Читать книгу The Italian Letters - Linda Lambert - Страница 11

CHAPTER 3

The two of us are a country under embargo, living on parentheses and silences, on blackouts, so that when the lights finally come on again, we have already forgotten what to say to each other.

—Elisa Biagini, Italian Poet

IN 1927, TWO IMPORTANT visitors came to Cerveteri: Benito Mussolini and D.H. Lawrence. Mussolini demanded that a road be built between the village and the necropolis so that visitors could access the tombs of the great Etruscan warriors, forebears and teachers of the triumphant Romans. D.H. Lawrence came in search of Etruscan Places, his loving tale about the Etruscans he loved—destroyed, he felt, by the crude Romans. Both men were captivated by the Etruscans, but they came with different assumptions and left with disparate idealistic convictions.

Like all Etruscan towns, Cerveteri—or Caere, as it was called then—sat on a craggy hill overlooking a valley and the sea beyond. The volcanic rock, or tufa, wall surrounding the village was now nearly smothered by trees and vines growing up the escarpment from the ravine below. Three major volcanic actions had loosened and split the tufa walls and the tumuli—domed structures that housed multiple tombs—beyond. Partially buried under these natural concealments were ancient carved lions, horses, birds, and the tools used to make them. A citadel rose above the wall, created in the classic design that has marked the Italian landscape for 2,500 years.

During the Middle Ages, a huge iron gate secured the wall. As centuries passed, the gate opened and the town welcomed visitors—although few came. Even today, at the tourist bureau, no one spoke English. Shop owners seemed surprised by other languages, and residents watched outsiders with curiosity, even though UNESCO promoted the Necropolis of the Banditaccia of Cerveteri as the “patrimony of humanity, an exceptional testimonial to the Etruscan civilization.”

Having spent the night in Viterbo, two hours to the northeast, Justine drove up the sharp incline to the ancient town appreciating the late March warmth. She parked her sapphire 2004 Alfa Romeo Spider across from Santa Maria Maggiore Church. She stood for a moment, examining the city map. She walked north across the bridge leading up to the Piazza Risorgimento. A Renaissance clock tower rose on the west end. To the left, a restaurant glowing pink and yellow in the morning light, matching turret and potted trees surrounding outdoor tables and umbrellas, which protruded into the square. An adjacent pharmacy and a vegetable market shared an edifice painted with elaborate murals of medieval life. A contrasting, stern gray government building towered over the piazza’s south side; Justine wondered if it still hosted dungeons and guillotines.

She had agreed to meet her father at one of the tables under the clock tower, an imaginative structure of marble and bricks with double pillars that felt reminiscent of Disneyland. A coat of arms boasted a wide-antlered buck.

A young woman emerged from the corner café and took Justine’s order for two double cappuccinos.

“Love those boots,” she said as her father approached. “Cappuccino?”

“You always know what I like,” said Morgan, sitting down and flinging one leg over his knee so she could get a closer look at the boots. “Had them made in Cuzco.”

“Are we going out to the dig this morning?” she asked, running her palm over the polished buckskin surface. “These won’t look so new in a couple of hours.”

“They clean up easily enough,” he said, brushing a slight residue of dust from the toes. “But let me fill you in before we head out. Yesterday big equipment was brought in to dig ten feet down around two of the tumuli identified as interesting by aerial photos. So . . . we might be able to get into the troughs today.”

“What made the photos interesting?”

“Formations deep under the tumuli. They look like geometrical designs. But I’ve been fooled before. From the air, ordinary rock can form outlines that look man-made.”

“I love being in on the beginning of a mystery . . . what do you expect to find?” She moved her chair slightly to avoid the direct sun and took off her sunglasses. Her amber eyes glistened.

“Probably not much.” Morgan was forever understating his excitement. “The tombs there already stretch over four centuries. Caere was an active community in the ninth century BCE and 200 years later it dominated the Tyrranean coast, including the Tolfa Mountains and Lake Bracciano, which you would have passed yesterday coming into Viterbo. But I’m hoping for a few surprises. Perhaps the tomb of an Etruscan king.” He laughed.

“I didn’t think you liked surprises.” She was incredulous.

“Only in archaeology, honey.” He grinned, finishing off his cappuccino, picking up his clipboard, and pushing back his chair.

They rode in his jeep to the necropolis five miles away. Sycamore, oak, and cypress created a canopy over the road into grounds adorned by white narcissus and salmon and ivory lilies, once known as asphodel. Persephone, the daughter of Zeus, had claimed the asphodel lily as her own during the half of her life she could spend on Earth. Abducted by Hades, she was condemned to spend the other half in his underworld. Justine compared the fable to her own life. Maybe Egypt was my underworld. I was smothered in an earthquake, run off the road, kidnapped, and kicked out of the country. But there were exquisite moments as well. Amir . . .

