Читать книгу The Italian Letters - Linda Lambert - Страница 14

CHAPTER 6

THE LONG ROAD FROM TARQUINIA, the Etruscan city more than two days’ ride northwest of Rome, was muddy from the spring rains. The damp riders and their entourage had camped the night before near Ostia, to the west. But now the warm afternoon sunlight of early spring reflected off the golden chest of Achilles as the Greek god received armor from his mother, Thetis. This finely embossed imagery of Achilles in bronze was carved across the fashionable chariot, its long pole issuing from the head of a boar and ending in the head of a beaked bird that protruded between proud black steeds. This magnificent chariot carried Lucumo Tarquinius Priscus and his wife, Tanaquil, a haruspice learned in the ways of divination. Had she not known, when the eagle crowned her husband with a cap, that he was the chosen one? That a new city would give them a chance to claim the glory that was rightfully theirs?

As Lucumo drove their lathered horses up the rise to the foot of the Palatine Hills, he cried out, “Ah, this place will host my games. Horse racing and boxing in a Circus Maximus!”

“But first the swamps will have to be drained, my husband,” said Tanaquil, who had more mastery in mind than childish games.

The first Tarquin king of Rome, Justine thought, continuing her musings as she steered her Spider into Via Cristoforo Colombo toward the Coliseum. Her imagination often entertained her, especially this morning, as she was once again captivated by the majesty of Rome. Justine forced herself to fast-forward twenty-eight centuries and turn her full attention to the chaotic traffic. Not so different from Cairo, she thought. The Coliseum, the world’s best-known monument to brutality . . . yet now in the twenty-first century, as if in irony, it is lighted all night when a death penalty is commuted or abolished anywhere on earth. She turned right onto Via La Spezia and swung into Cavour Boulevard, heading toward the middle of Rome.

Andrea had left Fiesole the day before, coaxing Justine to Rome with rumors of Blackburn, shopping . . . and a certain baroness. They would meet near the Piazza Navone, at the Chiesa di San Luigi dei Francesi, where Andrea planned to meet the daughter of an old classmate. A baroness. I wonder what she’ll be like? Justine mused. An elegant diva? Reserved? Haughty? According to Andrea, the family history of the Baroness Miranda Taxis and her husband ran to daunting. Justine braced herself as she approached Saint Maggiore Piazza, where human and vehicular traffic made inroads impenetrable.

Justine finally pulled into the Piazza Navone, with its baroque palazzo, magnificent fountains, street hawkers, artists, musicians, and tourists. The enticing aromas of sausage pizza and sizzling pigeon rose from the street-side cafés. Built to be used as an arena 2,000 year earlier, it had been paved over in the fifteenth century and was now a community market. Bernini’s Fontana dei Quattro Flumi, his Fountain of the Four Rivers, depicted the Nile, Ganges, Danube, and Río de la Plata flowing together, connecting the known world.

In front of the boutique Hotel Michelangelo, situated in the southwest corner of the piazza, Justine unloaded her single buckskin bag and handed it, with her car keys, to the waiting bellman. She would not take time to check in, as she was expected at the church by noon. Following the bellman’s directions, Justine walked gingerly across the piazza and turned into an alleyway that ended in a smaller piazza housing the church—and, across the narrow street—the French Embassy. In spite of herself, she was looking forward to a day of adventure with Andrea, who was always good for a surprise or two.

Andrea was sitting on the church steps, her white linen slacks protected by a copy of Italia, a spaghetti strap hanging down over her sunburned shoulder.

“Waiting long?” asked Justine, sitting beside her friend and giving her a light squeeze. “Where’s the Baroness?”

“Just got here,” said Andrea, kissing Justine on the cheek. “Before Miranda gets here, let me tell you a little bit of her intriguing history. Her husband, William Taxis, earned his title and surname from a distant uncle in Austria who invented the notion of paid transportation. Hence, the ‘taxi.’ And, her great grandfather, Sir James Rennell, was the British ambassador to Rome during World War I.”

“Impressive!” exclaimed Justine. She wondered whether Sir Rennell had known her great grandparents, Ahmed and Isabella Hassouna, when they were stationed at the Vatican. They probably would have known each other, as the ex-patriot world then, as now, was a small one.

