The Last Promise Page 11

Ross preferred leading the groups from the smaller towns. They seemed more filled with awe at what they saw.

  “There is a reason for every painting,” Ross said. “Sometimes we can see it within the expression of the art itself; sometimes we find it in historical perspective. There were a lot of things said in art that couldn’t be said aloud. Painted between the lines, so to speak. For instance . . .” He looked over the group. “You’ve already been to see the Sistine Chapel, no?”

  Most of group nodded in the affirmative.

  “In the painting of the last judgment in the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo put many of his rivals’ faces on those unfortunate souls being pulled by demons down to hell. Contrarily he put many of his patron’s faces on those being saved and blessed by angels.

  “Many of these symbols we see in paintings were very familiar and understood by the people of that era, but are not familiar to many of us today. For instance, a few rooms down is one of my favorite paintings in the Uffizi, the Venus of Urbino by Titian. It is a portrait of a beautiful young woman lying nude on a lounge. Though it would hardly turn a head today, at the time it was considered one of the most erotic pieces ever painted. Titian, not wishing to be misunderstood, added an important symbol to his painting. A small dog is curled up near the girl, on the foot of the bed. The dog was considered the symbol of fidelity, and it was placed there to reassure the viewer that this was a good girl. I’ll point it out when we reach room twenty-eight. Remember, there is a reason for every painting.” He started walking, throwing both hands in the air ahead of him as if he were directing aircraft. “Andiamo, ragazzi. Let’s go, children.”

  Ross was done with the tour before noon, but he and his scooter were stuck downtown by the rain. He sat outside the Uffizi, beneath the courtyard’s overhang, reading a book as he waited for the rain to stop. Around three o’clock there was a break in the weather, and he put on his helmet and started home just a few minutes before the rain started again in earnest.

  By the time he reached Rendola he was drenched. At the end of the long driveway he saw a car he’d never seen before, a navy blue Alfa Romeo with gold trim. It was parked next to Eliana’s BMW. Ross rocked his scooter back onto its stand, stowed his helmet beneath the seat, then opened the front gate.

  The courtyard stone was uneven, and where he entered, the rain had pooled into a small puddle four inches deep. He stepped around it.

  An Italian man leaned against the wall next to Eliana’s front door, smoking a cigar and watching Ross’s entrance. He was lean, a hand shorter than Ross, almost feminine in form, with curled hair and bronze skin, the lower part of his face shaded with stubble, his heavy-lidded eyes fixed on Ross coolly. He bit down on his cigar, blowing out a blue-gray cloud of smoke from the gaps in his mouth where his clenched teeth bit into the leaf.

  Ross nodded. “Buona sera.”

  “Buona sera.” The man removed the cigar. “You are Mr. Story?”

  Ross approached him. “Yes. Ross Story.”

  He put out his hand. “I am Maurizio Ferrini. I own the villa. You have met my sister Anna. She has told me about you. Welcome to Rendola.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So what brings you to our neck of the woods?”

  Ross sensed that he was showing off his English.

  “La dolce vita.”

  Maurizio laughed. “The sweet life. That is rich. You look a little too wet for that.”

  “I got caught in the rain.”

  “Where in the States are you from?”

  “Minnesota.”

  “Minnesota,” he said knowingly. “Minneapolis or St. Paul?”

  “Just outside Minneapolis.”

  “I have been there. Once in the winter. It was too cold for my blood. Below zero Fahrenheit, I think.” He stopped and examined his cigar as if it had suddenly interrupted their conversation. He looked back up at Ross. “My wife told me that you drove her and my son to the hospital the other evening. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You plan to live in Italy for a while?”

  “For a while.”

  “Well, good luck. See you around.”

  “Likewise.” Ross turned and Maurizio brought the cigar back to his mouth as he watched Ross cross the courtyard to his apartment. He wondered what the American was really doing in his country.

  CHAPTER 13

  “Vita privata, vita beata.” Hidden life, happy life.

