After wishing Allegra and Jonathan many years of happiness, it's time to leave. She reaches for the confetti placed at her table setting—a little bouquet of white sugared almonds wrapped in white tulle and tied together with a satin ribbon. As she stands to leave, a hefty older woman at the next table shouts, “Tarantella! Tarantella!”
The Neapolitan band strikes up C'e la luna mezz'o mare
.
C'e la luna mezz'o mare
Mamma mia me maritari,
Figghia mia, a cu te dari
Mamma mia pensaci tu
`There's a moon above the sea,
Mama mia, I want to marry,
Daughter of mine, who’s your choice?
Mama mia, my choice is yours!
C'e la luna mezz'o mare. She’s watched guests dancing this tarantella at Italian-American weddings in New York, along with Hava Nagila and the inevitable conga lines. Tonight even the most sophisticated guests jump up—hopping around ridiculously, she thinks. Giovanni doesn’t ask her to join in and she's relieved. She knows herself well enough to realize that she would be two left feet and gangly, dangling arms. Yet there's something about the music that strikes a chord within, stirring up something inside her. She wonders why, she's not even Italian. Then he surprises her by insisting he walk back with her to the Hotel Desdemona. This time, after they say their good nights and ci vediamo domani, he kisses her on the cheek as if she were his sister.
Giovanni
July 16, 2007
At ten o’clock on Sunday morning he's waiting at the parking garage where he picked up his Range Rover packed full of equipment and archeological paraphernalia. Bianca arrives wearing an ill-fitting charcoal gray trouser suit, obviously not the Armani it pretends to be, but more like the kind of outfit worn by American nuns. It does nothing for her face.
“Bianca, Bianca, Basta grigio.” He wants to tell her, “With your looks, your coloring, you should stay away from that shade of gray.”
They hit the road and, by the time they drive past Bergamo, he hears his stomach growl. The thought of a warm piadini stuffed with melted mozzarella and ham makes his mouth water. “Let’s stop at the next Autogrill and get something to eat.”
She’s silent as they make their way through the Veneto. Finally she speaks. “I’ve been thinking about it all morning— about visiting your dig. I might even be of some help to you. I’m prepared to give it a try—but the best way for me is not to have any pre-conceived ideas or half-formed images of what might be helpful to you. Before I write my articles for Eyes and Soul, I incubate visions. Sometimes I even tie a scarf tight around a mask because my visions are stronger without even a sliver of light. In total darkness I see colors, shapes, tiny details. Sometimes the pictures are so detailed, so vivid, I can almost reach out and touch them. It’s like having a link to the past—you might say it’s like virtual reality in my head.”
“Do you enjoy doing this? Or do you do it because it helps you with your work at the magazine?”
“Both. I like escaping life by placing myself in a distant world. What isn’t in front of my eyes is sometimes more real than what is. Within me I hope to find what it is I need to know for my work and for whatever else I write.”
By one, they are famished and stop at an Autogrill where they have a picnic in the vehicle, munching hot-off-the-grill panini and gulping down light beer. Giovanni buys two Magnum bars—thick, dark chocolate coating rich vanilla ice cream. Although last night her blood sugar had reached a high and then dropped very low after a double portion of wedding cake, when he asks if she’d like a bar, she replies, “Sure, why not?”
Then she steers the conversation to Sybaris. “Is your dig anywhere around there? You mentioned that your father dug with the University of Pennsylvania team when they discovered the exact site of the vanished city. I must admit that the suspense is killing me. Can’t you tell me now just a little about your recent finds?”
“I’ll be happy to. We have at least an hour before we arrive at Milan airport— plenty of time. So sit back and make yourself comfortable —but please don’t fall asleep on me.”
“I’ll sit back prepared to be enthralled,” she says, knowing full well she will be.
He begins. “During the summer I keep my boat at the marina of Sybaris. It was only a couple of weeks ago— in fact, June 29, the Feast of San Pietro and San Paolo— when I sailed into a little cove, not far from the mouth of the River Crati. I’d always noticed in the distance a strange looking hillock rising above a flat terrain, and that day I finally decided the time had come to satisfy my curiosity. But when I anchored my boat and went ashore, I was disappointed to find that the mound wasn’t an ancient tumulus, but a dump for local trash—rusty car parts, heaps of plastic olive oil containers—now mostly grown over with dune grasses.
