. While I was in the crypt scrambling to escape the rising water I happened upon a strange object, an ebony tube. I realised immediately from the crest that it had once belonged to the Medici, but I had no idea what it was. As I said, I was young. I should have handed it over to the authorities, but I could not, at least not straight away.'
He paused for a moment and took another sip of coffee. 'I broke the seal. Inside, I found a sheath of papers covered in tiny handwriting. It was written in a strange language. Fve since concluded it was probably Greek, and of course, I couldn't understand a word of it' 'Did you think of getting it translated?' Jeff asked.
'Well, I thought of it. Indeed, I mentioned my discovery to a couple of friends. This was probably a mistake. I should have just kept my mouth shut.' Jeff looked puzzled.
'None of them could help, you see. Even those who knew a little of other languages could not translate more than the odd word. I learned one crucial thing however. The last page of the text bore a signature, that of Cosimo de' Medici, the great patron and leader of Florence. Although I said I couldn't understand a word of the document, it was clearly some sort of diary or journal because the text was separated into chunks with dates at the top of each section. I made a mental note of these. Later I discovered the dates were from the year 1410.' 'And did that prompt you to hand in your find?'
'It should have done,' Sporani said and placed his empty cup on the table. 'And, I would have done so. I'm no thief.' 'Would have?'
'Two nights after my discovery, there was a bang on the front door. My wife and baby were asleep in the back room. I went to answer it. I was pushed back into the hallway with a gun held to my head. There were two men. One of them was British I think, the other, Italian. He was the one who did most of the talking. Although, actually neither of them said very much. They wanted the Medici document.' 'How did they know about it?'
'I'm not certain. But I should have told no one about my discovery. I handed it over, of course. When the Italian guy noticed the seal had been broken I was sure he was going to kill me. I had to think fast. I told them it was broken when I found it.' 'And they believed you?'
'I don't know. I think the man with the gun was all for pulling the trigger, but the British one stopped him. He said something I'll never forget: "I will blow your baby's brains out if you ever tell another soul about this.'"
From outside came the faint sound of a ship's horn. 'So, why are you here, now?'
Sporani was gazing out through the windows as if in a dream. Snapping out of his reverie, he turned his weary eyes to Jeff. 'Oh, they no longer have a hold over me, Mr Martin. My baby boy grew into a fine young man, but five years ago he was killed in a motorcycle accident in Bologna. And my wife, Sophia, she passed away last month. Breast cancer.' 'I am sorry.'
'Oh, you needn't be. We had a happy life, the three of us.'
Jeff poured them some more coffee. 'So, why have you come to see me?'
'I need your help. You're of course aware of the Medici Project, the team studying the remains in the chapel?' 'Yes.' 'Well, I believe they are in terrible danger.' 'Why do you think that?' 'Because of what I have just told you.' 'But that was over forty years ago…'
'When I first heard about the Medici Project, I voiced my opposition. I told the authorities at the University of Pisa who are funding the team that I believed someone or some group of people did not want the bodies disturbed. No one would listen.'
'I can see why they might have been sceptical,' Jeff admitted.
'Indeed. At the time I could offer nothing to make them think me anything other than a crank.' 'But you've spoken to the team?'
'This is why I've come to see you, Mr Martin. Professor Mackenzie wouldn't even agree to see me. They have their daily fill of protestors – people like Father Baggio. You've heard of him?' Jeff nodded.
Sporani gave him a piercing look. 'Your old friend, Edie Granger. You will know from her that Professor Mackenzie is an arrogant man, but he must be persuaded to reconsider his work in the chapel.'
Jeff and Edie went back a long way. Indeed, she was his closest and oldest friend. They had met at university, and although they had since travelled very different paths, they had remained close. When they first met, she had been an ei
ghteen-year-old Goth who went on to win a first in chemistry and pathology before completing a DPhil specialising in paleopathology. Her friends joked that she was carrying on the family business; both her parents had been archaeologists. 'I've only met Professor Mackenzie a handful of times. I know him as much by reputation as anything else.'
'Yes, of course, the world-famous palaeopatholo-gist, something of a household name these days, the man your Times newspaper dubbed "The Mummy Detective". Maybe he is too important to talk to me. Which is why I've come to see you. You're the only one who can convince them of the danger they face.'
