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“Sì. This is the 1805 government census data of Poveglia. When Napoleon ordered the island annexed the government hurried to erase its checkered past.”
“Which included the settlements established by Tradonico and his followers?”
“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, Together they rest.
“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. “Dobar dan.”
Sam opened the Croat phrase book he’d picked up at the Trieste airport, and opened it to a dog-eared page. “Zdravo. Ime mi je Sam.” He pointed to Remi and she smiled. “Remi.”
The man pointed a thumb at his chest. “Andrej.”
“Govorite li Engleski?” Sam asked.
Andrej waggled his hand from side to side. “Little English. American?”
“Yes.” Sam nodded. “From California.”
“We’re looking for Pietro Tradonico,” said Remi.
