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.”