  —Italian Proverb

  Ross woke early the next morning and went running. He ran to the end of the Rendola vineyards, then down to Impruneta’s Grande Piazza, once around the square and then back, covering almost five and a half miles in all.

  The clouds had vanished with the night winds, and the morning was bright and fresh and already warm enough to make him sweat. He had stopped during his run to visit with an old man with two canes, one in each hand, who was slowly walking down the street and had hailed him with “Today’s my sixtieth wedding anniversary.”

  “Auguri,” Ross said. Best wishes. “Congratulazioni.”

  “Seems like only yesterday we were married,” the man said thoughtfully, wiping his forehead with his arm, then added, “and you know how awful yesterday was.”

  Ross laughed, wished him well and started off again.

  On the way back he removed his shirt. He was wearing only his shorts and shoes when he returned to the villa. Eliana watched him cross the courtyard from her studio. She opened her window.

  “Hey.”

  He stopped, looked up at her, shielding his eyes with his hand from the morning sun. She was wearing a terry-cloth robe and leaning partially from the window. He smiled. “Good morning.”

  “Buon giorno, signore. Are we still on for tonight?”

  “If it’s still good for you. I don’t want to steal you from your husband.”

  “Maurizio’s already gone. He left early this morning. I saw you talking to him.”

  “He was friendly.”

  “I told you you’d like him.”

  Ross didn’t comment. “Eight o’clock, then?”

  “Yes. Eight.” She waved. “Ciao.” She disappeared back inside the window.

  The bells of Arnolfo’s Tower rung the noon hour. Ross had just left the Uffizi with a small group and was standing in the cortile when Francesca caught up with him. She was out of breath and rested her hand on his arm.

  “Ciao, Ross.”

  “Ciao, Francesca.” They kissed cheeks.

  “Can you fit in another group this afternoon?”

  “No problem, I’m free until my five o’clock tour.”

  “Benissimo. I’ll call the hotel.” She took out her cell phone. “You’ll be pleased with this group.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You might know some of the people.”

  Ross looked at her. “What do you mean?”

  “The hotel concierge said it’s an advertising incentive trip from one of the television stations in Minneapolis. Didn’t you say you were in advertising in Minneapolis?”

  For a moment he was speechless, as if he’d just been delivered tragic news. “I’m sorry, I can’t do it, Francesca.”

  “Perché?”

  “I’m sorry, I just can’t. You’ll have to find somebody else. I’ve got to go. I’ll be back at five for my tour.”

  Without further explanation he walked briskly down the corridor, disappearing around the corner into the Piazza della Signoria. Baffled, Francesca watched him go then put her cell phone back in her bag.

  It was a few minutes before eight o’clock when Ross pressed Eliana’s doorbell, igniting a small commotion. The electronic buzz of the doorbell was followed by a short, high-pitched scream then the sound of running feet across the tile floor. The door flung open to Alessio, looking up at him, panting from his sprint across the house. “Hi,” he said breathlessly. He was dressed for bed, in baggy sky blue shorts with a brown stripe down the side and a matching top. He was small and wiry, his hai
r curly with a tint of amber. His eyes, hazel like his mother’s, were wide with excitement. The last time Ross had seen Alessio was as he carried him into the emergency room. He didn’t look like the same boy.

  “You must be Alessio.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you remember me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is your mother here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He stood staring up at Ross, his hands clenched, his mouth partially open, as if he was about to say something.

  After a moment Ross said, “May I come in?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Ross stepped across the threshold.

  “Guess what,” Alessio said.

  Ross crouched down to Alessio’s height. “What?”

  “I found a scorpion today. It was in my closet.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded. “He was black. They have a stinger. The really big ones can kill you, you know.”

  “Was it big?”

  He held his fingers about an inch apart. “This big.”

  “Did you put it in a bottle?”

  “My mom hit it with a shoe.”

  Ross tried not to smile. “I’m just glad you found it before it got both of you.”

