“There!” He tapped a finger on an entry. “What do you say to that?” Unable to wait until we were back downstairs, he switched on a wobbly floor lamp and read the text out loud in an animated mix of Italian and English.
The essence of the story was that Juliet’s Eyes were a pair of abnormally large sapphires from Ethiopia, originally called The Ethiopian Twins, which were—allegedly—purchased by Messer Salimbeni of Siena in the year 1340 as an engagement present for his bride-to-be, Giulietta Tolomei. Later, after Giulietta’s tragic death, the sapphires were set as eyes in a golden statue by her grave.
“Listen to this!” Maestro Lippi ran an eager finger down the page. “Shakespeare knew about the statue, too!” And he went on to read the following lines from the very end of Romeo and Juliet, quoted in the encyclopedia in both Italian and English:
For I will raise her statue in pure gold,
That whiles Verona by that name is known,
There shall be no figure at such rate be set
As that of true and faithful Juliet.
When he finally stopped reading, Maestro Lippi showed me the illustration on the page, and I recognized it right away. It was a statue of a man and a woman; the man was kneeling, holding a woman in his arms. Except for a few details, it was the very same statue my mother had tried to capture at least twenty times in the notebook I had found in her box.
“Holy cow!” I leaned closer to the illustration. “Does it say anything about the actual location of her grave?”
“Whose grave?”
“Juliet’s, or, I should say, Giulietta’s.” I pointed at the text he had just read to me. “The book says that a golden statue was put up by her grave … but it didn’t say where the grave actually was.”
Maestro Lippi closed the book and shoved it back in the bookcase on a random shelf. “Why do you want to find her grave?” he asked, his tone suddenly belligerent. “So you can take her eyes? If she doesn’t have eyes, how can she recognize her Romeo when he comes to wake her up?”
“I wouldn’t take her eyes!” I protested. “I just want to … see them.”
“Well,” said the Maestro, switching off the wobbly lamp, “then I think you have to talk to Romeo. I don’t know who else would be able to find it. But be careful. There are many ghosts here, and they are not all as friendly as me.” He leaned closer in the darkness, taking some kind of silly pleasure in spooking me, and hissed, “A plague! A plague on both your houses!”
“That’s really great,” I said. “Thanks.”
He laughed heartily and slapped his knees. “Come on! Don’t be such a little pollo! I am just teasing you!”
Back downstairs, several glasses of wine later, I finally managed to steer the conversation back to Juliet’s Eyes. “What exactly did you mean,” I asked, “when you said that Romeo knows where the grave is?”
“Does he?” Maestro Lippi now looked perplexed. “I am not sure. But I think you should ask him. He knows more about all this than I do. He is young. I forget things now.”
I tried to smile. “You speak as if he is still alive.”
The Maestro shrugged. “He comes and goes. It is always late at night … he comes here and sits down to look at her.” He nodded in the direction of the storage room with the painting of Giulietta. “I think he is still in love with her. That is why I leave the door open.”
“Seriously,” I said, taking his hand, “Romeo doesn’t exist. Not anymore. Right?”
The Maestro glared at me, almost offended. “You exist! Why wouldn’t he exist?” He frowned. “What? You think he is a ghost, too? Huh. Of course, you never know, but I don’t think so. I think he is real.” He paused briefly to weigh the pros and cons, then said, firmly, “He drinks wine. Ghosts don’t drink wine. It takes practice, and they don’t like to practice. They are very boring company. I prefer people like you. You are funny. Here”—he filled up my glass once again—“drink some more.”
“So,” I said, obediently taking another swig, “if I were going to ask this Romeo some questions … how would I do that? Where can I find him?”
“Well,” said the Maestro, pondering the question, “I am afraid you will have to wait until he finds you.” Seeing my disappointment, he leaned across the table to study my face very intently. “But then,” he added, “I think maybe he has already found you. Yes. I think he has. I can see it in your eyes.”
