At dockside, shifty-eyed men with curly black beards and crooked noses took us aboard their blue-sailed boat. I have seen tears in my mother’s eyes, but have never seen her cry or weep as I often do. My little brother threw his arms around me and sobbed. My mother and I wept with him. We all knew that we might never see one another again.
Giovanni
Naples, December 15, 2007
His plane from Milan lands at Naples airport half an hour before hers is due from New York. He waits patiently for that first glimpse, wondering if her looks will still shock him. True, her soft, pearl-glazed fingers are lovely, but, with that wild mane of hair, those ill-fitting clothes looking as though they’d never known an iron, she leaves him cold. He admits to himself that he’s put off by the idea of sexual contact with Bianca Fiore. At the same time he feels an urge to claim her, control her. But then she doesn’t seem the kind of American woman who would be dazzled by wealth. Or, for that matter, by his titled, aristocratic friends. Once again, he scolds himself for his shallowness.
His mother, a brilliant tree botanist, has never set store on her own looks or her son’s. If he ever marries, Silvana Santopuoli will not be the typical Italian mother-in-law who makes sure his wife irons his shirts meticulously, who makes sure she caters to all his creature comforts. He’s probably no different from many Italian men, spoiled rotten by Mama. He knows himself well enough to sense that he’s using Bianca for reasons of his own.
Passengers begin shuffling out from the Customs Hall. When the plane seems completely unloaded, he wonders if she’s changed her mind--but then he’s sure she would have called. In his entire life he’s never been stood up. He gropes for his cell phone to be sure this isn’t the first. Then, when he looks up and finds her standing there, he surprises himself by feeling strangely relieved. He throws one arm around her shoulder, drawing her close to his side. He kisses her formally on both cheeks, breathing in her scent of almonds crushed with cream and carnations.
“I hoped you’d recognize me with my hair drawn back,”
Her smile dazzles. “It’s very becoming this way,” he mumbles. Are his eyes deceiving him, or is he becoming used to her? His eyes sweep over her, admiring her lean, straight-line grace.
She’s wearing a black belted suit that shows off a long-waisted narrow rib cage. Slim, well-cut trousers enhance long legs he notices for the first time. Although she spent the night on the plane, her clothes look fresh. No, she isn’t at all the plain, untidy woman he remembered.
“I’m happy to see you, Giovanni. I don’t know how or where to begin ...”
“First you must get some rest.” He takes hold of her precious, roll-on computer bag wheeling it behind him. Slung over her arm is also a hanging bag, and, as though this time she intends a longer stay, they pick up a suitcase in the claim area.`
“What’s our plan?” she asks as they walk toward Hertz. Unconsciously he’s drawn his hand through her arm, entwining his fingers with hers.
We’ll pick up the car and drive on to the castello in Sicchia, about sixty miles.”
Her face reveals a mixture of seriousness and excitement. “Is that the castle you told me about? The one built by the sons of Simon de Monfort?”
“Yes—it’s been in my mother’s family for over a hundred years, but she rarely goes now. After my father died, we spent our summers there while my mother researched Sicchia’s trees.”
“Sicchia? Nina mentions Sicchia in her diary! What sort of trees grow there?”
“Sycamores, beech, birch, pine, ash.”
“Oaks?”
Why, he wonders, is she suddenly so interested in arboriculture ?
“When we arrive we’ll have a short rest, then a light supper. If you like, we can have a walk in the morning—but you should go to bed early.” He loads her beat up Sport Sac bag and roll-on in the back of the SUV along with his old but well cared for leather valise and his guitar case.
"You’ll meet the family’s long time retainer. Anselmo, who takes care of the castello, must be the third or fourth generation of the same family. He’ll cook a simple dinner for us. Then early tomorrow we’ll be on our way to Sybaris.”
Bianca
December 15, 2007
From Naples they drive north on the Autostrada del Sole and exit on the road to Isernia, driving through a valley looking up to patchworks of brilliant green winter wheat, blue-green broccoli-rape and squares of dusty pink, precisely tilled earth, ready to be furrowed and seeded.
