“You realize that I can’t let you go straight away,” he said, as he ushered me back down the stairs to the cellar. It was dark now, but at least he was kind enough to lend me a torch.
“I can’t have Americans saying that I was inhospitable,” he said.
“How long do you need to keep me here?” I asked.
“Until my boss is satisfied that you are no threat to his business.”
“Did he kill Janine?” I asked.
“Leading question,” he replied, “and I told you I would answer one question, not two.”
Settling down next to my cardboard box came easy. I was tired. My head hurt and my mind was filled with pictures – pictures of Janine’s life, her love and then thoughts of Alessa.
Chapter 5 – The Absurdity of the Law
When you are found hanging onto the edge of a canal in the middle of the night, it causes suspicion. This area of Venice wasn’t one of the most refined and it was only by sheer chance of fortune that the police patrol boat shone its light in my direction. I could hear the voices of the officers on board and they seemed a much more colorful crowd compared with my fellow cops in New York. They talked in waves. The Italian language has a habit of doing that and as the boat approached, I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry as they waved their guns in the air and demanded things I didn’t understand. Okay, I am not a cry baby, but the water was wet, my head hurt and my stupid idea of walking along the ledges of the buildings to make my escape hadn’t happened like these kinds of escapes do in the movies. Instead, I hit the water with a thump that sang into the night air.
“No comprendo, no capisco!” I shouted, trying to hold one hand in the air to show I had no intention of fighting them. “Americano!” shouted one of them looking at another. This they didn’t expect and they pulled me onto their launch. I remember sitting with a blanket around me and thinking this was the most obscure way of enjoying the canals of Venice and that folks back home wouldn’t believe it. To every question, the same answer. “No capisco” seemed to work and I had them scratching their heads until I produced the brochure of the hotel where I was staying from my pocket. It was soaking wet but they could see straight away what it was and understood where I came from and deposited me back at the hotel, after consulting with base. Their boss didn’t want to talk to me unless I had some kind of complaint to make. I understood that much. Reclamo – reclamation – claim. It was fairly straightforward to work that much out. At least Marco was glad to see me and welcomed me back to this hovel that was my home.
I knew I had to get out of here. My presence had drawn too much attention and it wouldn’t be long before another visit. I could feel it in my bones. Marco felt my pain. He saw my wounded head, told me to dress and said he knew somewhere that I would be safe. I trusted him. Sometimes you trust strangers because you don’t have a choice. I chose to trust him because he was an innocent and because he had been happy to confide in me and share what he knew without any question as to who I was. Marco showed a kind of honesty you associate with those people who go through their lives trusting everyone and never actually being disappointed by life. He would one day get married, have kids and eat spaghetti for the rest of his life, but he didn’t want more than that.
The cops had said as they left that they would come by for statements in a couple of days. They don’t do immediate. Italians don’t get all up tight and nothing’s urgent. Instead they live in a kind of relaxed state of waiting, with loaded plates between time and a lot of talk. Marco, in comparison with his fellow Italians, was remarkably quiet by nature. Before leaving this hotel room, I wanted to be sure I was missing nothing at all. Where would an American hide something? I asked Marco to give me a little time to wash and dress as my clothing was soaked and I had blood coming from the wound. I needed to clean up.
Lying on the bed for a moment, I tried to put myself in her shoes. Where would she hide something that everyone was so intent on finding? There were the obvious places. Janine was from a rich New Hampshire family so I had to think in the way that New Hampshire people thought. Behind pictures was too obvious. Under rugs was also a little too amateur and Janine was certainly not amateur. Where would she hide something? I went to the window after my bath and it was at that moment that I realized what the window looked out on. No one would think to look outside. After all, there wasn’t anything there but water. But actually there was. This time I wasn’t going to take chances. I asked Marco to hold onto my legs as I swung myself up onto the windowsill and took a look toward the floor above. Yes! There it was. The kind of architecture that filled Venice to overflowing was sculpted with all kinds of decoration. This building was no different. Behind a ledge just above the window I placed my hand and reached along its length as far as I could. Wrapped in oiled paper, I pulled down what people must have been searching for. We didn’t stop to examine it. I placed it into my suitcase and followed Marco down the back hallway to where the servants and staff left the building. As we did so, I imagined – or perhaps I didn’t – voices in the corridor making their way toward my room.
Marco handed me an overcoat. The boat that took us from the building was low key. Boats like this floated almost unnoticed on the fancy canals of Venice as people were drawn toward the gondolas and didn’t seem to notice the world of business and of workers carrying on in tandem with the world of tourism. It was as if we were invisible. Marco looked worried. “You need the hospital to check that wound,” he said out of concern, but he needn’t have worried. I have a thick skull and his momma was quick to dress the wound and to fuss over me.
