“He’s a good person to help that man. And lucky for him you saw the whole thing and spoke up on his behalf.”
“That poor old man,” Leonardo said. “May he rest in peace.”
Vincenzo crossed himself earnestly as Leonardo did likewise. “I’m sure they’ll catch the mugger soon,” he soothed his wife.
“What could have been in that briefcase?” asked Leonardo.
“My guess would be jewelry,” answered Giselle. “He was well-dressed, though his suit was worn. I can’t image it was a random crime, since the mugger apparently had bolt cutters.” Giselle smiled wanly and turned to Vincenzo. “I can use some good news. Were you able to save the rainforest today?”
“Actually, at this moment we’re paying off a large portion of Caapiranga Brazil’s debt to buy back part of the Amazon’s land rights, which we’re handing over to their Nature Conservancy.”
“Well done! That’s so exciting!” She brightened. “Hey, while your mother is still here in Paris, let’s ask her to make taglietelle alle verdure to celebrate your rainforest coup. Please…” She put her hands together as if praying.
Vincenzo tapped a button to call his mother, and she answered after the first ring.
“Ciao, Vincenzo.”
“Are you busy, Mama?”
“Not at all. Just dictating some correspondence to Ippy. Where are you?”
“I’m done working for the night, and Giselle is in the car with me. Can you make us some pasta, and we’ll tell you about our day?”
“Sì, you know I would love to. Come straight to my house.”
Giselle mouthed, “Taglietelle.”
Vincenzo dutifully requested, “Mama, Gigi wants taglietelle.”
“Sì, taglietelle alle verdure. And invite Leonardo, unless he is flying back to Venice tonight.”
“He’s coming with us. Grazie, Mama.”
“You know it is my pleasure.”
Markus Shevchenko walked out of the police station a free man. Deciding to walk home, he headed down unfamiliar avenues toward the outer edge of the Eleventh Arrondissement heading toward the neighborhood near the Cimetière du Père Lachaise. As he walked, he kept replaying the crime in his head, and wrestled with his fury at the mugger’s escape. He’d been able to tackle the kid from behind and yank the briefcase out of his grasp, but the kid had gotten back to his feet and rounded the corner, just before the police arrived. He was incredibly lucky Giselle Verona had vouched for his innocence.
Arriving at the stout little factory his friends had renovated, he unlocked the old door and stepped inside calling out, “Ivar? Yvania? I am home.” He closed and locked the door and inhaled deeply. Ahhhhh, home cooking… He smiled and headed straight down the back hall to the kitchen.
“Dinner is just ready.” Yvania whisked a clay casserole dish from the oven. “I have made the most beautiful fish.” She was the quintessential mother, with her apron wrapped around her stout body, her twinkling eyes, and an old-fashioned bun perched on the top of her head. He’d always imagined she was what his own mother might have been like.
“It smells wonderful. I must tell you about my day.”
“Come. Sit,” Ivar said as he set glasses on the table and poured each of them some of Yvania’s fresh uzvar.
“Did you find a wife?” Yvania began serving as soon as they were all settled around the table. “You know I am needing a baby to bounce and to sing to.”
“Always the matchmaker,” Ivar sighed.
Markus was so used to her constant plea for him to find love, he ignored her question and took a bite of the whitefish and red peppers. He always appreciated Yvania’s ability to raise old-fashioned meals to the level of gourmet.
“Mmmm, this tastes like when we vacationed at the Dnipro River. Do you remember that party on the shore?”
“Your father caught the biggest carp.” Ivar smiled. “So, what of your day?”
As they ate, Markus told them what happened in the Metro and the police station, lingering over the description of his outspoken defender.
“Countess Giselle Verona made the police let you go?” Ivar asked.
“Oh!” Yvania became animated. “She is everywhere! She is in magazines for her art and her style and her charity! I cannot wait to tell the ladies at the market!”
