with the primitive tools they had back then, Sienese engineers were able to dig a vast network of tunnels that led fresh water to public fountains and even into the basement of some private houses. Now, of course, it is no longer used.”
“But people go down here anyway?” I asked, touching the rough sandstone wall.
“Oh, no!” Presidente Maconi was amused by my naïveté. “It is a dangerous place to be. You can easily get lost. Nobody knows all the Bottini. There are stories, many stories, about secret tunnels from here to there, but we don’t want people running around exploring them. The sandstone is porous, you see. It crumbles. And all of Siena is sitting on top.”
I pulled back my hand. “But this wall is … fortified?”
Presidente Maconi looked a bit sheepish. “No.”
“But it’s a bank. That seems … dangerous.”
“Once,” he replied, eyebrows up in disapproval, “someone tried to break in. Once. They dug a tunnel. It took them months.”
“Did they succeed?”
Presidente Maconi pointed at a security camera mounted high in an obscure corner. “When the alarm went off, they escaped through the tunnel, but at least they didn’t steal anything.”
“Who were they?” I asked. “Did you ever find out?”
He shrugged. “Some gangsters from Napoli. They never came back.”
When we finally arrived at the vault, Presidente Maconi and Signor Virgilio both had to swipe their key cards for the massive door to open.
“See?”—Presidente Maconi was proud of the feature—“not even the president can open this vault on his own. As they say, absolute power corrupts absolutely.”
Inside the vault, safety-deposit boxes covered every wall from floor to ceiling. Most of them were small, but some were large enough to serve as a luggage locker at an airport. My mother’s box, as it turned out, was somewhere in between, and as soon as Presidente Maconi had pointed itout to me and helped me insert the key, he and Signor Virgilio politely left the room. When, moments later, I heard a couple of matches striking, I knew they had seized the opportunity to take a smoking break in the corridor outside.
Since I first read Aunt Rose’s letter, I had entertained many different ideas of what my mother’s treasure might be, and had done my best to temper my expectations in order to avoid disappointment. But in my most unchecked fantasies I would find a magnificent golden box, locked and full of promise, not unlike the treasure chests that pirates dig up on desert islands.
My mother had left me just such a thing. It was a wooden box with golden ornamentation, and while it was not actually locked—there
was
no lock—the clasp was rusted shut, preventing me from doing much more than merely shaking it gently to try and determine its contents. It was about the size of a small toaster-oven, but surprisingly light, which immediately ruled out the possibility of gold and jewelry. But then, fortunes come in many substances and forms, and I was certainly not one to scoff at the prospect of three-digit paper money.
As we said goodbye, Presidente Maconi kept insisting on calling a taxi for me. But I told him I did not need one; the box fitted very nicely in one of my shopping bags, and Hotel Chiusarelli was, after all, nearby.
“I would be careful,” he said, “walking around with that. Your mother was always careful.”
“But who knows I’m here? And that I’ve got this?”
He shrugged. “The Salimbenis—”
I stared at him, not sure if he was really serious. “Don’t tell me the old family feud is still going on!”
Presidente Maconi looked away, uncomfortable with the subject. “A Salimbeni will always be a Salimbeni.”
Walking away from Palazzo Tolomei, I repeated that sentence to myself several times, wondering precisely what it meant. In the end I decided it was nothing more than what I ought to expect in this place; judging by Eva Maria’s stories about the fierce contrade rivalries in
“But people go down here anyway?” I asked, touching the rough sandstone wall.
“Oh, no!” Presidente Maconi was amused by my naïveté. “It is a dangerous place to be. You can easily get lost. Nobody knows all the Bottini. There are stories, many stories, about secret tunnels from here to there, but we don’t want people running around exploring them. The sandstone is porous, you see. It crumbles. And all of Siena is sitting on top.”
I pulled back my hand. “But this wall is … fortified?”
Presidente Maconi looked a bit sheepish. “No.”
“But it’s a bank. That seems … dangerous.”
“Once,” he replied, eyebrows up in disapproval, “someone tried to break in. Once. They dug a tunnel. It took them months.”
“Did they succeed?”
Presidente Maconi pointed at a security camera mounted high in an obscure corner. “When the alarm went off, they escaped through the tunnel, but at least they didn’t steal anything.”
“Who were they?” I asked. “Did you ever find out?”
He shrugged. “Some gangsters from Napoli. They never came back.”
When we finally arrived at the vault, Presidente Maconi and Signor Virgilio both had to swipe their key cards for the massive door to open.
“See?”—Presidente Maconi was proud of the feature—“not even the president can open this vault on his own. As they say, absolute power corrupts absolutely.”
Inside the vault, safety-deposit boxes covered every wall from floor to ceiling. Most of them were small, but some were large enough to serve as a luggage locker at an airport. My mother’s box, as it turned out, was somewhere in between, and as soon as Presidente Maconi had pointed itout to me and helped me insert the key, he and Signor Virgilio politely left the room. When, moments later, I heard a couple of matches striking, I knew they had seized the opportunity to take a smoking break in the corridor outside.
Since I first read Aunt Rose’s letter, I had entertained many different ideas of what my mother’s treasure might be, and had done my best to temper my expectations in order to avoid disappointment. But in my most unchecked fantasies I would find a magnificent golden box, locked and full of promise, not unlike the treasure chests that pirates dig up on desert islands.
My mother had left me just such a thing. It was a wooden box with golden ornamentation, and while it was not actually locked—there
was
no lock—the clasp was rusted shut, preventing me from doing much more than merely shaking it gently to try and determine its contents. It was about the size of a small toaster-oven, but surprisingly light, which immediately ruled out the possibility of gold and jewelry. But then, fortunes come in many substances and forms, and I was certainly not one to scoff at the prospect of three-digit paper money.
As we said goodbye, Presidente Maconi kept insisting on calling a taxi for me. But I told him I did not need one; the box fitted very nicely in one of my shopping bags, and Hotel Chiusarelli was, after all, nearby.
“I would be careful,” he said, “walking around with that. Your mother was always careful.”
“But who knows I’m here? And that I’ve got this?”
He shrugged. “The Salimbenis—”
I stared at him, not sure if he was really serious. “Don’t tell me the old family feud is still going on!”
Presidente Maconi looked away, uncomfortable with the subject. “A Salimbeni will always be a Salimbeni.”
Walking away from Palazzo Tolomei, I repeated that sentence to myself several times, wondering precisely what it meant. In the end I decided it was nothing more than what I ought to expect in this place; judging by Eva Maria’s stories about the fierce contrade rivalries in
Similar Books
