“What if it isn’t here?” whispered Janice, glancing nervously at Cocco, who was becoming more and more frustrated as the search continued without result. “Or what if they’re buried here all right, but the statue is somewhere else?… Jules?”
But I was only listening to her with half an ear. After stepping on several chunks of what looked like crumbled plaster, I had pointed my flashlight upwards and discovered that the whole place was far more dilapidated than I had first assumed. Here and there, parts of the vaulted ceiling had come down, and a couple of the supporting pillars were leaning, ominously, under the burden of the modern world.
“Oh, boy,” I said, suddenly realizing that Cocco and his men were no longer our only enemies, “this whole place is just waiting to collapse.”
Looking over my shoulder at the jagged opening leading to the antechamber with the mass grave, I knew that, even if we were able to sneak back there unseen, we would never get up through the hole in the ceiling, where the men had helped us down. Using all my strength, I might be able to lift up Janice, but then what about me? And what about Friar Lorenzo? In theory, Umberto could lift all three of us one by one, but then what about him? Would we just leave him there?
My speculations were interrupted when Cocco summoned us both with a sharp whistle and ordered Umberto to ask us if we had any more clues as to where the damned statue could be.
“Oh, it’s here!” Janice blurted out. “The question is where they hid it.”
When she saw that Cocco wasn’t following, she tried to laugh. “Did you really think,” she went on, her voice beginning to shake, “they would put something so valuable in a place where everyone would see it?”
“What did Friar Lorenzo say?” I asked Umberto, mostly to get everyone’s attention off Janice, who looked as if she might burst into tears at any moment. “He must have some idea.”
We all looked at the monk, who was wandering about on his own, gazing at the golden stars on the ceiling.
“‘And he put a dragon there to guard their eyes,’” recited Umberto. “That’s all. But there’s no dragon here. Not a single statue anywhere.”
“What’s odd,” I said, looking from one side of the crypt to the other, “is that over there on the left we have five side chapels at regular intervals, but over here we only have four. Look. The middle one is missing. There’s just wall.”
Before Umberto had even finished translating what I said, Cocco marched us all over to the place where the fifth doorway should have been, in order to take a closer look.
“Not just wall,” observed Janice, pointing at a colorful fresco, “but a landscape with a big, red, flying… snake.”
“Looks like a dragon to me,” I said, taking a step back. “You know what I think? I think the grave is behind this wall. See…” I pointed at a long crack in the fresco betraying the shape of a door frame beneath the plaster. “This was obviously a side chapel, just like the others, but I bet Salimbeni got tired of posting guards here twenty-four seven. And so he simply walled it up. It makes sense.”
Cocco did not need any more proof that this was, indeed, the location of the grave, and within minutes the power tools were going again, the roar of metal against stone reverberating through the crypt as the men drilled into the dragon fresco to get access to the presumed hidden niche. This time it was not just dust and rubble that fell on us as we stood there, watching the destruction with our fingers in our ears, but big chunks of the vaulted ceiling, including several golden stars that fell around us with fateful clangs, as if the very cogwheels of the universe were coming off.
WHEN THE DRILLS FINALLY stopped, the opening in the wall was just large enough for a person to walk through, and it did indeed reveal a hidden niche. One by one, the men disappeared through the improvised doorway, and in the end neither Janice nor I could resist the temptation to follow, even though nobody told us to.
Ducking through the hole, we emerged into a small, dimly lit side chapel, nearly bumping into the others, who were all standing still. Stretching to see what they were looking at, I merely caught a glimpse of something shiny, before one of the men finally had the presence of mind to point his torch directly at the massive object that seemed to be hovering in the air before us.
“Holy shit!” said someone with perfect pronunciation, and for once even Janice was dumbstruck.
There it was, the statue of Romeo and Giulietta, far bigger and much more spectacular than I had ever imagined-in fact, its proportions made it almost threatening. It was as if its creator had wanted the beholders to fall to their knees spontaneously, begging for forgiveness. And I almost did.
Even as it stood there, set on top of a large marble sarcophagus and covered in six hundred years of dust, it had a golden glow about it that no span of time could take away. And in the dim light of the chapel the four gemstone eyes-two blue sapphires and two green emeralds-shone with an almost supernatural brilliance.
To someone who did not know its story, the statue spoke not of grief, but of love. Romeo was kneeling on the sarcophagus, picking up Giulietta in his arms, and they were looking at each other with an intensity that found its way into the dark cranny where my heart was hiding, reminding me of my own fresh sorrows. The drawings in Mom’s sketchbook had clearly been nothing more than guesswork; even her most loving portraits of these two figures, Romeo and Giulietta, did not begin to do them justice.
Standing there, choking back my regrets, it was hard for me to accept that I had originally come to Siena to find this statue and these four gemstones. Now they were right here in front of me, but I no longer felt the slightest desire to own them. And even if they had been mine, I would happily have given them away a thousand times to be back in the real world, safe from the likes of Cocco, or even just to see Alessandro one more time.
“Do you think they put them both in the same coffin?” whispered Janice, interrupting my thoughts. “Come-” She elbowed her way through the men, pulling me along, and when we were right next to the sarcophagus, she took my flashlight and pointed it at an inscription that was carved into the stone. “Look! Remember this from the story? Do you think it’s the one?”
We both leaned closer to look, but could not make out the Italian.
“What was it now?” Janice frowned, trying to remember the English translation. “Oh yes! ‘Here sleeps true and faithful Giulietta… By the love and mercy of God’-” She paused, forgetting the rest.
“‘To be woken by Romeo, her rightful spouse,’” I went on quietly, mesmerized by the golden face of Romeo, looking right down at me, “‘in an hour of perfect grace.’”
If the story Maestro Lippi had translated to us was true-and it was certainly beginning to look that way-then old Maestro Ambrogio had personally overseen the creation of this statue back in 1341. Surely he, being Romeo and Giulietta’s friend, would have been adamant about getting it right; surely this was a faithful representation of what they had really looked like.
But Cocco and his men had not come all the way from Naples to be lost in reverie, and two of them were already climbing around on top of the sarcophagus, trying to figure out what tools were needed to gouge out the eyes of the statue. In the end they decided that a special kind of drill was necessary, and once the tools had been assembled and handed to them, they each turned to a figure-one to Giulietta, one to Romeo-ready to go ahead.
When he saw what they were about to do, Friar Lorenzo-who had been perfectly calm until this very moment-burst forward and tried to stop the men, pleading with them not to ruin the statue. It was not just a matter of desecrating a piece of art; the monk was clearly convinced that stealing its eyes would trigger some unspeakable evil that would undo us all. But Cocco had no further need for Friar Lorenzo’s superstitious riddles; he pushed the monk brusquely aside and ordered the men to proceed.