[ III.IV ]
With love’s light wings did I o’erperch these walls,
For stony limits cannot hold love out
…
Siena, A.D. 1340
ROMEO RAN THE WHETSTONE over the blade with long, careful movements. It had been a while since he had had occasion to use his sword, and there were specks of rust that needed to be ground off before he oiled it. Normally, he preferred to use his dagger for these kinds of jobs, but the dagger was lost in the back of a highway bandit, and in a moment of uncharacteristic distraction he had forgotten to recover it after its use. Besides, Salimbeni was hardly someone you stabbed in the back like a common criminal; no, there would have to be a duel.
It was a new thing for Romeo to question his own involvement with a woman. But then, no woman had ever asked him to commit murder before. He was reminded of his conversation with Maestro Ambrogio on that fateful night two weeks ago, when he had told the painter that he had a fine nose for women who asked nothing more than he was prepared to give, and that he—unlike his friends—was not someone to whine and slink away like a dog at a woman’s first request. Did that still hold true? Was he really prepared to approach Salimbeni sword in hand, and very possibly meet his death before he ever collected his reward, or even just looked into Giulietta’s heavenly eyes again?
Sighing deeply, he turned over the sword and commenced his work on the other side. His cousins were undoubtedly wondering where he was, and why he did not come out to play, and his father, Comandante Marescotti, had checked on him at least twice, not with questions, but with invitations for target practice. By now, another sleepless night had come and gone, and the sympathetic moon had once more been chased away by a merciless sun. And Romeo, sitting at the table still, wondered yet again if this was to be the day.
Just then, he heard noise on the staircase outside his room, followed by a nervous knock on the door.
“No, thank you!” he growled, as he had done many times already. “I am not hungry!”
“Messer Romeo? You have visitors!”
Now at last, Romeo stood up, his muscles aching from hours without movement or sleep. “Who is it?”
There was a brief mumble on the other side of the door. “A Friar Lorenzo and a Friar Bernardo. They say they have important news, and request a private audience.”
The mention of Friar Lorenzo—Giulietta’s travel companion, unless he was much mistaken—prompted Romeo to unlock his door. Outside in the gallery stood a servant and two monks in hooded cowls, and behind them, in the courtyard below, several other servants were stretching to see who it might be that had at last prevailed upon the young master to open his door.
“Come quickly!” He ushered both monks inside. “And Stefano”—he fixed an unforgiving stare on the servant—“do not speak of this to my father.”
The two monks entered the room with some reserve. Rays of morning sun came in through the open balcony door to fall upon Romeo’s untouched bed, and a plate of fried fish sat uneaten on the table, next to the sword.
“Pardon us,” said Friar Lorenzo, glancing at the door to make sure it was closed, “for intruding at this hour. But we could not wait—”
He got no further before his companion stepped forward, pulling back the hood of the cowl and revealing a most intricate hairdo. It was no fellow monk who had accompanied Friar Lorenzo to Palazzo Marescotti this morning, but Giulietta herself, despite the disguise lovelier than ever, her cheeks glowing with excitement.
“Please tell me,” she said, “that you have not yet … done the deed?”
Althoug
h thrilled and amazed to see her, Romeo now looked away, embarrassed. “I have not.”
“Oh, praised be Heaven!” She folded her hands in relief. “For I have come to apologize, and to beg you forget I ever asked you to do such a horrendous thing.”
Romeo started, feeling a twitch of hope. “You no longer want him dead?”
Giulietta frowned. “I want him dead with every beat of my heart. But not at your expense. I was very wrong and very selfish when I took you hostage in my own grief. Can you forgive me?” She looked deeply into his eyes, and when he did not reply right away, her lip trembled slightly. “Forgive me. I beg you.”
Now, for the first time in days, Romeo smiled. “No.”
“No?” Her blue eyes darkened, threatening a storm, and she took a step backwards. “That is most unkind!”
“No,” Romeo went on, teasingly, “I will not forgive you, because you promised me a great reward, and now you are breaking your word.”
