grandfather,” Andrea continued, gently pulling a spaghetti strap up over her sunburn, “was Lord Francis Rennell of Rodd. I think he became Governor of Sicily when the British and American forces retrieved the island from the Germans in World War II . . . Wait. See that sedan just pulling up? That’s Christine Lagarde, our finance minister. I met her once at a reception. Sharp woman. She’s rumored to be the next IMF director.” A tall, slender woman in a gray Givenchy suit stepped out of the car. Two embassy officials welcomed her and escorted her into the embassy. “And here is the woman we’ve been waiting for.” Andrea nodded toward a young woman walking toward them with the gait of a horsewoman.
The Baroness Miranda Taxis bobbed, auburn hair swaying across her pixie face, as she walked, willowy and relaxed. She wore a tan khaki skirt, silver flats, and an aqua cotton blouse with a lace collar. Baroness Miranda picked up her pace as she waved and cried, “Pronti!”
As the baroness drew closer, Justine noticed that her eyes were the same color as her blouse. A bit of an avocation for me, she grinned. Eyes.
Miranda hugged Andrea tightly and turned to Justine, taking her hand with the spontaneity of someone at home in the world.
Not at all what I expected, thought Justine. So natural, unassuming.
“I want to show you my favorite painting,” said the Baroness, hardly pausing for proper introductions. “In here.” As she led them into the church, she talked with Justine about Caravaggio. “Almost every major event in his life happened within a five-minute walk from here. He hawked his first painting in the piazza and killed a man over a tennis match. Then he went into exile and it took years for the Pope to forgive him. Look here.”
They were entering the Contrarelli Chapel, where a gathering of people anxiously crowded in front of a darkened alcove. A young man placed a euro into a rusting machine nearby and light sprayed across three magnificent scenes. “My Caravaggios!” said Baroness Miranda with personal pride of ownership.
Miranda took Justine by the elbow and moved her closer while Andrea made her own way through the crowd. “These are called the Matthew cycle,” Miranda said. “Almost photographic images of miracles in progress, aren’t they? That one on the left wall is The Calling of St. Matthew, my very favorite. It’s based on a verse from St. Mark: ‘And as he passed by, he saw Levi, the son of Alphaeus, sitting at the receipt of custom, and said unto him, “Follow me.” And he rose and followed him.’”
On the left side of the painting, three young pages were elegantly dressed and crowned with feathered hats. In the center table, an older man in spectacles and draped in fur peered over Levi’s shoulder. Standing on the right of the painting was Jesus, hand outstretched toward Levi, who would become Matthew.
“Look at the dusty light on Jesus’ outstretched hand. So real! So vivid!” observed Justine, taking her host’s arm just as the lights went out and the small crowd dispersed.
“Quick, another euro,” cried Miranda, taking the coin from Andrea’s hand and walking toward the coin drop. The soft spotlights shone and she turned back toward the paintings. “Caravaggio’s recent biographer, Francine Prose, points out that this is the moment when a man’s life changes forever and becomes something else completely. Levi becomes Matthew—we don’t know why the name change—and he enters a world completely different than the counting house. Notice that Matthew hesitates and points at himself as though to ask, ‘Me?’”
“I imagine because ‘Levi’ is Jewish,” Justine offered, unable to draw her eyes away from Jesus’ face.
Miranda looked momentarily puzzled, then nodded in agreement and turned back toward the paintings.
Justine was suddenly flooded by memories from the Virgin Mary’s diary, allowing the warmth of her intimate knowledge about this great savior as a boy to flow freely through her trembling body. Mary had transcribed provocative conversations with her young son into her diary. Many were explicit about values and behaviors, like when they talked about equality and Jesus challenged, “If God wanted everyone to be equal, why didn’t he make them so?” “I believe,” answered his mother, “that this is God’s test of us—to look past the exterior differences and find the human inside.” Justine couldn’t help but notice that Caravaggio had captured the compassion and gentleness of Jesus that the codex had led Justine to expect.
“Matthew can look across this chapel to the scene of his own martyrdom,” observed Andrea, moving forward to put her hand on Justine’s shoulder. “Perhaps he had a premonition.”
“Perhaps,” sighed Miranda, her smile almost beatific in the filtered light. “Perhaps . . . Shall we go? I’m hungry.”
The Baroness led the two women back through the Piazza Navone and into an alley on the opposite side, where they spotted a small bistro called Trattoria Bernini. Its checkered tablecloths and red umbrellas reminded Justine of a movie set. “I like this place,” the baroness declared. “The lasagna is just terrific!”
Justine thought that Miranda was surely more sophisticated than she let on. She grinned. “I adore lasagna too.”
Andrea nodded, scanning the area as though expecting to see someone else. “Are we near the antiquities area?” she asked—and, to the dismay of the waiter, claimed a table that was not yet cleared, selecting a chair that faced the alley.
“I guess you could consider it the antique section. Via dei Coronari starts there,” Miranda pointed down the adjacent alley, “crossed by Via del Governo Vecchio and Via dei Banchi Nuovi. All nearby.” She pronounced the Italian streets crisply, with a charming British accent.
Justine peered over her sunglasses at Andrea, whose face creased with edginess. Back at table level, her attention was captured by a wrinkled cocktail napkin inked with a rough sketch of an ancient airplane with broad, heavy wings and twin propellers, headlights like insect eyes, and little curtains drawn in eight small passenger windows. A DC-2, she thought, brushing the napkin into her purse without comment. Is this what Andrea was looking for? What is going on here? Why am I feeling uncomfortable with Andrea?
Justine turned back, asked Miranda, “What brought you to Italy from England?” It was midday and the café was full. As many Italians as tourists, she thought gratefully, picking up her menu.
“The sun,” began Miranda. “Opportunity. We just barely sold our home near London. Titles don’t necessarily bring riches, you know. We found this darling old farmhouse between Arezzo and Cortona. William is exceedingly good at remodeling. The girls love it here. We have room for horses and a garden . . . The house wine is quite drinkable. Shall I order a carafe?”
“Please,” said Andrea distractedly.
“I’d love to see your home sometime, Miranda. I’m fascinated with the reconstruction of old homes throughout Europe.” Justine picked up the menu.
“When the kitchen is finished!”
“I’ll hold you to that,” returned Justine. Miranda’s exuberance was catching. “As soon as we finish lunch, I’d like to go to the Villa Giulia, if you don’t mind. I’m looking for something.”
Although Miranda had decided on lasagna, Justine buried herself in the extensive menu.
After lunch, the three women
