Juliet (68 page)

“Thanks a lot!” she said. “I guess it’s better than sounding like Umberto—” But as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she winced. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m sure he’s here in spirit.”

The truth was, we had no idea what had become of Umberto. Neither of us had seen him since the shoot-out in the cathedral crypt. In all likelihood, he had disappeared into the underground when the floor broke up, but then, nobody had actually seen it happen. They had been too busy looking for me.

Nor were the four gemstones ever found. Personally, I suspected Earth had taken back her treasures, assuming Romeo’s and Giulietta’s eyes back into her womb the way she had demanded the return of the eagle dagger.

Janice, on the other hand, was convinced Umberto had pocketed the sparkle and escaped through the Bottini caves to live the sweet life in the slicked-back tango parlors of Buenos Aires … or wherever else gentleman gangsters go when they retire. And after a few poolside chocolate martinis at Castello Salimbeni, Eva Maria began to agree with her. Umberto, she told us, adjusting her sunglasses under her large, floppy sunhat, had always
had a habit of disappearing, sometimes for years, and then suddenly calling her out of the blue. Besides, she was confident that, even if her son had really fallen through the floor and into the river Diana, he would have kept his head above water and simply followed the current until it spat him out in a lake somewhere. How could it possibly be otherwise?

TO GET TO THE
sanctuary we had to run past an olive grove and an herb nursery with beehives. Friar Lorenzo had walked us through the grounds that same morning, and we had eventually ended up in a secluded rose garden dominated by an open marble rotunda.

In the middle of the little temple stood a life-size bronze statue of a monk, arms open in a gesture of friendship. Friar Lorenzo had explained that this was what the brothers liked to imagine the original Friar Lorenzo had looked like, and that his remains were buried under the floor. It was supposed to be a place of peace and contemplation, he had told us, but because we were who we were, he would make an exception.

Approaching the sanctuary now, with Janice in tow, I stopped briefly to catch my breath. They were all there, waiting for us—Eva Maria, Malèna, cousin Peppo with his leg in a cast, plus a couple dozen other people whose names I was only starting to learn—and next to Friar Lorenzo stood Alessandro, tense and to-die-for, frowning at his wrist-watch.

When he saw us walking towards him, he shook his head and sent me a smile that was part reproach, part relief. And as soon as I was within reach, he pulled me close to kiss my cheek and whisper into my ear, “I think maybe I
will
have to chain you in the dungeon.”

“How medieval of you,” I replied, disentangling myself with feigned modesty, seeing that we had an audience.

“You bring it out in me.”

“Scusi?” Friar Lorenzo looked at us both with raised eyebrows, clearly eager to get on with the ceremony, and I dutifully turned my attention to the monk, postponing my rebuttal until later.

We were not getting married because we felt we had to. This wedding ceremony in the Lorenzo sanctuary was not only for us, it was also a way of proving to everyone else that we were serious when we said we belonged together—something Alessandro and I had known for a long, long
time. Besides, Eva Maria had demanded an opportunity to celebrate the return of her long-lost granddaughters, and it would have broken Janice’s heart had she not been given a glamorous part to play. And so the two of them had spent an entire evening going through Eva Maria’s wardrobe, looking for the perfect bridesmaid’s dress, while Alessandro and I had continued my swimming lessons in the pool.

But even if our wedding today felt like little more than a confirmation of vows we had already exchanged, I was still moved by Friar Lorenzo’s sincerity, and by the sight of Alessandro right next to me, listening intently to the monk’s speech.

Standing there with my hand in his, I suddenly understood why—all my life—I had been haunted by the fear of dying young. Whenever I had tried to envision my future beyond the age that my mother had been when she died, I had seen nothing but darkness. Only now did it make sense. The darkness had not been death, but blindness; how could I possibly have known that I was going to wake up—as from a dream—to a life I never knew existed?

The ceremony went on in Italian with great solemnity until the best man—Malèna’s husband, Vincenzo—handed Friar Lorenzo the rings. Recognizing the eagle signet ring, Friar Lorenzo grimaced with exasperation and said something that made everyone laugh.

“What did he say?” I whispered under my breath.

Seizing the opportunity to kiss my neck, Alessandro whispered back, “He said,
Holy Mother of God, how many times do I have to do this?
”

WE HAD DINNER
in the inner courtyard of the monastery, under a trellis overgrown with grapevines. As twilight turned to darkness, the Lorenzo brothers went inside to fetch oil lamps and beeswax candles in handblown glasses, and before long the golden light from our tables drowned out the cold glimmer from the starry sky above.

It was gratifying to sit there next to Alessandro, surrounded by people who would never have been brought together otherwise. After some initial apprehensions, Eva Maria, Pia, and cousin Peppo were all getting along famously, chipping away at the old family misunderstandings at last. And what better occasion to do so? They were, after all, our godparents.

The majority of the guests, however, were neither Salimbenis nor Tolomeis, but Alessandro’s friends from Siena and members of the Marescotti family. I had already been to dinner with his aunt and uncle several times—not to mention all his cousins living down the street—but it was the first time I met his parents and brothers from Rome.