They arrive in Sicchia, in the Molise, by mid afternoon. Ascending on the turning, twisting switchback road, they finally reach the hilltop village and a small but impressive turreted stone castello a few kilometers off the main road. Giovanni stops at the gate and presses the buzzer. The gate yawns open and they drive into the cobbled courtyard and park by the castle’s heavy oak portals. The door knocker makes loud thumps when Giovanni slams it hard against the wood. They are greeted by an elderly, gray-haired man wearing a brass-buttoned jacket with gilt shoulder tabs. When Giovanni introduces Anselmo to her, she offers her hand. Muttering a greeting and only vaguely smiling, he excuses himself to unload their suitcases.
They enter a hall where stag antlers line the walls along with old swords and muskets. A flag is embroidered with a garland of oak leaves and olive branches tied with a blue ribbon. “The coat of arms of Sicchia,” Giovanni explains. In one corner stands a tall mahogany pillar, wider than a grandfather’s clock, with a large concave disc made up of hundreds of faceted glass tesserae set into its face.
“I’ve never seen a lamp like it. Is it for reflecting candlelight?”
He nods. “Margaret Norville’s lover, a writer, purportedly brought it from Krakow and used it for ceremonial purposes. He was a strange man, detested by her family. From all accounts he had bizarre tastes. The contadini still talk about wild, decadent parties with his Roman friends when Margaret wasn’t around. He wore a black cape and a slouch hat—like local men in the village, even when he was away from here. “
She shudders—and feels a frisson of fear shoot through her, the man in a black cape who’d followed me home. And the words in Nina’s diary. But I will never paint what I saw in Sicchia.
Anselmo materializes from nowhere with a silver tray and two glasses of prosecco which they gratefully accept. After clinking glasses, she returns to the subject of wild parties, and, as nonchalantly as she can, asks, “How and why were his parties decadent?”
Raising an eyebrow he gives her an oblique look, as if to say, “Try using your imagination.” Then he takes her arm. “Come, I’ll show you to your room.” She follows him up the narrow stone staircase, all the while envisioning the black-caped man, and, at the same time, wondering how the white linen stair runner manages to stay so clean. When they reach a small landing with two facing doors, he opens one. “This is for you.”
A four-poster bed centers the small, butter-yellow room. Carved, gilded grapes and vines cling to its twisted baroque posts. The only other furnishings are a painted green commode festooned with flower garlands and matching bed tables. Crisp curtains are drawn across lead-mullioned windows. Although the cozy room retains old world charm, it also seems fresh and modern, the sort of bedroom she wishes she had in New York.
“My mother re-decorated after she inherited the castle—now it’s authentic Colefax and Fowler.” He grins. “This room used to be quite weird.”
She laughs. “Please describe it to me. Or would you rather have me envision it?”
He seems reluctant.
“Go ahead. I want to know what it was like.”
“Okay, if you insist. The ceiling was a deep red-purple. the bedspread and curtains purple velvet. There was a painted frieze around the room just below the ceiling. It read pax et bonum. malum et pax. Peace and goodness. Evil and peace.”
“What a curious conundrum!”
He shrugs—”No more curious than The Writer. The room used to be crammed with furniture—shelves crammed with bi
ts and pieces of junk. A wide cassone, painted with mythical beasts, griffins and grotesques, stood against the wall. My mother sold everything but the antique bed brought from Venice by Margaret Norville. Then she used these simple local Abruzzi cottons to decorate. Now it’s time you had a rest.”
She won’t give up. “Did Margaret ever have any children by this man?”
He gives her a sideways glance, and shakes his head. “She had only one daughter, my great-grandmother Rose Alba, your great grandmother Nina’s childhood friend.”
“Did the eccentric writer have any children?”
“That’s another story.” He checks his watch. “I’m tired from the drive. And you must be from your long trip. Anselmo will serve dinner at eight.”
