Giulietta looked out in horror to see the crowd staring at Salimbeni and the dagger in disbelief. Here was the man they had wanted to punish just a moment ago, but the shocking news of the misdeed and the sight of Messer Tolomei’s grieving figure had distracted them. Now they did not know what to think, and they just stood there, gaping, waiting for a cue.
Seeing the changing expression on their faces, Giulietta understood right away that Salimbeni had planned this moment in advance, in order to turn the mob against Romeo in case he won the Palio. Now they were quite forgetting their reasons for attacking the podium in the first place, yet their emotions were still running wild, ravenous for some other object to tear apart.
They did not have to wait long. Salimbeni had enough loyal clients in the crowd that, as soon as he waved the dagger in the air, someone yelled out, “Romeo is the murderer!”
Within a moment, the people of Siena were once again united, this time in disgusted hatred against the young man they had just hailed as their hero.
Afloat on such a full sea of commotion, Salimbeni now dared to order Romeo’s immediate arrest, and to call everyone who disagreed a traitor. But to Giulietta’s immense relief, when the guards returned to the podium a quarter of an hour later, they brought only a foaming horse, the eagle banner, and the cencio. Of Romeo Marescotti there had been no trace. No matter how many people they had asked, they had received the same reply: Not a single person had seen Romeo leaving the piazza.
Only when they started making house calls later that night did one man-in the interest of saving his wife and daughters from the uniformed villains-confess that he had heard a rumor saying Romeo Marescotti had escaped through the underground Bottini aqueduct in the company of a young Franciscan friar.
When Giulietta heard this rumor whispered by the servants later that evening, she sent up a grateful prayer to the Virgin Mary. There was no doubt in her mind that the Franciscan friar had been Friar Lorenzo, and she knew him well enough to be sure that he would do everything in his power to save the man he knew she loved.
IV.V
O, he’s a lovely gentleman.
Romeo’s a dishclout to him. An eagle, madam,
Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye
As Paris hath
THE MONTE DEI PASCHI BANK was dark and empty after hours, greeting us with soothing silence as we walked up the central staircase together. Alessandro had asked if I minded a quick stop on the way to dinner, and I had, of course, said no. Now, following him to the very top of the stairs, I began to wonder where exactly he was taking me, and why.
“After you-” He opened a heavy mahogany door and waited for me to enter what turned out to be a large corner office. “Just give me a minute.” Switching on a lamp, he disappeared into a back room, leaving the door ajar. “Don’t touch anything!”
I glanced around at the plush couches and stately desk and chair. The office bore few signs of actual work. A lonely file folder sitting on the desk looked as if it had been placed there mostly for show. The only wall decorations were the windows overlooking Piazza Salimbeni; there were no personal effects such as diplomas or photographs anywhere in the room, nor anything else to identify its owner. I had just touched a finger to the edge of the desk to feel the dust when Alessandro reemerged, buttoning a shirt. “Careful!” he said. “Desks like that kill many more people than guns do.”
“This is your office?” I asked, stupidly.
“Sorry,” he said, grabbing a jacket from a chair. “I know you prefer the basement. To me”-he cast an unenthusiastic look around the opulent décor-“this is the real torture chamber.”
Back outside, he stopped in the middle of Piazza Salimbeni and looked at me with a teasing smile. “So, where are you taking me?”
I shrugged. “I’d like to see where the Salimbenis go for dinner.”
His smile faded. “I don’t think so. Unless you want to spend the rest of the evening with Eva Maria.” Seeing that I did not, he went on, “Why don’t we go somewhere else? Somewhere in your neighborhood.”
“But I don’t know anybody in the Owl contrada,” I protested, “except cousin Peppo. And I wouldn’t have a clue where to eat.”
“Good.” He started walking. “Then nobody will bother us.”
WE ENDED UP AT Taverna di Cecco, just around the corner from the Owl Museum. It was a small place, off the beaten track and bustling with contrada locals. All the dishes-some served in clay bowls-looked like Mamma’s best home cooking. Looking around, I saw no artsy experiments with herbs sprinkled on the edge of half-empty plates; here, the plates were full, and the spices were where they belonged: in the food.
Most tables had five or six people at them, all laughing or arguing animatedly, not the least bit worried about being too loud or staining the tablecloths. I now understood why Alessandro had wanted to go to a place where no one knew him; judging by the way people hung out with their friends here-inviting everyone and their dog to join in and making a big fuss if they refused-it was hard to have a quiet dinner for two in Siena. As we made our way past them all and into an undisturbed corner, I could see that Alessandro was visibly relieved to recognize no one.
As soon as we sat down, he reached into his jacket, took out Romeo’s dagger, and put it on the table between us. “It seems,” he said, speaking the unfamiliar words very slowly, if not reluctantly, “I owe you an apology.”
“Oh well”-I stuck my nose in a menu to hide my smirk-“don’t get too carried away. You read my file. I’m still a threat to society.”
But he was not ready to laugh it off just yet, and for a while we sat in awkward silence, pretending to study the menu and taking turns poking at the dagger.
Not until we had a bottle of Prosecco and a plate of antipasto in front of us did Alessandro smile-albeit apologetically-and raise his glass. “I hope you’ll enjoy it better this time. Same wine, new bottle.”
“Getting to the main course would definitely be an improvement,” I said, touching my glass to his. “And if I can avoid being chased barefoot through the streets afterwards, I’d say this evening is bound to trump last night.”
He winced. “Why didn’t you come back to the restaurant?”
“I’m sorry,” I laughed, “but my scummy friend Bruno was far better company than you. At least he believed I was Giulietta all along.”
Alessandro looked away, and it occurred to me that I was the only one who appreciated the comedy of the situation. I knew he had humor-and certainly sarcasm enough to go around-but right now it clearly did not amuse him to be reminded of his own ungentlemanly behavior.
“When I was thirteen years old,” he finally said, leaning back in his chair, “I spent a summer with my grandparents here in Siena. They had a beautiful farm. Vineyards. Horses. Plumbing. One day, they had a visitor. It was an American woman, Diane Tolomei, and her two little girls, Giulietta and Giannozza-”
“Wait!” I interrupted him. “You mean, me?”
He looked at me with a strange, lopsided smile. “Yes. You were wearing a-what is the word?-diaper.” Ignoring my protests, he went on, “My grandmother told me to play with you and your sister while they talked, and so I took you out to the barn to show you the horses. Unfortunately, you got scared and fell down on a hayfork”-he shook his head, reliving the moment-“it was terrible. You were screaming, and there was blood everywhere. I carried you into the kitchen, but you were kicking and crying, and your mother looked at me as if I had tortured you on purpose. Fortunately, my grandmother knew what to do, and she gave you a big ice cream and stitched up the cut the way she had done with all her children and grandchildren many times.” Alessandro took a sip of Prosecco before he went on, “Two weeks later my parents read in the newspaper that Diane Tolomei had died in a car accident, together with her little girls. They were devastated.” He looked up and met my eyes at last. “That is why I didn’t believe you were Giulietta Tolomei.”