Jeff stared at Sporani and shook his head slowly. 'I hate to disillusion you Mr Sporani, but you're quite wrong. There's nothing I could do. Besides, I'm not convinced your fears are justified.' 'You're not?'
'Well, no. I believe your story, but it was a long time ago. Maybe the two men who broke into your house were simply thieves, and they knew how to buy your silence.'
'Perhaps,' Sporani replied, fixing Jeff with an intense stare. 'But a year ago, before my Sophia died and soon after the planned disinterment was announced, I was sent this.'
Sporani handed an envelope to Jeff. He pulled out a single sheet of paper and read the short message: STOP YOUR FRIENDS. DO NOT DISTURB THE MEDICI TOMBS. YOUR SON MAY BE DEAD BUT YOUR WIFE STILL LIVES. ? For most of the night sleep eluded Jeff, and before dawn, he was up and dressed. He was making a pot of strong coffee when Rose wandered in yawning, her hair a blonde mess. 'It's alive!' He smiled broadly.
She pulled a face and rubbed her eyes. 'Are you always up this early, Dad?' 'Only when I've been out clubbing all night.'
Rose looked startled for a moment before she realised her father was kidding. When she smiled she looked disarmingly like her mother, Jeff thought, and pushed aside the painful memories. From the hall, they could hear Maria plugging in the hoover. She popped her head around the door and said good morning before starting her work.
'I love this city the most when there's no one around, Rose,' Jeff said and took a large gulp of coffee. 'A psychiatrist might draw some alarming conclusions from that, but there it is.' He pulled on a brown flying jacket. 'Have some coffee, I've put a couple of croissants in the oven to warm.' 'Where're you going?' 'Chores to do.'
Leaving the elevator, Jeff crossed the marble-floored hallway, waved to the dozing concierge and emerged into the narrow passageway behind the building. As he turned the corner, he almost tripped over a body in the shadows. The man groaned and sat up with surprising speed.
'Ah, my friend Jeffrey.' His voice had a heavily accented rasp. 'Dino. This isn't your usual day around here.'
Dino rubbed his eyes. 'Changing my routine. Keeps the tourists on their toes,' he said with a lopsided grin.
Dino had lived on the streets for as long as Jeff had lived in San Marco. During the dark days when he first moved to Venice and left behind his old existence in England, Jeff had befriended the man, taking him for a coffee and a sandwich. There, Dino had revealed some of his life. How he had fled Kosovo after his wife and young daughter had been slaughtered. He had buried them with his bare hands and headed west with nothing but the clothes on his back. Before the war, he had been a maths teacher in Pristina. Now he lived on the few euros rich American tourists occasionally deigned to toss him.
Dino followed a routine in which he would show up in San Marco once a week having passed through a list of hot tourist spots on the other days, and Jeff would always offer him a few euros or take him for a coffee. In a peculiar way, they shared a bond; they were both exiles, men who had passed beyond the veil of normal life. Dino was deeply religious and he believed with all his heart that he was merely biding his time here on earth and that he would see his family again in a better world. Jeff, a committed atheist, kept his own counsel on the subject but he understood that the mere existence of his friend was a great help to him, a constant reminder that his own daughter, Rose, was very much alive and well.
'Here, Dino,' Jeff said, handing him some crisp new notes. 'Get a bite to eat. I have to go. Talk next time, yes?'
Dino took the money and shook Jeff's hand. 'God bless you,' he said with a smile.
An orange light was spreading across the eastern sky as Jeff strode into San Marco and long shadows stretched across the Piazza. At the Torre Dell' Orologio he followed a winding course along Calle Larga and then turned left into Calle dei Specchieri. The place was deserted, the shops closed up. Jeff could almost imagine the entire population of Earth had been exterminated and he was the last man left to wander these silent passageways alone. But soon he was crossing Rio di S. Zulian where he passed a woman with a tiny dog on a lead. Between her bright red lips she clasped a slender black cigarette holder, which she kept in her mouth as she remonstrated with the dog for dawdling at a lamppost. Cigarette ash fell on to cobbled stones. Behind her wandered two middle-aged women, their skin worn, eyes tired. They both looked extremely drab except for their multicoloured headscarves pulled low over their brows.