It seemed that the voices I had heard in the corridor of the hotel had been law officers, sent to bring me in for questioning. Marco had sneaked a look but hadn’t wanted to tell me for fear that my naivety would have taken me back to answer their questions. “You don’t know the absurdity of the law here,” he said. “They are backed by mafia money and you are safer here.”
In an ironic way, I had seen him as the innocent one, and yet here he was saving me from making a typical tourist mistake of trusting the law. That night, I lay my head upon a pillow of feathers that felt great. Marco’s momma was happy to welcome me and I wasn’t sure what Marco had told her. I was just glad that he had told her anything convincing enough to have received a welcome such as that. As I closed my eyes to the world, I had forgotten about the treasure. I had forgotten about my suitcase or the contents of it, and had instead drifted off into a world where Alessa was waiting for me.
In all reality, a woman like Alessa would never have been interested in a middle aged cop with a beer gut. She wouldn’t be in the slightest interested in his story or what made him into who he was, but as I slept that night, Alessa was more than interested in me. She waited for me and when my eyes met with hers, I knew that I could just as easily have drowned in them as I could have drowned in the canals of Venice on a cold autumnal evening had the cops not found me.
In a way it was absurd. The young cops had dropped me off and treated me like a tourist, though the cops that came back to the hotel were not the young ones. These were seasoned cops – cops on the mafia payroll who were searching for the one thing I had forgotten for the time being in favor of my thoughts of Alessa. The absurdity of the situation was that the law in Italy isn’t always what it seems to be.
I was learning that Venice was a city of shadows. Behind the shadows of respectability, there was a side to the city that you only got to see by complete chance. The roll of the dice had taken me there. Sleeping through the night, Alessa was next to me, and I felt as safe as I ever remember feeling in my life, the soft down of the pillow welcoming my head to the land where all things are possible.
Chapter 6 – The Awakening
Momma Amoretto didn’t’ speak American. In fact, she didn’t understand a word, but for her, it was simple. She read body language like a pro. This fat, little old lady had graying hair. She wore an apron and she used her hands a lot to express her thoughts. If you smiled,
you can be sure that Momma Amoretto would notice. If you looked worried, she picked up on it. Marco had left us and gone to work, but he had explained to her that I was to be kept under wraps and she knew how to do that. She was a wonderful cook and for the first time since arriving here, I could understand why Italian people love their food. Food for her was a ritual. It was a celebration of life and the number of people sitting around the table showed generations gathered with one aim – to enjoy her cooking.
After the relatives had dispersed and I was alone with Momma Amoretto, she offered me a cup of Italian coffee and I couldn’t resist, but I had unpacking to do. Marco had made it clear that this would be my headquarters and he was happy for me to use my room for my center of investigation. I needed to know what was in the package. Having not yet opened it, it occurred to me that there might be answers to Janine’s death lying within the waxed paper that I had retrieved from that ledge. I unrolled the package and there were two unfinished pictures. Momma Amoretto entered the room as I opened them. Her eyes lit up with recognition.
“Mio Dio!” she exclaimed holding her hands up to her face.
I knew odd words in Italian from phrase book reading on the plane, but the trouble was I couldn’t understand answers when they flowed so fluently and rapidly.
“Cos'è? Che problema c'è?” I asked her. What’s the problem?
“Michelangelo! Sono i bozzetti per la Cappella cistina!”
She lost me after the name. Of course, I knew who Michelangelo was, but hearing it in Italian was something else. I had to signal her to slow down. She was so excited. I have never really experienced this much animation on someone’s face before, especially someone old. It was as if God himself had answered her prayers. She picked one of them up in delicate fingers, held it close to her face and kissed it.
“Famosi?” I asked her. I hadn’t quite learned how to get words into sentences, but what I needed to know was how valuable these pictures were. The nearest word I knew in Italian was famous.
“Queste sono immagini sacre” she explained but she went further than that. She grabbed her Bible from the shelf and held it to her heart. I was beginning to be able to read body language and hers told me that these pictures had more value to them than any modern forgery ever could have done. Supposing they were real! Supposing that Janine Coulson wasn’t trading in copies any more but had actually taken the originals. No wonder everyone was seeking them. They must have been worth a fortune.
“Originali?” I asked her and once again she held one of them in her hands and moved it up to her lips.
“Sono bozzetti originali e di grande valore. La polizia pensa che questi erano stati persi per sempre.”
She raced to her desk and dug among papers that might even have been there for hundreds of years, passed down through the family. The dust within that desk was what gave the age of everything away. There were photos and newspaper clippings and she fumbled through them until she came to one that was dated 24th November 1983. There on the page was the exact image that lay on the bed. I couldn’t translate the article, because my Italian wasn’t that good, but Marco would be able to when he got home. For the time being, Momma Amoretto sat with me as I sipped Italian coffee and she looked in admiration at the pictures that lay out in front of her. She didn’t need to say much. As I said, she had taught me a lot about body language and hers was obviously awe stricken.
