Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
Mark
My phone is buzzing with messages in the family’s group chat, but I toss it onto my bed and leave the room.
After the prank Nonno and Carlo played on me yesterday, during which I was fingerprinted by the Italian police buddy who was in on it the whole time, the family can stew in worry and unanswered apologies.
So, so funny.
But hey, I got the coin.
In the kitchen, I start the moka pot on the stove, pour a bowl of granola, and sip at a cup of orange juice. Despite Nonna’s best efforts to mature me into eating a real adult breakfast of sweet bread and espresso, my American habits take over when I’m alone.
I carry my breakfast to the table in the living room where Lexington’s lira waits.
With the morning sun streaming in, I examine it as I eat.
One side sports a woman’s profile, and on the other the mark of 100 lire is engraved between a bird, a dolphin, and a head of wheat.
I rub my thumb over the symbols and the hole for the necklace chain.
She’s not likely to give me the time of day after I split from the restaurant yesterday, not to mention share where she got it and why it’s so important, so I turn my mind to plotting how to get it back to her anonymously.
Nothing brilliant comes to me before I have to leave for a meeting on the other side of the Tiber River. I roll up the palazzo blueprints that the cultural preservation center needs to sign off on, slide them into a canister, and take the metro across town.
Restoration of cultural property is a hassle, but I’m familiar with most of the restrictions and prohibitions, thanks to Uncle Beppe’s mentoring.
The sticklers are bound to have questions for both of us, but I’m not expecting any hiccups getting the committee’s approval of the proposed blueprints.
Still, it’d be so much nicer to only have to deal with the owners’ wishes, not this slow-moving oversight committee.
Since we’re a design-build company, Nonno’s supposed to meet me at the ICCROM offices.
I’m the in-house architect, and he’s the head of construction.
I wait for him in the arched entry of the peach two-storied building.
He peers around the corner before committing, wary of surprises.
Spotting me leaning against the massive, open wooden doors, he relaxes.
“Ah, good morning, Mark. Did you get what you wanted yesterday?”
“I got a little more than I wanted, thank you very much. I don’t mix work and pranks, so you’re safe for—” I check my watch—“about an hour.”
He grins, rolling on his heels. “I appreciate the warning. Let’s go in.”
I nod and follow him across the courtyard and up the steps. The secretary ushers us to a conference room with small windows overlooking the river and we introduce ourselves to the committee representatives.
For the next hour, they pore over the blueprints and ask questions as we stand over the table.
I followed the regulation against changing intact doors and windows on a historical facade, and the committee seems satisfied with my workaround for insulation but has major concerns about the plan for the mosaic tile floor.
I spin a pen on the long table. “The owners have accepted the unfortunate necessity of replacing the entry mosaic.”
The head of the committee, a strict woman with a tight bun and tailored pantsuit, lifts one of the photos of the palazzo I brought with me, peering at the shot of the main hall’s floor. “There’s enough of the original design left to repair the mosaic.”
I exchange a glance with Nonno. Over sixty percent of the glass and marble masterpiece is destroyed. “We planned to simplify the design with porcelain tiles so we have the same effect with a fraction of the cost and time.”
“We’re not here to save time and money. We’re here to preserve the past.”
That was my argument, but Uncle Beppe insisted this was a good way to cut costs down for the bid.
“I understand.” Back to reworking the price list. At least the other bidders will need to include restoring the mosaic in their costs too. Getting the investors on board is now imperative.
When we leave, Nonno gives a long-suffering sigh. “I know this project is your baby, but it’s turning into a headache.”
We take the path beside the river, making our way to the Ponte Palatino. The water flows dark and green. Nonno doesn’t know this restoration is a lure to get my dad to Rome. Project Palazzo is really Project Family.
This mosaic wrinkle is perfect. Dad’s specialty.
My plan was to be too busy with this massive three-year project to return to Boston, meaning Mom and Dad would have to come here to see me.
But I don’t think Dad will be able to resist the challenge of matching the older tiles with modern marble on this mosaic. We can’t do it without him.
And when he does, he’ll have to sit down with Nonno and work out their issues. “I’ll handle it.”
Nonno claps me on the shoulder. “Okay, I trust you.”
We cross the modern bridge, slowing as we pass the ruins standing in the middle of the river—a single, moss-covered broken arch left from the ancient Aemilius bridge. It never fails to catch my breath. I see both the destruction and the glory of what it was and could once again be.
As soon as we reach the other side and Nonno waves goodbye, I call Dad.
He picks up on the first ring.
“Ciao, Marco! How was your flight?” He’s been speaking to me in Italian more lately. He’d die before ever admitting it, but he misses his home country. His stubborn pride needs a reason to return, and I’m here to give it.
“The flight? Jury’s still out.” I doubt I’ll have to give Lexington full rights to all my photos of Rome, but it was still a stupidly risky thing to stake our bet on.
I pace a few steps along the river. Cool air rises from the current below and the sun bakes me from above.
“You know that restoration project I told you about? We have a setback—they want us to repair, not replace, the entryway floor mosaic.”
“How big is it?”
“Two hundred centimeters by four hundred and seventeen. So we’re talking almost the Alexander Mosaic size.
” A sore subject, but I’m not above playing into his regrets.
They asked him to be part of its restoration in Naples a few years ago and he declined.
He’s been talking about it since, following their progress with pro football-fan level passion.
“Except it’s a pattern, not a scene. Still way above my abilities. ”
“What about that professor you had at uni who was so good at the tiny details—the small artifact restorer? She could do it.”
“Ms. Accardi? Maybe. Not as well as you would.” I’m not above flattery, either. I pull the phone away, put him on speaker, and find the mosaic photos. “I’m sending you the shots I took.”
Even in its current state, it’s breathtaking, and my dad’s a sucker for ancient art. Sure enough, I hear his sharp intake of air. “Well, that’s certainly an exciting challenge.”
“I’ll hire you sight unseen, even without an interview.”
He laughs. “Call your professor. But I tell you what—I’ll do some digging on this, see if I can’t help you locate matching marble colors and give you some tips.”
I’ll take that. All I need is to get him involved, and his passion will kick in and do the rest.
“Let me know what you find on your end. Thanks.”
After we hang up, I perch on the stone balustrade at the banks of the river and call Ms. Accardi.
She offers to meet with me for a few minutes around lunchtime at the Keats-Shelley House, where she’s finishing restorations.
It’s about a forty-minute walk from here, so I head for the Piazza di Spagna at the base of the Spanish Steps.
By the time I reach the gridded city blocks in the center, instead of plotting my dad’s involvement in the project the way I should be doing, my thoughts take a left turn back to Lexington and how to get her lira to her without revealing my part in retrieving it.
Because the chances of her not stiff-arming me for how rudely I left the restaurant yesterday are as small as the hole in the coin I keep fingering in my pocket.
I make my way up the narrow street, skirting double-parked delivery vans, potted trees, and outdoor restaurant tables.
Mariella could pass the lira to Lexington. That makes the most sense. She’ll be in the office this afternoon. Easy.
Except maybe I don’t want the easy, anonymous way.