by Todd Borg
“Yeah, that would be a good place to start.”
“My buddies will think I’m no longer a real man if they hear Puccini on my stereo.”
“Better than having them discover that you don’t know what an engine is.”
We flew through the outskirts of Siena and continued south. Forty minutes later, we found our exit, a road that headed west across the valley and began to climb in twisty switchbacks up to Roccastrada. The countryside was beautiful, like the northern California counties of Marin and Sonoma and Napa.
Once we were outside of Roccastrada, the smaller road seemed designed to be a car-sickness testing track. Curves on top of the curves and hills on the hills and narrow passages that narrowed even more so that two motor scooters would have to touch handle bars to pass. There were stretches with drop-offs that would make a mountain donkey pause.
Street kept one hand gripped on the door handle and the other one up on the dash for support or, perhaps, crash resistance.
Street rolled down her window as we crawled through the medieval towns that graced every hilltop with a castle and a church and an accompanying cluster of buildings that served as homes, shops, and schools atop vertical fortress walls.
The single masterstroke of Italy’s formation in the 19th century - when someone had the idea that maybe all these city states could stop warring and get along - was for the new government to recognize that these towns, with all of their art and history, were the essence of what made Italy great. So the government made it mostly illegal to change them in any way. They created, in essence, the architecture police, the cultural police, the color police, the construction police, and the art police. The result was both a strangling bureaucracy and one of the most popular tourist destinations in the world, one that attracts millions of tourists who want to see what the Middle Ages looked like. Modern buildings in Tuscany are as rare as yurts and teepees in Midtown Manhattan.
We climbed up to Sassofortino, a group of stone buildings on very steep slopes. From there, we wound our way around to Roccatederighi, the town where, according to Professore Drago, the former mobster Bruno Valenti lived. He was now out on parole, living in solitude in an obscure hamlet that was a thousand years old and was almost hidden among hundreds of more spectacular tourist spots sprinkled throughout Tuscany.
As we approached Roccatederighi, there were amazing views of the fertile valley below. Stone buildings hugged the sides of the mountain. They each had a view that would give you thrills or vertigo. At times, the buildings were directly on the edge of the narrow road. If an approaching vehicle came at the wrong time and you veered an inch too far to the right, you’d rip off the side of your car on a stone wall.
Street had pulled up another map on her phone, and she gave me directions as I drove.
“When you come to the center of town, the road will make almost a U-turn to the right, at which point you turn left.”
Which I did.
“Drive the equivalent of a couple of blocks, and when you come to a small square with no exit, park.”
Which I did.
From the left turn in the middle of town, the streets were made of stone, no doubt laid down a thousand years ago. They were rough to drive on, but they didn’t require annual pothole repair. We got out of the Fiat onto a small stone plaza. Street pointed to a narrow, cobbled road, walled in by medieval buildings. The path climbed steep, erratic turns.
Although the stone walkway may have been the main drag a thousand years ago, it wasn’t big enough for any vehicle wider than a motor scooter. I raised my arms to my sides and was able to touch both walls with my palms flat on the stone. Two people could walk side by side only if they were coordinated on the uneven stones.
We went up the steep passage. Here and there were smaller side passages. Some went up at steep angles, and some went down at steeper angles. Many of the sloped passages were made of steps, but the steps were uneven and of varying heights. I caught myself thinking critically about the construction. Then I imagined myself as a stone laborer a thousand years ago. I could hear the monk in charge telling me, “Take your stone sledge hammer and chisel and cut this steep slope of granite into steps.” From that perspective, the steps were perfection.
We walked up a passage that was spanned by an arched stone stairway bridge. The bridge looked like a good path that would have a view over the walls of the city to the valley below. So we hiked around a lopsided, five-cornered block to access the arched bridge only to find it wasn’t there. We knew we’d been fooled by the multiple turns, but we couldn’t solve the puzzle. We tried to retreat and retrace our steps but found ourselves on yet a different street. Another time, a path curved up and around to join a higher passage only to become a dark tunnel going under a building. The passages were a three-dimensional maze with a fun but ominous tone. Dr. Seuss meets M.C. Escher.
Everywhere were pots of brilliant red geraniums celebrating spring in Tuscany. Most of the flowers flanked entrances, some with painted doors in green or red enamel and others made of weathered planks held together by hand-pounded bands of iron. They looked their age at a thousand years or so. Some of the doors had rounded tops. The windows were made of small panes of wavy, antique glass, and their frames and sills were free-form in shape, some straight, most a bit curved to fit the shapes of the stones that formed the walls. Frequently, the streets and passages went under rooms of buildings that stuck out from the main structure, additions added on in the only space that was left to expand, above the street. Those added rooms were often built only five and a half feet above the street. I wondered if the people intended to build passages that required people to duck. Then I noticed that some of the buildings were so short that the height inside the interior spaces couldn’t be more than five and a half feet tall. It was a dramatic indication that our species has grown a foot in the last millennium, a probable result of humans developing agricultural techniques that finally produced, for a sizable portion of the population, as much food as people wanted.
