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?”
He shrugged. “Siena is a small place.”
“I thought you said you didn’t grow up here.”
“True.” He tapped his fingers on the table a few times, clearly annoyed at my perseverance. “But I spent my summers here, with my grandparents. I told you. Me and my cousins played in the Marescotti vineyard every day. We were always afraid of being discovered. It was part of the fun. Everyone was afraid of old man Marescotti. Except Romeo, of course.”
I nearly knocked over my wineglass. “You mean, the Romeo? The one that my cousin Peppo talked about, who might have stolen the cencio?” When Alessandro did not reply, I went on, more quietly, “I see. So, that’s how it hangs together. You were childhood friends.”
He grimaced. “Not exactly friends.” Seeing that I was bursting to ask more questions, he handed me the menu. “Here. Time to think of sweet things.”
Over dessert, dipping almond cookies-cantucci-in vin santo, I tried to circle back to the issue of Romeo, but Alessandro did not want to go there. Instead, he asked about my own childhood, and what had triggered my involvement with the antiwar movement. “Come on,” he said, clearly amused by my scowl, “it can’t all be your sister’s fault.”
“I never said it was. We just have very different priorities.”
“Let me guess…” He pushed the cookies towards me. “Your sister is in the military? She went to Iraq?”
“Ha!” I helped myself to more cantucci. “Janice couldn’t find Iraq on a foam puzzle. She thinks life is all about… having fun.”
“Shame on her.” Alessandro shook his head. “Enjoying life.”
I exhaled sharply. “I knew you wouldn’t understand! When we-”
“I do understand,” he cut me off. “She is having fun, so you can’t have fun. She is enjoying life, so you can’t enjoy life. It’s too bad someone carved that in stone.”
“Look”-I swirled my empty wineglass, not willing to give him the point-“the most important person in the world to Janice Jacobs is Janice Jacobs. She will skewer anybody to score a point. She’s the kind of person who-” I stopped myself, realizing that I, too, didn’t want to conjure the ugly past on this pleasant evening.
“And what about Julie Jacobs?” Alessandro filled up my glass. “Who is the most important person to her?”
I looked at his smile, not sure if he was still making fun of me.
“Let me guess.” He gave me a playful once-over. “Julie Jacobs wants to save the world and make everybody happy-”
“But in the process, she makes everybody miserable,” I went on, hijacking his morality tale, “including herself. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that the ends don’t justify the means, and that sawing the heads off little mermaids is not how you make wars go away. I know that. I know it all.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“I didn’t! It wasn’t supposed to be that way.” I looked at him to see if we could possibly forget that I had mentioned the Little Mermaid and move on to a happier subject. But we couldn’t. Even though he was half smiling, his eyes told me this was an issue that could be postponed no longer.
“Okay,” I sighed, “this is what happened. I thought we were going to dress her up in army fatigues, and the Danish press would come and take pictures-”
“Which they did.”
“I know! But I never wanted to cut her head off-”
“You were holding the saw.”
“That was an accident!” I buried my face in my hands. “We didn’t realize she was so small. It’s a tiny little statue. The clothes didn’t fit. And then someone-some moron-pulled out a saw-” I couldn’t go on.
We sat for a moment in silence, until I peeked out through my fingers to see if he still looked disgusted. He didn’t. In fact, he looked mildly amused. Although he wasn’t actually smiling, there was that little sparkle in his eye.
“What’s so funny?” I grumbled.
“You,” said Alessandro. “You really are a Tolomei. Remember?… ‘I will show myself a tyrant; when I have fought with the men I will be civil with the maids, I will cut off their heads.’” When he saw that I recognized the quotation, he finally smiled. “‘Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense thou wilt.’”
I let my hands drop to my lap, partly relieved and partly embarrassed by the shift in our conversation. “You surprise me. I didn’t realize you knew Romeo and Juliet by heart.”
He shook his head. “Only the fighting parts. I hope that’s not a disappointment.”
Not entirely sure whether he was flirting with me or just making fun, I started fiddling with the dagger again. “It’s strange,” I said, “but I know the whole play. I always did. Even before I understood what it was. It was like a voice in my head-” I started laughing. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”