7

A Dinner in Tuscany

On the morning after Alfredo’s, another special invitation came to William and Sarah from Pietro and Matilda Pierleoni. The Pierleonis had begun their Tuscan summer residence at Castel Vetulonia near Siena, so knowing William had a few more days in Italy, they invited him to visit. William hadn’t been to the castle in forty years, so he couldn’t wait to return and bring Sarah with him. He hired a driver and soon they were past Orvieto on a rural road, passing rustic little villages clustered around churches. Vineyards and fertile fields bordered by ancient stone walls surrounded stone villas on hills under tall trees, a landscape where the works of humans fused with nature.

Sarah had the sense this visit was somehow going to change her life, and in the meantime she enjoyed her father’s mounting excitement. As she listened to him describe his previous visit to Tuscany, a trip that had become legend in their family, he was young again.

“I’m just so happy you can share this special visit with me, Sarah. What luck! You may recall that I first got to know Pietro in college when he was a dapper and popular Italian cognoscente who had been sent to school in America. After we graduated, he went to work in finance in New York and I didn’t see him for a while. Then he asked me to come to his family estate in Italy for his wedding. Although the estate had been in Pietro’s family for more than a thousand years, it had only recently been returned by the government after Mussolini seized it during World War II. “I know you’ve heard all this before, Sarah, but when I knew him at Yale, Pietro had decided to make money in business in America to restore his patrimony. He retained control over his American business interests and went back to claim his land as a count. Imagine that! Like a fairy tale come true, he met Matilda of Lucca, fell madly in love, and they married. She was very rich, which meant he could restore his estates without limitation, but when I was here for the wedding it was still nothing more than a wreck. Still, they strung the walls with flowers and served fabulous food in tents. It was like something out of a dream. I can’t wait to see it again now that it’s been restored,” he said as the driver went through the gate into the castle grounds.

The sun cast lines across the cypress-lined drive up to the top of a tall round hill. They glimpsed the castle briefly each time they drove around curves edged by stonewalls. Eventually they reached a long, straight drive flanked dramatically by ten-foot high stone walls and then continued through a high, arched tunnel connected to a tall square tower. Finally, they came to a spacious parking area in the back area of a large three-story stone building. When they got out of the car, Sarah looked back to examine the tall square stone tower they had passed. It appeared to be a very old defensive structure.

William took her hand. “That’s the oldest part of the castle, built in the tenth century to harbor soldiers that protected the family during the dangerous time when Italy was coming out of the Dark Ages. The rest of the castle was built during the fourteenth through sixteenth centuries, but come, you’ll see,” he said as he lifted her bag out of the car and gave it to the driver.

Pietro and Matilda appeared near a back coach gate set in a round arch to greet them warmly. Their hosts led them through a cobblestone courtyard to a back entry and then through a narrow hallway with creaking floorboards. After climbing narrow stone stairways, they emerged through an arched entry into the great hall, the castle’s front entrance. The ceiling rose twenty feet, braced at the top by huge dark beams.

“This is the Renaissance section of the castle,” Matilda said, taking Sarah’s arm. A wide stone staircase rose out of the great hall. Arched and cavernous hallways on the sides of the staircase led out into the two first-floor wings of the castle. The stone floors in the great hall were worn smooth and partially covered by a large oriental rug. The last vestiges of late afternoon Tuscan sunlight flooded in through windows set high in the thick walls.

“It’s lovely,” Sarah breathed.

Matilda smiled. “This is my favorite time of the day in the great hall. Come with me to your room.” She escorted her up the grand stone stairs to a large upper hallway and through a set of rounded double doors into a bedroom. “This was a very special one for the daughters in the family way back in the sixteenth century.”

Sarah was speechless with excitement over the castle and her room. The canopied bed was draped with fabric covered in jewel-toned embroidered small wildflowers. Old iron lamps with amber shades rested on small ancient side tables. A tall narrow dresser painted with country scenes bordered by leaves and grapes rested on a soft, thick, beige wool rug. Faded wallpaper portrayed early Roman mythic scenes of gods and heroes dancing by fountains in the forest.

