Juliet

III.III

THE CITY OF SIENA WAS ASLEEP and beyond compassion. The alleys through which I ran that night were nothing but dark streams of silence, and every object I passed-scooters, trash cans, cars-was veiled in misty moonlight, as if spellbound in the exact same posture for a hundred years. The façades of the houses around me were just as dismissive; the doors seemed to have no handles on the outside, and every single window was closed and covered by shutters. Whatever was going on in the night streets of this ancient town, its dwellers did not want to know.

Pausing briefly, I could hear that-somewhere in the shadows behind me-the thug had started running, too. He was not doing anything to conceal the fact that he was pursuing me; his steps were heavy and irregular, the soles of his shoes scratching against the bumpy paving stones, and even when he paused to catch my scent, he was panting heavily, like someone not used to physical exertion. Even so, I was unable to outrun him, for no matter how silently or swiftly I moved, he managed to stay on track and follow me around every single corner, almost as if he could read my mind.

My naked feet throbbing with pain from slamming against the cold stone, I stumbled through a narrow passageway at the end of an alley, hoping very much there was a way out on the other side, preferably several. But there was not. I had ended up in a cul-de-sac, trapped by tall houses on all sides. In fact, there was not even a wall or fence I could climb, nor a single garbage can to hide behind, and my only means of self-defense were the pointy heels of my shoes.

Turning towards my fate, I braced myself for the encounter. What did this lowlife want from me? My purse? The crucifix around my neck?… Me? Or perhaps he wanted to know where the family treasure was, but then, so did I, and there was nothing I could tell him at this juncture that could possibly satisfy him. Unfortunately, most robbers-according to Umberto-did not deal very well with disappointment, and so I quickly dug into my handbag and took out my wallet; hopefully my credit cards looked convincingly flashy. No one but I knew that they represented about twenty thousand dollars’ worth of debt.

As I stood there, waiting for the inevitable, the sound of my pounding heart was drowned out by the roar of an approaching motorcycle. And instead of seeing the thug appear, triumphant, at the entrance to the cul-de-sac, there was a flash of black metal as the motorcycle shot past me and continued down the road the other way. But rather than disappearing, it suddenly stopped, tires squealing, and turned around to drive by a couple more times, still not stopping anywhere near me. Only now did I pick up the sounds of someone in sneakers hightailing it down the street, gasping with panic, to disappear around some far corner with the motorcycle hot on his trail, like prey running from a predator.

And then, suddenly, there was silence.

Several seconds passed-perhaps as much as half a minute-but neither the thug nor the motorcycle came back. When I finally dared to emerge from the alley, I could not even see as far as the next street corner in either direction. Being lost in the dark, however, was definitely the lesser of the evils that had befallen me this night, and as soon as I found a public phone, I could call Direttor Rossini back at the hotel and ask for directions. Notwithstanding my being lost and miserable, my request would, undoubtedly, delight him.

Starting up the street, I walked a few yards or so before something suddenly caught my eye in the darkness ahead.

It was a motorcycle and rider, sitting completely still in the middle of the street, looking straight at me. The moonlight was caught in the rider’s helmet and the metal of the bike, and it projected an image of a man in black leather, visor closed, who had sat there, very patiently, waiting for me to emerge.

Fear would have been a natural reaction, but as I stood there, awkwardly, shoes in my hand, all I felt was confusion. Who was this guy? And why was he just sitting there, staring at me? Had he actually saved me from the thug? If so, was he waiting for me to come up and thank him?

But my budding gratitude was cut short when he suddenly turned on the headlight of the bike, blinding me with the sharp beam. And as I threw up my hands to shield my eyes, he started the bike and revved the engine a couple of times, just to set me straight.

Spinning around, I started down the street the other way, still partly blinded and cursing myself for being an idiot. Whoever this guy was, he was clearly no friend; in all likelihood he was some local misfit who spent his nights in this sad manner, driving around and terrorizing peaceful people. It just so happened that his latest victim had been my stalker, but that did not make us friends, not at all.

