“On our own journey from Sybaris.”
"I'll make sure you get to Châtillon.in time for your Winter Solstice—and then we can surely make it to Venice by Christmas.”
*
They drive through forests of Bosnian pines, seeded centuries ago by winds from the Dalmatian coast, past groves of silver-barked birches, through villages where Albanian from the 1500s is still spoken. Peregrine falcons dart and swoop against a sky already beginning to darken although it’s not yet two o’clock. As they look out to the snow-peaked Apennines, he slows down to point out a golden eagle soaring above the dense forest. Snow begins to fall lightly, like feathers floating from the heavens. Before long, the roadsides are blanketed with white. Giovanni brakes when he sees a dead raven lying on the snow, drops of its blood splattered about. “I hope you’re not superstitious about the bird—or sorry you’ve come on this trip,” he says seriously.
“You southern Italians are so superstitious,” she says teasingly. “I don’t take the raven as an ominous foreboding. Of course I’m glad I came. But this is not what I expected to see in the South of Italy--it’s a different world up here--tall pines, oaks, almost Alpine, even without the snow.”
“Trees from these forests supplied the Greeks and Romans with timbers for their galleys. Now it’s reforested and will remain this way.” He tunes in on the Park radio station for the weather and road reports . Heavy snow is predicted throughout the higher altitudes. Let’s keep going. No stop for lunch—I want to get to the coast before it gets dark, then we’ll turn inland and from there it’s only a short distance to Paestum.”
Bianca
Paestum, December 19
They arrive at six, later than they'd expected. The roads are slow until they’re out of the park, and snow turns to light drizzle. The sky begins to clear and a ring surrounds the full moon.
Giovanni says, “Close to the temple site there’s a little hotel, once an old mill, Il Mulino di Grano. How does that sound to you?”
“Perfect—do you think we can get rooms?" she says, emphasizing the plural.
“There’s only one way to find out.” He dials the number on his cell.
Will he ask for one room, or for two, she wonders, her heart almost skipping a beat as she waits.
He asks for two rooms. Her heart sinks. If not now, it will never be.
“Only one available room?” he inquires. “Va bene, I’ll take it then. We’ll be by in a few minutes.” He hangs up and turns to her. “The owner said they just had a cancellation. The town is full—a computer company convention from the U.S. You heard the rest.”
She doesn’t detect much joy in his voice. Her heart now beats double time. “It’s all right with me,” she murmurs. “Don’t worry, Giovanni, I won’t try to seduce you.” Then smiling wickedly, she adds, “I actually think you might be afraid of me.”
“Don’t be silly," he snaps back with a partly stifled laugh, “Of course I’m not afraid of you.”
She is far from convinced when she notices his face turning red. “I’ll admit I’ve not known many men in my life—and that I haven’t dated for a long time. In my second year at college I had a heartbreaking romance so I left the States and went to live in Oxford--in England, not in Mississippi. I may even tell you about my time there. That is if you’re interested.”
“Why not tell me about it over dinner? This little inn serves a good prezzo fisso four course meal. I’ll order a bottle of wine--the Primitivo from the Salento, and we’ll have plenty of time to talk.”
*
They drive up to the cobblestone courtyard of the old mill which has been sympathetically restored by its owner, a sprightly woman in her seventies who gives them a warm welcome. She shows them the library-sitting room before leading them up three flights of creaky wood steps to the former bell tower, now a round room. A four-poster curtained canopy bed with two large pillows of white embroidered linen stands in the center. The modern bathroom has double sinks and a separate loo. The signora pulls open the shutters. “Look, you have the very best view—the archaeological site,” she announces proudly.
