“Yes, those, too. According to this, Pietro Tradonico and his wife, Majella, were buried side by side on Poveglia. When they were disinterred, their bones were stored together in the same coffin then temporarily placed in the basement of the Basilica della Salute.”
Sam and Remi exchanged a glance. Here was the solution to the riddle’s last line,
“You said temporarily,” Sam said. “Does it say where the remains went after that?”
Signora Bernardi traced her index finger down the sheet, then flipped to the next page; halfway down the next sheet she stopped. “They were taken home,” she announced.
“Home? Where exactly?”
“Tradonico was Istrian by birth.”
“Yes, we know.”
“Members of the Tradonico clan came and took the bodies to their village of Oprtalj. That’s in Croatia, you know.”
Remi smiled. “Yes.”
“What they did with Tradonico and his wife once they reached Peroj we don’t know. Does that answer your questions?”
“It does,” Sam said, then stood up. Both he and Remi shook Signora Bernardi’s hand, then walked down the hall and out the front door, where she stopped them. “If you find them, please let me know. I can update my records. I doubt anyone else will ask, but at least I’ll have it written down.”
Signora Bernardi gave them a wave, then shut the door.
“Croatia, here we come,” Remi said.
Sam, who had been tapping on his iPhone, now held up the screen. “There’s a flight leaving in two hours. We’ll be there for lunch.”
Sam’s estimate was generous. As it turned out the quickest route was an Alitalia flight from Venice to Rome, then across the Adriatic to Trieste, where they rented a car and drove across the border and south to Oprtalj, some thirty miles away. They arrived in late afternoon.
Situated atop a thousand-foot hill in the Mirna Valley, Oprtalj had a distinctly Mediterranean feel, with terra- cotta pantile roofs and sun-drenched slopes covered in vineyards and olive groves. Oprtalj’s history as an ancient medieval fort showed itself in the town’s labyrinth of cobblestone streets, portcullis gates, and tightly packed, row- style buildings.
After stopping three times for directions, which came in either halting English or Italian, they found the town hall a few blocks east of the main road, behind the Church of Saint Juraj. They parked their car beneath an olive tree and got out and walked.
With only 1,100 inhabitants in Oprtalj, Sam and Remi were hoping the Tradonico family name would be renowned. They weren’t disappointed. At their mention of the former Doge, the clerk nodded and drew them a map on a piece of scratch paper.
“Museo Tradonico,” he said in passable Italian.
The map took them north, up a hill, past a cow pasture, then down a zigzagging alley to a garage-sized building painted in peeling cornflower blue. The hand-painted sign above the door had six words, most of them in consonant-heavy Croat, but one word was recognizable: TRADONICO.
They pushed through the door. A bell chimed overhead. To their left was an L-shaped wooden counter; directly ahead a twenty-by-twenty-foot room in white stucco and dark vertical beams. A half dozen glass display cases were situated around the room. Along the walls shelves displayed tiny sculptures, framed icons, and knickknacks. A rattan ceiling fan wobbled and creaked.
An elderly man in wire-rimmed glasses and a tattered argyle sweater vest rose from his chair behind the counter.
Sam opened the Croat phrase book he’d picked up at the Trieste airport, and opened it to a dog-eared page.
The man pointed a thumb at his chest. “Andrej.”
Andrej waggled his hand from side to side. “Little English. American?”
“Yes.” Sam nodded. “From California.”
“We’re looking for Pietro Tradonico,” said Remi.
“The Doge?”
“Yes.”
“Doge dead.”
“Yes, we know. Is he here?”
“No. Dead. Long time dead.”
Sam tried a different tack: “We came from Venice. From Poveglia Island. Tradonico was brought here, from Poveglia.”
Andrej’s eyes lit up and he nodded. “Yes, 1805. Pietro and wife Majella. This way.”
Andrej came out from behind the counter and led them to a glass case in the center of the room. He pointed to a framed wood-carved icon painted in flaking gold leaf. It showed a narrow-faced man with a long nose.
“Pietro,” Andrej said.
There were other items in the case, mostly pieces of jewelry and figurines. Sam and Remi walked around the case, inspecting each shelf. They looked at one another, shook their heads.
“Are you a Tradonico?” Remi asked, gesturing to him. “Andrej Tradonico?”
“
Sam and Remi had discussed this next part on the plane, but hadn’t decided how to handle it. How exactly did you tell someone you wanted to gawk at their ancestor’s remains?
“We would like to see . . . perhaps we could—”
“See body?”
“Yes, if it’s not an inconvenience.”
“Sure, no problem.”
They followed him through a door behind the counter and down a short hallway to another door. He produced an old-fashioned skeleton key from his vest pocket and opened the door. A wave of cool, musty air billowed out. Somewhere they heard water dripping. Andrej reached through the door and jerked down a piece of twine. A single lightbulb glowed to life, revealing a set of stone steps descending into darkness.
“Catacombs,” Andrej said, then started down the steps. Sam and Remi followed. The light faded behind them. After they’d descended thirty feet the steps took a sharp right and stopped. They heard Andrej’s shoes scuffing on stone, then a click. To their right a string of six bulbs popped on, illuminating a long, narrow stone passageway.
Cut into each wall were rectangular niches, stacked one atop the other to the twenty-foot ceiling and spread down the length of the passage. In the glare of the widely spaced bulbs, most of the niches were cast in shadows.
“I count fifty,” Sam whispered to Remi.
“Forty-eight,” Andrej replied. “Two empty.”
“Then not all of the Tradonico family is here?” Remi asked.
“All?” He chuckled. “No. Too many. The rest in graveyard. Come, come.”
Andrej led them down the corridor, occasionally pointing at niches. “Drazan . . . Jadranka . . . Grgur . . . Nada. My great-great-great-grandmother.”
As Sam and Remi passed each niche they caught glimpses of the skeletal remains, a jawbone, a hand, a femur . . . bits of rotted cloth or leather.
Andrej stopped at the end of the passageway and knelt at the bottom niche in the right-hand wall. “Pietro,” he said matter-of-factly, then pointed at the niche above. “Majella.” He reached into his pants pocket, withdrew a tiny flashlight, and handed it to Sam. “Please.”