Alessandro had warned me that his father, Colonel Santini, was not a great fan of metaphysics, and that his mother tended to keep her husband on a need-to-know basis when it came to Marescotti family lore. Personally, I couldn’t be more happy that none of them felt a need to dig into the official story of our courtship, and I had just squeezed Alessandro’s hand in relief, underneath the table, when his mother leaned over to whisper to me, with a teasing wink, “When you come to visit, you must tell me what really happened, no?”

“Have you ever been to Rome, Giulietta?” Colonel Santini wanted to know, his booming voice briefly extinguishing all other conversation.

“Uh … no,” I said, digging my nails into Alessandro’s thigh. “But I’d love to go.”

“It is very strange …” The Colonel frowned slightly. “I have a feeling I have seen you before.”

“That,” said Alessandro, putting an arm around me, “is exactly how I felt when we met the first time.” And then he kissed me, right on the mouth, until they all started laughing and rapping at the table, and the conversation turned—thankfully—to the Palio.

Two days after the drama in the cathedral crypt Aquila had finally won the race after almost twenty years of disappointment. Despite the doctor’s recommendation that I take it easy for a while, we had been right there in the fray, Alessandro and I, celebrating the rebirth of our destinies. Afterwards, we had flocked with Malèna and Vincenzo and all the other aquilini to the Siena Cathedral for the victory mass in celebration of the Virgin Mary and the cencio she had so graciously bestowed on Contrada dell’Aquila despite Alessandro being in town.

As I had stood there in the church, singing along to a hymn I didn’t know, I thought of the crypt that was somewhere below us, and the golden statue that no one knew of but us. Maybe one day the crypt would be safe enough for visitors, and maybe Maestro Lippi would restore the statue and give it new eyes, but until then, it was our secret. And perhaps
it ought to remain that way. The Virgin had allowed us to find her shrine, but everyone who had entered it with evil intent had died. Not exactly a great pitch for group tours.

As for the old cencio, it had been returned to the Virgin Mary just as Romeo Marescotti had vowed it would be. We had taken it to Florence to get it professionally cleaned and preserved, and now it hung in a glass casing in the small chapel at the Eagle Museum, looking surprisingly pristine considering its recent trials. Everyone in the contrada was, of course, euphoric that we had managed to track down this important piece of history, and no one seemed to find it the least bit odd that the subject of its recovery and fine condition always gave me rosy cheeks.

OVER DESSERT—A GRANDIOSE
wedding cake personally designed by Eva Maria—Janice leaned over to put a yellowed roll of parchment on the table in front of me. I recognized it right away; it was the letter from Giannozza to Giulietta that Friar Lorenzo had shown me at Castello Salimbeni. The only change was that, by now, the seal had been broken.

“Here is a little present,” said Janice, handing me a folded-up sheet of paper. “This is the English version. I got the letter from Friar Lorenzo, and Eva Maria helped me translate it.”

I could see that she was eager for me to read it right away, and so I did. This is what it said:

When I stopped reading, both Janice and I were crying. Only too aware that everyone at the table was mystified at this outbreak of emotion, I threw my arms around her and thanked her for the perfect present. It was doubtful how many of the other guests would have understood the significance of the letter; even those who knew the sad story of the original
Giulietta and Giannozza could not possibly have understood what it meant to my sister and me.

IT WAS NEAR MIDNIGHT
when I was finally able to tiptoe back into the garden, pulling along a rather unenthusiastic Alessandro. By now everyone had gone to bed, and it was time to carry out something I had been meaning to do for a while. Opening the squeaky gate to the Lorenzo sanctuary, I looked at my grudging companion and put a finger on my lips. “We’re not supposed to be here now.”

“I agree,” said Alessandro, trying to draw me into his arms. “Let me tell you where we’re supposed to be—”

“Shh!” I put a hand over his mouth. “I really have to do this.”

“What’s wrong with tomorrow?”

I removed my hand and kissed him quickly. “I wasn’t planning on getting out of bed tomorrow.”

Now at last, Alessandro let me pull him into the sanctuary and up to the marble rotunda that held the bronze statue of Friar Lorenzo. In the light of the rising moon, the statue looked almost like a real person, standing there with his arms open, waiting for us. Needless to say, the chances that his features resembled the original in any way were slim, but that did not matter. What mattered was that thoughtful people had recognized this man’s sacrifice, and had made it possible for us to find him again, and thank him.

Taking off the crucifix, which I had been wearing ever since Alessandro gave it back to me, I reached up to hang it around the statue’s neck where it belonged. “Monna Mina kept this as a token of their connection,” I said, mostly to myself. “I don’t need it to remember what he did for Romeo and Giulietta.” I paused. “Who knows, maybe there never was a curse. Maybe it was just us—all of us—thinking that we deserved one.”

Alessandro did not say anything. Instead, he reached out and touched my cheek the way he had done that day at Fontebranda and, this time, I knew exactly what he meant. Whether or not we had truly been cursed, and whether or not we had now paid our dues, he was my blessing, and I was his, and that was enough to disarm any missile that fate—or Shakespeare—might still be foolish enough to hurl our way.

…