We climbed to the top of the village where an ancient church overlooked the town and the distant green pastures far below.
Street said, “According to my map, Valenti’s place should be close, but I don’t see any numbers at the various doorways.”
“An ex-mobster would have money, right?” I said. I pointed to a bare, clean wall of dark, forest green stucco. “There’s no number,” I said, “but it fits the location, and the style seems befitting of an ex-mobster, don’t you think?”
“I’ve never seen a mobster’s house,” Street said.
I looked at the expanse of wall. Inset into the green stucco was a large, lemon-yellow door. The paint was shiny enamel. On either side of the door were three windows in vertical rows. The windows were each made of multiple small panes, and the separating wood moulding pieces were also painted lemon yellow. The window panes were all wavy glass, whether actual antique or fake antique. Above the upper corners of the door frame were two wall sconces made of more wavy glass. On either side of the door sat two ceramic pots glazed in high-gloss yellow. In the pots were more red geraniums.
I walked over to the door. There was an elaborate brass knocker depicting a monk on his knees praying. I swung it three times. After a minute, the door opened.
A young man stood there, dressed in black jeans, black silk shirt, and black silk jacket. His thick arms hung slightly out from his sides, and his feet were apart in a typical, young man’s tough-guy posture. Although handsome, he was built like a backhoe with long limbs on a thick body that appeared asymmetrical, as if he’d once been severely injured and then put back together crooked. The left side of his jacket bulged at the armpit, partly because of his asymmetry and partly because of his large sidearm.
He said nothing.
“My name’s Owen McKenna, here to see Bruno Valenti.”
The man looked at me, his face unchanged. A garbage can would radiate more warmth.
He made a nod and shut the door.
We waited.
Two minutes later, the door reopened, and the young man was back. “Mr. Valenti doesn’t know you.” His English was good.
I tried to think of what might get us through the door. “Please tell him we have information about the Fuoco blu di Firenze.”
Another nod. He shut the door.
Two minutes later, he opened the door again and said, “Come in.” He gestured for us to go past him.
We walked into a hallway with a polished marble floor.
“Straight ahead,” the man said.
As we walked forward, there was a smell not unlike that in a hospital, a peculiar mix of antiseptic and something ozone from electric machinery.
“Turn left.”
The hallway was wide enough for three abreast, but the young man stayed behind us, a good strategy in case we got out of hand and he needed to shoot us in the back.
We turned and walked into a beautiful room with large windows and white walls that reflected the sunlight and made the room very bright. The polished oak floor was stained a golden tone and gave the room warmth. The windows must have been in the outer wall of not just the Valenti house but of the original fortress walls as well, because there was nothing outside but a spectacular view of the valley below.
To one side of the room, facing the windows at an oblique angle, was one of those couches designed for reclining, like the one where Olympia reclined in Manet’s famous painting. In place of a nubile seductress was an old man. He was as rotund as he was prostrate. His head was huge and bald, and his neck had fat rolls that went all the way around, a real-life version of the Michelin Tire Man. Clear, thin plastic tubes draped over his ears and dispensed oxygen beneath his nose. His wheezing was evident from a distance.
He looked permanently set in place as if he’d never move if he didn’t have to use the bathroom.
“Mr. Valenti, I’m Owen McKenna and this is my companion Street Casey. We’ve come from California to talk to you about the Blue Fire of Florence.”
THIRTY-ONE
“Maybe I heard it wrong,” he said in English with a touch of Bronx accent. His voice was soft and wheezing and breathy. He inhaled several times, then added, “My assistant said you came here to tell me of the Fuoco blu di Firenze. What is the information?”
I was trying to think of a plausible story. “Someone is committing murders back in the States, and we think he’s motivated by the diamond. So we’re tracking its movement from Florence during the Renaissance.”
“This is information? You are not telling me anything.”
“The implication being that the diamond does in fact exist. We hope to find out where it’s gone in the last several hundred years.”
Valenti made a snort.
As we’d driven to the town, I’d thought I might have to challenge his tough-guy reputation to provoke him. But Valenti began to speak, his wheezing the kind that made everyone else feel like they weren’t getting enough air.
“I was put in prison,” he said. “Inflated charges. The government is corrupt. The prosecutors are weasels. They dart out to attack when they think they have opportunity. The rest of time, they are in the hiding. They conspire to make me the blame for the corrupt action of the politicians. Now I am out of prison. I will not go back, even if it means I play their game. I know nothing about the Fuoco blu di Firenze. But if I did, they would take that and create a new false charge and put me back in the cell. There I would die. But I will die here. With my view. With my wine. No more prison. Ever. You tell me something interesting, I will listen. But if you have nothing to say, leave me for my peace.”
“When you suggest that you wouldn’t speak of the Blue Fire of Florence because of what might happen, you imply that you do in fact know something about the diamond.”
“You are a big irritation. Like the last person who asked me about the diamond. I know nothing!”
“Who was the last guy to ask you about it?”
“She. I do not know who was she. She annoy just like you.” Valenti squinted at me. His eyes reminded me of corroded metal.