“The countryside beyond seemed so peaceful. I remember white longhorn cattle grazing, the hum of cicadas in the hot, still afternoon. I was thirsty but I wasn’t quite ready to get back to my boat. Besides, a kilometer or so away, I could see the rise of another hill, this one crowned by tall cypresses and umbrella pines, partially obscuring what appeared to be a habitation. I trudged up the unpaved road toward the trees and finally came to high, stone, ivy-covered walls surrounding an old dwelling. A typical masseria, a fortified farm. I pushed the half open gate and looked at the house. Rather large it seemed to me for a house of a contadino. The windows were shuttered tight, and it seemed as though the place might be unoccupied. By then my throat was parched so I walked around looking for a water pump or a well. As I passed an old barn, I noticed that it was still attached to the house. The door being slightly ajar, I pushed it open and looked down into a sort of cellar, what we call a magazzino. There were deep steps leading to a storage room crammed with empty wine barrels, rakes, shovels. But when I aimed my flashlight across to the opposite wall, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I thought I might be hallucinating from heat and thirst. I moved closer to have a look.
“I don’t know how long I stayed there, gazing at that wall. Finally I climbed back up to the house looking for someone who might tell me more about what I’d seen. I tried the door. Locked. I knocked, banged, yelled. Finally the door opened. An old woman peered out. She didn’t seem unfriendly, only a bit frightened. She offered me a glass of water. I thanked her and asked about what was on the wall. She was upset that I’d seen it and begged me not to tell anyone. I promised her I wouldn’t, assuming that she’d lived in the house for a long time. But then she told me that she’d moved here from Taranto only about six months ago. Her son is the owner of an oil refining business. He wanted a masseria out in the country—so he and his wife bought this place from a contadino. Her son, who enjoys working with his hands, intended to restore it slowly, even though he could well afford to do otherwise. So the old woman became the custodian of the new property, and her son and his wife, who still live in Taranto, drive down almost every weekend to work on their project.
“I must have an honest face because, when I asked the woman if what I had seen on the walls had always been there, she relented and told me more. It seems that when they began restoration, her son noticed the walls of that part of the house were very thick —almost five feet. He was curious. He began to hack away some of the stones to use for an exterior retaining wall. When he’d hauled away about two feet of masonry, he saw that there was a separate double wall behind—the wall of another building. A vacuum had been created between the two buildings. That meant that there was no air, no light, much less moisture, so that what was on that wall had been fairly well preserved.
“I asked the woman if her son had called the authorities of the Belle Arti. ‘Oh no,’ she reassured me—‘the sopritendenza di monumenti might very well have made us leave the house. That always happens to people when they find things on their property—they take it away from you.’ Then she told me, ‘Per carità!--wear to me that you won’t tell anyone about this. If you do, I’ll put the malocchio, the
curse of La Tarantina’s evil eye, on you.’ She raised her fingers and made the sign in my face. I must admit that I’m enough of a superstitious southerner that I took this seriously. Since then I’ve been conflicted by my allegiance to the soprintendente—and my promise to Concetta, the old woman, whom I’ve come to know and like. And there are other reasons—my own—for not wanting this to get into the newspapers. Not yet, anyway.
“But you haven’t told me what was on that wall.”
“Because you write about objects and ritual you of all people, will be intrigued by my discovery. But I won’t tell you what it’s about; I’d like you to come see it for yourself.”
“It will be a long time from now, Giovanni, if ever. With my various deadlines I don’t know when I’ll have the time to return to Italy. Someday I’d very much like to see your find— and also to visit the excavations at Sybaris.”
“As soon as you’re ready, I promise to drop everything to drive you there.” And braving it for the first time, he impulsively puts his arm around her. “I’ll most likely be coming to the antiquities auctions in early December. We could get together then and talk about a trip to Sybaris.”
“Giovanni--you’ve been so kind, so caring--but there’s something else going on between us that I don’t understand.”
He pulls his arm away gently. From the moment he’d set eyes on Bianca Evans Caldwell, he knew there could never be anything romantic between them. No. It would never happen—he’d never let it happen. Better to set things straight right away. After a long moment he says brusquely, “I don't know what you're talking about.” He needs to let her know that she shouldn’t be taking his invitation to Sybaris, or to anywhere else, as an invitation to bed.