By the time that Marco came home, she was busy fussing over the evening meal and Marco read through the newspaper clipping. His eyes lit up as much as his mother’s had when he saw the drawings. “I don’t believe that she stole these,” he said. The sincerity within his eyes was obvious. “I think she was more likely to give them back.”
“What makes you so sure?” I asked. I wanted to understand what the pictures meant and why she had them in her possession at the time that she was killed.
“She talked to me about the Sistine chapel and her awe at the paintings there was obvious. I don’t think that she would have sold them off.”
“Would she have kept them for herself?” I asked. I had to ask really because someone who loves art for what it is often does that.
“No,” he said firmly. “She had too much respect to do that.” What these pictures seemed to do to everyone except me was a kind of awakening. They held them in such high esteem and seemed to worship the beauty of them. Personally, I couldn’t see it. I wanted to feel that awe, but I wasn’t one to be easily pulled into feeling that way. The only thing that had made me feel awed on this trip was my connection, albeit short, to Alessa.
Chapter 7 – Alessa
We had to find out more about Alessa and her connection to all that had gone on. The police had searched the building during the day and Marco said that I should go nowhere near it. There was a search going on and the fact that I had disappeared had added fuel to the fires that kept the law enforcement officers on the lookout. He had also seen the same man again that Janine had been connected to in the Dordosura area of the city. He had talked to the concierge and Marco had seen him from the window of the corridor where he worked. The man had not stayed very long, but one of the bellboys on another floor had alerted Marco to his visit. Among the bellboys, there was a certain solidarity. The man had been angry and the bellboy noticed that he had threatened the concierge, though Marco had no further information.
“You know where the guy lives don’t you?” he asked.
“I know where he works,” corrected Marco. “I saw him painting a copy of an oil painting the night that I followed him.”
“Are you sure it was him?”
“Yes, I am positive.” Marco declared.
“Can you show me where you saw him?” I asked.
“We can go together after the meal tonight. Momma is preparing a feast!”
When you are filled to brimming with Italian food, it’s not that clever to chase criminals. Later that evening I found that out as we crept up to the window where Marco had seen the man at his easel. This time, the man was in the wrong place at the wrong time and held a gun in our direction. He had been drinking and on the easel in front of him was a portrait of a woman, whose eyes haunted me to push my head nearer to the glass. It had been this intrusion that had alerted him to our presence. The man was drunk and it was unlikely that he would use the gun, though we had climbed up to the roof of the building and as we made our way down, one of the tiles slipped under my feet and I went tumbling toward earth. Marco climbed down and came to my rescue though once again, I was wet through and badly bruised.
“You are making a habit of this!” shouted Marco as he pulled me back onto the boat.
“Not intentionally!” I said and as I looked toward the alleyway next to the house, I saw her. Alessa was there. “Pull in!” I shouted and Marco did as I bid, but by the time I had reached the back of the alleyway, she had gone.
“Which house is his?” I asked. There was a confusion of windows and doors, steps and entryways. It was like a maze and I was getting pulled into it big time. I wanted to see her again. I wanted to know who she was. I wanted to know the part that she played in the killing of Janine Coulson.
“It’s the door over there,” he said.
“Do you want to come with me to translate?” I asked.
“I can do that, but it would look better for me if you held a gun to my back.”
This I could understand. If the hotel staff learned that he was in cahoots with me, that would be his job on the line and he needed his money in order to help subsidize his mother now that his father was dead.
I reached into my pocket. It seemed strangely alien to have a gun in my hand and seemed like a lifetime since the last time I had used it. Private investigators normally lurk in dark corners. They don’t come out in front of criminals. They take notes. They add up two and two and often make ten. I held the gun to his back and he knocked upon the door. I could smell her perfume. I could feel that she was somewhere near and it seemed to make sense that she was someho
w linked with this whole art thing, since she had been responsible the day that I was placed into that cellar.
“Non prendete il mio avvertimento!” shouted the man. Marco explained. He says you don’t take his warning. The man had his gun in his hand but was near to collapsing from too much alcohol. I pushed past him. I needed to see her and he was close on our heels.
“Cosa vuoi?” asked the man. What did I want? I wanted to know the connection between the painter, Alessa and Janine. “I am not your enemy.” I explained and Marco translated. “I am trying to find out the truth about the death of Janine Coulson.” I explained.
Alessa stood forward from the darkness of the room, her black eyes looking directly at mine. “You don’t want to know the truth. You just want a good story.” I was a little amazed that someone who had known me for such a short time could make such a statement. “You don’t know me,” I said. “I wish you did.” Alessa stared at me and signaled for us to come in. Marco had never seen her before, but somewhere etched in my mind. Alessa had become a part of my land of fantasy.
Chapter 8 – The Truth
“You say I don’t want to know the truth, Alessa, but you are wrong.” I explained. “You came to me as a stranger. You confided in me and then the next thing I know is that I am imprisoned in a cellar with the rats.” I said.
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