And there, in the distance, are the famous temples of Paestum, lit up by the full moon hovering above like a cloudy silver mirror. Bianca's never seen them at night, only during day trips from Naples. The majesty of the view fairly takes her breath away. Her eyes scan the room as she admires the soft patina of the old walnut furniture, the overstuffed armchair, its back casually draped with a mohair throw, and an ottoman large enough for Giovanni to stretch out his long legs. Maybe he plans on sleeping there, she thinks, a wave of disappointment suddenly washing over her. She vows to make the best of it—not to cave in to her feelings. It's as simple as simple can be—they will be sharing this room as friends, platonic friends. After all, they’ve only been together in Venice not even enough hours to make up a day—and now it’s only three days since she arrived at the airport in Bari. Even though it seems as though she’s known Giovanni forever, she realizes she hardly knows him at all.
After punching the mattress and checking out the bathroom, Giovanni says, “Nice room, we’ll take it. I’ll go down to the car for our bags.”
The signora thanks him and then remarks, “Oh—I’m sorry to tell you this suite has no heat, but there are plenty of blankets in the top of the armadio. The TV weather reporter said the temperature may drop tonight.”
Bianca quickly washes up, brushes her hair back, twists it behind her head and anchors it with the big tortoise hairpins she always carries with her. She slips into a softly gathered white blouse with long full sleeves and unpacks a crimson pashmina shawl to wrap around her shoulders in case the dining room is draughty. Rummaging around in her handbag, she finds the lustrous scarlet lipstick she'd bought at Bloomingdale’s and has not yet tried. She draws it along her lips gingerly and looks in the mirror. Not bad, Bianca, with your pale skin and dark hair. Drops of blood against the snow, hair as dark as ebony. No, she won’t allow herself to feel rejected. When he returns with the luggage, she smiles broadly and says, “Come on—now it’s your turn to get ready. I’ll be in the library-sitting room having a look through the newspapers.”
*
He pours her a glass of rich, pomegranate red Primitivo. “Bianca, let’s drink to our journey from Sybaris. May it be all we want it to be. He raises his glass to touch hers. She sips the peppery, powerful wine. “This is the first Primitivo I’ve ever tasted—I like it very much.”
“You call it Zinfandel in the States. My oenologist friend in Bari was the prime mover in the production of Primitivo.”
The waitress materializes with a blackboard menu and recites the litany of specialties. “Antipasto, mozzarella di bufala locale, la spigola alla griglia. Vegetarian choice, melanzane alla parmigiana.” They choose la spigola. “You'll be sharing one large fish. And if you don’t fancy ravioli stuffed with chopped artichokes, we can give you spaghetti salsa pomodoro,” she says obligingly. “Our dolce this evening is the specialità della casa, torta di fragolini, wild strawberry cake.” Bianca studies the menu. “I’m starving. I almost could eat the fish and the eggplant. Do I sound greedy?”
“Not at all—you’ve eaten only one energy bar since early morning, so it’s no wonder you’re starving. As for me, I’m ravenous!” He asks the waitress to bring not one but two orders of the melanzane alla parmigiana with the antipasto. He offers to pay a supplement, but she tells him it isn't necessary. “Compliments of the chef.”
They munch on super thin grissini and most of the crusty bread before the antipasto arrives. “If I drink wine on an empty stomach, I get either drunk—or sick,” she says as she breaks off another crust of the ciabatta. She considers telling him about Oxford but she holds back, knowing that right now food seems of the utmost importance to both of them. After they feast on the comforting, plump pillows of ravioli, she’ll feel confident, ready to tell him about Boar’s Hill, her dark visions, Nina urging her to remove her veil.
*
*
They climb the three flights to the tower. When he opens the door, she feels a rush of frigid air. The bed, curtained all around in crimson faux Fortuny, looks warm and inviting.
“Come on, Giò-shall we toss a coin?”
“No need to--you take it. The chaise is long enough for me, and there are plenty of blankets in the cupboard.”
She reaches into her suitcase for the robe and nightgown. “Okay, I’ll use the bathroom first, if that’s all right with you.”
“Go ahead, take your time.”
When she crawls into bed, she shivers between sheets that have already been turned down on both sides. She leaves one folded down side undisturbed, hoping he might take it as an invitation to crawl in beside her. An image of red curtains banishing the black curtains flashes across her mind, wiping out, blotting out, the darkness.