Bianca
Because the plane is late, Bianca prefers to wait a while before going through security. As they stroll through the airport shops, she stops to admire racks strung with silk designer scarves. She points to a Gianni Versace foulard, a silk-screened pattern of his famous Medusa logo.
“I like this one,” she says, pulling the bag from her shoulder ready to take out her wallet.
“I like it too,” he responds, untying the scarf from the rack. “This will be a present from me.”
“A present for me?” She is genuinely surprised.
“Of course for you— to remind you of…Venice.” He feels a little guilty for having spoken so sharply to her earlier. After paying for the scarf, he wraps it around her neck and ties it loosely under her chin. The earth tones light up her face, taking the edge off her pallor. “There’s a mirror behind you. Look at yourself. See how becoming it is.”
“I don’t need a mirror. Thank you, Giovanni, It will be a precious possession—a remembrance of the Evans-Bona Dea weekend in Venice. How happy I am that I didn’t go straight back to New York after the meeting. I was tempted not to go to the wedding, but something inside urged me on.”
“My own story is the same. I was obliged to go,” he says, taking her hand. “I almost canceled with an excuse that I would be out of the country, but for me there was simply no excuse.”
“We were destined to meet one another—to become friends. I don’t want to leave without saying I’m sorry about what I told you this afternoon. I feel that my remark might have put you off.”
“What was it you said?” he questions, as though he’s forgotten.
“I told you that there was something between us that I couldn’t understand.” Her eyes are dark pools. When she turns her head, he sees a glistening tear trail on her cheek.
“I may have reacted too strongly, “ he replies, trying to soften the blow a little. It has never been easy for him to reject women—and he has rejected plenty.
She begins to wipe away her tears with the border of the scarf, then she hastily uses the back of her hand instead. At that moment the loudspeaker blares out the New York boarding. She blinks back more tears and puts her hand on his arm. “Goodbye, Giovanni.”
He feels those old pangs of separation—even with this plain woman. Worse yet, he can’t bear to see her cry. He remembers his mother crying when he was a little boy, being frightened by her tears, by his helplessness to comfort her.
They say their goodbyes at the gate and promise each other to keep in touch. She kisses his right cheek, his left, then his right cheek once again. He wonders why she kissed him three times. Russian style.
Bianca
She’s lucky the plane to New York is half empty. She pushes up the dividers allowing her to stretch out across three seats. With her safety belt fastened securely, her head resting on three pillows, she shuts her eyes tight vowing to wipe out those visions that keep haunting the caverns of her mind—but to no avail. Blood behind the black curtain. Slaughtered goats. A man clutching a club. A cloven hoof held high.
She writhes in her seat, opens her eyes, and tries to talk herself back to calmness.
You’re okay. Take it easy. Don’t worry. You’re on the plane. But her heart keeps pounding double time.
When she closes her eyes again, the vision has vanished. She sees herself standing inside her own head. She hears herself breathing in, letting it all out, hoping, praying that the frightful images will never return. They are dangerous visions, visions she has no business having. Maybe the nuns were right. Where inside her is all this darkness coming from? But, no. She is no longer the one summoning the visions: now the horrible phantoms are seeking her out.
The flight attendant interrupts. “What can I serve you? We’re offering a very nice red, a Burgundy from the Côte d'Or. Our white is a Chablis.”
She starts suddenly. “Thank you! May I please have the Burgundy.” How come, Bianca? You rarely drink red wine.
She pays the flight attendant and pours herself a glass from the bottle, then takes a sip that tastes of black raspberries and passion fruit. She tries leafing through the pages of a home decorating magazine, HOW TO DISPLAY YOUR COLLECTIBLES, relieved to be engrossed in something normal and safe. She begins to muse about how she might furnish her apartment on the cheap. The way it looks now there’s no way she could ever invite Giovanni to drop by for a drink. He probably imagines that she lives among a collection of rare, exotic objects, the kind she writes about for Eyes and Soul. If only there were time to browse the downtown Broadway antique shops, she might come across a Welsh cupboard to display Nina’s antique Bianco Ginori. The plates would be the focal point of the living room, and maybe she could find a deep, comfy sofa instead of the pair of sagging love seats her mother bestowed on her when she moved to New York from Baltimore.