He let me run for a bit, and even waited until I had turned the first corner, before he came after me. Not at high speed, as if he wanted to run me down, just fast enough to let me know that I was not going to get away.

That was when I saw the blue door.

I had just turned another corner, and knew that I only had a small window of opportunity before the headlight would find me again, and there it was, right in front of me: the blue door to the painter’s workshop, magically ajar. I did not even pause to consider whether there might be more than just one blue door in Siena, or whether it was really such a good idea to barge into people’s homes in the middle of the night. I just did it. And as soon as I was inside, I closed the door and leaned against it, listening nervously to the sounds of the motorcycle passing outside and eventually disappearing.

Admittedly, when we had met in the cloister garden the day before, the long-haired painter had struck me as a bit of an oddball, but when you are being chased through medieval alleys by nefarious characters you can’t be picky.

MAESTRO LIPPI’S WORKSHOP was an acquired taste. It looked as if a bomb of divine inspiration had gone off, not just once, but on a regular basis, scattering paintings, sculptures, and bizarre installations everywhere. The Maestro was apparently not someone whose talents could be channeled through a single medium or expression; like a linguistic genius, he spoke in the tongue that fitted his mood, choosing his tools and materials with the commitment of the virtuoso. And in the middle of it all stood a barking dog that looked like the unlikely mix of a fluffy bichon frise and an all-business Doberman.

“Ah!” said Maestro Lippi, emerging from behind an easel as soon as he heard the door closing, “there you are. I was wondering when you would come.” Then, without a word, he disappeared. When he returned a moment later, he was carrying a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a loaf of bread. Seeing that I had not yet moved, he chuckled. “You must excuse Dante. He is always suspicious of women.”

“His name is Dante?” I looked down at the dog, who now came to give me a slimy old slipper, apologizing in his own way for barking at me. “That is so odd-that was the name of Maestro Ambrogio Lorenzetti’s dog!”

“Well, this is his workshop.” Maestro Lippi poured me a glass of red wine. “Do you know him?”

“You mean, the Ambrogio Lorenzetti? From 1340?”

“Of course!” Maestro Lippi smiled and raised his own glass in a toast. “Welcome back. Let us drink to many happy returns. Let us drink to Diana!”

I nearly choked on my wine. He knew my mother?

Before I could sputter out anything, the Maestro leaned closer, conspiratorially. “There is a legend about a river, Diana, deep, deep underground. We have never found her, but people say, sometimes late in the night, they wake up from dreams, and they can feel her. And you know, in the ancient times, there was a Diana temple on the Campo. The Romans had their games there, the bull hunt and the duels. Now we have the Palio in honor of the Virgin Mary. She is the mother who gives us water so we can grow again, like grapevines, out of the darkness.”

For a moment we just stood there, looking at each other, and I had a strange feeling that if he had wanted to, Maestro Lippi could have told me many secrets about myself, about my destiny, and about the future of all things; secrets it would take me many lives to discover on my own. But no sooner had the thought been born than it fluttered off, chased away by the Maestro’s giddy smile as he suddenly pulled the wineglass from my hand and put it down on the table. “Come! I have something I want to show you. Remember, I told you?”

He walked ahead of me into another room that was, if possible, even more packed with artwork than the workshop itself. It was an interior room with no windows, clearly used as storage. “Just a minute-” Maestro Lippi went right through the mess to carefully remove a piece of fabric covering a small painting hanging on the far wall. “Look!”

I stepped closer in order to see better, but when I came too near, the Maestro stopped me. “Careful. She is very old. Don’t breathe on her.”

It was the portrait of a girl, a beautiful girl, with big blue eyes looking dreamily at something behind me. She seemed sad, but at the same time hopeful, and in her hand she held a five-petal rose.

“I think she looks like you,” said Maestro Lippi, looking from her to me, and back, “or maybe you look like her. Not the eyes, not the hair, but… something else. I don’t know. What do you think?”