“There, dear, now you have a few hours to just relax, or you are welcome to come down and join us in the library in about an hour for sherry. But do feel free to do whatever you want, and that includes exploring the castle. We love it when people come to just enjoy this marvelous ancient home. Really, it’s a museum.” Matilda smiled, slipped out the door, and closed it.

Sarah felt like she’d landed in heaven. Golden light still streamed into the west side of the room, which looked out over the front entrance into the great hall. Leaded recessed windows were set in two small round corner towers, so the first thing she did was go into one of the narrow towers to survey the rolling Tuscan countryside surrounding the tall castle. The last dimming view of late spring greening fields divided by winding stonewalls and edged by small patches of forest was otherworldly.

The driver brought in her luggage. She thanked him and after he closed the door, she put her things away in a small armoire after selecting a sapphire-blue dress and silver shoes for dinner. She placed a book on the side table, then peeked out of the wide double doors to look left down a long hallway. No one was about, so she slipped out, taking note of her father’s satchel at the door of a nearby room. Matilda had said it was okay to explore and Sarah was not about to miss that opportunity. About twenty feet beyond that, she noticed a mysterious-looking ancient pine planked door. I wonder if that odd door leads to the square tower?

Creeping quietly down the hall, she stood by the door to listen. No sounds. She grasped the heavy iron key in the ancient iron faceplate, and it turned easily. It engaged and clicked as she turned the doorknob and pushed. The heavy well-fitted door opened noiselessly into a dark room, yet some light from the hallway penetrated the gloom as her eyes adjusted. Oh my god, the family chapel! It is ancient and right down the hall from my room! Slipping into the room, she nearly bumped into a thick metal stand holding a large white candle. Matches were placed conveniently on the thick rim, so she struck a match. As the candlewick flared, instantly the space was illuminated. She moved back to shut the door, and then continued to explore the room.

Twenty feet into the gloom there was a simple but substantial wooden altar set with a white cloth bordered by light blue flowers. The side walls were dark and hung with gloomy Stations of the Cross paintings. The rickety chairs under the Stations seemed long forgotten. Behind the altar, a dark and brooding painting of Christ on the cross was dimly visible when she lit two more candles on the altar. She almost bumped into an old wooden kneeler for four or five people. The room was musty with traces of incense, old wood, and dank spider webs. It looks hardly used. Once I’ve had dinner, I will be back in here to pray. Oh, how will I ever get through a long formal dinner? She knelt on the kneeler and opened her heart. Later I will be back to ask for guidance; here I will ask for a sign. She crossed herself reverently and rose up to extinguish the altar candles. She blew out the thick beeswax candle and returned to the door. After she pulled the heavy door shut, she walked silently down the long hall to her room to dress for dinner.

I hope my father was right about such formality, she mused, unzipping her dress. Luckily she had all the right clothes. Her mother, murmuring something about how Romans would never accept the terrible way college students in America dressed, had given her a liberal clothing allowance for the famous Roman shops. Her light gray silk patterned stockings felt delicious as she slipped into them and then stepped into a classic wrap dress before adding elegant silver heels. Turning around in front of a gilded triptych mirror, she thought the length of her dress just above her knees looked demure yet sexy. She finished by fastening the clasp of a gold chain holding a large and very old diamond pendant. I wonder if there will be any other guests? It is nice to have dinner in a home where I can wear these heirlooms.

A maid led her to the library, a large room lined on all sides with bookcases. The group was already seated in front of the fireplace on comfortable chairs arranged around a dark oak coffee table. Her attention was drawn to the grand carved stone fireplace with one great log resting on iron rails. It was truly baronial. By the side of the fireplace stood a tall, dark, and elegant man wearing a dark green velvet dinner jacket. As she walked into the room, he made no attempt to hide his frank appraisal of her; his eyes burned into her body. Cradling a deep-cut crystal tumbler with two inches of dark amber scotch in his left hand, he stepped forward and reached for her proffered hand as Pietro performed introductions.

“Sarah, this is my son Armando, who just happens to be with us this weekend. We are so lucky to have him, and I hope you will enjoy spending some time with him.”