Giulietta gasped. “I am not! I am saving your life!”
“Oh! And you insult me, too!” Romeo pressed a fist against his heart. “To suggest that I would not survive this duel—woman! You toy with my honor like a cat with a mouse! Bite again and see it limping for cover!”
“Oh, you!” Giulietta’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You are the one playing with me! I did not say you would die by Salimbeni’s hand, as you well know, but I do believe they would never let you get away with the murder. And that”—she looked away, still upset with him—“I suppose, would be a shame.”
Romeo watched her dismissive profile with great interest. When he saw that she was determined to be stubborn, he turned to Friar Lorenzo. “May I ask that you leave us alone for a moment?”
Friar Lorenzo clearly did not approve of the request, but since Giulietta did not protest, he could hardly refuse. And so he nodded and withdrew to the balcony, his back dutifully turned.
“Now why,” said Romeo in a voice so low that only Giulietta could make out the words, “would it be such a shame if I died?”
She took a deep but angry breath. “You saved my life.”
“And all I asked in return was to be your knight.”
“What good is a knight without a head?”
Romeo smiled and stepped closer. “I assure you, as long you are near me there is no ground for such fears.”
“And do I have your word?” Giulietta looked straight into his eyes. “Promise that you will not attempt to engage Salimbeni?”
“It seems,” observed Romeo, very much enjoying the exchange, “you are now asking me a second favor … and this one far more demanding than the first. But I shall be generous and tell you that my price is still the same.”
Her jaw dropped. “Your price?”
“Or my reward, or whatever you choose to call it. It is unchanged.”
“You scoundrel!” hissed Giulietta, struggling to quell a smile. “I come here to free you from a lethal vow, and yet you are determined to steal my virtue?”
Romeo grinned. “Surely, a kiss would not tax your virtue.”
She squared her shoulders against his charms. “It depends on who kisses me. I highly suspect a kiss from you would instantly void sixteen years of savings.”
“What good are savings if you never spend them?”
Just as Romeo was sure he had her ensnared, a loud cough from the balcony made Giulietta jump away. “Patience, Lorenzo!” she said, sternly. “We will be on our way soon enough.”
“Your aunt will surely begin to wonder,” observed the monk, “what manner of confession is taking so long.”
“Just one moment!” Giulietta turned again to Romeo, her eyes full of disappointment. “I have to go.”
“Confess to me,” whispered Romeo, taking her hands, “and I will give you a blessing that will never wear off.”
“The rim of your cup,” replied Giulietta, allowing him to draw her back in, “is smeared with honey. I wonder what dreadful poison it contains?”
“If it is poison, it will kill us both.”
“Oh dear … you must truly like me if you would rather be dead with me than alive with any other woman.”
“I believe I do.” He closed his arms around her. “Kiss me or I will most certainly die.”
“Die yet again? For a man twice doomed you are very much alive!”
There was another noise from the balcony, but this time Giulietta stayed where she was. “Patience, Lorenzo! I beg you!”
“Perhaps my poison,” said Romeo, turning her head towards him and not letting go, “has lost its power.”
“I really must—”
As a bird swoops down on its prey and assumes this land-bound wretch into heaven, so did Romeo steal her lips before they fled him again. Suspended somewhere between cherubs and devils his quarry ceased to buck, and he spread his wings wide and let the rising wind carry them off across the sky, until even the predator himself had lost every hope of returning home.
Within that one embrace, Romeo became aware of a feeling of certainty he had not thought possible for anyone, even the virtuous. Whatever his erstwhile intentions after learning that the girl in the coffin was alive—obscure even then to himself—he now knew that the words he had spoken to Maestro Ambrogio had been prophetic; with Giulietta in his arms, all other women—past, present, and future—simply ceased to exist.
