Читать книгу The Italian Letters - Linda Lambert - Страница 9

CHAPTER 1

Italy is a dream that keeps returning the rest of your life.

—Anna Akhmatova, Chechen poet

VILLA CELLINI, FIESOLE, ITALY, MARCH 2008

HER WHOLE BODY shakes as the ancient pillars pull loose from their Corinthian crowns and plunge into the crypt, trapping her beneath rubble. The dust of shattering sandstone smothers the oxygen in the dank air. The earth shivers ferociously. She bends with a pillar, barely catching herself as she falls to the convulsing floor, large stone slabs undulating, one slicing into her leg. All light in the crumbling crypt is extinguished. Cold sweat covers her body as she struggles for air. Turning her head violently from side to side, she grasps her injured leg, determined to stop the bleeding.

“Justine! Justine! Wake up.” Bolting upright, she struggled to focus on the intruding voice.

Fear still gripped her trembling body; light flooded through the windows, blinding her. “Where am I?”

“In your room in Fiesole. You’re home.” Her mother softly coaxed her into wakefulness. Justine had spent many a summer in this small, terraced bedroom with its embossed, baby blue wallpaper. The ancient, wobbly bed was still cozy and comfortable; but if she stayed, she would shop for another one.

“The nightmare keeps returning, Mom. Ever since St. Sergius.” Justine’s nightgown clung to her wet skin, and her hair stuck to her face like the damp ringlets on Botticelli’s Venus. “They’ve gotten worse since the churches were burned and Zachariah was killed.” Remorse and a nagging sense of guilt and shame distorted her lovely face.

“It might help if you talked to me about it. You’ve told me so little of how it ended.” Her mother sat down at the foot of the bed, placing her hand on her daughter’s ankle and turning the leg so she could see the damage. “How is it?”

“The leg is fine,” Justine said, wiping her damp face with the sheet. “But I’m humiliated. Here I am, twenty-eight, unemployed, living in my mother’s house. Am I starting over?” She swung her long legs over the side of the bed, revealing a scar nearly the length of her right calf. Despite her injury, healed now, she moved toward the bathroom with the litheness of a runner, which she was. Observers found Justine Jenner to be striking and warm, but with a brush of reserve, an occasional distant expression that arrested onlookers, as though she harbored mysterious convictions and memories.

Her mother sat there wide-eyed, mouth gaping. “Humiliated? Starting over? Those are harsh statements. Talk to me.”

“Later, Mom,” Justine called from the bathroom, “I need to take a shower to clear my head. Go for a run.”

Lucrezia pushed herself back onto the short bed, drawing her legs up under her white kaftan. She decided not to push—just yet. “Your father’s coming to breakfast,” she said.

In the bathroom, Justine looked in the mirror, shocked at her spent appearance. The nightmare receded in the wake of this news. “Father? As in Dr. Morgan Jenner, man of adventure? I didn’t know he was in Italy.” Just before Christmas, shortly after being expelled from Egypt for revealing the unthinkable, Justine had met her father on holiday in Rome. He was on the verge of returning to his archeological dig in Peru. Neither had expected to see the other for some time. Their time in Rome had not gone especially well.

Justine’s parents had divorced when she left California for graduate school, and yet, over the years, had remained friends. But she rarely saw her father, who was often on the road, digging somewhere or other for treasures. Justine had given them little to worry about, until Egypt.

The morning room of Lucrezia’s Cellini villa provided a panoramic view of the Arno River valley. As they gathered for breakfast, dark green cone-tops of cypresses, introduced to the land by the Etruscans, danced across the vista. The crown of Brunelleschi’s Duomo popped up through the mist like a cardinal’s hat, suspended in midair.

“I’ve got news,” said Morgan as he strode into the room, hugged his daughter, wedged into his favorite chair at the head of the table, and rested his feet on a small needlepoint stool. “I’ll be here in Italy a while.” He was wearing what he considered proper attire for an archaeologist: khaki shirt and pants, both thinning at the elbows and knees. The Peruvian sun had tanned him to a rich golden tone and bleached his hair nearly blonde, save for a brush of gray at each temple. Some considered his Roman nose unattractively long, others found it regal.

“For how long?” asked Justine, watching her father as though he were one of her subjects. She was often amused by his predictability, such as the casually worn, yet intact, field uniform. As an anthropologist, she prided herself on her analytical abilities, though they had sometimes failed her where men were concerned.

“More than a visit this time, honey. I’m coming here to work. A new project at an Etruscan UNESCO site. Very exciting!” he said, pausing in expectation of excited or complimentary responses.

Justine felt surprised—and confused. She smiled, choosing to provide her father with the positive response he desired. She knew that she would now have to deal more directly with the misogynist tendencies she had put up with since adolescence.

Lucrezia gave him an indulgent smile and waited for details. She picked up her fork and pushed a strawberry round and round through a dollop of yogurt.

“Archaeology is a crowded business here,” Justine cautioned. “Everyone and his sister wants to live and dig in Italy, so I’m assuming you have something good up your sleeve. My father, the famous archaeologist, would hardly be interested in a typical Roman excavation,” she said, reaching for a croissant. Maria, the family cook, had prepared a spread fit for the visiting royal she considered Justine’s father to be. Forever enchanted with Dr. Morgan, Maria—much more than a family cook—inevitably treated him like a nobleman; he reciprocated with gallantry and compliments to her cooking.