Armando took her hand and grasped it a bit longer than might be expected, brazenly enjoying the charming pink flush on her exquisite face. Her eyes sparkled in the subtle light of the great crystal chandelier hanging down from the high ceiling. Light also flashed inside the deep-cut diamond pendant resting between her breasts. She met his eyes only momentarily as she politely acknowledged him, but Armando was already captivated. I’ll have to hand it to my dear old father. He isn’t missing a beat on this one. She may be the most beautiful woman I’ve laid eyes on. And she looks contented, enthusiastic, and even sincere. I’m sick of the boring, bratty European women I always date. As the oldest son of a wealthy count, Armando, who was forty, had had his share of women. His parents had persuaded him to come up to Tuscany for the weekend just to meet this young lady, and now he congratulated himself for agreeing. She could be a model, yet supposedly she is a scholar, a serious one, so this could be interesting. She’s exactly the right age too—old enough to be experienced yet still fresh . . .

Sarah reclaimed her hand and sat down on a nearby golden velvet chair with a high puffy seat. When she crossed her legs and pointed one toe down to the floor, her dress hiked slightly up her thighs. Feeling exposed, she fluttered her hands into her lap.

Pietro and Matilda shared some of their favorite stories about the restoration of the castle. It had proceeded well because the local men were grateful for the jobs and were honored to revive an esteemed old estate. All the work had been mostly finished before Armando was even born, and then Armando and his older and younger sisters grew up at the castle until they were sent away for school in Rome when they were ten or eleven. Since Matilda was from nearby Lucca, it had been natural for her to raise her children in Tuscany.

“As children we used to hide here in the library in hidden passages in the backs of some of the bookcases,” Armando interjected in precise English with a heavy Italian accent. “One of them leads down to a lower floor where there is a small secret room where they hid precious books from the Jesuits.”

They bantered on for a while and then went to the dining room, where Armando seated Sarah next to his place. Conversation resumed once everyone was seated around the large and very heavy round table and wine was poured. Pietro sat next to his schoolmate with Matilda on the other side. Armando was between his mother and Sarah. When he turned his body toward her to address her, Sarah was assaulted by a great divide between her inner thoughts and her outer manners. While she responded to him calmly and politely, her mind was racing as hot nervous energy coursed through her whole body. It’s the castle, not Armando, that is causing all this energy, she told herself.

Armando noted her rising nervous excitement while she chatted with him. This will be a very easy one. Oh god, I hope she doesn’t fall all over me.

Sarah gestured to the lovely room in which they were dining. “Armando, I can’t imagine what it must be like to be the son of an ancient and titled family, a family that goes back a thousand years.”

Armando’s attention was caught by her long, graceful arm, set off by a simple gold bracelet set with small but perfect rubies.

“Well,” he responded in a slightly nasal voice. “My mother taught us we are lucky to have position in Italy, a real place in society. But, she also believed we must work and find something that matters to us. So I became a painter, and since I have an eye for beauty, she encouraged me. I paint Tuscan landscapes. My work sells, which actually is very important to me. I wouldn’t be happy just living on an income, which of course does allow me to paint. I have a studio here in the medieval tower, and I’d love to show you some of my work tomorrow morning as well as the old tower. Would you like that?”

Sarah found it difficult to concentrate on his words as she scanned the stunning dining room. The dark cherry paneled walls were delicately painted with tiny cornflowers climbing wild geometrical trellises, giving an effect like that of Renaissance embroidery. Candles gleamed subtly from enameled art nouveau fixtures with lily tendrils. The timeless floor was laid with herringboned terra cotta tile. The ruby stained glass windows above the panels glowed with light from the kitchen, giving the room a medieval touch.

Matilda saw her looking around. “Oh, Sarah, I see you are interested in the dining room’s décor? This was the original dining room, but it was a ruin, so I used William Morris designs and other art nouveau favorites that were inspired by medieval themes. Do you approve?”

“Oh yes,” Sarah responded, trying to process both Armando’s invitation to his studio and Matilda’s comments about the décor. “I am so captivated by the beauty in this room that I’m barely hearing what your son is saying to me. Please forgive me, Armando.”

