nod. ‘It is as you said,’ he acknowledged. ‘A man knows. A boy does not.’
Romeo laughed out loud. ‘I admire you!’ He put a hand on the Maestro’s shoulder. ‘You have courage!’
‘What is so very wonderful about courage?’ retorted the painter, bolder now that his role as mentor had been approved. ‘I suspect this one virtue has killed more good men than all the vices put together.’
Again Romeo laughed out loud, as if he did not often have the pleasure of such saucy opposition, and the Maestro found himself suddenly and unexpectedly liking the young man.
‘I often hear men say,’ Romeo went on, unwilling to quit the topic, ‘that they will do anything for a woman. But then, upon her very first request, they whine and slink away like dogs.’
‘And you? Do you also slink away?’
Romeo flashed a whole row of healthy teeth, surprising for someone who was rumoured to attract fisticuffs wherever he went. ‘No,’ he answered, still smiling, ‘I have a fine nose for women who ask nothing more than what I want to give. But if such a woman existed’—he nodded towards the painting—‘I would happily break all my ribs in pursuit of her. Better still, I would enter through the front door, as you say, and apply for her hand before I had ever even touched it. And not only that, but I would make her my one and only wife and never look at another woman. I swear it! She would be worth it, I am sure.’
Pleased with what he heard, and wanting very much to believe that his artwork had had such a profound effect as to turn the young man away from his wanton ways, the Maestro nodded, rather satisfied with the night’s work. ‘She is indeed.’
Romeo turned his head, eyes narrow. ‘You speak as if she were still alive?’
Maestro Ambrogio sat silently for a moment, studying the young man’s face and probing the depth of his resolve. ‘Giulietta,’ he said at last, ‘is her name. I believe that you, my friend, with your touch stirred her from death tonight. After you left us for the tavern, I saw her lovely form rise by itself from this coffin.’
Romeo sprang from his seat as if it had burst into flames beneath him. ‘This is ghostly speech! I know not whether this chill on my arm is from dread or delight!’
‘Do you dread the schemes of men?’
‘Of men, no. Of God, greatly.’
‘Then take comfort in what I tell you now. It was not God who laid her out for dead in this coffin, but the monk, Friar Lorenzo, fearing for her safety.’
Romeo’s jaw dropped. ‘You mean, she was never dead?’
Maestro Ambrogio smiled at the young man’s expression. ‘She was ever as alive as you.’
Romeo clasped his head. ‘You are sporting with me! I cannot believe you!’
‘Believe what you want,’ said the Maestro, getting up and removing the paintbrushes, ‘or open the coffin.’
After a moment of great distress, pacing back and forth, Romeo finally braced himself and flung open the coffin.
Rather than rejoicing in its emptiness, however, the young man glared at the Maestro with renewed suspicion. ‘Where is she?’
‘That I cannot tell you. It would be a breach of confidence.’
‘But she lives?’
The Maestro shrugged. ‘She did when I saw her last, on the threshold of her uncle’s house, waving goodbye to me.’
‘And who is her uncle?’
‘As I said: I cannot tell you.’
Romeo took a step towards the Maestro, fingers twitching. ‘Are you saying that I will have to sing serenades beneath every balcony in Siena until the right woman comes out?’
Dante had jumped up as soon as the young man appeared to threaten his master, but instead of growling a warning, the dog merely put its head back and let out a long, expressive howl.
‘She will not come out just yet,’ replied Maestro Ambrogio, bending over to pat the dog. ‘She is in no mood for serenades. Perhaps she never will be.’
‘Then why,’ exclaimed Romeo, all but knocking over the easel and portrait in his frustration, ‘are you telling me this?’
‘Because,’ said Maestro Ambrogio, amused by the other’s exasperation, ‘it pains an artist’s eyes to see a snowy dove dally with crows.’
What’s in a name? That which we call a roseBy any other word would smell as sweet
The view from the old Medici fortress, the Fortezza, was spectacular. Not only could I see the terracotta roofs of Siena broiling in the afternoon sun, but at least twenty miles of rolling hills were heaving around me like an ocean in shades of green and distant blues. Again and again I looked up from my reading, taking in the sweeping landscape in the hope that it would force all stale air from my lungs and fill my soul with summer. And yet every time I looked down and resumed Maestro Ambrogio’s journal, I plunged right back into the dark events of 1340.
I had spent the morning at Malèna’s espresso bar in Piazza Postierla, leafing through the official early versions of Romeo and Juliet written by Masuccio Salernitano and Luigi da Porto in 1476 and 1530 respectively. It was interesting to see how the plot had developed, and how da Porto had put a literary spin to a story, which, Salernitano claimed, was based on real events.
In Salernitano’s version, Romeo and Juliet—or rather, Mariotto and Giannozza—lived in Siena, but their parents were not at war. They did get married in secret, after bribing a friar, but the drama only really began when Mariotto killed a prominent citizen and had to go into exile. Meanwhile, Giannozza’s parents, unaware that their daughter was already married, demanded that she marry someone else. In desperation, Giannozza had the friar cook up a powerful sleeping potion, and the effect was so great that her imbecilic parents believed she was dead and went ahead and buried her right away. Fortunately, the good old friar was able to deliver her from the sepulchre, whereupon Giannozza travelled secretly by boat to Alexandria, where Mariotto was living the good life. However, the messenger who was supposed to inform Mariotto of the sleeping-potion scheme had been captured by pirates, and upon receiving the news of Giannozza’s death, Mariotto came blasting back into Siena to die by her side. Here, he was captured by soldiers, and beheaded. Chop. And Giannozza had spent the rest of her life weeping in a convent.
As far as I could see, the key elements in this original version were: the secret marriage, Romeo’s banishment, the harebrained scheme of the sleeping potion, the messenger gone astray, and Romeo’s deliberate suicide-mission based on his erroneous belief in Juliet’s death.
The big difference, of course, was that the whole thing supposedly happened in Siena, and if Malèna had been around, I would have asked her if this was common knowledge. I highly suspected it was not.
Interestingly enough, when da Porto took over the story half a century later, he too, was eager to anchor the story in reality, going so far as to call Romeo and Giulietta by their real first names. He lost his nerve over the location, however, and moved the whole thing to Verona, changing all family names—very possibly to avoid retribution from the powerful clans involved in the scandal.
But never mind the logistics; in my interpretation—aided by several cups of cappuccino—da Porto wrote a far more entertaining story. He was the one who introduced the masked ball and the balcony scene, and his was the genius that first devised the double suicide. The only thing that did not immediately make sense to me was that he had Juliet die by holding her breath. But perhaps da Porto had felt that his audience would not appreciate a bloody scene…scruples that Shakespeare, fortunately, did not have.
After