“Da. She is a woman of strong convictions, and she does look like a magazine cover.”
“I am glad that you are not in trouble with the police. Murder would have you in prison for life, I think,” Ivar said while refilling their glasses. “Many people would not go to the trouble of speaking up for you.”
“I am going to make her a gift of thanks.”
“True, you must thank Giselle,” Yvania agreed as she cleared the table.
Ivar’s brows shot up. “You refer to a countess by her first name?”
“She is famous as ‘Giselle.’ Everyone in Paris calls her by her first name.”
“I tell you, she is the most unforgettable woman.” Markus’ mind drifted back to the Metro.
“Yes, that is what all the magazines say,” Yvania agreed. Her tone brought his attention back to the kitchen, and Markus ducked as she swatted at him. “Ach! Silly! She is not for you! She is married, and the Veronas are the golden couple. So much in love is what everyone says. Vincenzo, her Italian husband, he is tall and dark and handsome and…a count!”
“Markus, do not go and break your own heart.” Ivar looked worried. “If she is so beautiful as you say, her looks have confused you. Made your brain fevered and you do not think right.”
“The debt I owe her for my freedom is very large,” he reasoned
Yvania tapped him on the top of his head as she took his empty plate. “You are infatuated.”
“I will go into the workshop now and make her a small gift.”
“You know, she is artist like you. She makes sculptures everyone is talking about. She will love your beautiful art!”
Markus got up, kissed Yvania on the cheek, and headed down the hall. He recalled the vision of Giselle walking so elegantly through the crowded station, and her enticing perfume that enveloped him when he had his arm around her waist.
CHAPTER
2
Giselle moved down the upstairs hall of the mansion, just out of her husband’s reach. Vincenzo was making sweeping motions behind her, herding her along so she wouldn’t make him late. The morning sun dappled between the silk curtains, and the sound of their footsteps was swallowed by the lush carpet runners.
“Giselle, what happened to your clothes? You were dressed at breakfast.”
“Oh, I changed my mind and ran back up to put this on.”
“Where’s Marcella?”
“She already dressed me once this morning. I can manage.”
“It’s what she does, darling.”
“Oui, but she’s already left for her appointment with the seamstress.”
Hustling along partially dressed, she was too busy giggling at Vincenzo’s little swats to pull herself into a presentable state. He pulled her to a stop, zipped up her sleek Versace dress, and then spun her around to face him for a quick kiss. She stroked his perfectly adjusted tie.
“You look ready to buy back the rest of the rain forest.”
Her husband was easily the most beautiful man Giselle had ever seen, breaking hearts with just a smile since she’d first laid eyes on him in high school. His features were even, classical perfection, but the most magnetic thing about Vincenzo were his big brown eyes. They were ringed with such thick, dark lashes he reminded her of the romantic leading men from old movies.
“Gigi, come now, andiamo. I can’t be late for my meeting.”
He gave her bottom a little smack to encourage her forward, and then began delivering light smacks in time with their strides descending the staircase. Smack, step, smack, step. Giselle playfully defended herself with her purse and shoes. She stopped at the front door and set her shoes before her feet. Vincenzo deftly held her hand and s
teadied her as she stepped into her ruby satin pumps. Their butler, Dinofrio, held the door open for them.
“Arrivederci,” he murmured.
“Arrivederci, Dino,” they replied in unison.
Just as they stepped out into the sunshine, her cell phone rang from deep inside her tote, and she stopped to fish for it. Vincenzo stopped beside her, waiting.
Retrieving her phone, she saw it was her supply foreman. “Alo, can you hold on a moment?” She jutted her chin toward the waiting car. “You go on, it’s Wilbur. I’m going to have to go back up to my desk to go over my sculpture materials with him.”
“Okay. Are you seeing Mama before she goes back to Venice?”
“Later today I’m going to meet her to get some shoes made.” Dinofrio was still holding the door for her as she blew Vincenzo a kiss. “See you at dinner.”
