Juliet. Anne Fortier

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      The suggestion would hang in the air for a while, until I had concocted a suitable reply. The truth was that I did not stay at home because I felt sorry for Aunt Rose, but because I had no interest in going out. Whenever I let people drag me along to some bar I always ended up surrounded by meatheads and geeks, who all seemed to think we were acting out a fairy tale in which I would have to choose one of them before the night was over.

      The memory of Aunt Rose sitting next to me and in her own sweet way telling me to get a life sent another pang through my heart. Staring glumly through the greasy little aeroplane window into the void outside, I found myself wondering if perhaps this whole trip was meant as some kind of punishment for how I had treated her. Perhaps God was going to make the plane crash, just to show me. Or perhaps he would allow me to actually get to Siena, and then let me discover that someone else had already snagged the family treasure.

      In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I began to suspect that the real reason Aunt Rose had never broached the issue while she was still alive was that it was all rubbish. Perhaps she had simply lost it in the end, in which case the alleged treasure might well turn out to be nothing but wishful thinking. And even if, against all odds, there really had been something of value still kicking around in Siena after we left some twenty-plus years ago, what were the chances it was still there? Considering the population density of Europe, and the ingenuity of mankind in general, I would be very surprised if there was any cheese left in the centre of the maze once – and if – I ever got there.

      The only thought that was to cheer me through the long sleepless flight was that every miniature drink handed out by the smiling flight attendants took me further away from Janice. There she was, dancing around in a house that was all hers, laughing at my misfortune. She had no idea I was going to Italy, no idea that poor old Aunt Rose had sent me on a golden goose chase, and at least I could be glad about that. For if my trip failed to result in the recovery of something meaningful, I would rather she was not around to crow.

      

      We landed in Frankfurt in something resembling sunshine, and I shuffled off the plane in my flip-flops, puffy-eyed and with a chunk of apple strudel still stuck in my throat. My connecting flight to Florence was more than two hours away, and as soon as I arrived at the gate, I stretched out across three chairs and closed my eyes, head on my macramé handbag, too tired to care if anyone ran away with the rest.

      Somewhere between asleep and awake I felt a hand stroking my arm.

      ‘Ahi, ahi,’ said a voice that was a blend of coffee and smoke, ‘mi scusi!’

      I opened my eyes to see the woman sitting next to me frantically brushing crumbs off my sleeve. While I had been napping, the gate had filled up around me, and people were glancing at me the way you glance at a homeless person – with a mix of disdain and sympathy.

      ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, sitting up, ‘I’m a mess anyway.’

      ‘Here!’ She offered me half her croissant, perhaps as some kind of compensation. ‘You must be hungry.’

      I looked at her, surprised at her kindness. ‘Thanks.’

      Calling the woman elegant would be a gross understatement. Everything about her was perfectly matched; not just the colour of her lipstick and nail polish, but also the golden beetles adorning her shoes, her handbag, and on the perky little hat on her immaculately dyed hair. I strongly suspected – and her teasing smile more than confirmed – that this woman had every reason to be content with herself. Probably worth a fortune, or at least married to one, she looked as if she did not have a care in the world save to mask her seasoned soul with a carefully preserved body.

      ‘You are going to Florence?’ she inquired, in a strong, utterly charming accent. ‘To see all the so-called artworks?’

      ‘Siena, actually,’ I said, my mouth full. ‘I was born there. But I’ve never been back since.’

      ‘How wonderful!’ she exclaimed. ‘But how strange! Why not?’

      ‘It’s a long story.’

      ‘Tell me. You must tell me all about it.’ When she saw me hesitating, she held out her hand. ‘I am sorry. I am very nosy. I am Eva Maria Salimbeni.’

      ‘Julie – Giulietta Tolomei.’

      She nearly fell off her chair. ‘Tolomei? Your name is Tolomei? No, I don’t believe it! It is impossible! Wait…what seat are you in? Yes, on the flight. Let me see.’ She took one look at my boarding pass, then plucked it right out of my hand. ‘One moment! Stay here!’

      I watched her as she strode up to the counter, wondering whether this was an ordinary day in Eva Maria Salimbeni’s life. I assumed she was trying to change the seating so we could sit together during the flight, and judging by her smile when she returned, she was successful. ‘Et voilà!’ She handed me a new boarding pass, and as soon as I looked at it, I had to suppress a giggle of delight. Of course, for us to continue our conversation, I would have to be upgraded to first class.

      Once we were airborne, it did not take Eva Maria long to extract my story. The only elements I left out were my double identity and my mother’s possible treasure.

      ‘So,’ she finally said, head to one side, ‘you are going to Siena to…see the Palio?’

      ‘The what?’

      My question made her gasp. ‘The Palio! The horse race. Siena is famous for the Palio horse race. Did your aunt’s housekeeper – his clever Alberto – never tell you about it?’

      ‘Umberto,’ I corrected her. ‘Yes, I guess he did. But I didn’t realize it’s still taking place. Whenever he talked about it, it sounded like a mediaeval thing, with knights in shining armour and all that.’

      ‘The history of the Palio,’ nodded Eva Maria, ‘reaches into the very’ – she had to search for the right English word – ‘obscurity of the Middle Ages. Nowadays the race takes place in the Campo in front of City Hall, and the riders are professional jockeys. But in the earliest times, it is believed that the riders were noblemen on their battle horses, and that they would ride all the way from the countryside and into the city to end up in front of Siena Cathedral.’

      ‘Sounds dramatic,’ I said, still puzzled by her effusive kindness. But maybe she just saw it as her duty to educate strangers about Siena.

      ‘Oh!’ Eva Maria rolled her eyes. ‘It is the greatest drama of our lives. For months and months, the people of Siena can talk of nothing but horses and rivals and deals with this and that jockey.’ She shook her head lovingly. ‘It’s what we call a dolce pazzia… a sweet madness. Once you feel it, you will never want to leave.’

      ‘Umberto always says that you can’t explain Siena,’ I said, suddenly wishing he was with me, listening to this fascinating woman. ‘You have to be there and hear the drums to understand.’

      Eva Maria smiled graciously, like a queen receiving a compliment. ‘He is right. You have to feel it’ – she reached out and touched a hand to my chest – ‘in here.’ Coming from anyone else, the gesture would have seemed wildly inappropriate, but Eva Maria was the kind of person who could pull it off.

      While the flight attendant poured us both another glass of champagne, my new friend told me more about Siena, ‘so you don’t get yourself СКАЧАТЬ