Juliet (31 page)

The people of Siena knew that if they all united against the few, they might be able to storm the podium and steal away the lady who so obviously belonged to another. It would not be the first time they had rebelled
against Salimbeni, and they knew that if only they kept pushing, they would soon have the mighty men hiding within their tall towers, all stairs and ladders pulled up and out of reach.

To Giulietta, who sat on the podium like an inexperienced sailor on a stormy sea, it was frightening and intoxicating to feel the power of the elements raging about her. There they were, thousands of strangers, whose names she did not know, but who were ready to brave the halberds of the guards to bring her justice. If only they kept pushing, the podium would soon keel over, and all the noble gentlemen would be busy saving themselves and their fine robes from the rabble.

In such a pandemonium, Giulietta figured, she and Romeo might be able to disappear, and the Virgin Mary would surely keep the riot going long enough for them to escape the city together.

But it was not to be. Before the mob had gathered momentum, a new group of people came bursting into the piazza, to scream terrible news at Messer Tolomei. “Tebaldo!” they cried, pulling at their hair in despair, “it is Tebaldo! Oh, the poor boy!” And when they finally reached the podium and found Tolomei on his knees, begging them to tell him what had happened to his son, they replied in tears, waving a bloody dagger in the air, “He is dead! Murdered! Stabbed to death during the Palio!”

As soon as he understood the message, Tolomei fell over in convulsions, and the whole podium erupted in fear. Shocked by the sight of her uncle like this, looking as if he was possessed by a demon, Giulietta at first recoiled, then forced herself to kneel down and attend to him as best she could, shielding him from the scuffle of feet and legs until Monna Antonia and the servants were able to get through. “Uncle Tolomei,” she urged him, not knowing what else to say, “calm yourself!”

The only man to stand straight through it all was Salimbeni, who demanded to see the murder weapon and instantly held it up for everyone to behold. “Look!” he roared. “There you have your hero! This is the dagger that killed Tebaldo Tolomei during our holy race! See?” He pointed at its shaft. “It has the Marescotti eagle engraved! What do you make of that?”

Giulietta looked out in horror to see the crowd staring at Salimbeni and the dagger in disbelief. Here was the man they had wanted to punish just a moment ago, but the shocking news of the misdeed and the sight of
Messer Tolomei’s grieving figure had distracted them. Now they did not know what to think, and they just stood there, gaping, waiting for a cue.

Seeing the changing expression on their faces, Giulietta understood right away that Salimbeni had planned this moment in advance, in order to turn the mob against Romeo in case he won the Palio. Now they were quite forgetting their reasons for attacking the podium in the first place, yet their emotions were still running wild, ravenous for some other object to tear apart.

They did not have to wait long. Salimbeni had enough loyal clients in the crowd that, as soon as he waved the dagger in the air, someone yelled out, “Romeo is the murderer!”

Within a moment, the people of Siena were once again united, this time in disgusted hatred against the young man they had just hailed as their hero.

Afloat on such a full sea of commotion, Salimbeni now dared to order Romeo’s immediate arrest, and to call everyone who disagreed a traitor. But to Giulietta’s immense relief, when the guards returned to the podium a quarter of an hour later, they brought only a foaming horse, the eagle banner, and the cencio. Of Romeo Marescotti there had been no trace. No matter how many people they had asked, they had received the same reply: Not a single person had seen Romeo leaving the piazza.

Only when they started making house calls later that night did one man—in the interest of saving his wife and daughters from the uniformed villains—confess that he had heard a rumor saying Romeo Marescotti had escaped through the underground Bottini aqueduct in the company of a young Franciscan friar.

When Giulietta heard this rumor whispered by the servants later that evening, she sent up a grateful prayer to the Virgin Mary. There was no doubt in her mind that the Franciscan friar had been Friar Lorenzo, and she knew him well enough to be sure that he would do everything in his power to save the man he knew she loved.

   [   IV.V   ]

…

T
HE MONTE DEI PASCHI BANK
was dark and empty after hours, greeting us with soothing silence as we walked up the central staircase together. Alessandro had asked if I minded a quick stop on the way to dinner, and I had, of course, said no. Now, following him to the very top of the stairs, I began to wonder where exactly he was taking me, and why.

“After you—” He opened a heavy mahogany door and waited for me to enter what turned out to be a large corner office. “Just give me a minute.” Switching on a lamp, he disappeared into a back room, leaving the door ajar. “Don’t touch anything!”

I glanced around at the plush couches and stately desk and chair. The office bore few signs of actual work. A lonely file folder sitting on the desk looked as if it had been placed there mostly for show. The only wall decorations were the windows overlooking Piazza Salimbeni; there were no personal effects such as diplomas or photographs anywhere in the room, nor anything else to identify its owner. I had just touched a finger to the edge of the desk to feel the dust when Alessandro reemerged, buttoning a shirt. “Careful!” he said. “Desks like that kill many more people than guns do.”

“This is your office?” I asked, stupidly.

“Sorry,” he said, grabbing a jacket from a chair. “I know you prefer the
basement. To me”—he cast an unenthusiastic look around the opulent décor—“this is the real torture chamber.”

Back outside, he stopped in the middle of Piazza Salimbeni and looked at me with a teasing smile. “So, where are you taking me?”

I shrugged. “I’d like to see where the Salimbenis go for dinner.”

His smile faded. “I don’t think so. Unless you want to spend the rest of the evening with Eva Maria.” Seeing that I did not, he went on, “Why don’t we go somewhere else? Somewhere in your neighborhood.”

“But I don’t know anybody in the Owl contrada,” I protested, “except cousin Peppo. And I wouldn’t have a clue where to eat.”

“Good.” He started walking. “Then nobody will bother us.”

