D. H. Lawrence, visiting during a cold and rainy April, found Volterra to be a gloomy place, cold and damp, the people rather sullen. On that day, however, the sun was shining, and although, because of the steep and narrow streets and the buildings that shielded them, sunlight rarely reached street level, hovering instead over the red tile rooftops and the crenellations of the grander buildings, I found it all rather beautiful.
Realizing that I was hungry at last, I sought out a trattoria on a steeply sloped street near the center of the medieval part of the city, the Piazza dei Priori. It was late, the place was empty except for a couple of men at the back, and the server, a rather robust woman who obviously loved to talk, hovered after she brought my insalata mista, a lovely green salad with carrots and radicchio.
"Just here for the day?" she asked.
"A couple of days," I said. "I arrived yesterday and may stay a day or two longer."
"Most people just come for an hour or two, on their way to or from San Gimignano," she said. "There are nicer places to stay in Tuscany than Volterra."
"I think it's beautiful here," I said.
"You wouldn't think so if it was raining or really windy."
"Perhaps not," I said. Why argue? I just wanted to eat.
"You're not with the media, are you?" she asked a few minutes later as she brought a steaming bowl of pasta al funghi, mushroom pasta.
"No," I said, tucking into the food. "Why would you think that?"
"That Ponte business," she said. "The reporters, the police. What an affair!"
"Ponte," I said. "Is that the fellow who—"
"Jumped off the baize," she nodded. "You should have some wine with this," she said. "I'll bring you a nice glass of Vernaccia de San Gimignano."
"Okay," I said. I wasn't going anywhere.
"I saw him that very day," she, said, placing the glass in front of me. Vernaccia is one of my favorite whites, so I took a sip and smiled. "Good?" she said. I nodded.
"He walked right past here," she said. "I was outside sweeping the street in front of the place. He walked down the hill and through the gate, the Porta all Arco. Have you seen it yet? No? You should. It's Etruscan, the bottom part, anyway, and the heads. They're supposed to be Etruscan divinities of some kind. Tinia, I think, plus a couple of others. They're guarding the town. Anyway, Ponte—we all know him here—he has a splendid villa, vineyards, everything, very fancy, on the road between here and San Gimignano. Later on, when I was going home, I saw him just standing there, outside the gate, looking over the wall. He'd been there for at least an hour. They found him the next morning at the foot of the baize. I say he killed himself. Why else would he just stand there looking out from the gate? I suppose he decided it wasn't high enough there to kill him, so he went over to the high cliffs, waited until dark so no one would see him, and then threw himself over the side. Lots of people jump off the cliffs there. They say suicidal people are drawn to that spot. Perhaps it's the sound of the wind calling out to them. Although why Ponte would want to, with that beautiful wife and children. You never know about a marriage, though, do you?" She turned to a call from one of the men at the back. "I'd better go. Enjoy your meal."
"I believe you've just been introduced to the Volterrans' love/hate relationship with their city," a man seated a couple of tables away said to me, as the woman retreated. I turned to look at him. He was very nicely dressed, a business suit with exquisite Italian tailoring, not terribly attractive, perhaps, but one of those Italian men who seem quite comfortable with themselves. He'd arrived a few minutes after I had. "Don't let her put you off your food," he added. "It is a lovely place, and all that nonsense about the baize is just that. Nonsense."
"Are you from here, then?" I said.
"No. Rome. I'd like to live here," he said. "But my wife is Roman, through and through. She'd much rather breathe pollution and gas fumes than be out in the country. We do have some property here, though, a vineyard and some olive trees, so I get to come here from time to time to check on them."
"I've always dreamed of having some property here," I said. "One of those wonderful old Tuscan farmhouses, a few acres of vines."
"Well then," he said. "My card. I know people in real estate I'd be happy to put you in touch with."
"I'd like to be serious about it, but no, I fear it's a dream only." I looked at his card. His name was Cesar Rosati. "Here's my card as well," I added.
"Antique dealer. How interesting," he said. "Are you by yourself, by the way?"
"Right now I am," I said. "But I'm meeting friends shortly." Not true, but I usually find it pays to be cautious in these kinds of situations. It was nice to have somebody to talk to, though. I'd been on the road for a long time, now, and I'd spent way too many evenings by myself in a hotel room watching CNN and eating room service food, which even in Italy isn't so hot.
"Do you mind if I join you? Talking across two tables seems rather unfriendly," he asked.
Why not? I thought as I gestured toward the seat opposite. "The Rosati Gallery," I said, looking again at the card he'd given me. "No doubt I should have heard of it, but I haven't."
He smiled. "There is no reason you should have. It's more a hobby than a business, and we can't compare ourselves with the fabulous collections in Rome. Like the Vatican, for example. It would be foolhardy, if not downright tempting fate, to try to compete with an organization with God on its side." We both laughed. "I'm semi-retired really. I used to be a banker. Now I just dabble in a few things. The gallery I do for the pleasure of it. My wife's family has some wonderful art, and we've opened a part of our home to the public."
"I must come and see it," I said. "What kinds of art do you have?"
"My wife prefers sixteenth-century sculpture, but her family has collected for well over a hundred years, so there's something for everyone: Etruscan right through to some twentieth-century paintings. It's small by museum standards, of course, but a very nice private collection. If you're in Rome, I hope you'll call me. I'll show you around personally."
"So, a gallery in your home," I said. "That must present some challenges. Security, and so on. With Etruscan artifacts, for example. There's probably a big market for those." I found myself asking the question, even though I wasn't sure I wanted to know the answer right at that moment.
"There is, indeed. It's a disgrace, really, how many Etruscan antiquities have been stolen or bought and sold illegally. We have very good security, of course, but we did have one break-in. Funny you should mention Etruscan artifacts. Only one object was stolen, a really gorgeous Etruscan kylix, nothing else. You know what I mean by kylix, do you? A two-handled drinking cup? Probably the Bearded Sphinx painter. I'm sure it was stolen on demand. Someone wanted that piece, and only that one, and hired someone to get it."
The woman returned with Rosati's order, raised her eyebrows slightly when she saw he'd moved, and asked if we'd like some more wine. We said we did.
"It bothers me," Rosati said, as she left us. "The way she talks about Gianpiero Ponte. I couldn't help overhear her talking to you about him. I knew Ponte. I wouldn't call him a friend, exactly, but he was a close acquaintance, and I dislike hearing people gossiping about him. Who knows what makes a person do what he did? Not the sounds of the baize, certainly. He had a lovely wife and family, and it's a terrible tragedy."