Chapter Five Cammie #4
She looks hesitant, if apologetic, about it, and I can already see the rejection coming. But before she can say the words, another voice, deeper, louder, and more heavily accented, bellows from behind her, “It cannot be…the Bambina di Bronzo? I do not believe my eyes!”
The man steps out from behind the front desk and walks all the way up to West and me with his arms spread wide.
He’s what I would expect Santa Claus to look like, if Santa was a museum curator.
A carefully groomed white beard, rosy cheeks peeking out over the top of it, smiling brown eyes, and a broad chest and broader middle under his sweater vest and tweed blazer.
I’m prepared for it when he comes in for an air hug and double-cheek kiss, first with me, then with a still visibly-unused-to-this West.
“Camilla, sì?” Dr. Constantini says, to which I nod and open my mouth to say “sì,” but he goes on. “And you are…”
He looks to West, who clearly wasn’t expecting to need to speak at this meeting.
“West Jacobs,” he answers with a crack in his voice. It shouldn’t be a tiny bit endearing; I should want to make fun of him. But this day is full of unexpected turns, apparently.
“Ah, Jacobs and Lovett, fantastico! This takes me back…” Dr. Constantini says with a gleam in his eyes as he smiles at the two of us. “Shall we speak in my office?”
West and I follow him down the hall, taking seats in two leather wingback chairs in front of his desk.
He offers us coffee, which West declines but I gratefully accept.
While Dr. Constantini makes espressos for himself and me, he hums a tune I don’t recognize.
I only pretend not to recognize the wide-eyed look of what the hell is going on here?
plastered across the face of my unwanted travel companion.
When Dr. Constantini finally sits down, I hold the tiny espresso mug up to my lips and blow the steam away from it.
I wait until he’s swallowed his first sip before I begin.
“Thank you so much for allowing us to drop in like this. I’ve heard a lot about you from my mother over the years and it’s amazing to finally put a face to the name. ”
In truth, I haven’t heard much about him from my mother over the years, but I’ve heard a lot from Alex and her journal in the last few weeks.
Dr. Constantini was my mom’s advisor when she was here studying and teaching at the university while getting her PhD.
He remained a close mentor figure for the duration of her time in Italy, and she always spoke highly of him in her writing.
Though never so highly that I worried he was a potential dad candidate, and we’d have some weird professor-student mess to reckon with, thank the ancient Roman gods.
I’m extra certain of ruling out that chance, now that I’ve seen the man in person and can’t imagine him ever being anything but a nonthreatening, grandfatherly figure.
“I cannot tell you what a joyful surprise this is to see you both,” he replies, again involving West when it seems obvious to anyone with eyesight that West would not like to be perceived. He sinks lower and lower in his fancy chair. “You are here for the twentieth anniversary?”
I’m grateful for the easy segue. “We are,” I answer.
“Our parents came back to Villa di Bronzo as part of a documentary in the works, and West and I have the chance to see the villa and the surrounding area for the first time that we can remember. It’s only my second day here, but I’m very excited to explore more. ”
“Of course, yes,” the older man says. “It is a beautiful summer we’re having and the perfect time to explore Campania. I cannot believe it has been two decades since that summer—and since you entered the world. I was there the day you were born, you know.”
I almost answer that I was, too, before catching the ridiculous words.
Instead, I smile and nod, like, Yes, I did know, because my mother told me that, and told me plenty of other things about the villa excavations and that time in our lives, and not because I stole her old diary and memorized every detail like the biggest mystery of my life hangs in the balance.
“It is amazing,” I agree. “Which is actually why I’ve come to speak with you today.
They’re throwing a little celebration at Villa Russo a few weeks from now to honor the twentieth anniversary with everyone here for the summer.
Mom knows it’s happening”—she’s the one who mentioned it to me while helping create my packing list, unknowingly inspiring the perfect cover story and starting place for my secret search—“but I’ve been thinking about something extra I could do to surprise her and make the occasion even more special.
