Читать книгу The Errant Child - Ozzie Logozzo - Страница 27

Tarquinia, central Italy Museo Nazionale

The palace that houses the Tarquinia national museum belonged to notable families before transcending to the city and then the Italian state. Prestigious popes used it as a stopover. Within its walls resides a collection of Etruscan sarcophagi and priceless artifacts that celebrate the wonders of the Etruscans. I have read that many townsfolk believe that descendants of the Etruscan dead persist in a secret society emanating from within this center: a haunting underworld known only to privileged citizens.

As I stand under the frame of the museum’s gargantuan gate looking into the courtyard, I am engulfed by nostalgia. I have been inside here many

times as a youngster. The octagonal well in the center, the many ground floor and pointed portico archways; the mullioned windows as well as the Greek, Egyptian and Phoenician pieces were my sanctuary and playground as a youth.

Still awestruck after all these years, I walk through the tall, thick wood door. The palazzo is a masterpiece of Gothic-Renaissance architecture built between 1436 and 1439 for the Cardinal of Corneto. Corneto is the former name of Tarquinia, Tarquinii in antiquity. Benito Mussolini resurrected the ancient name in honor of the town’s ancient majesty.

I step forward to view the courtyard- centered mansion with three floors supported by magnificent columns. Plentiful porticoes grace the Renaissance-era palazzo. The structure emphasizes symmetry and proportion. There is a mathematical precision to the columns, pilasters and lintels. Every niche arouses interest and contemplation.

My son, Mark Anthony, who is tall and sturdy, towering over his sister, Christina, who is a lovely replica of her mother, including the take- it-or-leave-it attitude, are gazing at the trinkets in the small store at the far end of the courtyard equidistant from the well in the center of the square and the front entrance of the building. Their attention is engrossed on a sketch of two winged horses. A workwise, smartly groomed curator, who speaks remarkably flawless English, is providing an explanation—a metaphoric recital mixed with philosophy, spirituality and mythology.

“These horses are harnessed to a chariot.

One horse is white. The other is black. Together with the charioteer, they are a representation of life’s struggle. The white horse is the symbol of love, truth, modesty, temperance and courage. The black horse epitomizes insolence, pathology, egoism, and wickedness. The charioteer is the soul of this allegory. For every individual, family, city or country, the soul’s journey is a flight of twists and turns. The white horse looks forward to the heavens for salvation. The black horse thrusts for darkness and evil. The charioteer determines his destiny and the quality of his life by the level of control over his steeds.”

The curator adds a bit of mystery.

“There is speculation that Etruscan descendants live on in a secret society with plans to resurrect their influence and power over Rome. These people, like the black horse, can be ruthless and, like the white horse, can be caring. They have great conviction in the preservation of ancient traditions and trust the laws of nature. They abhor the excesses of Catholicism and of faith. Many say they are stregone e stregas, male and female witches that practice witchcraft. The twin-winged horses are their crests.”

“It’s just a fairy tale, right, like Hansel and Gretel?” Christina, always skeptical, asks the lady.

“Doesn’t the charioteer have a whip? Does he whip the white horse, as well?” asks Mark Anthony.

I speak up before the curator has the

opportunity to respond to Mark Anthony’s fervor. “Perhaps the conflict between the horses

obliges the soul to endure personal suffering in

its quest for divinity. Both horses are a part of the same order of life. They must be educated to work together. If the black horsedominates, we have chaos and violence. If the white horse gains control, we are immersed in indulgence and righteousness. The conflict is true for individuals, groups and societies. The lash is a necessary motivator for both stallions.” The curator glares at me with breathless curiosity and a solicitous smile. She mindlessly twirls a strand of hair around her finger and raises

her chest. She comes closer to me. “Who are you?”

I hesitate. My lips are pursed. My glare is

inward.

“Ah, who am I, indeed?”

The question dehydrates me like a sun-dried

fig. I end the inquiry.

“I’m off. Thank you for this moment of scholarship. I need to walk and clear my mind.”

I proceed to exit. Raising my shades to cut the sun’s glare, I spy Emily at the Hotel Americano bar. Through open floor-to-ceiling glass doors beyond the hotel’s patio, I can see Emily’s short dress and exposed upper thighs.

“Dad, Christina and I are going to the beach at Lido di Tarquinia. We have a rented Vespa. We will come back before supper. Ciao, papa.”

Christina explodes with laughter at Mark Anthony’s singing salute. Mark Anthony blushes. He grabs Christina by the arm and pulls her toward the Vespa parked alongside the museum wall. Only Mark Anthony has domain over the fiercely independent Christina.

I am paternally amused. I drift away, not turning to look for Emily. I want my final thought for the moment to be pleasant. Sidetracking, I proceed away from the piazza wanting to explore the streets of my birthplace.

The thought of encountering my birth mother is fleeting. There is no longing. Too many years have passed. I would not recognize her, alive or dead.

I notice the museum curator, with a troubled look, at the entry door speaking on her cell phone. She is watching me walk toward Via Roma.

The Renaissance-era streets are alive with girls in colorful summer dresses, young men circling with their raucous scooters, priests walking with elderly widows dressed in black and old men on park benches eying passing ladies of all ages. The city is a canvas of family values and established mores. In contrast to the religious pomp of Rome, Tarquinia is a natural home for the old religion, Stregheria, based on family and nature. Medieval culture is deeply rooted here evidenced by the architecture of the many towers and austere churches. Modern barbarians are unlikely to invade and settle in Tarquinia. It is destined to remain attractive and antiquated. I surmise that settlers would prefer not to stay in such proximity to a vast stockpile of tombs.

In Rome, travelers are lost amidst hordes of tourists and citizens. In Tarquinia, I see that the visitors are on stage. The locals appreciate every visitor, treat them well, and make sure they fit into the day-to-day life and joys of the small town. Only an hour northwest of Rome, Tarquinia is Italy’s best-

kept secret. It is sheer aesthetic inventiveness. It is a place to calm the soul and call home.

Only a small town, I suspect, can teach its children so uniquely well. Unlike my wife’s preference for the skyscrapers and neon rain of metropolises, this ancient commune is my preferred place to have been born. It may be the idyllic place to die. However, along with the hospitality, I sense an air of suspicion. I am engrossed with doubt. I am not certain if the source comes from within, or from without. The feeling that “not all is what it seems” sticks. Every stranger seems scrutinized and shadowed by the local carabinieri. I am a stranger and I feel the eyes of the community upon me: first the waiter, then the curator, and now the police officer standing watch across the street.

This carabiniere shamelessly stares at me. His look is one of misgiving. I am ill at ease and walk away wondering if there is any truth to the curator’s words. Are there descendants of an Etruscan civilization living in secret, perhaps right here in Tarquinia? Are they planning to resurrect their influence and suppress Rome?