By the time he reached the Rialto, the sun was emerging, transforming the waters of the Grand Canal into a pastel palette. Under the bridge passed a vaporetto packed with early commuters. The bridge itself was almost deserted, gondola T-shirts and cheap carnival masks could be seen behind grilled glass.
Pausing for a moment, Jeff surveyed the view. He had seen it a thousand times but it still moved him deeply. Venice, he decided long ago, was what he liked to call an 'emotion amplifier'. If you felt happy, it made you happier, and if you were depressed, it could drag you further down. In one way or another, Venice had always been a special place for him and his ex-wife. They had come here when they were first married. Flushed with confidence and a buoyant share market, they had bought the apartment on San Marco. But here too was where he had learned of Imogen's infidelity.
They had left Rose in London with the nanny and flown to Venice for a two-night stay. The evening they arrived, they went straight out to dinner at The Danieli. It had been a typically extravagant affair, but at that time Jeff was revelling in the high life to which he had grown accustomed. Walking back along the Riva Degli they called into the piano bar at the Monaco, and Imogen had told him she had been seeing someone. The next morning, she flew back to England, but he had elected to stay on for a while. He had needed time to think, to try to take on board what he had learned.
Alone and bereft, for him, Venice transformed into a city of ghosts and he felt himself losing touch with reality. He lay in bed in their apartment and searched his mind and soul in an effort to discover what he had done wrong.
He felt sorry for himself, of course, but he was most concerned for Rose, and furious with Imogen for tearing their family apart. He got angry and his anger made him stoic, and he surprised himself with his ruthlessness. Returning to England, he immediately filed for divorce and anaesthetised any feelings he once had for his perfidious wife.
He sometimes wondered whether it had been a good idea to return to the city where his world had fallen apart. But he loved this place too much to let it go. He could not blame Venice for what his wife had done to him. During the early days, soon after the divorce, he had spent long nights walking through the empty maze of Venice listening to Samuel Barber and Tom Waits on his iPod and wondering if he would ever be happy again.
His oldest friend Edie had helped pull him through. She had taken time off work to stay in Venice with him. She had forced him out to restaurants, compelled him to talk, and rationed the booze he found too easy to pour down his throat. The bond between them grew stronger than ever. Jeff knew Edie did not care for Imogen. She never said a word against his ex-wife, but he knew Edie so well that at times they were almost telepathic. Imogen had certainly been jealous of their relationship, but it was misplaced. Edie was his dearest friend, they shared a brotherly-sisterly closeness; Imogen had been his wife and he had loved her, for a while.
Thinking of Edie led his mind back to the previous night and the strange figure of Mario Sporani.
The man had been convinced Jeff could somehow talk Edie into influencing Carlin Mackenzie, and he was clearly convinced the team working at the Medici Chapel were in real danger. The old man had left soon after showing him the bizarre note, refusing the offer of a room for the night. Jeff had made a lame promise he would sleep on the idea of calling Edie. Sporani would be in Venice for a couple of days and Jeff had agreed to meet up with him for coffee during that time. Now he didn't know what to think. He couldn't help feeling concerned for Edie, but surely it was all nonsense? Only religious nuts believed there was anything wrong with disinterring the Medici. Surely Sporani was deluded, a fantasist. Perhaps the loss of his family had turned his mind.
Descending the northern side of the Rialto, he turned immediately right into the fish market, Mercato del Pesce. He loved this place, loved even the pungent smell of fish being gutted by men in white overalls and rubber boots. At the stalls, he could see trays filled with scores of squid like distended brains; crabs, their claws grasping the air trying to reach some place they would never find, and whole tuna stamped with the name of the fishmonger who would slice it up to accommodate thirty families. Beyond the fish stalls stood row upon row of counters laden with fruit and vegetables, and beside these, flower stalls, a riot of every colour in every shade.
Jeff loved to cook and this was his favourite place to buy fresh produce. The stall holders all called him by his first name. They joked with him, and during the past year they had taught him a thesaurus of colloquialisms and obscene phrases.
The Medici secret Page 3
