by Mary Malloy
They pulled the cloth down further to expose ornaments in the hair, and painted clothing in multi-colored geometric shapes. The hands lay across the lower part of the chest, crossed and pointing in opposite directions.
“They are very finely carved, aren’t they?” Lizzie said, pointing to the hands.
“The whole thing is quite beautiful,” Pina said.
They had only pulled the covering back to the waist of the sarcophagus when they heard a voice in the library and Pina walked quickly back to the door. “I’ll make sure Uncle Patrizio hasn’t come back,” she whispered to Lizzie.
It was Cosimo Gonzaga who came through the door just as Pina reached it.
“Uncle Cosimo,” she said, “here is Professor Manning from Boston.” She said something more to him in Italian, and Lizzie sensed that she was telling him about Patrizio’s behavior earlier.
He seemed not to hear. “Professor Manning,” he said, extending his hand, “how very nice to see you again.”
“Please call me Lizzie,” she said, taking his hand and shaking it.
“And you must call me Cosimo,” he said politely.
She remembered him from their brief meeting in Boston as a friendly man who cultivated a common touch, and he seemed sincere in his welcome to the house.
“Ah, my old friend!” he said enthusiastically when he saw the sarcophagus. “I once tried to open it to see if there was a mummy inside and I got such a beating from Uncle Pat!”
“Did you ever find out?” Lizzie asked curiously.
“No,” he said, taking her arm and leading her back to the library. “But I don’t think there is.”
Lizzie told him that the Egyptologist at St. Pat’s said that any mummy acquired in the Renaissance had probably been cannibalized as medicine and Cosimo laughed hard in response.
He asked Pina to get them more coffee and indicated a chair for Lizzie, and then sat at one at a right angle to it at the end of the table.
“Pina tells me that Pat gave you some trouble about the collection,” he said, getting right to the point.
“He says he doesn’t know anything about the exhibit, or the College borrowing things for it.”
“Of course he has been told many times,” Cosimo said, “but he has the dementia of old age and frequently doesn’t remember things.”
“I’m worried about removing the most familiar things in the house,” Lizzie said. “Don’t you think it could make his situation worse?”
“Unfortunately, he is completely unpredictable. Some days he has mental clarity and thinks this is a wonderful idea, other days he is confused and doesn’t know what I am talking about.”
Lizzie reached for the picture of the cabinet and handed it to Cosimo. “He practically accused me of stealing this,” she said.
Cosimo took the picture. “Thank you for sending me this before,” he said, “though this one is a much better quality image. Did you say that my grandmother gave it to the College?”
“Along with photographs of the house and the original of the list of which you sent me a copy.” She paused and thought about this. “Did you know your grandmother?”
“Very well,” he answered. “She didn’t die until I went to America to go to St. Pat’s. Though my family didn’t live in this house, I spent some part of almost every day here when I was young. She taught me English, among other things, but she had been very scarred by the war. I had both an aunt and an uncle who died then.”
“I heard about your aunt Gianna,” Lizzie said, “and remember that there was also a son who died, but never heard the circumstances.”
“That’s because he was a Fascist and we never speak about him. I think my grandmother may have sent some things to America for safekeeping after the war, fearing what might happen to them here in the future.” He picked up the picture again as he spoke and looked at it closely. “Old friends,” he said, “the mummy, the alligator.”
“You know of course that those are the most interesting things to me, and consequently important to include in an exhibit.”
“Of course,” he said, “I want this exhibit to be one that captures the spirit of this collection. I told you before you can take anything you like and I meant it.”
“And I don’t need to be worrying about Patrizio?”
“Leave Pat to me,” he said.
Chapter 12
The room where Lizzie was to live while she was in the Gonzaga house was on the third floor above the ballroom. Unlike the rooms on the main floor, these rooms were provided with privacy by a corridor that ran along the outside wall of the house. Her window, consequently, faced the courtyard and the windows of the bedrooms on the opposite side of the house, in one of which she could see Patrizio sitting in a chair staring at her.
Graziella was in the room with Patrizio. Pina had told her that the two had adjoining rooms so that the housekeeper could respond quickly in case the old man had an emergency during the night. Lizzie was very sorry that her room was situated in such an awkward position and she closed the shutters. She had no idea if she was free to move about the house at night or if she was expected to stay in her own room. When Pina showed her the way, she had pointed into the chapel, which was on this floor, and Lizzie wanted to look at it more closely, but didn’t know when that would be possible.
The house had a decidedly sinister aspect at night and Lizzie found herself looking at the lock on the door and wishing it were not such an ancient keyless thing.
It was six hours earlier in Boston and she called Martin to hear the reassurance of his voice.
“Hello, my love,” he said. “How is Bologna?”
“Somewhat weird, actually.” She explained the situation with Patrizio.