I wondered if his statement referred to Scarlett Milo. “If I talk about the diamond and mention your name,” I said, “the prosecutors will start thinking about what else there is to learn from you. Maybe they call your parole officers. Maybe they say you’ve violated the conditions…” I let the statement hang. After a moment, I said, “But I have no interest in talking to anybody else if you answer my questions.”
“The libertà condizionata are the scum. They blame to me the crimes of others.” Even though Valenti could barely breathe, his voice was like a razor, his eyes suddenly sparking like fire. “And you would make them think it more? Get out!”
The young man stepped forward and grabbed my elbow.
I thought of stomping his foot and spinning around. There was a decent chance I could disarm him. There was also a chance I could get killed. And Street was in the room.
I turned slowly, and we walked out.
When we were out on the stone path and the door was shut behind us, Street said, “That was scary.”
“Yeah.” We walked down the sloped street, away from Bruno Valenti’s home, away from the ancient church that capped the top of the small mountain. In the distance behind us, I heard a motor scooter start up. But there was no revving of engine, no typical sound of acceleration.
“Hurry,” I said to Street. “Down the street, just past that intersection, there’s a passage on the left. Let’s go in there.”
We ran and turned in. It was a dark tunnel under an ancient building. A steep, stone stairway went up, then turned. We went up the steps and around the corner. The stairway emerged into a small open patio area. It was too narrow for sunlight to come down to the stones, but the sky above was blue.
“What are you thinking?” Street said, worry in her voice.
“The motor scooter. It could be Bruno’s man. It didn’t race away, but stayed idling. Like he was supposed to follow us. Like he was coasting behind us, waiting for an opportunity.”
“Opportunity for what?” Street’s voice had a tremolo to it. “You think he wants to hurt us?”
“Maybe. Follow me.” I ran across the patio into another short tunnel and stairway that went up to the street above. I took the steps two at a time. The steps came out at what seemed like a rooftop. But at the far side, there was a doorway arch that opened onto another, higher pathway. The paths were all part of a latticework of passageways that went back and forth across a steep slope. I waited as Street joined me. We stood silent. In the distance was the motor scooter sound, this time from below us. It shifted, then got louder as the engine revved. Climbing.
I took Street’s hand and led her up the stone pathway to a turn where we stopped in a dark corner. We were sheltered from most angles. On the upper side above us were tall stone walls. On the other side was the valley below. As we listened for sounds, we could see the dot of a farmer and his tractor, crawling across a distant field.
The motor scooter engine had gone silent.
Street must have noticed. She put her cupped hand behind her ear to aid her listening. She shook her head.
Maybe there was nothing to worry about. But in the next moment, I heard a scooter. Then it went silent. That didn’t make it a pursuit. It was obvious that old man Valenti didn’t like me. But that didn’t mean he intended to have me harassed.
I whispered to Street. “Let’s walk down this passage. I think it will intersect with one of the streets that go down toward where we parked. Just to be safe, let’s stay against the wall and…”
A chip of rock exploded from the wall and hit my cheek accompanied by the snap of small-arms gunfire.
THIRTY-TWO
I grabbed Street, spun her around, and we ran back the way we came.
Another shot went wide. A third shot blasted more rock chips from the wall next to us. The gunfire was loud, but the edges of the sound were muffled. The gunman had a silencer.
&
nbsp; There was a corner up ahead. I sprinted faster, dragging Street. I went around the corner, jerking on Street’s arm. It probably hurt, but she didn’t complain.
We ran down the passageway. The scooter engine revved. It grew louder as if the scooter were climbing up an invisible parallel passage toward us. Then the engine sound fell off. He must have made a sudden turn away from us.
I thought about the man as we ran. When we were inside Valenti’s house, he’d grabbed my elbow with his left hand, which suggested he was a lefty. That meant he could shoot at us while he kept his right hand on the throttle. The streets of Roccatederighi were confusing to us. But he would know where we had parked, and he would be able to search all the streets to find us.
We ran and came to a sheltered spot, walls rising high on both sides. We stopped, panting hard, waiting to hear if the scooter sound changed. The sound dropped off. But after a few seconds, it grew slowly. The sound bounced off the stone walls. I couldn’t tell which direction it came from, so I didn’t know which way to move. The engine pitch rose as the scooter came faster. Street’s hand gripped mine hard. I tensed, preparing to run, but I didn’t know if the man on the scooter would come out in some other part of the Roccatederighi maze. Maybe it was best to stay right where we were, relatively hidden, out of view from anywhere but the narrow path down below us or the narrow path up above us.
As I started to think that the man was on the other side of the building to our side, the scooter popped into view in the passageway below us. He raced up toward us at high speed, his gun raised. I spun Street around, and we sprinted back up the narrow road.
There was a muffled gunshot, then another, then another. He had a high-capacity magazine, and his silencer would ensure that few people would hear his rain of bullets. Of those who did, the reputation of his Mob boss would keep anyone from reporting it or even answering questions about it.
We ran up the stone road and saw another opening to the side. We ran into the passage and found it was another stairway that went up through a narrow passage and then popped out into open air.
