Naturally, the servants were not happy with their morbid task, but seeing their mistress standing so patiently next to them as they worked, urging them on with promises of cakes and sweets, they dared not complain.
Over the course of the morning, they found the bones not just of one, but of several people. At first, the discovery of death and molestation made them all sick to the stomach, but when they saw that Monna Mina-although pale-did not budge, they soon overcame their horror and picked up their tools to continue their work. And as the day went on, they were all filled with ardent admiration for the young woman, who was so determined to rid the house of its evil.
Once all the bones had been recovered, Monna Mina had the servants wrap them in shrouds and take them to the cemetery, except for the most recent remains, which, she was sure, must be Friar Lorenzo’s. Not quite sure what to do, she sat for a while with the body, looking at the silver crucifix that had been clutched in its hand, until a plan formed in her head.
Before her marriage, Monna Mina had had a confessor, a holy and wonderful man, who came from the south, from the town of Viterbo, and who had often spoken of the town’s cathedral, San Lorenzo. Would not this be the right place to send the monk’s remains, she wondered, that his holy brothers might help him find peace at last, far away from the Siena that had caused him such unspeakable woes?
When her husband returned that evening, Monna Mina had everything prepared. Friar Lorenzo’s remains were now in a wooden coffin, ready to be loaded onto a cart, and a letter had been written to the priests at San Lorenzo, explaining just enough to make them understand that here was a man who deserved an end to his sufferings. The only thing wanting was her husband’s permission and a handful of money for the venture to be launched, but Monna Mina was a woman who had already learned-in just a few months of marriage-how a pleasant evening could extract such things from a man.
Early next morning, before the mists had lifted from Piazza Salimbeni, she stood at her bedroom window, her husband blissfully asleep in the bed behind her, and saw the cart with the coffin leaving for Viterbo. Around her neck hung Friar Lorenzo’s crucifix, cleaned and polished. Her first instinct had been to put it in the coffin with the monk’s remains, but in the end she had decided to keep it as a token of their mystical connection.
She did not yet understand why he had chosen to speak through her and force her hand to write an old curse that had called down a plague on her own family, but she had a feeling he had done it out of kindness, to tell her that she must somehow find a cure. And until she did, she would keep the crucifix to remind her of the words on the wall, and of the man whose last thoughts had not been for himself, but for Romeo and Giulietta.
VII.I
By a name
I know not how to tell thee who I am
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself
AFTER MAESTRO LIPPI STOPPED READING, we sat for a while in silence. I had originally pulled out the Italian text to get us off the topic of Alessandro being Romeo, but had I known it would take us to such dark places, I would have left it in my handbag.
“Poor Friar Lorenzo,” said Janice, emptying her wineglass, “no happy end for him.”
“I always thought Shakespeare let him off the hook too easily,” I said, trying to strike a lighter tone. “There he is, in Romeo and Juliet, walking around red-handed in the cemetery-bodies sprawled everywhere-even admitting that he was behind the whole double-crossing screw-up with the sleeping potion… and that’s it. You’d think the Capulets and the Montagues would at least try to hold him responsible.”
“Maybe they did,” said Janice, “later on. ‘Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished’… sounds like the story wasn’t over just because the curtain dropped.”
“Clearly it wasn’t.” I glanced at the text Maestro Lippi had just read to us. “And according to Mom it still isn’t.”
“This,” said the Maestro, still frowning over the evil deeds of old man Salimbeni, “is very disturbing. If it is true that Friar Lorenzo wrote such a curse, with those exact words, then it would-in theory-go on forever, until”-he checked the text to get the wording straight-“‘you undo your sins and kneel before the Virgin… and Giulietta wakes to behold her Romeo.’”
“Okay,” said Janice, never a great fan of superstitious mumbo jumbo, “so, I have two questions. One: who is this you-?”
“That’s obvious,” I interjected, “seeing that he is calling down ‘a plague on both your houses.’ He is obviously talking to Salimbeni and Tolomei, who were right there in the basement, torturing him. And since you and I are of the house of Tolomei, we’re cursed, too.”
“Listen to you!” snapped Janice. “Of the house of Tolomei! What difference does a name make?”
“Not just a name,” I said. “The genes and the name. Mom had the genes, and Dad had the name. Not much wiggle room for us.”
Janice was not happy with my logic, but what could she do? “Okay, fair enough,” she sighed. “Shakespeare was wrong. There never was a Mercutio, dying because of Romeo and calling down a plague on him and Tybalt; the curse came from Friar Lorenzo. Fine. But I have another question, and that is: If you actually believe in this curse, then what? How can anybody be stupid enough to think they can stop it? We’re not just talking repent here. We’re talking un-friggin’-do your sins! Well… how? Are we supposed to dig up old Salimbeni and make him change his mind and… and… and drag him to the cathedral so he can fall to his knees in front of the altar or whatever? Puh-leez!” She looked at us both belligerently, as if it was the Maestro and me who had brought this problem upon her. “Why don’t we just fly home and leave the stupid curse here in Italy? Why do we have to care?”
“Because Mom cared,” I said, simply. “This was what she wanted: to stick it out and end the curse. Now we have to do it for her. We owe her that.”
Janice pointed at me with the rosemary twig. “Allow me to quote myself: All we owe her is to stay alive.”
I touched the crucifix hanging around my neck. “That’s exactly what I mean. If we want to stay alive happily ever after, then-according to Mom-we have to end the curse. You and me, Giannozza. There’s no one else left to do it.”
The way she looked at me, I could see her coming around, realizing I was right, or, at least, telling a convincing story. But she didn’t like it. “This,” she said, “is so far out. But okay, let’s assume for a moment that there really is a curse, and that-if we don’t stop it-it really will kill us, like it killed Mom and Dad. The question is still how? How do we stop it?”
I glanced at the Maestro. He had been unusually present-minded all evening-and still was-but even he didn’t have the answer to Janice’s question. “I don’t know,” I confessed. “But I suspect the golden statue plays a part. And maybe the dagger and the cencio, too, although I don’t see how.”
“Oh, well!” Janice threw up her hands. “Then we’re cooking!… Except that we have absolutely no clue where the statue is. The story just says that Salimbeni ‘made for them a most holy grave’ and posted guards at ‘the chapel,’ but that could mean anywhere! So… we don’t know where the statue is, and you lost the dagger and the cencio! I’m amazed you’ve managed to hang on to that crucifix, but I suspect that’s because it has no significance whatsoever!”