“Is this going to keep you from being able to put the exhibit together?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, “his nephew, Cosimo, is keen on it, but the old man was pretty upset.”
“How’s the house?”
“Fabulous, but slightly creepy at night.” She explained the setup of the rooms. “There are only three people in this big house,” she said. “Me, the old guy, and his caretaker, who is named Graziella and looks like her parents waited until she grew up to see what she would look like before they named her.”
“Ha! You say that because you don’t actually know the meaning of the name.”
“Even I can see the ‘grace’ in it, but it is such a stereotypical name for the cruel stepsister.”
“Not like Hengemont, then,” Martin said, referring to a house in England where Lizzie had worked on another family collection under very different circumstances.
“Not at all,” she said, “nor like Alison Kent’s house which might have been creepy, but never was.”
Those two projects in England, both of which had put Lizzie into what seemed like safe havens, had each proved dangerous, but Lizzie had met some of her own distant family through the first, and a close friend and colleague on the second. While Cosimo Gonzaga might be a good collaborator, Lizzie didn’t see him ever becoming a close friend, and Pina was keeping her distance. If only she had met Patrizio when he still had all his marbles, she thought.
When she had said goodnight to Martin, she turned off the lights and peeked through the shutters. There was still a light on in Patrizio’s room, though shades had been drawn. She could see no other light on in the house and she turned on the bedside lamp before she pulled back the covers and got into bed. Despite the traveling and time change, she was too restless to sleep so she took her e-reader and returned to Maggie Gonzaga’s letters. She had read so far about her time at school in Switzerland and about her meeting with Lorenzo Gonzaga. The next set of letters was written after her marriage and described the house in which Lizzie found herself, but it was a very different place seen through Maggie’s eyes.
September 9, 1912
> Dear Mama and Papa,
I loved this house the first time I saw it, and while I don’t think that I began to love Renzo because of it, he is such a part of the house and it of him. They call it a “palazzo,” but it turns out that all the big houses in Bologna are called that. There is a central courtyard and all the rooms in the house face it—several have balconies that allow you to sit outside without the noise and activity of the street, which is very pleasant and peaceful. Renzo and his father, as avid archaeologists, have filled up much of the courtyard with pieces they have found in the countryside around here. There are a number of Etruscan sarcophagi, small and lovely with the familial relationships carved into the stones. One has a couple holding hands and looking so lovingly at each other. Another has a mother with a little girl and there is what appears to be a doll carved near her. It is strange that these people, who lived here almost three thousand years ago, should seem so familiar to me in these stones. I wept when I first saw them and Renzo told me that he did too, when he and his father first uncovered them.
There are also Roman ruins, including a number of fragments of statues and columns, and that is only what is in the courtyard! When I first saw the space I told Renzo that he should host a production of “Romeo and Juliet” here, as it could accommodate all the scenes in the courtyard, and the balcony scene would work perfectly on the landing of one of the staircases. He has now challenged me to produce it and I am looking for young actors among the students at the University.
I am very happy here, as I told you I would be. My mother-in-law and I share much in common, despite our very different backgrounds. There is a small chapel here in the house where a mass is celebrated every morning, which is a way for us to begin our days together. She is patient with my Italian, and has even learned a few words in English.
Except for missing you, my darlings, which I do every minute, I feel that mine is a very fortunate life. Come visit me! Or at least send Tommy.
Very much love from your daughter,
Maggie
The next letter was written a few days later.
September 13, 1912
Dear Mama and Papa,
I had just begun to tell you about the house in my last letter, and I didn’t even get inside. Renzo describes the entrance hall as the place where “the Gonzagas first seek to impress visitors with their importance.” One wall is covered with a family tree that is painted directly on the wall. This is a marvelous work of art, full of detail and color. The background is an actual tree, with expansive branches that hold several hundred names on small scrolls unrolling among the leaves. Across the top are small portraits of the most famous and important Gonzagas, men who were the Dukes of Mantua and other places, as well as twelve cardinals, fourteen bishops and St. Aloysius Gonzaga, who has a special place among the branches of the tree.
The ceiling of this room is like a Chinese puzzle of wood pieces fit together to form an intricate pattern, and it is painted in colors that you would not think appropriate for a ceiling, and yet seem quite right in this room: pink and green and brick red and gold. Every other wall surface is covered with paintings of ancient Gonzagas, many with crowns carved into the frames above their heads. There are also busts of three of the cardinals, so I think that the objective of impressing a visitor works very well.
The next several letters described Maggie’s life in Bologna. When the weather was fine enough, furniture was set up in the courtyard and the family spent much of their time outside. The two salons were where the majority of time inside was spent. In each of them were groups of chairs with small tables arranged for conversation, and a large table with chairs where a meal could be served. These rooms were where the women gathered to do needlepoint, have tea or coffee, and gossip; they had light from both the street and the courtyard, and a good cross draft of ventilation.