Morgan parked the Jeep near the miniature train and tourist center. They walked through the public area. Mounds of verdant earth ran wild with dandelions and green brambles. A door on each side of the tumuli led to two separate tombs. The tumuli themselves rested on four-foot-high stone foundations crusty with lichen and fungi. Set about twenty feet apart on either side of a common walkway, they fashioned a comely neighborhood. No other necropolis in Italy lived so lightly on the land.

At the end of the path they stepped over a low-lying fence and approached two tumuli whose foundations were ringed by a deep trench.

“Olives were actually found in this one,” a young man was saying as he stepped out of a nearby tomb. “That’s why it’s called the Tomb of the Olives. Furbo, clever.” He held out his hand, stepped forward, and took Justine’s hand into his. “Riccardo,” he said.

“Riccardo Chia, our historian,” offered her father, by way of further introduction. He dug the toe of his boot into the earth.

Justine read her father’s fidgeting as contempt. “Delighted to meet you,” she said. “I’m always eager to meet a historian. So tell me, how difficult is it to work with my father?”

Riccardo blanched, but quickly recovered. “He’s son of a bitch,” he said in broken English. An open khaki shirt revealed a chest of dark brown hair and a small scar near his trachea. A careless ponytail rested on his shoulder like a squirrel’s tail. His eyes were a little too close together, and that and his scraggly eyebrows, almost touching, gave him a look of intense concentration. Two days’ growth obscured his narrow chin. “But I expect to learn an enormous amount from Dr. Jenner.” He shifted his feet like a boy who has overstepped his authority.

Another charmer, she thought. If rather odd-looking.

Her father touched the rim of his hat and raised his left eyebrow, obviously uncomfortable with Riccardo’s portrayal of him.

“And what is it you’re hoping to learn from this dig, Riccardo?” Justine asked.

“In the best world, God willing, we find a house with scrolls of poetry and a few plays. But I’m dreaming, since no literature remains—burned by early Christians, mostly. And only a couple of Etruscan towns have been found.”

“Riccardo’s a romantic,” said Morgan. “Typical historian . . .” he muttered.

“Why do you think that is, Riccardo?” Justine asked, raising her voice to drown out her father’s rudeness. “That so few verified Etruscan towns have been found?”

“Most of the buildings were made out of wood so didn’t survive. Probably destroyed by fire or dry-rot. Later generations probably used the wood for cooking fires as well. But tombs tell us a great deal about what the homes probably looked like. Come on, I’ll show you.” Riccardo led Justine back over the low-lying fence and toward a nearby tumulus. Her father reluctantly followed.

Riccardo led them into the Tomb of the Shields and Chairs, its large vestibule adorned with intricately carved shields. Chiseled from the rear wall, funeral beds of stone that once held sarcophagi. Nearby, two chairs with footrests gave the enclosure the homey appearance of a bedroom. “Look up,” Riccardo pointed. “This painting of a home with a thatched roof supported by capitals and columns tells us something about how they lived. And, think about it, this tomb was built more than 2,700 years ago. Notice these tools for everyday use sketched here and on many of the other tombs. Clearly, they thought they stayed here for a while before traveling on to the afterlife. So they brought along what they needed for daily life.”

Justine noticed the carving of an ornate mirror as well, and an arched comb with small, graduated teeth. Clearly women were expected to continue their beauty regimens in the hereafter. She grinned to herself, then pointed to the finds.

“Speculation,” grunted Morgan. “There are conflicting theories about how they viewed the afterlife. I can’t imagine that vanity held sway.”

“Many theories,” confirmed Riccardo, unruffled. “I’m drawn to D.H. Lawrence’s . . .”

“The biggest romantic of them all,” interrupted Morgan. “He didn’t know a thing about the Etruscans. A novelist,” he added dismissively.

“Why don’t you come to dinner this weekend and tell us about Lawrence and the afterlife?” Justine extended the invitation without looking at her father. “A friend of mine from Paris is coming in.”

“Love to,” Riccardo nodded, the morning light streaming in, dancing dust particles alive in the air. “I’m sure Dr. Jenner will tell me how to get there.”

Morgan turned away and walked into another chamber.

“Perhaps you can ride together,” she suggested, turning to climb back out into the full sunlight. Maybe they can get to know each other a little better.

Justine following, Morgan led toward the newly ploughed trough and scrambled down a small wooden ladder. Justine followed. Riccardo returned to his work site. Father and daughter sat yoga-style on the damp earth. Morgan removed his gloves and ran his hands over the newly cut earthen wall as though it were a thoroughbred. “This is the moment I love,” he said. “Virgin soil hiding her treasures like Michelangelo’s marble.”

Justine watched her father with fresh insight. “You’re a poet,” she charged.

“In some ways,” he admitted. “When I’m close to the treasures of history, I try to seduce them into releasing their secrets.” He continued to run his palms over the dark earthen wall with witching sensitivity.

“If you seek the treasures of history, why do you give historians like Riccardo such a bad time? Aren’t you after the same thing?” Justine’s hand followed the motions of her father’s, searching for the sense of mystery he felt.