He leaves and goes into his room. No, Giovanni isn’t ready yet to share a room with her, but then maybe he’ll never be, no matter how hard she tries
*
In the oak-beamed kitchen, Anselmo has set the table with sturdy earthenware bowls and pewter utensils. In the great hearth a crackling fire spits, sparks. Burnished copper pots and pans hang on whitewashed walls. Giovanni dips a ladle into a steaming tureen, filling their bowls with minestrone that they eat with crusty bread and ewe’s milk cheese. “Simple and delicious, but hardly a Sybaritic feast,” he says.
“A few weeks ago, when my boss and I had dinner together, we talked about Sybaris and truffles. I remember wondering if the Sybarites ever ate them.”
“Tuscany was ancient Etruria, the land of the Etruscans. They still hunt for truffles there. And since the Sybarites traded with Etruscans and aped their manners, we can safely assume they also ate their truffles. Especially since the Sybarites were always on the look out for special recipes. Athenaeus tells us food was so important to them that they planned their banquets a year in advance.” He laughs. “Customs haven’t changed much in Italy, have they?” Then more seriously he adds, “Sybaris was rich from growing wheat in a vast and fertile plain. The Sybarites were also renowned for raising bulls—the famous coin of Sybaris has a representation of a bull on its face. They also sacrificed many bulls—and sacrifice and feasting usually went hand in hand. The people from nearby Kroton didn’t approve of this. At least Pythagoras, their leading philosopher-mathematician, didn’t. Eventually, historians say, Sybaris was destroyed in part because of their decadent habits, Etruscan habits. Until my father and grandfather dug with the University of Pennsylvania team in 1968, no traces of the place were known. The city was buried beneath many meters of mud and silt—maybe eight meters. It will take years for it to be completely excavated, probably not in our lifetime.”
“When exactly did this happen?”
“In the sixth century B.C. "
“The late sixth century B.C. has become an interest if mine. Since I saw you last I've been doing some research on that period— and the Middle Ages— mostly on north-eastern France. Now I can hardly wait to visit the site.”`
“Unfortunately, there’s little to see. Digging is seasonal and slow and so far not that much has been uncovered, though they have found some very nice Roman mosaic floors from Thurii, a city eventually built over submerged Sybaris about a hundred years after its fall. The Greek historian, Herodotus, lived in Thurii.”
She’s rapt as he speaks. “
“I’m afraid I’m boring you—telling you more than you ever wanted to know about Sybaris.”
“No, please go on—I want to learn more about this fabled place. You’re a gifted story teller, Giovanni, an academic one. You know so much!”
Encouraged, he continues. “I remember being surprised to learn that Sybaris was a city—a polis—larger than Athens. The Sybarite Greeks welcomed and included foreigners, something the citizens of Athens did not do. To Athenians anyone who did not speak Greek was a barbarian. Not so in Sybaris. Besides wealth from wheat and wine and bulls, they were made even richer by a short trade route across the narrow end, the trim ankle, so to speak, of the Italian boot. While other cities of Magna Graecia had to send their boats around the straits to arrive at the westerly Tyrrhenian Sea, braving storms and pirates, the Sybarites could send their trade goods in a short overland trip, a trip of only a few days, now just a few hours. In very little time , they would arrive in Poseidonia, a Sybarite city known today as Paestum. “
“You’ve explained this so much better than Sergio, my boss at the magazine. “
When she mentions Sergio, she sees a strange look cross Giovanni’s face, but he continues. “The Sybarites, loving luxury, traded with the Milesians for purple dye. When Sybaris was destroyed by Kroton, the citizens of Melitus, in what is now Western Turkey, went into mourning. There must have been tremendous resonances throughout the entire Mediterranean world at the fall of the city. Herodotus tells how Miletus wept for Sybaris and for the loss of their most valued customers. The devastation of such an important economy had to have affected commerce throughout the Mediterranean, and beyond. It could even have caused sweeping changes in taste, almost like self-imposed sumptuary laws. I have my own theory about ceramics from Greece or Greater Greece, Puglia and Calabria.”
“What kind of theory?”