“Miranda’s grandfather,” Andrea continued, gently pulling a spaghetti strap up over her sunburn, “was Lord Francis Rennell of Rodd. I think he became Governor of Sicily when the British and American forces retrieved the island from the Germans in World War II . . . Wait. See that sedan just pulling up? That’s Christine Lagarde, our finance minister. I met her once at a reception. Sharp woman. She’s rumored to be the next IMF director.” A tall, slender woman in a gray Givenchy suit stepped out of the car. Two embassy officials welcomed her and escorted her into the embassy. “And here is the woman we’ve been waiting for.” Andrea nodded toward a young woman walking toward them with the gait of a horsewoman.

The Baroness Miranda Taxis bobbed, auburn hair swaying across her pixie face, as she walked, willowy and relaxed. She wore a tan khaki skirt, silver flats, and an aqua cotton blouse with a lace collar. Baroness Miranda picked up her pace as she waved and cried, “Pronti!”

As the baroness drew closer, Justine noticed that her eyes were the same color as her blouse. A bit of an avocation for me, she grinned. Eyes.

Miranda hugged Andrea tightly and turned to Justine, taking her hand with the spontaneity of someone at home in the world.

Not at all what I expected, thought Justine. So natural, unassuming.

“I want to show you my favorite painting,” said the Baroness, hardly pausing for proper introductions. “In here.” As she led them into the church, she talked with Justine about Caravaggio. “Almost every major event in his life happened within a five-minute walk from here. He hawked his first painting in the piazza and killed a man over a tennis match. Then he went into exile and it took years for the Pope to forgive him. Look here.”

They were entering the Contrarelli Chapel, where a gathering of people anxiously crowded in front of a darkened alcove. A young man placed a euro into a rusting machine nearby and light sprayed across three magnificent scenes. “My Caravaggios!” said Baroness Miranda with personal pride of ownership.

Miranda took Justine by the elbow and moved her closer while Andrea made her own way through the crowd. “These are called the Matthew cycle,” Miranda said. “Almost photographic images of miracles in progress, aren’t they? That one on the left wall is The Calling of St. Matthew, my very favorite. It’s based on a verse from St. Mark: ‘And as he passed by, he saw Levi, the son of Alphaeus, sitting at the receipt of custom, and said unto him, “Follow me.” And he rose and followed him.’”

On the left side of the painting, three young pages were elegantly dressed and crowned with feathered hats. In the center table, an older man in spectacles and draped in fur peered over Levi’s shoulder. Standing on the right of the painting was Jesus, hand outstretched toward Levi, who would become Matthew.

“Look at the dusty light on Jesus’ outstretched hand. So real! So vivid!” observed Justine, taking her host’s arm just as the lights went out and the small crowd dispersed.

“Quick, another euro,” cried Miranda, taking the coin from Andrea’s hand and walking toward the coin drop. The soft spotlights shone and she turned back toward the paintings. “Caravaggio’s recent biographer, Francine Prose, points out that this is the moment when a man’s life changes forever and becomes something else completely. Levi becomes Matthew—we don’t know why the name change—and he enters a world completely different than the counting house. Notice that Matthew hesitates and points at himself as though to ask, ‘Me?’”

“I imagine because ‘Levi’ is Jewish,” Justine offered, unable to draw her eyes away from Jesus’ face.

Miranda looked momentarily puzzled, then nodded in agreement and turned back toward the paintings.

Justine was suddenly flooded by memories from the Virgin Mary’s diary, allowing the warmth of her intimate knowledge about this great savior as a boy to flow freely through her trembling body. Mary had transcribed provocative conversations with her young son into her diary. Many were explicit about values and behaviors, like when they talked about equality and Jesus challenged, “If God wanted everyone to be equal, why didn’t he make them so?” “I believe,” answered his mother, “that this is God’s test of us—to look past the exterior differences and find the human inside.” Justine couldn’t help but notice that Caravaggio had captured the compassion and gentleness of Jesus that the codex had led Justine to expect.

“Matthew can look across this chapel to the scene of his own martyrdom,” observed Andrea, moving forward to put her hand on Justine’s shoulder. “Perhaps he had a premonition.”

“Perhaps,” sighed Miranda, her smile almost beatific in the filtered light. “Perhaps . . . Shall we go? I’m hungry.”