When he comes out of the bathroom, he’s dressed in striped pajamas with a matching robe. Typical, she thinks, always perfectly correct, dignified Giovanni.
He removes the extra blankets from the cupboard and pulls up the ottoman to meet the chair. He sits reflecting for a few moments. Suddenly he leaps up and rips off his robe. He snatches the cover from the bed and jumps in, making the mattress squeak and bounce.
“Shouldn't we keep each other warm? It's freezing in here!” When he lays his head on her pillow she trembles as his tongue brushes the delicate shell of her ear. Reaching for her soft, graceful hands, he kisses each tapered, ringless finger, one by one. He cradles her head in his hands, looks into her smoky eyes, and says softly, seriously, “Bianca, Bianca, why has it taken me so much time, so much wasted time?” He draws the last curtain closed, grasps her shoulders, draws her against his chest, pressing his lips to hers, at first tenderly, then greedily. Pulling her gown from around her legs, he begins to stroke her thighs, her back, her breasts.
She opens h her arms and enfolds him, returning his kisses feverishly, with abandon, releasing pent-up passions she has known only in her visions, in her dreams
Book VI
When the alarm goes off at six, they wake up in each other's arms. He calls for coffee, but the kitchen isn't open. He turns on the shower to make sure the water's hot. They stand, luxuriating in the warmth of the fine spray, while he lathers her back lovingly. Then she soaps his.
Soon they’re in the dining room drinking strong black espresso savoring each other and the just-out-of-the-oven cornetti filled with vanilla pastry cream. As they sip their second cup he opens the map to show her the route he’s sketched out.
“How long will it take for us to drive from Paestum to Marseilles?” she asks.
“With a hard push we can reach Marseilles in twelve hours. If we hit the road by eight, we can be there by nine or ten tonight. Certainly by nine if the traffic is easy—it’s not tourist season and the weather looks good. Still, it’s a long hard drive. Or—we can also take an interior road north to Châtillon-sur-Seine which goes through Lyon, avoiding Marseilles altogether.”
“That’s far too much driving in one day. I can't offer to drive. My license ran out in August and I forgot to renew it. There 's no need for a car in New York. We're very close to Christmas and, if we time it right, we could be spending the winter solstice in Châtillon-sur-Seine.”
“That's a great idea! Certainly the winter solstice was an important time for the Celts,” he says enthusiastically.
“Somewhere I read that the Krater might have gone by pack mule through the Alps and not by sea. But why take such an arduous route when a sea voyage took less time and was probably safer?”
“In my opinion the Krater went by boat, probably in seven pieces to be assembled later in situ. It would have sailed, hugging the coast to ancient Massilia, then up the Rhone, the Saone, then a short distance overland to the Seine, and then to Vix. Some historians disagree with me, but I think that sea transport in the spring or early autumn is easier and safer than the long haul North on pack mules through hostile territory and over an Alpine pass.”
“Come on--let’s be realistic! Whichever route we take ours, is hardly a difficult journey,” she laughs. “Of course we’ll take advantage of the time we live in—and be grateful that we can arrive there so fast and comfortably.”
“Instead of driving straight to Massilia, why not make our first night stop San Remo? It’s still a long drive, but if we leave Paestum around ten, we can get there by nine tonight. Traffic’s light at this time of year and we’ll surely make it to San Remo for a late dinner. Even if we take a lunch break at the Autogrill we can…”
She laughs, “Typical—food always on your mind.”
He smiles ruefully. “And probably always will be. Let’s walk to the archaeological site and have a look at the Temple of Hera built while Sybaris was still a city. Because they traded here, Hallstatt Celts would have seen this temple, and, by its size and grandeur, they would certainly have been in awe of it.”
Giovanni
The morning is crisp, the cloudless sky a cool, faded blue, a postcard perfect backdrop for their stroll. The guard knows Giovanni and allows them to enter even though it’s only eight. The site is a compound of three temples, once a sacred area, the heart of the walled city of Poseidonia.