Giovanni hesitates , then after a long sip of Sangiovese, and clearly born to teach, goes on with his history lesson. “Sybaris was a gold-loving polis. My friend at the Ashmolean, Michael Vickers, believes that in Greek ceramics, clay imitated metal. Red clay represented gold, black clay, silver. Michael believes that these ceramics were used as grave goods, or as disposable utensils to use in feasts, stand-ins for the real thing--valuable gold and silver objects. In my hypothesis, after Sybaris, the Golden, no longer existed after 510 B.C. Trade fell off all over the Mediterranean. there must have been alterations in what was considered beautiful and appropriate That’s just about the time ceramics went from being black figure to red figure. In other words, from a background of red, signifying gold, and a design in black, signifying silver, to just the opposite. And from then on, the taste was for the black background with the design in red. With the fall of Sybaris, a lot of gold was lost and probably there was much less gold traded so ceramic style changed. That’s my theory in a nutshell.”
“Well—I think I understand. Your explanation is that a black figure represents silver on a gold pot, later to become a gold figure on a silver pot, silver being a metal of lesser value.”
He takes her hand in his and squeezes it gently. “You’ve got it! And this sudden change came just after the fall of Sybaris. Some day soon I’d like you to tell me all about Sybaris.”
“How do you mean?”
“By doing whatever it is you do at Eyes and Soul. By using your visions.”
“But archaeology is a science. You, of all people, shouldn’t have to be reminded of that. Besides, the Archaic period in Italy has always been Sergio’s territory. He’s never let me write about Etruscan art or artifacts—or about anything south of Rome. He’s always joking that everything south of Rome is Africa. If I ever get to work on anything Italian, it’s always Northern, or of a much later period.”
“You mean that he chooses exactly what he wants you to write about? You have no say in the matter?”
“Well, lately I have been choosing my own subjects—and I’m open to suggestions from readers. But Sergio is --or was--my publisher, after all. If you’re really interested in my help, knowing so little about the south of Italy should make it easier. For me the South is still untrammeled territory. I’ll have to use my imagination. “
“Do you know what Einstein said about the imagination? Please permit me to quote him.
'Imagination is more important than knowledge. For knowledge is limited to all we now know and understand, while imagination embraces the entire world, and all there ever will be to know and understand.' "
''Okay. If Einstein says so, I’m convinced. When and where do we start? And when will you show me what’s on the wall in the masseria? The suspense is killing me.”
“Right now it’s time to get some
real rest.” He rises from the table. “If we intend to arrive at Sybaris at a decent hour tomorrow, we should get an early start. You must be tired.”
Why, she wonders, has Giovanni pointedly evaded her question about showing her his discovery?
*
She considers taking a shower before going to bed, but she barely manages to wash her face and brush her teeth. She’s even too weary to open the larger suitcase for her nightgown and crawls naked between the linen sheets. The crisply ironed pillowcase, still smelling of hay and sunshine, feels smooth and luxurious." .Turning over onto her stomach, she clasps her pillow tightly. Visions take over. The man in Nina’s diary looms up, the outline of his cape still visible against the black velvet screen, black on black. He looks like the same man who followed her near Grace’s Marketplace, the same man as Margaret Norville’s lover who’d once lived in this castello.
As she becomes drowsy, she sees the room as it must have been when Nina was here as a young girl. Purple velvet walls glowing from flames of many candles, some very tall like the long tapers that used to cost fifty francs to light at Lourdes. Branches studded with pinecones festoon the stags’ antlers hanging on the walls. At the foot of the bed, a chest as wide and as long as a coffin, is painted with devils brandishing pitchforks.
Nina lies inside on purple satin, her fair hair spread out upon a white pillow, a Pre-Raphaelite beauty by Burne-Jones or Dante Gabriel Rossetti. A dress the color of sprouting green and around her neck a golden torque, the golden torque at Châtillon-sur-Seine, the finials worked with winged horses.
Nina’s eyes are closed, but Bianca sees her lashes quiver. She is relieved that Nina is alive.
A man appears from out of the shadows, flings his cape on the purple bed, falls upon the coffin—upon Nina whose eyes open wide with horror. He pushes his hips hard against hers.
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