Broken Chord by Margaret Moore Read Free Book Online Page A

but rumour had it that his injuries were so severe he might not make it.
    Piero kept an eye out for Marianna but didn’t see her on the way home. He guessed she was probably at the hospital, no doubt embarrassing the boy’s family. Well the problem had been solved for now. Roberto, even if he did live, would be out of action for some time and Madam would doubtless make sure that her daughter saw as little of him as possible. He swept into the drive and knew that the news he was bringing would be well received.
     
    Dragonetti was back at the open window smoking again. On the other side of the busy road were the massive walls of Lucca. They were unique, in that the whole of the old town was enclosed within their circumference, which had remained intact over the centuries. They rose, built with a warm coloured brick, compact, and surrounded by the wide, well-tended, lush grass field that had once been a moat, now reduced to a small stream. They were crowned with huge trees in full summer leaf now. The effect was spectacular and had stunned generations of tourists. The many spires of the churches and towers of notable villas were just visible and he knew some of them quite well now as he had spent a few of his lunch hours visiting them. Today he was going to visit theDuomo, San Martino. At lunchtime he left his office and went out into the heat. It was like walking into an oven, and within a few minutes he could feel his hair damp against his collar. He crossed the main road streaming with traffic and walked along past the fortified gate of St Peter until he came to a small path that cut through the field and led towards an invisible opening in one of the huge round ramparts. The walls were so big that there were roads inside them. An exhibition had been set up in there showing how Lucca had evolved over the centuries, with huge papier mâché knights on horses, maps of the town and boards with illustrated summaries of historical events. Baroque music played continuously in the background.
    He emerged from the tunnel and climbed up to stand on top of the tree-lined walls. It was a little cooler up here, and tourists cycled lazily on the bikes or tandems that were available for hire. He went down a flight of steps cut into the grass embankment, and into the town. When he reached the Duomo of San Martino he paused in the piazza to look at the façade. Intricately sculpted columns supported three asymmetrical arches that lined the front of the church. The facade then rose in three tiers above them. Entry was through a side door and he plunged into the dark interior of the church, grateful for the comparatively cool air. He made his way to the small, octagonal temple within the main body of the Cathedral, where the Volto Santo, the Sacred Countenance, could be viewed. He found a curious wooden statue, a thirteenth century replica of the original said to have arrived from the Holy Land, carved from a cedar of Lebanon, apparently depicting the true face of Christ, and executed by none other than Nicodemus, his contemporary. Although a crucifixion, the Christ wears a long robe-like dress and, he read in his guide book, ‘it is speculated it was originally the statue of a virgin who grew a beard to avoid an arranged marriage with the king of Sicily (thus inevitably losing her virginity) and who, as a consequence, was crucified by her father’. This strangely barbaric effigy of the Christ was annually decked out heavily with gold, though no longer carted about in a procession. Drago was not religiousbut did admire both sacred music, art and architecture. What he disliked intensely were pilgrims totting up the count of the shrines they had visited, as though that conferred extra virtue on them, and he had a real problem with the sanctimonious and evangelists.
    After paying extra he was admitted to the tomb of Saint Hilary, another virtuous woman, who had died young in childbirth. Her grieving husband had commissioned the tomb sculpted