“I think that’s a compliment I don’t deserve. Who painted this?”

“Aha!” The Maestro leaned towards me with a furtive smile. “I found it when I took over the workshop. It was hidden inside the wall in a metal box. There was a book, too. A journal. I think-” Even before Maestro Lippi had finished, all the little hairs on my arms were standing up, and I knew exactly what he would say. “… No, in fact, I am sure it was Ambrogio Lorenzetti who hid the box. It was his journal. And I think he painted this picture, too. Her name is the same as yours, Giulietta Tolomei. He wrote it on the back.”

I stared at the painting, scarcely able to believe this was really the portrait I had been reading about. It was every bit as mesmerizing as I had imagined. “Do you still have the journal?”

“No. I sold it. I talked about it to a friend, who talked about it to a friend, and suddenly, there is a man here, who wants to buy it. His name is Professor… Professor Tolomei.” Maestro Lippi looked at me, eyebrows raised. “You’re a Tolomei, too. Do you know him? He is very old.”

I sat down on the nearest chair. It had no seat, but I didn’t care. “That was my father. He translated the journal into English. I am reading it right now. It’s all about her”-I nodded towards the painting-“Giulietta Tolomei. Apparently, she is my ancestor. He describes her eyes in his journal… and there they are.”

“I knew it!” Maestro Lippi spun around to face the painting with pleased agitation. “She is your ancestor!” He laughed and turned again, grabbing me by the shoulders. “I am so glad you came to see me.”

“I just don’t understand,” I said, “why Maestro Ambrogio felt he had to hide these things in the wall. Or maybe it was not him, but someone else-”

“Don’t think so much!” warned Maestro Lippi. “It puts wrinkles on your face.” He paused, struck by unexpected inspiration. “Next time you come, I will paint you. When will you be back? Tomorrow?”

“Maestro-” I knew I had to grab hold of his consciousness while its orbit still touched on reality. “I was wondering if I could stay here a bit longer. Tonight.”

He looked at me curiously, as if it was me and not him who was showing signs of insanity.

I felt compelled to explain. “There is someone out there-I don’t know what’s going on. There’s this guy-” I shook my head. “I know it sounds crazy, but I am being followed, and I don’t know why.”

“Ah,” said Maestro Lippi. Very carefully, he draped the fabric over the portrait of Giulietta Tolomei and escorted me back into the workshop. Here, he sat me down on a chair and handed me my wineglass before he, too, sat down, facing me like a child expecting a story. “I think you do. Tell me why he is following you.”

Over the next half hour I told him everything. I didn’t mean to at first, but once I started talking, I couldn’t stop. There was something about the Maestro and the way he looked at me-eyes sparkling with excitement, nodding now and then-that made me feel he might be able to help me find the hidden truth behind it all. If indeed there was one.

And so I told him about my parents and the accidents that had killed them, and I hinted that a man named Luciano Salimbeni might have had a hand in them both. After that I went on to describe my mother’s box of papers and Maestro Ambrogio’s journal, as well as my cousin Peppo’s allusion to an unknown treasure called Juliet’s Eyes. “Have you ever heard of such a thing?” I asked, when I saw Maestro Lippi frowning.

Instead of answering, he got up and stood for a moment, head in the air, as if listening for a distant call. When he started walking, I knew I had to follow, and so I trailed behind him into another room, up a flight of stairs, and through a long, narrow library with sagging bookcases from floor to ceiling. Once here, all I could do was observe as the Maestro walked back and forth many, many times, trying to locate-I assumed-a particular book that did not wish to be found. When he finally succeeded, he tore it from the shelf and held it up triumphantly. “I knew I had seen it somewhere!”

The book turned out to be an old encyclopedia of legendary monsters and treasures-for apparently, the two go together and cannot be separated-and as the Maestro began leafing through it, I caught sight of several illustrations that had more to do with fairy tales than with my life until now.