Giovanni clears his throat and speaks in his teaching mode. “We’re looking at the earliest of the three temples. This one was dedicated to Hera although for years it was wrongfully called the Temple of Neptune because the name of the city was Poseidonia. It was built around 550 B.C. at the height of Sybarite power and wealth only a few decades before the Vix Krater was cast. The other temples on this site were built later, after the fall of Sybaris, by Sybarites who’d fled their city after Kroton destroyed it. I’ve seen many Greek temples in my lifetime but this one never fails to amaze me.”
Daunting Doric columns loom, majestically supporting their massive burden. Sunlight and shade emphasize the fluting of the columns. He takes her hand as they mount the steps of the portico. “Look out beyond the colonnades and you can see how the temple faces those verdant, cone shaped hills, a site worthy of Hera Once these three temples stood closer to the sea, but over the centuries the sea deserted them—as eventually it deserted the port of Sybaris. A temple in Sybaris would have resembled this one. Can you imagine such an enormous edifice constructed of local limestone painted to look like marble? The details of gods and goddesses in the frieze were picked out in vibrant blues, brilliant reds. What a dazzling sight it must have been.”
“I remember how shocked I was to learn that the Greeks painted their temples gaudy colors,” she replies. “I always thought of ancient Greek temples as models of simplicity, architecturally pure in concept, and so I guess I expected them to be pure in adornment, as well. It’s even hard for me to imagine that they continued to paint them in the Classical era. Whenever I'm in London, I head straight for the British Museum to gaze at the Elgin Marbles, trying to envision the pantheon of gods and goddesses in Technicolor, but it's still hard for me to picture them that way. One famous decorator, I can’t recall her name, seeing the Parthenon for the first time, cried out, 'It's beige—my color!’ How disappointed she would have been had she seen the temples as they once were—in primary pigments!”
He laughs. “A few years ago I was h
ere when the entablature was being strengthened. I climbed up the scaffolding almost thirty feet where I was able to walk around the geison, the cornice behind the frieze, under the eaves, so to speak. What a memorable experience.”
“Even with my Nike-shod feet planted on terra firma it’s still a memorable experience,” she responds. “I’m glad we came here, the better to envision the Celts trading their salt and amber and furs.”
“And don’t forget coral –It was once plentiful along this coast and around the Bay of Naples.”
For a few moments she reflects. “The Celts must have been awestruck by the Etruscans, Sybarites and Poseidonians-- by their refinements—not to mention the immensity of their architecture. It’s a wonder they didn’t build something as grand as this temple in or around their citadel at Latisco. They certainly had the workforce to do so, as well as the wealth. And in Magna Graecia they would surely have found the inspiration—no need for them to have gone all the way to Greece, or to Olbia or Miletus.”
“They may not have had such grand edifices, Bianca, but one way or another, however difficult, the enormous Krater found its way to Latisco. Most historians and antiquities experts think it was made as a tribute to a chieftain-king from a Hellene or from an Etruscan, but I’m not convinced. Are you? “
*
After they walk through the temple site, Giovanni leads her to the little museum to see the painting from the Tomb of the Diver. “I wanted to show it to you because it’s stylistically like the painting of Hephaestus at the forge in the masseria. Before the Celts traded with the Greeks, they’d long been influenced by the twelve Etruscan tribes. The Etruscans were also expert bronze-smiths, so they had the art of metal working in common with the Hallstatt Celts, who were masters at forging bronze and iron. And the Etruscans, like the Celts, were believers in the afterlife: they buried their dead in tumuli, outfitted them with all they needed in the Otherworld. To this day objects from these tombs are looted all over Tuscany, Chiusi, Tarquinia. If only we could more thoroughly translate the Etruscan language, we might be able to understand not just the Etruscans themselves, but also the tribes they traded with—Celts, Illyrians, and later on, the earliest Romans. And we still don’t understand where the Etruscans came from originally or if they were indigenous to the Italian peninsula. The study of haplogroups should someday find their deep ancestral origins.”
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