WE ENDED UP AT
Taverna di Cecco, just around the corner from the Owl Museum. It was a small place, off the beaten track and bustling with contrada locals. All the dishes—some served in clay bowls—looked like Mamma’s best home cooking. Looking around, I saw no artsy experiments with herbs sprinkled on the edge of half-empty plates; here, the plates were full, and the spices were where they belonged: in the food.

Most tables had five or six people at them, all laughing or arguing animatedly, not the least bit worried about being too loud or staining the tablecloths. I now understood why Alessandro had wanted to go to a place where no one knew him; judging by the way people hung out with their friends here—inviting everyone and their dog to join in and making a big fuss if they refused—it was hard to have a quiet dinner for two in Siena. As we made our way past them all and into an undisturbed corner, I could see that Alessandro was visibly relieved to recognize no one.

As soon as we sat down, he reached into his jacket, took out Romeo’s dagger, and put it on the table between us. “It seems,” he said, speaking the unfamiliar words very slowly, if not reluctantly, “I owe you an apology.”

“Oh well”—I stuck my nose in a menu to hide my smirk—“don’t get too carried away. You read my file. I’m still a threat to society.”

But he was not ready to laugh it off just yet, and for a while we sat in awkward silence, pretending to study the menu and taking turns poking at the dagger.

Not until we had a bottle of Prosecco and a plate of antipasto in front
of us did Alessandro smile—albeit apologetically—and raise his glass. “I hope you’ll enjoy it better this time. Same wine, new bottle.”

“Getting to the main course would definitely be an improvement,” I said, touching my glass to his. “And if I can avoid being chased barefoot through the streets afterwards, I’d say this evening is bound to trump last night.”

He winced. “Why didn’t you come back to the restaurant?”

“I’m sorry,” I laughed, “but my scummy friend Bruno was far better company than you. At least he believed I was Giulietta all along.”

Alessandro looked away, and it occurred to me that I was the only one who appreciated the comedy of the situation. I knew he had humor—and certainly sarcasm enough to go around—but right now it clearly did not amuse him to be reminded of his own ungentlemanly behavior.

“When I was thirteen years old,” he finally said, leaning back in his chair, “I spent a summer with my grandparents here in Siena. They had a beautiful farm. Vineyards. Horses. Plumbing. One day, they had a visitor. It was an American woman, Diane Tolomei, and her two little girls, Giulietta and Giannozza—”

“Wait!” I interrupted him. “You mean,
me?”

He looked at me with a strange, lopsided smile. “Yes. You were wearing a—what is the word?—diaper.” Ignoring my protests, he went on, “My grandmother told me to play with you and your sister while they talked, and so I took you out to the barn to show you the horses. Unfortunately, you got scared and fell down on a hayfork”—he shook his head, reliving the moment—“it was terrible. You were screaming, and there was blood everywhere. I carried you into the kitchen, but you were kicking and crying, and your mother looked at me as if I had tortured you on purpose. Fortunately, my grandmother knew what to do, and she gave you a big ice cream and stitched up the cut the way she had done with all her children and grandchildren many times.” Alessandro took a sip of Prosecco before he went on, “Two weeks later my parents read in the newspaper that Diane Tolomei had died in a car accident, together with her little girls. They were devastated.” He looked up and met my eyes at last. “That is why I didn’t believe you were Giulietta Tolomei.”

For a moment we just sat there, looking at each other. It was a sad story for both of us, but at the same time there was something bittersweet and irresistible about the idea that we had met before, as children.

“It is true,” I said quietly, “that my mother died in a car crash, but she didn’t have us with her that day. The newspaper got it wrong. Now, as for the hayfork,” I went on, more cheerfully, “I appreciate knowing what happened. Do you have any idea how unsettling it is to have a scar and not know where it came from?”

Alessandro looked incredulous. “You still have a scar?”

“Absolutely!” I pulled up my skirt and let him see the white mark on my thigh. “Pretty nasty, huh? But now I finally know who to blame.”

Checking to see if he looked remorseful, I found him staring at my thigh with an expression of shock that was so very unlike him, it made me burst out laughing. “Sorry!” I pushed down my skirt again. “I got carried away by your story.”

Alessandro cleared his throat and reached for the Prosecco bottle. “Let me know when you want another one.”

HALFWAY THROUGH DINNER
, he got a call from the police station. When he returned to the table, I could see that he had good news.

“Well,” he said, sitting down, “it looks like you don’t have to change hotels tonight. They found Bruno at his sister’s, his trunk full of stolen goods from your cousin’s museum. When his sister discovered that he was back in his old business, she beat him up so bad he begged them to arrest him right away.” He grinned and shook his head, but when he noticed my raised eyebrows, he quickly sobered. “Unfortunately, they did not find the cencio. He must have hidden it somewhere else. Don’t worry, it will turn up. There’s no way he can sell that old rag—” Seeing my dismay with his choice of words, he shrugged. “I didn’t grow up here.”

“A private collector,” I said, sharply, “would pay a lot of money for that old rag. These things have great emotional value to people around here … as I’m sure you are well aware. Who knows, maybe it’s Romeo’s family, the Marescottis, who are behind all this. Remember, my cousin Peppo said that Romeo’s descendants think the cencio and this dagger belong to them.”

“If it is,” said Alessandro, leaning back as the waiter took away our plates, “we’ll know tomorrow, when the boys have a little talk with Bruno. He is not the silent type.”

“What about you? Do you believe it? … That the Marescottis hired him to steal the cencio?”

I could see that Alessandro was not at all comfortable with the subject. “If they were really behind this,” he eventually said, “they would not have used Bruno. They have their own people. And they would not have left the dagger on the table.”

“Sounds like you know them?”