The Baroness led the two women back through the Piazza Navone and into an alley on the opposite side, where they spotted a small bistro called Trattoria Bernini. Its checkered tablecloths and red umbrellas reminded Justine of a movie set. “I like this place,” the baroness declared. “The lasagna is just terrific!”

Justine thought that Miranda was surely more sophisticated than she let on. She grinned. “I adore lasagna too.”

Andrea nodded, scanning the area as though expecting to see someone else. “Are we near the antiquities area?” she asked—and, to the dismay of the waiter, claimed a table that was not yet cleared, selecting a chair that faced the alley.

“I guess you could consider it the antique section. Via dei Coronari starts there,” Miranda pointed down the adjacent alley, “crossed by Via del Governo Vecchio and Via dei Banchi Nuovi. All nearby.” She pronounced the Italian streets crisply, with a charming British accent.

Justine peered over her sunglasses at Andrea, whose face creased with edginess. Back at table level, her attention was captured by a wrinkled cocktail napkin inked with a rough sketch of an ancient airplane with broad, heavy wings and twin propellers, headlights like insect eyes, and little curtains drawn in eight small passenger windows. A DC-2, she thought, brushing the napkin into her purse without comment. Is this what Andrea was looking for? What is going on here? Why am I feeling uncomfortable with Andrea?

Justine turned back, asked Miranda, “What brought you to Italy from England?” It was midday and the café was full. As many Italians as tourists, she thought gratefully, picking up her menu.

“The sun,” began Miranda. “Opportunity. We just barely sold our home near London. Titles don’t necessarily bring riches, you know. We found this darling old farmhouse between Arezzo and Cortona. William is exceedingly good at remodeling. The girls love it here. We have room for horses and a garden . . . The house wine is quite drinkable. Shall I order a carafe?”

“Please,” said Andrea distractedly.

“I’d love to see your home sometime, Miranda. I’m fascinated with the reconstruction of old homes throughout Europe.” Justine picked up the menu.

“When the kitchen is finished!”

“I’ll hold you to that,” returned Justine. Miranda’s exuberance was catching. “As soon as we finish lunch, I’d like to go to the Villa Giulia, if you don’t mind. I’m looking for something.”

Although Miranda had decided on lasagna, Justine buried herself in the extensive menu.

After lunch, the three women caught the Termini bus to Flamino, traveled across town through the Piazza de Popolo, and exited at the bottom of the hill leading up to Il Museo di Villa Giulia. As they stepped from the bus, they encountered the first beggar they’d seen in Rome, a dignified, one-legged, elderly man. Justine placed a euro in his hand as two Romas holding a young girl and a baby moved toward them. Miranda placed her hand on her purse; the other two women followed suit. Justine still knew Romas as Gypsies, a term that her mother had used to describe her own wandering life. That and “vagabond.”

The premier Etruscan museum in Italy occupied a garden-enclosed, eighteenth-century, rose-colored villa that had been used as a hospital during World War II. “To understand the Etruscans, you must understand the Greeks,” Miranda called over her shoulder. “The reciprocity cannot be untangled.” Justine would one day discover the profound significance of that simple statement.

Justine found what she was looking for on the second floor, the Sarcophagus of the Spouses, sixth century BCE, in terra cotta. She looked at the inscription and found that it had been discovered in Cerveteri. “Are these sarcophagi only found in Cerveteri?” Justine asked Miranda.

“No,” replied Francesca Boitani, the museum director, entering the room behind them. “These are molds that could be purchased. Like a tombstone. Nonetheless, there are very few of them in existence.”

A wave of disappointment moved through Justine. She didn’t want to know that the sarcophagus was a common mold.

“Is Dr. Andrea LeMartin here?” asked the director.

“That would be me,” said Andrea, puzzled by the recognition.

Dr. Boitani stepped forward and took Andrea’s hand. “Thank you for leaving your names in the gift shop. I’m familiar with your work, Dr. LeMartin, especially your translations of some of the Dag Hammadi finds in Egypt.”

“Andrea, please. I’m honored that you know of my work.”

“Etruscans are my specialty, Egyptians my avocation and passion. Your translations are thorough, detailed. Very professional. I am curious about some of your findings. Won’t you ladies join me in my office for tea?”