With newfound zeal to organize her life (and to keep the visions at bay, she vows to spend the rest of the weekend going through old cardboard file boxes overflowing with outdated work; and, when Luisa comes on Thursday, she can help her figure out what to stow away in the almost empty basement storage bin she’s never bothered to use.
And then she’ll look for a drinks tray table, the kind one sees in refined English country houses; she'll stock it with vodka, sherry, Campari, an ice bucket and crystal glasses for cozy little dinners. And there will be a tea tray with a sturdy stoneware pot and brown sugar crystals like bits of chipped amber.
The mellow Burgundy and planning her apartment transformation seem to have calmed her: she feels her limbs relax. As she searches her bag for some Kleenex to wipe her damp forehead, she finds the map of France, already folded to show Burgundy, the Côte d'Or, the area surrounding the little town of Châtillon-sur-Seine where she’d gone just before the London board meeting. It must have been almost ten years ago when, by taking a detour, she found the Vix Krater in the local museum. She’s been back to see it at least four more times.
The night before her discovery at Vix, she’d had a dream about Nina that from time to time she re-reads in her computer dream journal.
I'm riding in a small cart or wagon. Nina, looking ahead, straight ahead, is sitting by my side. We are approaching the most beautiful sight imaginable—as if we’re driving along
a quay that projects into the water. Across we see a brilliant panorama. The wide view takes my breath away. I talk to Nina’s spirit that is radiating from her body. She is transparent almost, but still very clear. I tell her that everyone thinks she’s dead, but I know she never died at all. “Look ahead,” she says. Now I can see tall towers and turrets and dazzling water. I turn to her—it’s like arriving at Avallon I say. Then I look again and Nina has vanished.
She daydreams about Avallon for a few minutes. Wasn't it Avallon where King Arthur was supposedly carried by his loyal soldiers after he was wounded in battle? Avallon is not many kilometers from Châtillon-sur-Seine and the museum of the Vix Krater. She gazes at the map, at the green shading of woods, mountains, scenic roads. She studies the hairline squiggles of rivers and tributaries, trying to pinpoint Source-Seine, the site claimed by the City of Paris, which marks the beginning of the great river flowing through Paris to the English Channel. Here, ancient Celts worshiped their goddess Sequana. She’d visited the site more than once on her visits to Châtillon-sur-Seine. And then she finds Sens, the cathedral city named after the Senones, an ancient Celtic tribe of Burgundy. Sens is less than thirty miles from Troyes, where the river widened enough for important commerce. She measures the distance with her eyes, then, checking the mileage, she finds that it's about thirty miles from Troyes to Vix and Mont Lassois, once a Celtic trading post. And Avallon is so close by, only a long day’s ride to Troyes. Troyes. What was Troyes famous for? She remembers the famous medieval Fair at Troyes. Troyes as in Chrétien de Troyes, the Medieval poet who was the first to write about King Arthur and the Grail legend. The Krater flashes before her eyes. Chrétien was from Troyes! The Grail Legend. The Grail. Avallon. The Krater! Chrétien de Troyes!
In a lightning burst, she realizes what she saw at the museum at Châtillon-sur-Seine. Why this epiphany comes to her at this instant she’ll probably never know. Since she’s so used to her imagination flowing from vision to vision, since she depends on her visions for guidance and makes a living writing about them, there are some things she just knows. She’s certain she's now been handed arcane knowledge from a divine source. Feeling shivers, she pulls the blanket up to her chin. With eyes closed, she sits back to ponder her revelation. Why had it never come to her before? There is no doubt in her mind that she has discovered the very source of Chrétien de Troye’s Grail story. The Vix Krater, the actual, tangible source for the Story of the Grail and its pagan Celtic origins. She has found the Celtic Cauldron of Plenty, the Cauldron of Immortality, buried with la Dame de Vix. How many Celts must have seen and celebrated this immense bronze vessel, dipping their cups into it, drinking deeply from it? How many bards must have sung about it , how many storytellers woven tales about it? For centuries until it finally surfaced as Le Conte du Graal, the Grail Legend from Chrètien who lived in nearby Troyes.
Realms of Gold Page 5