“Sì, ciao bella.” He blew a kiss back.
Fifteen minutes later she stepped back outside and paused on her top step to enjoy the feel of the morning. The early fall sun was breaking through the morning haze, and a light breeze blew off La Seine with a mixture of wet river smell and boat fumes. Turning toward the street, she realized a man holding a gift-wrapped box had appeared at the bottom of her steps. It took her a second to recognize the Good Samaritan from the Metro.
“Oh! Uh…umm…” she tried to recall if she’d heard his name at the police station.
“Markus,” he finished for her with a smile. “Bonjour.” He offered the box to her. “I did not mean to scare you, Countess. I made a gift for you.”
“Oh, no one uses that title for me. Please call me Giselle.” She was charmed by his heavy Eastern European accent and found herself admiring his startling blue eyes, then realized he was waiting for her to say something else. “How do you know where I live?”
“I learned that you are very famous, and I used Google. Is it true that you are a countess?”
She wrinkled her nose at the word “famous,” and brushing away her usual hesitancy around new people, she walked down the steps to join him on the sidewalk.
“Well, yes, I am a countess by marriage. But most people use the family title in reference to my mother-in-law.”
“Ah, I see. I wanted to give you a gift of thanks…for…for my freedom. It is not much, but I made for you last night.”
She didn’t reach out for the gift. “Markus, this is so sweet. But, there’s no need. Really.” A bit uncertain at accepting a gift from a stranger, she rocked on the balls of her feet, her heels clicking on the concrete. “I’m just glad you aren’t in trouble with the police.”
He once again extended his arms, offering the box without crowding her.
“Well, you’re very thoughtful.” She paused a moment, then dismissed her reservations and took the box from him. “Thank you.”
“I see you are going someplace, but maybe you have time for a coffee?” He lifted his brows and flashed her a beautiful white smile. She couldn’t help but smile back.
“I was just going to an art exhibit, but a coffee would be nice.” She looked over her shoulder into the courtyard where her car and driver were waiting and gave a wave of dismissal.
Markus offered her his arm, and she took it, happy that there were no photographers lurking around. Their pace was slow as they talked about yesterday’s events, each filling in what the other had missed. She pointed to an orange-and-black awning as they approached it.
“This little bistro is good.”
He opened the door for her, and she allowed him to guide her toward a booth. Sliding into a seat across from him, she took the opportunity to study Markus again. She wondered if he used an electric shaver on his hair each morning; it was so perfect. He wore the same style of clothes as the day before—a neatly pressed, grey button-down cotton work shirt, lightweight charcoal pants, and black work boots that had an old-fashioned practicality to them. She had the impression he gave as much thought to dressing for the day as he would putting on a uniform. He had an easy confidence that made her feel relaxed, too.
Their waiter approached and stopped mid-stride when he saw Giselle. He fumbled his order pad, almost dropping it.
“B’jour, ah, what, ah...what would you like?” he stammered, as if he was asking for her phone number.
“Café crème.”
“Heh, heh,” the waiter giggled awkwardly. “Café, oh right, oh good. I…I really like it. You’ll like it.” He took a deep breath and did a forced half-turn toward Markus, who ordered the same.
As the waiter departed, Markus glanced after him and then back to Giselle. “Very nervous.”
He placed his hand lightly on the box in front of her. “Thank you for helping me, Giselle. Without you, I could be in jail for murder.”
“I was glad to speak up, Markus.”
Giselle took the package, removed the bright blue ribbon and crisp white paper, and opened the box to reveal soft blue velvet swaddling. She slipped her fingers into the folds and found a delicate creation of metal and etched glass. Holding it up to the light, she was astonished.
“You made this?”
“I hope you like. You are a great artist, so if you like it, I am happy.”
“Oh, I’m no great artist. I’m just an artist. But this is incredible! How do you create something like this?”