I want to invite some additional colleagues and friends from her time here, starting with you, of course, and since you worked so closely with her back then, I was hoping you could help add to the list. Any names of people I could look into, to see if they’re still in the area and interested in attending. ”
Dr. Constantini leans back, the chair squeaking under his shift in weight, and laces his fingers together over his middle. The pose is very and what would you like for Christmas, young Cammie? Whenever he’s done with this curator gig, he needs to take his talents to the Mall Santa industry.
He hums to himself, gaze veering toward the ceiling as he raises one hand to stroke his beard.
“That is a wonderful idea, this party, and I hope I can be of help with your guest list. Let me see. That was, hmm, my third summer as the program director for the…Sì, sì…” He trails off—then rolls off, whirling around in his office chair to approach a massive cabinet in the same deep brown, solid wood as his desk.
He continues mumbling to himself in Italian as he digs a small key out of a trouser pocket and uses it to unlock each heavy door in turn, then open them wide.
Scooting to the side, he looks back to West and me with a smile, sweeping a hand over what he’s revealed: shelves upon shelves full to bursting with binders, folders, and notebooks.
“My computer before computers!” Dr. Constantini jokes. “For most of my career, the only way to ‘save’ information was to put it on paper. Then the tough part—do not forget where you have put the paper.”
“Wow,” I say, for lack of a better response.
As Dr. Constantini begins to peruse his archives, my hopes of getting anything useful from this visit dwindle.
That cabinet is like one of those old I Spy books come to life, all its contents running together, nothing labeled or organized in any way I can decipher. I can’t imagine he—
“Aha! Here we are,” he declares, and in my periphery, West’s head rears back with the same surprise I feel.
Constantini rolls back to his desk and sets his find on the surface with a thud.
It’s an overstuffed, faded green binder, papers already spilling out on all sides.
The only thing even resembling a label that I spot is a scribble of black marker that could be a messily written “dB,” but could also be one of those inkblot tests.
I shudder to think what this man’s computer files look like.
“This is all from the time I was working on the villa project,” he begins, gently pulling back the cover to lay it flat. “Let us see what is relevant to us here…”
Dr. Constantini’s mumbling resumes as he flips through the pages that are bound by the metal rings, and the many more loose papers tucked in between.
Some he sets aside immediately or skips over completely, while others get more study.
Every few pages, he pauses, picks up his silver fountain pen from its holder, and writes something on a notepad off to one side of the desk.
I hope his notes are more legible than his binder labels.
My palms itch, my legs cross and uncross, the urge to reach out and take every piece of potential evidence so strong that I can’t get comfortable.
I’m so close to just asking if I can take the whole file when the woman from the front desk calls out the professor’s name.
With a staying hand and an unhurried, “Scusi, un momento,” Dr. Constantini strolls out of the office. I wait for his footsteps to fade before I jump into action.
“What are you doing?” West snaps in an accusatory whisper as I round the desk and pull my phone from my shorts pocket.
“Shh, it’s fine,” I whisper back, knowing this is neither an answer to his question nor anything he’ll believe.
But I need to hurry and do what I set out to before Constantini comes back, instead of standing here explaining myself.
I grab a pen from a cup filled with the non-fancy, non-fountain variety and use it to bookmark the page the man left open, then flip back the stack of pages he’s already reviewed to the very beginning.
One by one, I take pictures of every single scrap of anything in this file, not even checking to see if it looks useful before going to the next page.
This is better than trying to find a not-suspicious way to ask for the whole file, even on the very low chance he’d actually let me have it.
Because with all due respect to the generations who got through life without modern technology—and we all know my respect is real—I can’t keep a big-ass binder in my shorts pocket.
Nor can I review its contents till my eyes dry out, under the guise of watching old episodes of Wild Adventures, if my mom asks what I’m up to.
“Cammie, you can’t…He’s going to come back and…” West sputters, his agitation clear despite his hushed voice.
“If you want to prevent whatever you think that nice old man would do to me, why don’t you act as lookout,” I say without looking away from my task.