Morgan stood, stretched his muscular arms, and walked to the carved nineteenth-century buffet table, methodically filling his plate with cold cuts, tomatoes, eggs, and a large piece of banana bread, Maria’s specialty. “You’re right, honey. Not the usual Roman dig.” He placed a whole egg in his mouth before returning to the table.

“Tell us about it,” coaxed Lucrezia, falling effortlessly into her familiar role as attentive Creta, as he often called her. Her backlit black hair gleamed, and her arched eyebrows shadowed luminous green eyes that reminded Justine of a silent movie star. Only direct light revealed the hairline wrinkles around her eyes and tiny creases above her lips.

It seemed to Justine, even now, that her mother needed Morgan to find her attractive. What woman wouldn’t, especially one who had shared his bed for so many years?

“Thanks for the invitation, Creta.” Taking a large bite of banana bread, he assumed a relaxed pose at the head of the table, and smiled charmingly when Maria reentered the breakfast room with a large plate of fruits. Like her mother before her, Maria had worked for Lucrezia’s family all her life. Justine always felt reassured by Maria’s maternal presence—round face, generously curved body. Even her feet were round. She was all that “round” implies: warmth, connection, accessibility. Good food.

“It’s an Etruscan dig at a UNESCO site in Cerveteri. Do you know the place?” He gazed at Lucrezia, and his temples flushed with excitement. “Teams from the local superintendent’s office have been excavating there for a couple of years, but now they may be onto something new. Startling, really. UNESCO insisted on an international team, so they called me. The superintendent resisted hiring a foreigner at first, but I think she’s come around. Or will.” As a professor emeritus at the University of California, Berkeley, Morgan knew he had choices.

“I know Cerveteri a little,” said Justine, refilling her coffee cup and taking a heaping spoonful of the fruit salad. “About an hour’s drive north of Ostia, isn’t it? Charming little town.” She paused. “Not much is known about the Etruscans, I understand. Not sure why.”

“What’s going on there?” Lucrezia asked.

“That’s the strange part. I know little. They’ve been very mysterious . . . which makes me think this is something big.”

“You wouldn’t take the job unless it was promising, Dad. You know something,” challenged Justine. “Another origin myth?”

“They didn’t mention origins, but yes, I suspect that’s what they have up their sleeves. Finding evidence of the genesis of the Etruscans—or the source of their isolated language—could change the course of history!”

“Ah . . .” Justine studied her father’s sculpted face. “Now that is something worth getting excited about. Are we Neanderthal or Turkish? Or Egyptian?” adding the last option for fun. He knows more, but is holding back.

“The Etruscans are hotly debated in European history!” exclaimed Lucrezia. “Herodotus claimed they came from Lydia around 800 BC, but that theory has been nearly debunked by recent studies. At least we do know they taught the brutish Romans how to start an empire.”

“I’m impressed,” said Morgan, winking at his ex-wife. “I don’t think you can call yourself a casual scholar of ancient Italian history anymore.”

Lucrezia shifted uneasily in her chair and smoothed the lap of her linen kaftan.

Justine noticed her mother’s self-conscious move. They’re both such unremitting charmers. This flirting probably means nothing. Would I want it to? As these perplexing thoughts whirled through her mind, the eastern light penetrated the drawn gauze panels of the French doors. She forced her thoughts back into the room. “I thought no Etruscan artifacts had been discovered in Italy dating back earlier than eight or nine hundred BCE.”

“That’s what makes this hunt so appealing. And, of course, my favorite daughter is now in Italy.”

“Your favorite and only daughter, I assume,” said Lucrezia, one eyebrow arching.

“As far as I know,” Morgan teased. He stood up and circled the table, snatching grapes from Justine’s fruit salad. “For now, I’m concerned about the composition of the damn team. I haven’t been able to choose anyone to my liking, and they’ve now added a historian. Damn historians! Worse than anthropologists, if you ask me. What I need is a couple of seasoned archaeologists, like Ibrahim.” Morgan’s Egyptian mentor, Ibrahim El Shabry, was well into his eighties now, his arthritic knees barring him from archaeological digs.

Justine refused to take the bait. A few years ago she would have swiped at it like a kitten batting a ball of string. Not now. She smiled sweetly and picked at her fruit salad. “So what is it with you and historians?”

“Historians have theories. They try to make connections that aren’t supported by the facts.” He sat down and spread lemon curd on a second piece of banana bread, which he then devoured in one great swallow.

“All people have narratives, Dad.” Justine cut open her croissant before meeting her father’s intense cobalt eyes.

“Facts. That’s what’s important. The evidence should speak for itself. Find the evidence, verify its authorship and timeframe, and display it in museums so the public can understand how the ancients lived. Scientific. Straightforward.”

Lucrezia sighed. “That’s why museums are so lifeless, except for the one in Orvieto, perhaps. Generally the evidence is presented without a narrative. I find it tedious.”

Morgan laughed. “I see my girls are ganging up on me again.”

Lucrezia’s face recoiled. She had no intention of allowing her former spouse the pleasure of infantilizing and possessing her again. The spell of his charm was broken.

Maria reappeared in the doorway. “The phone. It’s for you, Justine.”

“Who is it?” Justine asked, feeling rescued by the interruption.

“A Dr. Andrea LeMartin. Calling from Paris.”