The details of the gilded plaster filigree of the Yellow Salon were in Lizzie’s head as she drifted off to sleep and when she woke the next morning she found that Pina was waiting for her in that very room. Her hostess had brought fresh rolls, cold cuts and cheese and was arranging them on a platter when Lizzie came into the room.
“Graziella won’t prepare anything for anyone but Uncle Patrizio,” Pina said, “so I’m afraid that you will mostly be eating out.”
“Not a problem,” Lizzie said. “I’ve heard the food in Bologna is the best in Italy.”
She asked Pina if she would get a key to the house and Pina took one from her purse and gave it to her. “Uncle Cosimo asked me to have this made for you.”
“Am I free to wander in the house?” Lizzie asked. “Or should I wait for an escort?”
“Where do you want to go?”
“I just want to look at the collections.”
“I’ll ask Uncle Cosimo. My only concern is that it might frighten or upset Uncle Patrizio if he were to come upon you unexpectedly.”
A few minutes later the old man came into the room, moving quickly behind his walker and seemingly in good spirits.
“Miss Kenney,” he said, stretching out his hand to Lizzie. “This is such a pleasure. I’m so glad you’re still here.”
Lizzie gave him her hand, which he kissed. “I’m glad to see you, Pat,” she said.
Pina pulled out a chair for him and he sat down.
“Would you please bring us some coffee?” Patrizio said to Pina, as if she was a waitress and he was in a café.
Unsure whether he thought she was someone else, whom he actually liked and was happy to see, or if he had simply forgotten her name, Lizzie made no attempt to correct Patrizio about her identity.
He asked her about Boston and about life at St. Pat’s, which made her think that he did remember her, but as he rambled on about walks along the Charles River and riding in the swan boats on the lake in the Public Garden, Lizzie thought that he might have mistaken her for some other American woman he had known decades before. Her knowledge of Boston and of the campus allowed her to participate in the conversation, even without knowing precisely what was in the convoluted circuitry of Pat Gonzaga’s demented brain.
“Do you remember when you came to visit here with your mother before the war?” he asked at one point. Fortunately he answered his own question and Lizzie was not forced into either an outright lie or exposure of her real identity.
“Those were such good times, Theresa,” he said, smiling shyly. “You don’t mind if I call you Theresa, like the old days?”
Lizzie mumbled something that could sound like an assent. She was wondering how much she could take advantage of this bizarre situation before the bubble burst.
“This is such a lovely room,” she said, hoping he would tell her more about it. It really was an extraordinary space. There were paintings that went from the chair rail right up to the ceiling molding, and each of them was surrounded by elaborate gilded plasterwork. The walls were also painted directly with tromp l’oeil images that looked like carved molding, recesses in the wall, and extensions of frames. Only the ceiling molding was really three-dimensional, the rest just looked like it was.
“I guess that once the walls were painted and plastered, you couldn’t move the paintings,” she said.
“My mother used to make that comment all the time,” he said jovially. “Maybe she said it to you.”
“Perhaps she did,” Lizzie said cautiously. It occurred to her that she might, in fact, have read that in one of Maggie’s letters the night before. “When was the room set up like this?”
“I’m not sure exactly,” he said. “But there were some Americans here just after the Revolution who described this room in a letter dated 1789, and it seems to have been just as you see it now.”
“It’s a fine collection of paintings,” Lizzie said. She looked for the Ruysdael that Martin had pointed out from the 1959 photograph, but couldn’t find it.
“I have a catalogue
of all the paintings in the house if you are interested,” Patrizio said, and Lizzie was astonished when he offered to show it to her.
Pina had delivered the coffee and stood in the background. She moved forward to help her uncle stand, but he brushed her away. “Miss Kenney,” he said. “Can I take your arm?”
“Of course,” Lizzie said and watched as he put his hands on the arms of the chair and pushed himself up. He seemed years younger than he had the day before.
There was a cane on the walker and Patrizio used that with one hand and leaned heavily on Lizzie as they walked from the Yellow Salon into the Chinese Salon. He pointed out the hand-painted wallpaper, imported from China in the eighteenth century, and the several pieces of porcelain, from vases big enough to hide in to small delicate plates.
“The Gonzaga fortune was largely made from trade,” he said, pointing out a few special pieces, “and many of these things travelled great distances to come here.”
Walking through the long dining room, they paused to step out onto the balcony and look into the courtyard. Lizzie identified the window to her room on the floor above and then turned her attention to the two staircases that rose on the wall opposite her on either side of the main doorway. She thought of Maggie’s impulse to see a production of Romeo and Juliet using the landing of one of the staircases as the famous balcony.