“Not at all. Riccardo would connect finds together and create a story. The story may or may not be true. What we can infer today may not be how people thought back then. For me, each artifact can have value in and of itself. Then I look for patterns. If I find enough artifacts of the same expression, of the same utility, I know it was in routine use. If I find a piece of technology, I know the level of progress of the civilization. There is a valid history of technology, although sometimes even that can be misleading.”

“Such as?” She brushed her hands together to loosen the clinging soil, then wiped them on her pants.

“Well, for instance, the indigenous Americans used rounded objects to grind corn and make pottery, yet they never invented the wheel for transport. Amazing.”

“Amazing indeed.” She nodded. “Which led to a number of misinterpretations of native uses of technology . . . Regardless of some faulty assumptions, though, wouldn’t you say that some histories are defensible?” In spite of the heat, the damp ground soaked through her khakis and chilled her.

“Defensible histories that are straightforward, linear, that use the pieces of knowledge necessary to achieve the next level of advancement, yes. But not quixotic histories that speculate on human motives and emotions. Too subjective for me.”

“Psychological profiles are important to anthropologists. Otherwise, we couldn’t reason out the stories of civilization, understand human motivation. Perhaps there’s a niche for me there.” She shifted from side to side to loosen her slacks from the grasping earth.

“The female brain is hardwired for such endeavors. I’m not.” Morgan was unaffected by the growing dampness. He was in his element.

“Let me see if I get this straight: I’m an unrealistic girl who goes around with her head in a cloud wearing rose-colored glasses.”

“Something like that.” He tipped his hat playfully.

She stood abruptly, brushed herself off, and climbed the ladder. “I’m walking back,” she called down from above. Should I even consider working with him? He insists on such unimaginative thinking.

“I had more to show you, Justine. Don’t be angry. I was just playing with you.” He climbed the ladder two steps at a time, walking rapidly after her, unable to catch up.

As she emerged from the tree canopy into the heat of the day, her scalp began to sweat. The walk back into town didn’t soothe her frustration with her father’s chauvinism. He was either dismissing her work or trying to get her goat. Testing her all the time. She knew he was kidding, but it got tiresome.

Justine opened her car trunk, threw in her jacket, changed out of her boots, grabbed her purse, and brushed the dried mud off her slacks. She headed toward the east side of Cerveteri and a gray stone castle that housed the Etruscan museum.

A small sign indicated the entry through a ground-floor archway underneath the ramparts. She handed three euros to a young woman in a glass booth and stepped inside. An incline led to the upper ramparts and wound into a parapet and eventually a turret with barred windows. Crevices from missing stones offered homes to dozens of pigeons.

In the darkened room, strategically placed lights beamed down on sarcophagi, pottery, tools, and delicate votive offerings behind glass walls. Light streamed in through the barred window onto ancient carved metal mirrors, one decorated with the Etruscan god Tinia, known in Greece as Zeus, holding a feather umbrella and touching the gown of a maiden wearing rose- and disc-shaped earrings and bracelets of gold filigree and granulated crystals. Long rows of perky ducks walked across brooches and fibula. Fingers of light caressed black Bucchero pottery scattered about, designed to serve both utilitarian and decorative function; amphora and drinking cups dedicated to the Etruscan god Fufluns; vases and funeral urns engraved with the names of men and women. Bronze tableware, bowls and pitchers, ladles and strainers. Halfway down the room she came upon a terra cotta sarcophagus that drew her attention with such intensity that chills moved up her bare arms. She stood mesmerized for several moments by the mystery of this scene of profound union. A man and a woman lounged in each other’s arms on stone pillows, legs extending the full length of a royal bed. He was naked above the waist; she wore a tunic and long braids. His right hand rested tenderly on her shoulder, the forefinger of his hand extended as though pointing toward something they were viewing together through peaceful, yet lively, almond eyes. His left palm remained open as though it had once held a treasured offering of his love. The intimacy of this poised couple makes me feel like an intruder in an ancient boudoir. Behind the sarcophagus were four framed drawings of the floor plan and sketches of the inside of the tomb in which the sarcophagus was found. This Sarcophagus of the Married Couple from the necropolis nearby had been dated to the second half of the sixth century BCE.

She turned around slowly, riveted by a growing consciousness of the story around her. She stared again at the images of men and women on the mirrors and black pottery, some etched with names for both partners, at amphora with dancing partners regarding each other without guile or modesty. She swirled, seeing the room with new lenses, her eyes the shutters of a fast-firing camera. Men and women were in conversation, touching, relaxing together, a natural part of each other’s world. The men assumed no dominance or superiority—no semblance of diffidence or timidity defined the women. The room came alive with the communal existence of humans on a shared journey. If any moment in time can bring an awareness powerful enough to inform everything that comes after, this was such a moment for Justine. Her eyes narrowed, her long fingers formed into a tent that she drew in wonder to her lips. A goddess culture, this extraordinary civilization began as a goddess culture! She felt with great avouchment that she understood the relationship between men and women in Etruria.