The dark heart of floren.., p.12
The Dark Heart of Florence, page 12
“I’ve only barely made a start finding them,” I said.
“It sounds as if it’s time to look for more,” Darius said. “Don’t you have a notebook for the project? Colin, fetch it for her.”
“It’s in the room on the third floor directly above our bedroom,” I said. “I’ve been using the space as my study.”
“I’ll get it,” Colin said. “Don’t start before I return.” He dashed from the room. When he came back, with lanterns for each of us as well as my notebook and pencil, he asked where I would like to begin.
“If we are to adopt an organized approach to this project, based on the layout of the house, we ought to start on the ground floor and work our way up,” I said. The air having grown chilly since sunset, Cécile and I pulled on wraps, and we clattered down the stairs, along the side of the courtyard, and into the loggia.
During the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, the loggia would have served as a semipublic space. Here, the master of the house might conduct business or hold political meetings, but it could also be used for private family ceremonies, like weddings and funerals. Over the centuries, many homeowners divided loggias, converting the space into shops, either renting them to tenants or using them for their own commercial ventures.
Our loggia, with its vaulted ceiling, showed no signs indicative of how it had been used in the past. We scrutinized every inch of its walls, illuminating their surfaces with our lanterns, finding traces of three frescoes but no graffiti, and so moved into the courtyard. The Vieri family coat of arms was displayed on the walls above the Corinthian columns that defined the space, and carved heads of individuals whose hats identified them as medieval topped the corner pilasters. A rendering of the di Vieri family tree hung near the entrance and a certain amount of faded paint remained on stones of the staircase. Above us, stars twinkled in the sky.
“I don’t see any graffiti,” Darius said, crouching down to examine one of the walls. He started to rise, but lost his balance and reached out to steady himself. His dinner jacket caught on the wall, tearing the sleeve. “That’s bloody inconvenient.”
“No cursing in front of the ladies,” Colin said, his voice teasing.
I crossed to Darius to inspect the damage. “It doesn’t look too bad. Your valet will have no trouble mending it.”
“Let’s hope so. I’ve no desire to see my tailor anytime soon.” He brushed dust from his suit. “Right. Any graffiti to be found here?”
There was none, so we moved to the storage rooms and then returned to the first floor. We found nothing more until we entered a small room off the Sala dei Pappagalli. As originally built, each floor of the palazzo contained a latrine, one stacked above the next, floor after floor. The countess, after buying the house, had modernized them, a task made easier by the existence of the admittedly primitive plumbing. Humans have a long history of scrawling on the walls of such spaces, as witnessed in the ancient public lavatories in Pompeii.
“What does it say?” Colin asked.
“A single phrase,” I replied. “Who betrayed me?”
“There’s more,” Cécile said. “Look here.” She pointed to one of the other walls.
I translated as best I could:
Love brings me happiness. I feel sorrow when I’m hurt.
There’ll be trouble for whoever tells me they’re leaving.
They’ll have to be quick or I’ll pay them back sooner or later.
“I don’t think this has anything to do with the Lucretius quotes,” I said. “The handwriting is completely different and it’s in the dialetto toscano, not Latin.” Nonetheless, I recorded it, and its location, in my notebook.
“Who betrayed me?” Darius whispered. The light from our lanterns flickered eerily. “Someone was afraid for his life. Someone who could have lived here with whoever wrote the Latin phrases.”
“Or could have lived here two hundred years later,” Colin said. “We have no way to reliably date any of the graffiti.”
“Some include dates,” Cécile said.
“Yes, but the mention of a date doesn’t prove when it was written,” he said.
“I’m not sure it matters,” I said. “We’re taking quite a leap thinking that the graffiti will lead us to the treasure. It’s an enchanting idea, to be sure, but nothing in the sources I’ve uncovered mentions it. I shall continue my project, recording everything written on every wall in the house; and then, once we have that in its entirety, we can examine the texts and locations and draw a conclusion, one way or another.”
Colin nodded. “That’s the way to proceed. In the meantime—”
“I’m awfully tired, darling,” I said, drawing out each of the words and shooting him what I hoped was a longing look. “Exhausted, even.”
He met my eyes and smiled a dreamy half smile. “Are you, my dear girl? We can’t have that.”
“I hoped you’d say so.” I held out my hand to him. “Will you escort me to our room?”
“Of course,” he said, “so long as our friends won’t scold us for abandoning them.”
Cécile shrugged. “Monsieur Hargreaves, none of the thoughts currently racing through my head is suitable for public airing. Go, without delay.”
* * *
“It was a bit clunky,” I said, once we’d reached our bedroom and locked the door behind us, “but more fun than I’d expected, despite the fact that we were standing in a latrine.”
“Let’s not dwell on that last point,” Colin said. He was pulling the pins out of my pompadour, which collapsed, leaving my hair hanging down to my waist. He kissed me, then sighed. “Right. Work first.”
“Must we?” I asked. “This subterfuge is more arousing than I’d expected.”
