Juliet (18 page)

“Who else,” she went on, still not turning, “would spend the night feeding grapes to an effigy while murderers parade around town, bragging about their exploits? And what decent man could contemplate a party such as this, when his own brother has been—” She could not continue.

“Most people,” said Romeo, his voice a stranger even to himself, “call Messer Tolomei a brave man.”

“Then most people,” replied she, “are wrong. And you, Signore, are
wasting your time. I will not dance tonight; my heart is too heavy. So, go back to my aunt and feast on her caresses; you will receive none from me.”

“I am not here,” said Romeo, stepping boldly closer, “as a dancer. I am here … because I cannot stay away. Will you not look at me?”

She paused, forcing herself not to move. “Why should I look at you? Is your soul that inferior to your body?”

“I did not know my soul,” said Romeo, lowering his voice, “until I saw its reflection in your eyes.”

She did not reply right away, but when she did, her voice was sharp enough to graze his courage. “And when did you thus deflower my eyes with your own image? You, to me, are merely the distant form of an excellent dancer. What demon stole my eyes and gave them to you?”

“Sleep,” Romeo said, gazing at her profile and hoping for a return of her smile, “was the culprit. He took them from your bed pillow and brought them to me. O, the sweet torment of that dream!”

“Sleep,” the girl retorted, her head still stubbornly turned, “is the father of lies!”

“But the mother of hope.”

“Perhaps. But the firstborn of hope is tragedy.”

“You speak with such familiar fondness as one does only of relatives.”

“Oh no!” she exclaimed, her voice shrill with bitterness. “I dare not brag of such high connections. When I am dead, were I to die in a grand, religious manner, let the scholars argue over my bloodline.”

“I care not for your bloodline,” Romeo said, boldly touching a finger to her neck, “save to trace its secret writing on your skin.”

For a moment, his touch made her silent. And when she next spoke, her breathless words rendered void the intended dismissal. “Then I fear,” she said, over her shoulder, “that you will be disappointed. For my skin spells no pretty narrative, but a tale of slaughter and revenge.”

Braver now that she had allowed his first venture, Romeo cupped his hands over her shoulders and leaned forward to speak through the silken screen of her hair. “I heard of your loss. There is not a heart in Siena that does not feel your pain.”

“Yes, there is! It resides in Palazzo Salimbeni, and it is incapable of human feelings!” She shook off his hands. “How often I have wished I was born a man!”

“Being born a man is no safeguard against sorrow.”

“Indeed?” She finally turned to face him, taunting his gravity. “And what, pray, are your sorrows, Signore?” Her eyes, vibrant even in the darkness, looked him over with amusement, then settled on his face. “Nay, as I suspected, you are too handsome to have sorrows. Rather, you have the voice and the face of a thief.”

Seeing his indignation, she laughed sharply and went on, “Yes, a thief. But a thief that is given more than he takes, and therefore considers himself generous rather than greedy, and a favorite rather than a fiend. Contradict me if you can. You are a man from whom no gift has ever been withheld. How could such a man ever have sorrows?”

Romeo met her teasing stare with confidence. “No man was ever on a quest, who did not seek its end. Yet on his way, what pilgrim says no to a meal and a bed? Do not begrudge me the length of my journey. Were I not a traveler, I never would have landed on your shore.”

“But what exotic savage can keep a sailor ashore forever? What pilgrim does not in time weary of his homely chair and set out for still more distant, undiscovered shrines?”

“Your words do justice to neither of us. Pray, do not call me inconstant before you even know my name.”

“It is my savage nature.”

“I see naught but beauty.”

“Then you do not see me at all.”

Romeo took her hand and forced it open against his cheek. “I saw you, dear savage, before you saw me. Yet you heard me, before I heard you. And as such we might have lived, our love separated by our senses, had not Fortuna, tonight, granted you eyes, and I ears.”

The girl frowned. “Your poetry is mysterious. Do you intend me to comprehend you, or are you hoping that I mistake my own dullness for your wisdom?”

“By God!” exclaimed Romeo, “Fortuna is a tease! She gave you eyes, but took your ears in return. Giulietta, do you not recognize the voice of your knight?” He reached out to touch her cheek the way he had done when she was lying for dead in the coffin. “Do you not,” he added, his voice little more than a whisper, “recognize his touch?”

For the briefest of moments, Giulietta softened and leaned against his hand, seeking comfort from his closeness. But just as Romeo thought she was surrendering to him, he was surprised to see her eyes narrow. Rather
than opening the door of her heart to him—hitherto suspiciously ajar—she now stepped abruptly backwards, away from his hand. “Liar! Who sent you here to play with me?”

He gasped in surprise. “Sweet Giulietta—”

But she would not listen, and merely pushed at him to leave her. “Go! Go away and laugh at me with all your friends!”

“I swear to you!” Romeo stayed his ground and reached for her hands, but she did not surrender them. For lack of better he took her by the shoulders and held her still, desperate for her to hear him out. “I am the man who saved you and Friar Lorenzo on the high road,” he insisted, “and you entered this city under my protection. I saw you in the Maestro’s workshop, lying in the coffin—”

As he spoke, he saw her eyes widen in the realization that he was telling the truth, but instead of gratitude, her face filled with anxiety.

“I see,” she said, her voice unsteady. “And now, I suppose, you have come to collect your dues?”

Only then, seeing her fear, did it occur to Romeo that he had taken a great liberty in seizing her shoulders like this, and that his grip must have made her wonder about his intentions. Cursing himself for being so impulsive, he gently let go of her and took a step back, hoping very much she would not run away. This encounter was not going the way he had planned it, not at all. For many nights now, he had been dreaming of the moment when Giulietta would come out on her balcony, summoned by his serenade, and clasp her heart in admiration for his person, if not his song.

“I have come,” he said, his eyes begging her pardon, “to hear your sweet voice speak my name. That is all.”

Seeing his sincerity, she dared to smile. “Romeo. Romeo Marescotti,” she whispered, “blessed by Heaven. There, what more do I owe you?”

He nearly stepped forward again, but managed to discipline himself and keep his distance. “You owe me nothing, but I want everything. I have been looking for you all over town since I realized you were alive. I knew I had to see you and … speak with you. I even prayed to God—” He broke off, sheepishly.

Giulietta looked at him for the longest time, her blue eyes full of astonishment. “And what did God tell you?”

Romeo could control himself no longer, but grasped her hand and
brought it to his lips. “He told me that you were here tonight, waiting for me.”

“Then you must be the answer to my prayers.” She looked at him in wonder as he kissed her hand again and again. “Only this morning, in church, I prayed for a man—a hero—who could avenge the gruesome death of my family. Now I see that I was wrong in asking for someone new. For you were the one who killed that bandit on the high road, and who protected me from the very moment I arrived. Yes”—she touched her other hand to his face—“I believe you are that hero.”

“You honor me,” said Romeo, straightening. “I should like nothing better than to be your knight.”

“Good,” said Giulietta, “then do me no small favor. Seek out that bastard, Salimbeni, and make him suffer as he made my family suffer. And when you are done, bring me his head in a box that he may wander headless through the halls of Purgatory.”

Romeo swallowed hard, but managed to nod. “Your wish is my law, dearest angel. Will you allow me a few days for this task, or must he suffer tonight?”

“I will leave that to you,” said Giulietta with graceful modesty. “You are the expert on killing Salimbenis.”

“And when I am done,” said Romeo, holding both her hands, “will you grant me a kiss for my trouble?”

“When you are done,” replied Giulietta, watching him as he pressed his lips to her wrists, first one, then the other, “I will grant you anything you desire.”

   [   III.III   ]

…

T
HE 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.