I wasn’t lying earlier when I said I love to go to places like this alone. To take all the time I want reading every single sign, make extra-long stops at whatever sparks my interest or curiosity. My feet are desperately trying to veer off path and take me to every other statue or painting or vase in a glass display case that we pass. But I can’t get sidetracked yet. As we reach an intersection of wide, marble-floored hallways between galleries, I stop to refer back to the map.
“Whoa, Cam, check this out,” West says from a few feet away. My first instinct is to bite back something snarky. But a softer side of me, one I’m not ready to examine, decides to let it lie, and instead, I turn to see what he’s so excited about.
“I read something about this project once,” he says, more enthusiasm in his voice than I’ve heard at any point in the last twenty-four hours. He’s standing in front of a display case featuring what look like little charcoal bricks, along with a large mahogany-framed box on a stand with glass on four sides of it, and one of the same charcoal-like lumps inside.
“These are the Herculaneum scrolls,” West explains. “Found at this villa in a big library that was buried by Vesuvius. The scrolls were carbonized, so you can still see some of the text on their outer layers, but they can’t be physically unwrappedwithout crumbling. So this computer science research team has been taking CT scans of the scrolls—these little charcoal-like bricks—and developing methods to virtually unwrap them, then pick out the hidden text inside. It’s pretty mind-blowing.”
I would love to disagree. But, well, itismind-blowing.
And completely unrelated to my mission.
“Very interesting,” I say flatly, not revealing how interesting I actually think it is. But West seems to have forgotten I’m here as he continues to nerd out, talking mostly to himself about the power of technology and computer scientists to alter our understanding of human history and blah blah whatever. Maybe this is for the best. He can stay here and drool over carbonized papyrus while I go solve an actual problem.
I turn and start down the hall toward the administrative offices where I hope to find Dr. Constantini. But I don’t make it far before I hear footsteps fast-walking behind me and West reappears at my side.
“Okay, I feel like you didn’t really recognize what we were seeing there, and we should circle back to it before we go.”
“Sure, yeah,” I agree half-heartedly. He isnotthe one driving this bus.
When we get to a door marked with something in Italian that I think means “offices,” I open it with an air of authority that I do not possess, in my sneaker-clad feet and backpack that suddenly feels very first-day-of-kindergarten. But I hold my head high and approach the desk where a pretty young woman sits behind a computer.
“Buongiorno,” she says, followed by several more quickly uttered Italian words that I absolutely do not catch.
“Buongiorno…” I reply, then, dredging up what little LingoLegend has given me, “Tu parli inglese?”
“Ah, okay,” the woman says with an understanding smile. “Yes, what can I help you with?”
“I’m here to speak with Dr. Constantini,” I answer, not dropping the attitude of “I belong here and definitely know what I’m doing,” false as it may be.
The woman looks to her computer and clicks around, her head tilting daintily to the side. “You have an appointment?” she asks.
Presumably, she’s looking at a schedule and confirming for herself that no, I certainly do not. So I don’t try to bluff through this one.
“I don’t, but I believe he’ll want to see me. He’s an old colleague of my mother, Dr. Alexandra Lovett. Would you mind telling him that her daughter, Camilla, is here? I promise I won’t take too much of his time.”
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 hugand 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 ofwhat 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 whenshe 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.”