  Alessio nodded seriously. “Me too.”

  Just then Eliana called out, “I’m in the kitchen, Ross. Come on in.”

  Ross put his hand on Alessio’s shoulder. “I’ll keep my eyes open for any more. Maybe we can find one sometime and put it in a bottle to look at.”

  “Okay.”

  Ross found Eliana finishing up the dinner dishes. She smiled when she saw him. “Ciao.”

  “Ciao.”

  “I just need to finish these up, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. Want me to dry?”

  She smiled at the offer. “No, I’m almost done. Make yourself at home.” She looked down at Alessio. “All right, you saw him. Now run on up to bed.”

  Alessio frowned. “Devo?” Do I have to?

  “Yes, you do. Give me a kiss.” Eliana crouched down and Alessio kissed her on the lips then turned to Ross. “Bye, Ross.”

  “Mr. Story,” she corrected.

  Ross winked. “See you later, Alessio.”

  “Ciao.” He walked slowly up the stairs.

  When he was gone Ross said, “He’s a well-mannered little boy.”

  “He wasn’t twenty minutes ago. He wouldn’t go to bed because he knew you were coming.” She put the last plate in the cupboard. “He was so upset that he missed you the last time. I had to promise him that he could stay up until you came.”

  “He told me about the scorpion.”

  Eliana rolled her eyes. “I hate those things. It’s one of those things you want a man around the house for.”

  “To kill scorpions?”

  She dried her hands with a towel. “They’re good for other things too,” she said with a smile. “Would you like some dessert wine?”

  “Please.”

  She stowed the towel under the sink then took a bottle of Vin santo from the counter, took two glasses and poured them half-full. She handed a glass to Ross then leaned back against the counter with her own. “You should have just come for dinner. I always make too much.”

  “I should have. It smells good.”

  “Tonight was simple.”

  He sipped his wine. “How good is Alessio’s Italian?”

  “Perfect for a seven-year-old. Probably better than mine. He doesn’t have an accent. He’s grown up here, so his Italian is as good as his English. Maybe better.” She took a drink and held it in her mouth before swallowing. “Maurizio won’t speak to him in English of course.” She set her glass down on the counter. “Well, are you ready?”

  “Sì.”

  As they climbed the stairs to her studio, Ross asked, “How many portraits have you done?”

  “Maybe a dozen or so. I’ve done a couple portraits of Alessio. But he lasts about two minutes in a chair, if that. So I just worked from photographs of him. A couple years ago I did a portrait of Maurizio. I knew he’d never find the time to sit for one, so I found some pictures and painted it from those. I gave it to him for his birthday.”

  “What did he think of it?”

  “He said he liked it. In fact he praised it.” Eliana frowned. “Then I found it in the back of his closet a month later. He doesn’t really care for my painting.” She turned on the light in the studio. “Here we are.”

  Ross glanced around the room. Though he had seen the room before, he had not paid much attention to it then. It was cluttered with art supplies, charcoal sketches and paintings.

  “You have such nice art in the house. Even besides yours. Did you choose it all?”

  “Not all of it. Maurizio has good taste in art, but he only values it as an investment.” She sharpened a pencil then touched the point of it with her finger. “Anyway I guess it hurt my feelings enough that it was the last time I painted someone I knew. Last year I went on an Italian antico kick and I painted some historical figures like Marcus Aurelius, St. Francis, Caesar, people like that. I just did them in acrylics. My models were pictures from GQ, so they’re pretty sexy for historical figures. They’re stacked over in the corner if you want to see what you’re in for.”

  “GQ, huh?” Ross looked to the shadowed section of the room. “Back there?”

  “I’ll get the light.” She flipped another switch, turning on the lights on the other side of the studio. Ross walked over to a stack of canvases leaning against the wall. He squatted down and one by one lifted them forward, examining each in turn. He stopped halfway through the pile at a picture of a young woman in a dark scarlet robe tied at one shoulder then secured at her waist with a golden sash. In one hand she held an oil lamp. In the other hand she held a loaf of bread.