“I show you how I make anytime. I very much want to see your art. I have only seen little pictures on the Internet.”
“Um, when can you show me?” She swept a piece of hair away from her eyes.
“If you want, we can go to where I make art now. It is also where I am living with some friends.”
Their coffee arrived, and Giselle watched as Markus busied himself with his cup, adding a spoon of sugar and stirring with precise movements. She glanced from the exquisite piece to Markus’ strong hands. Could hands like those make something like the object of sleek metal strands and etched glass she was holding? Giselle found herself grinning. This was a thrill! She held up his creation and looked at her talented new friend through the prisms of glass fragments.
“Okay. Now is good.”
“What about your plans for the day?”
“I’ll go to the museum another time. Seeing how you made this will be much more interesting than an art exhibit. Later today I’m meeting my mother-in-law, but that’s not for a while yet.” She set the little sculpture on the table between them and prepared her coffee. “So Markus, I haven’t been able to place your accent. Where are you from?”
“Guess.”
“Well, you sound a bit like someone I knew from Romania.”
“No. Would you like to make a second guess?”
“Hmm…Latvia?”
“Latvia? Ha! What a guess. Latvia. No.”
She bobbled her head, thinking. “Belarus?”
He sat back against the leather banquette. “Ukrayina. I am from some kilometers outside a village called Zalishchyky.”
“Ah! You’re Ukrainian. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone from there. What’s it like?”
“Very beautiful. Endless pastures and forests.”
“Sounds peaceful.”
“Not all of the country, but where I come from, it is.”
“How long have you been in Paris?”
“Two weeks.”
“How long will you be here?”
“I have no plans to leave. I have a work visa to help restore the windows in some buildings on Boulevard de Ménilmontant. But the permits are delayed, so I have not started that work yet.”
“Hmmm, did you always want to come here?”
“No, but I lost my father recently. We were very close. His friend, Ivar, invited me to come to Paris to live. So I live here now with Ivar and Yvania.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Markus.”
“Thank you. Ivar was my father’s teacher, and my teacher also. I lived with my father and worked with him in his stained glass business. But now he is gone, and I am here.” He smiled and gestured around the hip c
afé.
She picked up the fragile piece again. “Your father’s business was making things like this?”
“No,” he chuckled. “We made windows for churches and for castles with a technique we learned from Ivar. It is very special and very old. That was our business. Making things like this,” he pointed at the piece in her hands, “is not a way to make money I think…but it makes me happy.”
“Oh, I think you could make quite a lot of money selling pieces like this.” She raised an eyebrow. “You may be surprised what people would pay for this piece. An object d’art like this could start a bidding war at auction.”
“Oh, well, then I must get back to my workshop right away. I am late for making myself rich.” Markus puffed up his chest and leaned forward with an eyebrow arched seriously. Then, unable to maintain the facade of self-importance, he gave up the pretense, leaned back, and laughed lightly.
“Are your friends artists?”
“Not artists, no. Ivar is retired. Yvania is retired also, but still does some work here for the Ukrainian Embassy. She says her new job is to find me a wife.” He rolled his eyes. “You have matchmaking women in France too, right?”
“Doesn’t every culture?”
They finished their coffee and Markus paid the bill, then he escorted Giselle out to the street and hailed a taxi.
“Now, we go to see my work.”
Salvio awoke atop the unyielding surface of his bed within the solitude of his austere, putty-colored room. He was in a good mood until he began to move his legs, and his breath caught as crystal shards of pain shot through his feet and ankles. The fact that God had afflicted him with gout wounded him deeply. It went far beyond the physical discomfort, which he could overcome. But as God’s chosen one, Salvio was bitter about being tested. He forced an exhale through gritted teeth, and then swung his legs over the side of the bed. Pushing himself to stand, he tottered painfully and then began grunting his way through deep knee bends, flexing forward on the balls of his feet. He would eradicate this corporeal weakness through pain.
Stealing Venice Page 3