She was breathing heavily, feeling more out of control than she liked to be. She was so elated by the beauty of the room that Pietro’s strong vintage wine immediately went to her head. She didn’t even notice Armando’s upper thigh pressing gently against her leg.

I want to stroke her thigh, Armando thought. She is so gorgeous that I am aching. Women like her are God’s gift to men. He glanced at his mother, knowing she could see that he was extremely attracted to this American beauty. Frankly, feeling attracted to a woman picked out by his mother was the last thing he had thought would happen tonight. When he was younger, Matilda had tried to get him interested in various women she approved of, but he’d never had more than a passing interest in any of them. Finally she had just given up, realizing her son was a lazy connoisseur of easy women in the art world, women who liked his money and his style. Used to getting any woman he wanted, Armando found himself surprised to be so taken by this American woman’s beauty.

William was keeping an eye on his daughter. Before Matilda or Sarah had come into the library, Armando, Pietro, and William had shared a drink. William had decided Armando was a smooth Italian roué, and a lazy one to boot. After all, all he did was paint. For his part, Armando dismissed William as a boring American Irishman, an unsophisticated, fat, and pushy man. Even though William was a friend of his father’s, Armando treated him like a boor. William had always felt intimidated by Europeans, so Armando’s rudeness made William extremely uncomfortable. When Matilda had joined the men, proper manners had prevailed and rough edges softened as she expertly steered the conversation between restoring the castle and the older men’s days at Yale. Regardless, the first impression between William and Armando had been a strong mutual dislike. William was less than pleased to see the sophisticated older man lean into his innocent daughter at the dinner table. Matilda might harbor some hopes for her only son with Sarah, but he’s thoroughly distasteful. He wasn’t happy to hear her agree to visit Armando’s studio the next day, but he trusted her.

As charming as he had been, Armando was the last thing on Sarah’s mind as she changed into casual pants after dinner and crept down the hall to the chapel. She lit the candles and knelt down to pray, crossing herself when the painting of the crucifixion emerged in flickering candlelight. Generations have been married, received Communion, and been baptized here. This is where they came to solve their problems. This is the perfect place to ask: am I losing my faith?

Closing her eyes to shut out the sickly greenish-white alabaster Jesus hanging on the cross with a bloodied dripping crown of thorns, she wondered, Do I believe he died this way, or was scripture rewritten to support the Church’s agenda too? The fairy tales are dissolving, and I can’t lie to myself anymore. Regardless of who the historical Jesus was, I still feel Christ deep in my heart.

The brightly burning candles flickered in the fresh air moving through the old walls, having a hypnotic effect on Sarah even through her closed eyes. Her logical mind lost its grip in the blinking light, and her inner skull expanded. She almost jumped when a deep, authoritative, yet incredibly loving voice sounded in the center of her head: Sarah Adamson, follow your heart. I live deep in your soul, within your mind, and I will always be there with you. Tell my story! I came two thousand years ago to open the light in the heart of each person on Earth and many still know me. Now brother turns against brother, sister against sister, all in the name of powerful and cruel men who use my name. Evil lurking in their corroded hearts poisons them. Tell my story! You’ve chosen the right course and nothing will stop you.

Inner fire rising in her body illuminated the small chapel when the glow from another dimension penetrated her cells. Hot energy rising in her spine warmed her skin and thickened her inner sacrum. She had never felt anything like this before. Tiny pulsations ached in her base of her spine as waves moved slowly up through her sacrum and into her spine. Fire feathered up her back and golden light encircled her head. Is that you, Lord? Are you taking me? Her spine was a rod of fire. She felt energy moving exquisitely from the back of her head down into her lower body and then back up again. The energy popped into her skull as otherworldly bliss flooded her mind. Enjoying the waving warmth, she struggled to open her eyelids, sensing she must orient herself. The inner fire calmed when she opened her eyes. Looking up at Christ on the cross, the most sacrilegious thought of her whole life came into her mind: I will get Him off of it. I will tell His story so that He can be freed from that obscene rack of hatred and abuse.