“It will only get more so, I promise.” He walked away from me and leaned against the wall and then, seeming to remember it was decorated with centuries-old paint, moved to the door. He leaned there, but only for a moment before straightening up and starting to pace. “What do you have to tell me?”
“I spoke to Lena, who revealed herself to have lied quite substantially.” I related to him the contents of our conversation.
“So Ridolfo is violent. I can’t say that comes as a surprise. I don’t have any evidence to lead me to believe he killed his brother, but it’s quite possible whoever did kill Marzo is deliberately trying to make us think otherwise.”
“Your assassin might be using Ridolfo to throw our suspicions away from him?” I asked.
“Precisely.”
“We don’t have evidence to tie Ridolfo to the crime, but neither do we have evidence that condemns anyone else.”
“I have enough to feel confident Ridolfo is not involved,” he said.
“You can’t share it.”
“No.”
“I understand.” I studied every detail of his handsome face. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, or your methods, but I can’t agree that we should dismiss Ridolfo’s potential involvement.” He opened his mouth to reply; I raised my hand to stop him. “I’m not making an attempt to persuade you to share your evidence. I know you can’t. At the same time, however, I feel strongly that something in this mess between the brothers and Lena is pertinent.”
“Ridolfo was not in Florence at the time of Marzo’s death.”
“You’re certain?”
“I am.”
“Lena thought—”
Now it was his turn to stop me. “Like you, I believe she’s being deliberately dishonest. Whether that is to hide something she knows or to misdirect us, I can’t say, but it would be helpful if you would continue to try to determine what is motivating her.”
“I shall keep at it.”
“As for this curse…” He paused, and I could tell he was no longer in agent-of-the-Crown mode. He peeled off his dinner jacket and fumbled with his cuff links. “Are you making it all up? It would be quite clever if you were. Darius is completely taken with it and hasn’t the slightest suspicion that you’re investigating Marzo’s death.”
“I wish I could take credit, but I can’t,” I said. “The treasure is mentioned in books, and given that all the jewelers on the Ponte Vecchio are familiar with stories of the curse, it’s likely a well-known local legend.”
“Do you give it any credence?”
I considered the question. “Everyone knows about the bonfire of the vanities and Savonarola’s gangs of boys who forced Florentines to give up jewelry, art, books, anything deemed sinful. It’s not outrageous to conclude that some citizens of the Republic would have chosen to hide things they considered precious.”
“Savonarola was executed little more than a year after the bonfire in question. On the same spot, too, if I recall,” Colin said. “Wouldn’t whoever hid the treasure have taken it back out afterward?”
“Not if she’d been executed herself, burned under Savonarola’s orders.”
“I can’t claim expertise on the subject, but I don’t remember Savonarola burning great swaths of the Florentine population. He did like torture, though. Believed the fear of it was enough to control people. Of course, for that to work, you first must employ the punishment, often enough that the general population becomes afraid. Even so, I’m not convinced it’s an effective measure. At any rate, it’s possible that your Renaissance lady fled the city, fell ill, died—there are numerous explanations of why she might not have ever removed her treasure from its hiding place.”
“And the stories of the curse could have sprung up, as they often do, when people search for explanations of the deaths of loved ones,” I said.
“Quite. Regardless, hunting for treasure, though a pleasant diversion, is not going to bring us closer to learning the identity of Marzo’s killer. Which is why you’re brilliant to focus on it. Or at least appear to. Now, are there any other pressing concerns we need to discuss? If not, I’d like to explore the promises held in that longing look you cast my way when we were in that wretched latrine. Have you any objections?”
Naturally, I did not.
Lake Garda,
1480
20
I had never traveled far beyond Florence, only to my family’s villa in the countryside, a short drive from the city, but I hardly noticed the view from the carriage that took me to the villa on the shores of Lake Garda. I’m sure it was beautiful; I did not care. The housekeeper led me to a spacious suite of rooms where Alfia helped me bathe and change into a fresh gown. While she unpacked my belongings, a maid took me to her mistress.
Fabbiana Cambio greeted me in an ornately furnished room off of which was a loggia that overlooked the lake. She bore a shocking resemblance to her brother. They both had the same green eyes, the same dark brown hair, the same elegant posture. But her face was paler and she coughed frequently.
“You poor thing,” she said, not even introducing herself. “I will do what I can to make you comfortable here.”
“I’m grateful to you, but I’m certain that Giacomo—Father Cambio—I don’t know how to address him anymore—”
“It would be best if you found a way to stop thinking about him altogether, Mina. There will never again be a need for you to address him.”
“But surely he’ll come, he’ll want to see—”
“His child?” She pressed her lips together and shook her head, ever so slightly. “He won’t. He never does.”
“Never?”
“Mina, you are not the first, nor will you be the last. I’m accustomed to my brother’s shortcomings, of which there are many. Sometimes I wish the consumption would take me, so he’d no longer have a convenient place to send you girls.”
“How many have there been?”
“It doesn’t matter. I spoke to your slave. She says the child is expected in the spring. Winter is cold here, and will only get colder, but I prefer it to southern climates, no matter what the doctors tell me. You will be well looked after.”