  He stood, lifting the portrait from the others. “This is interesting.”

  Eliana had just put on her painting smock and looked up. “That’s my Vestal.”

  Ross looked back. “Vestal?”

  “One of the Vestal Virgins.”

  “I don’t know much about them, but this fall there’s an exhibit coming to the Uffizi called The Vestals.” His eyes traversed the picture. “Mostly sculptures though, I think.”

  “Well, then you should know something about them,” she said. She walked over to his side. “In ancient Rome, the Vestals were the keepers of the temple of Vesta—the goddess of home and family. The ancient Romans believed that their empire was founded on the family, so these women were very powerful. They were given large dowries, saluted in public places, even given the best seats at the Colosseum, all the nice perks.” She looked at Ross. “They were the only women in Rome allowed to own property.”

  “The Old World’s first liberated women.”

  “Not exactly.” She glanced from Ross to the painting. “They had three requirements, each with serious consequences should they fail them. First, they were to commit themselves completely to the goddess Vesta. Second, they were to keep the flame of the temple burning at all times. The last promise was that they were to forswear love for themselves by taking sacred vows of chastity.”

  She paused. “The last vow carried the most serious punishment if broken. It was horrible. Their lovers would be whipped to death before their eyes. Then they would be taken to the field of the damned, where they were placed in a small stone room beneath the ground. They would be given a loaf of bread and an oil lamp; then they would be buried alive.” As she gazed at the picture, she spoke with a faraway look, as if she had witnessed it herself. “Their own families weren’t even allowed to mourn them. They died alone, forsaken by everyone.”

  Ross looked at the painting. “Why did you choose a fallen Vestal?”

  “I don’t know. It just intrigued me that someone wanted, or needed, love so badly that they would risk everything, even their lives.”

  “So it did happen—one of them was buried alive.”


  “Eighteen of them.”

  Ross was surprised. “Eighteen?”

  She looked up at him, as if suddenly woken from the trance. “Though one of them was raped by the emperor and punished for it. Hardly fair.”

  “No, I think not.”

  “The world has always been full of double standards.”

  Ross felt as if she were talking about something else.

  She turned back. “Shall we start?”

  Ross returned the portrait to the others then came over by a chair in front of the easel.

  “You want me here?”

  “Yes. Just sit down, make yourself comfortable. I’ll do my best to make you uncomfortable in just a moment.”

  Ross sat back in the chair.

  “Have you ever sat for a portrait?”

  “No.”

  “Like I said, it’s easy.” She was suddenly quiet as she stared at him. “Move a little forward. Okay, now put your hands here. No, like this.” She came around the canvas, took his hand, moved it to his thigh, but still didn’t like the pose. “Maybe you should be holding a closed book in your lap, just something to give the picture some balance. Let’s try this.” She handed him a book; its leather cover was dyed dark maroon, with the Florentine lily embossed on it. “Nice. That works. I was thinking of doing something a little more dramatic, so I want to try using a spotlight on you and dimming the lights.”

  She moved the light until it surrounded him with a small halo. Then she stepped back to her easel and studied him. Ross sat quietly and his eyes darted around the studio. It was like peeking into her mind. Not just what she painted, but what she surrounded herself with while she painted.

  On the counter behind her there was a stack of books, mostly religious, intermingled with Italian love stories. There were photographs. Dozens of pictures, mostly of Alessio, chronicling his age. There was one picture of the entire family, shot at a photo studio, though it was obvious that it had been shot a while back. Alessio looked scarcely two years old in the picture. There was another of an older American woman with silver hair leaning against a fence post in front of a horse. It was pinned to the wall next to a picture of a man. The man was dressed in corduroy jeans and his hairstyle dated the picture. Ross guessed it was Eliana’s father. There were several other pictures of horses, and also an actual horseshoe with writing on it that looked like a signature next to Happy trails.