“There!” He tapped a finger on an entry. “What do you say to that?” Unable to wait until we were back downstairs, he switched on a wobbly floor lamp and read the text out loud in an animated mix of Italian and English.

The essence of the story was that Juliet’s Eyes were a pair of abnormally large sapphires from Ethiopia, originally called The Ethiopian Twins, which were-allegedly-purchased by Messer Salimbeni of Siena in the year 1340 as an engagement present for his bride-to-be, Giulietta Tolomei. Later, after Giulietta’s tragic death, the sapphires were set as eyes in a golden statue by her grave.

“Listen to this!” Maestro Lippi ran an eager finger down the page. “Shakespeare knew about the statue, too!” And he went on to read the following lines from the very end of Romeo and Juliet, quoted in the encyclopedia in both Italian and English:

For I will raise her statue in pure gold,

That whiles Verona by that name is known,

There shall be no figure at such rate be set

As that of true and faithful Juliet.

When he finally stopped reading, Maestro Lippi showed me the illustration on the page, and I recognized it right away. It was a statue of a man and a woman; the man was kneeling, holding a woman in his arms. Except for a few details, it was the very same statue my mother had tried to capture at least twenty times in the notebook I had found in her box.

“Holy cow!” I leaned closer to the illustration. “Does it say anything about the actual location of her grave?”

“Whose grave?”

“Juliet’s, or, I should say, Giulietta’s.” I pointed at the text he had just read to me. “The book says that a golden statue was put up by her grave… but it didn’t say where the grave actually was.”

Maestro Lippi closed the book and shoved it back in the bookcase on a random shelf. “Why do you want to find her grave?” he asked, his tone suddenly belligerent. “So you can take her eyes? If she doesn’t have eyes, how can she recognize her Romeo when he comes to wake her up?”

“I wouldn’t take her eyes!” I protested. “I just want to… see them.”

“Well,” said the Maestro, switching off the wobbly lamp, “then I think you have to talk to Romeo. I don’t know who else would be able to find it. But be careful. There are many ghosts here, and they are not all as friendly as me.” He leaned closer in the darkness, taking some kind of silly pleasure in spooking me, and hissed, “A plague! A plague on both your houses!”

“That’s really great,” I said. “Thanks.”

He laughed heartily and slapped his knees. “Come on! Don’t be such a little pollo! I am just teasing you!”

Back downstairs, several glasses of wine later, I finally managed to steer the conversation back to Juliet’s Eyes. “What exactly did you mean,” I asked, “when you said that Romeo knows where the grave is?”

“Does he?” Maestro Lippi now looked perplexed. “I am not sure. But I think you should ask him. He knows more about all this than I do. He is young. I forget things now.”

I tried to smile. “You speak as if he is still alive.”

The Maestro shrugged. “He comes and goes. It is always late at night… he comes here and sits down to look at her.” He nodded in the direction of the storage room with the painting of Giulietta. “I think he is still in love with her. That is why I leave the door open.”

“Seriously,” I said, taking his hand, “Romeo doesn’t exist. Not anymore. Right?”

The Maestro glared at me, almost offended. “You exist! Why wouldn’t he exist?” He frowned. “What? You think he is a ghost, too? Huh. Of course, you never know, but I don’t think so. I think he is real.” He paused briefly to weigh the pros and cons, then said, firmly, “He drinks wine. Ghosts don’t drink wine. It takes practice, and they don’t like to practice. They are very boring company. I prefer people like you. You are funny. Here”-he filled up my glass once again-“drink some more.”

“So,” I said, obediently taking another swig, “if I were going to ask this Romeo some questions… how would I do that? Where can I find him?”

“Well,” said the Maestro, pondering the question, “I am afraid you will have to wait until he finds you.” Seeing my disappointment, he leaned across the table to study my face very intently. “But then,” he added, “I think maybe he has already found you. Yes. I think he has. I can see it in your eyes.”