spiders, keep me company. Eat the aphids and beetles,” Prego intoned, as though he were picking up in the middle of an ongoing conversation with Justine. He had not seen her for several weeks, although they had spoken briefly on her return from Egypt before Christmas.
“Thinning the tomato seedlings?” she asked as she spied a box of uprooted sprouts.
“Prego,” he said in agreement. “Babies need room to grow. One by one. Pomodoro-pantano Romanesco. Harvest in June if the weather keeps comin’ good. Need lots of sun.”
“May I help?” she asked. Without waiting for permission, she buried both hands into the moist soil and lifted a fragile seedling from the flat of miniature tomato plants as one would lift a child from its cradle.
They worked side by side in silence for some time. Justine watched as a spider descended on a long fiber of webbing. “How long have you worked here, Prego?”
“All my life, my child. Father came as a young man. My mother, just a girl, worked upstairs. Prego.” In Italian, prego means please, and thank you, and yes, and excuse me, and just about anything, depending on the context. Prego scattered the word about in the way some people overuse “you know”—thus he had been called “Prego” for as long as Justine could remember. She didn’t remember his real name.
“This house, Prego. How was it used during the war?” Justine watched the spider as it crawled back up its web, a geometric tapestry. Nature! Entrancing. Sunlight caught the fibers, and they shone like stained glass windows.
“I was a boy. No memories. Only gardens. See arugula, signorina. Seeds itself. Plants have memory, not Prego.” Blue veins on the backs of his hands bulged ever so slightly as his fingers tightened around the wooden ledge of the table.
She watched his hands, knowing that memories were buried there, deeper than the plants he loved. “What did the visitors wear, Prego? Were there boots?”
“Boots. Si. Many boots.”
“Fiesole remained in German hands until the end of the war. Right? You would have been . . . what? Ten, eleven?”
“Twelve, signorina.” His shoulders moved closer to his neck, his unkempt hair rising above his collar. A weathered hand touched his forehead as he crossed himself. “This house, so beautiful. Much art. Picasso everywhere.”
Justine looked at the man she had known all her life. His body had grown smaller. Always short, he was now shorter. She towered over him. His coveralls with rolled up cuffs, his plaid shirt with frayed collar, were familiar to her. His face was a portrait of a wrinkled, contented man, one who didn’t allow himself to worry . . . or recall the unpleasantries of life. The twinkle in his eyes that had once signaled mischief had quieted, for he had spent those thoughts that life could be something grand. The garden was enough for him, was satisfying in the way old age brings contentment for those who are fortunate enough to embrace it.
Prego trusted Justine. He trusted who she was. He trusted that she would always be gracious. He trusted that she would always return. Yet he trusted no one with his deep secrets—secrets that, if disclosed, could disrupt his quiet regimen.
Justine understood this. She wiped her hands on a nearby towel, gave Prego an affectionate hug, and climbed the steps toward the terrace. Their conversation about World War II could wait for another day.
The two of us are a country under embargo, living on parentheses and silences, on blackouts, so that when the lights finally come on again, we have already forgotten what to say to each other.
—Elisa Biagini, Italian Poet
IN 1927, TWO IMPORTANT visitors came to Cerveteri: Benito Mussolini and D.H. Lawrence. Mussolini demanded that a road be built between the village and the necropolis so that visitors could access the tombs of the great Etruscan warriors, forebears and teachers of the triumphant Romans. D.H. Lawrence came in search of Etruscan Places, his loving tale about the Etruscans he loved—destroyed, he felt, by the crude Romans. Both men were captivated by the Etruscans, but they came with different assumptions and left with disparate idealistic convictions.
Like all Etruscan towns, Cerveteri—or Caere, as it was called then—sat on a craggy hill overlooking a valley and the sea beyond. The volcanic rock, or tufa, wall surrounding the village was now nearly smothered by trees and vines growing up the escarpment from the ravine below. Three major volcanic actions had loosened and split the tufa walls and the tumuli—domed structures that housed multiple tombs—beyond. Partially buried under these natural concealments were ancient carved lions, horses, birds, and the tools used to make them. A citadel rose above the wall, created in the classic design that has marked the Italian landscape for 2,500 years.
During the Middle Ages, a huge iron gate secured the wall. As centuries passed, the gate opened and the town welcomed visitors—although few came. Even today, at the tourist bureau, no one spoke English. Shop owners seemed surprised by other languages, and residents watched outsiders with curiosity, even though UNESCO promoted the Necropolis of the Banditaccia of Cerveteri as the “patrimony of humanity, an exceptional testimonial to the Etruscan civilization.”
Having spent the night in Viterbo, two hours to the northeast, Justine drove up the sharp incline to the ancient town appreciating the late March warmth. She parked her sapphire 2004 Alfa Romeo Spider across from Santa Maria Maggiore Church. She stood for a moment, examining the city map. She walked north across the bridge leading up to the Piazza Risorgimento. A Renaissance clock tower rose on the west end. To the left, a restaurant glowing pink and yellow in the morning light, matching turret and potted trees surrounding outdoor tables and umbrellas, which protruded into the square. An adjacent pharmacy and a vegetable market shared an edifice painted with elaborate murals of medieval life. A contrasting, stern gray government building towered over the piazza’s south side; Justine wondered if it still hosted dungeons and guillotines.
She had agreed to meet her father at one of the tables under the clock tower, an imaginative structure of marble and bricks with double pillars that felt reminiscent of Disneyland. A coat of arms boasted a wide-antlered buck.
A young woman emerged from the corner café and took Justine’s order for two double cappuccinos.
“Love those boots,” she said as her father approached. “Cappuccino?”
“You always know what I like,” said Morgan, sitting down and flinging one leg over his knee so she could get a closer look at the boots. “Had them made in Cuzco.”
“Are we going out to the dig this morning?” she asked, running her palm over the polished buckskin surface. “These won’t look so new in a couple of hours.”
“They clean up easily enough,” he said, brushing a slight residue of dust from the toes. “But let me fill you in before we head out. Yesterday big equipment was brought in to dig ten feet down around two of the tumuli identified as interesting by aerial photos. So . . . we might be able to get into the troughs today.”
“What