“And then?”
“You will stay through the summer. By then, we will have found you someone to marry. Your parents are unaware of your condition?”
“They suspect nothing.” A crushing guilt descended upon me as I said the words.
“Good. That will make things easier.”
“I’d rather not marry.”
“It’s either that or the convent. I promise to choose a man who will be kind to you. You deserve that much. It won’t be a brilliant match, but given the circumstances, it is the best anyone can hope for.”
“And my baby?”
“We will take it back to Florence, to the Ospedale degli Innocenti. They will take care of the child, see to its education, and put it on a righteous path.”
“More righteous than that walked by its parents,” I said.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself. Giacomo is a beast. Once he chose you, you had very little chance of getting away. I don’t know anyone who’s managed to do it, but then, I suppose I wouldn’t, would I? I will send food to your room so that you don’t have to face any more conversation today. Tomorrow, I will show you my gardens, and we will settle into what I hope you find a satisfying routine. All I ask in return is that you try not to weep in my presence. That, I cannot abide.”
Fabbiana, as she insisted I call her, proved an amiable companion, although I worried I was not the same for her, despite my having been invited on just that pretense. Every morning, we took a walk, even in bad weather—in defiance of ominous warnings from the doctor who wanted her inside as much as possible—and then made lace until it was time for my hostess’s afternoon nap.
Those few hours were among the only ones I had to myself each day. At first, I resented the lack of privacy, but I soon came to realize that I was more content in Fabbiana’s company than when I was on my own. Alone, I thought about Giacomo, about our child, about the dreams I’d for us.
Fabbiana insisted that I write to my family regularly, so I composed cheery notes about the mountains and the lake and my ever-increasing skills as a lace maker. As the weeks turned to months, I stopped fantasizing about what might have been with Giacomo and instead grew angry with him. When I fell into bed, though, I still could not help praying that he would come to me, at least to see our child. I told no one these thoughts, not even Alfia, who spent many nights comforting me as I cried in bed.
The new year arrived. Spring was violent, with unforgiving storms lashing down on us, one after another. My pains began late on the day before Easter. The baby, a boy, was born just after midnight on La Pasquetta, Easter Monday. His eyes were dark, not like his father’s, but the midwife told me that might change. Not that I would ever know. I called him Diotisalvi and handed him over to Fabbiana as instructed. I would not see him again.
She took him to Florence herself. When she returned, three days later, she pressed into my hand a golden medallion, cut in half, a medal of St. Anthony. “Little Salvi has the other half,” she said. “Should he ever try to find you, you’ll need this to prove you’re his mother.”
“Might he try to find me?” I asked.
“It’s not likely, Mina,” she said. “But it never hurts to make it easier, just in case.”
Florence,
1903
21
The next day, I was left alone. Cécile had accepted an invitation from Signore Tazzera to visit a winery in Chianti; Colin and Darius had gone out after consuming an enormous breakfast, saying they wouldn’t be back until late afternoon. I decided to finish copying the graffiti on the walls of the house.
Much of it was irrelevant, at least to me. There were names that I did not recognize, dates that had lost their significance over the centuries, comments about measures of hay, and phrases rendered incomprehensible by the erosion of the letters that formed them. There were also four more passages written in Latin:
Saepius illa
religio peperit scelerosa atque impia facta.
Again and again our foe, religion, has given birth to deeds sinful and unholy.
Ita res accendent lumina rebus.
So clearly will truths kindle light for truths.
Omnis cum in tenebris praesertim vita laboret.
Life is one long struggle in the dark.
Infidi maris insidias virisque dolumque
ut vitare velint, neve ullo tempore credant,
subdola cum ridet placidi pellacia ponti.
Never trust her at any time, when the calm sea shows her false alluring smile.
The first brought Savonarola to mind, guiding me a step closer to accepting that someone may well have hidden valuables to keep them out of the friar’s bonfire. The fourth read as ominous. The other two did not immediately strike me as illuminating when it came to my investigations.
Life is one long struggle in the dark. As I contemplated this statement, I thought about Marzo. He certainly wanted money. Ridolfo claimed Lena insisted upon a house of her own, something his brother couldn’t afford. Lena did not deny this. What if he knew about the treasure and his death was a result of trying to find it? He could have come to the house at night, mistaken as a burglar by Fredo. Furthermore, Marzo might not be the only one who was searching for it. If he had made progress that became evident to someone else, that someone else could have eliminated his competition.
I’d been working in my study on the third floor and went out to the gallery landing, poking my head over the railing, looking for Fredo, whom I’d seen earlier in the courtyard. He wasn’t there now, but I could hear him whistling—a tune by Puccini—so I went downstairs, following the sound, and found him in one of the ground floor storage rooms.
“Fredo, what do you know of the stories of hidden treasure in this house?” I asked.
He grinned. “Oh, signora, we all know those tales, and I can promise you there is not a single person who has lived or worked in this house who has not tried to find whatever it is. But there is nothing. Trust me. I myself have made a thorough examination of every nook, every cranny, every dark space, every room.”