WHEN GIULIETTA RETURNED to Palazzo Tolomei later that morning, she was received with a very unpleasant barrage of questions and accusations, peppered with comments about her country manners. “Perhaps it is custom among peasants,” her aunt had sneered, pulling her niece along by the arm, “but here in town, unmarried women of good breeding do not flit off to confession and return several hours later, their eyes glowing and”—Monna Antonia had glared at Giulietta to detect other signs of mischief—“their hair in disarray! From now on there will be no more such outings, and if you really must converse with your precious Friar Lorenzo, you will please do so under this roof. Hanging about outside, at the mercy of every gossip and rapist in town,” she had concluded, pulling her niece up the stairs and shoving her back into her bedchamber, “is no longer permissible!”
“Oh, Lorenzo!” cried Giulietta, when the monk finally came to visit her in her gilded prison, “I am not allowed to go out! I believe I am going distracted! Oh!” She walked up and down the floor of her chamber, pulling her hair. “What must he think of me? I said we would meet—I promised!”
“Hush, my dear,” said Friar Lorenzo, trying to sit her down on a chair, “and calm yourself. The gentleman of whom you speak is aware of your distress, and if anything, it has only deepened his affection. He bade me tell you—”
“You spoke with him?” Giulietta grabbed the monk by the shoulders. “Oh, blessed, blessed Lorenzo! What did he say? Tell me, quickly!”
“He said”—the monk reached underneath his cowl and withdrew a roll of parchment sealed with wax—“to give you this letter. Here, take it. It is for you.”
Giulietta took the letter reverently, and held it for a moment before breaking the eagle seal. Her eyes wide, she unrolled the missive and looked at the dense pattern of brown ink. “It is beautiful! I never saw anything this elegant in my life.” Turning her back to Friar Lorenzo, she stood for a moment, engrossed in her treasure. “He is a poet! How beautifully he writes! Such art, such … perfection. He must have labored all night.”
“I believe he labored for several nights,” said Friar Lorenzo, a drop of cynicism in his voice. “This letter, I assure you, is the work of much parchment and many quills.”
“But I do not understand this part—” Giulietta spun around to show him a passage in the letter. “Why would he say that my eyes do not belong in my head, but in the night sky? I suppose it could be construed as a compliment, but surely it would suffice to say that my eyes have a celestial hue. I cannot follow this argument.”
“It is not an argument,” Friar Lorenzo pointed out, taking the letter, “it is poetry and thus
irrational. Its purpose is not to persuade, but to please. I assume you are pleased?”
She gasped. “But of course!”
“Then the letter,” said the monk primly, “has served its purpose. And now I propose we forget all about it.”
“Wait!” Giulietta snapped the document out of his hands before he could do violence to it. “I must write a reply.”
“That,” the monk pointed out, “is somewhat complicated by the fact that you have neither quill nor ink nor parchment. Is it not?”
“Yes,” said Giulietta, not the least bit discouraged, “but you will get all that for me. Secretly. I meant to ask you anyway, so I may at last write to my poor sister—” She looked eagerly at Friar Lorenzo, expecting him to be standing at attention, eager to fulfill her order. When instead she saw his frown of dissent, she threw up her hands. “What is wrong now?”
“I do not support this endeavor,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “An unmarried lady ought not reply to a clandestine letter. Especially …”
“But a married one may?”
“… especially considering the sender. As an old and trusted friend I must warn you against the likes of Romeo Marescotti, and—wait!” Friar Lorenzo held up a hand to prevent Giulietta from interrupting him. “Yes, I agree. He has a certain charming way about him, but in God’s eyes, I am sure, he is hideous.”
Giulietta sighed. “He is not hideous. You are just jealous.”
“Jealous?” The monk snorted. “I care nothing for looks, for they are merely of the flesh and live only between the womb and the tomb. What I meant was, his soul is hideous.”
“How can you speak so,” retorted Giulietta, “about the man who saved our lives! A man you had never met before that very moment. A man about whom you know nothing.”
Friar Lorenzo held up a warning finger. “I know enough to prophesy his doom. There are some plants and creatures in this world that serve no purpose but to inflict pain and misery on everything with which they come into contact. Look at you! Already you are suffering from this connection.”