by Donald Bain
“But from what you’ve told me, it doesn’t sound as though it was.”
“No, I think it was deliberate,” I said as I settled in a chair by the window.
“Then we must take every step possible to protect you while in Rome,” he said. “I will call the police and demand that they provide twenty-four-hour guards.”
“Oh, no, Tony. I really don’t think that’s necessary. Maybe it was an accident.”
“Still, better to be safe. They owe you protection, considering the reason you are here. I’ll call Maresca and Lippi.”
He used his cell phone to place the call, reached Lippi at police headquarters, and told him what had happened, speaking mostly in Italian. After he’d hung up, he said, “They will assign security for the duration of your stay, Jessica.”
I was in no mood to argue and simply said, “Thank you.”
“You must rest,” Curso said.
I nodded. I was having trouble keeping my eyes open.
“I will cancel dinner plans,” he said.
“That’s not necessary,” I said. “I’ll be fine after a nap. You said you had a surprise for me.”
“I do. I did. Perhaps you are not up to it.”
“No, I’ll be fine. Just let me rest. Give me half an hour?”
“I’ll call you in an hour. Rest now. I will see you later.”
I heard him close the door and breathed a sigh of relief. As much as I enjoyed his company, I needed time alone to sort out what had occurred that day. I couldn’t be sure, of course, that the young man who knocked me down was one of the two men at the church. I’d caught only a fleeting, blurred glimpse of him. What stayed with me was the cruel smile on both men’s faces. While others scrambled to help me, they’d exhibited smug pleasure at what had happened. Why would anyone do that—unless my plight was the result of a deliberate act on their part?
Aside from a slight stinging sensation where my head wound had been stitched, I was surprisingly pain free, despite not having taken any of the medicine given me at the emergency room. All in all, I felt pretty good considering what I’d just gone through, which fortified my decision to go through with dinner that night.
After dozing off in the chair for a little while, I got up, took my arm out of the sling, and gingerly moved my shoulder. Not bad, not bad at all. Maybe New England’s fabled stoicism was at work.
I wondered where and when the uniformed security Curso said would be provided was going to show up. I didn’t relish the idea of having armed guards, no matter how discreet they might be. Would they be in uniform, or would plainclothes officers be assigned? I abandoned that question to focus on my appearance. Another trip to the mirror wasn’t comforting. I decided to carefully remove the compression bandage and see if I could fashion something less conspicuous. It took a few minutes to peel it away, and the resulting image wasn’t nearly as bad as I had imagined it would be. The surgeon had done a skillful job with the stitches, and aside from some mild swelling and a bluish green hue, the wound wasn’t grotesque. Hopefully we’d have dinner in a dimly lit restaurant.
I watched a portion of a John Wayne western with Italian subtitles, then got in the shower, careful to avoid disturbing the wound, and dressed for the evening. I elected to go out sans the sling but tucked it in my large purse in case my shoulder started aching later.
Curso came to my room and escorted me downstairs to where his rented red Ferrari waited at the curb.
“How are you feeling?” he asked as he settled into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition key.
“Surprisingly well,” I said.
“That’s wonderful to hear, Jessica. I would hate to think of you going through the evening in pain.”
“I have some pills if I start to hurt, but I don’t expect I’ll need them. Now, where are we going, and what is this surprise you mentioned?”
“To answer your first question, we are going for an early dinner in the town of Calcata, thirty miles north of the city.”
“Calcutta? I know I blacked out this afternoon, but I didn’t think I’d gone to India.”
His laugh was gentle as he skirted a traffic tie-up by turning off the main road and racing down a narrow side street. “Not Calcutta, Jessica. Calcata. It’s a most interesting town, perhaps the grooviest village in all of Italy.”
“‘Grooviest’? You make it sound like some sort of hippy commune.”
“Exactly what it is. Hundreds of unusual characters, including many fine artists and performers who live and work there. The village was condemned by the government back in the thirties because officials were convinced that the cliffs on which it sits were ready to crumble. Inhabitants were forced to build a new town about a half mile to the north, and the old town was abandoned for years until artists and other bohemians decided to ignore the government’s warning and started moving in. These new Calcatesi have rejuvenated the village.”
“Evidently the government’s fears were unfounded,” I said.
“So far. As of today, the old village is still standing, inhabited by an eclectic mix of people. I thought you might enjoy seeing a part of Italy that most tourists miss.”
“I’m always open to seeing new things,” I said as he took a corner at a speed that caused the car to tip a little. “Would you please slow down, Tony?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I forgot I have a patient with me.”
I contented myself with taking in the passing countryside as we traveled on a highway—the sign said it was the Cassia Bis—and finally came to a stop at an open gate that was too narrow for a vehicle to pass through. Curso turned off the engine, looked at me, and smiled. “We’re here,” he announced.
“We can’t drive any farther?”
“Afraid not. We leave the car here and walk into the village.”
My silence reminded him that I might not be up to taking a walk, especially considering that the cobblestone lane was uphill.
“If you are not able to walk, Jessica, I certainly understand. I should have taken that into consideration.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said, hoping that I would be.
“We’ll walk slowly, take our time. We have the whole night ahead of us, huh?”
I hoped not, but I didn’t argue. I’d been looking for signs of the security detail but saw no one who fit that bill. I asked Curso about it and he said, “They will be discreet, Jessica. Good security officers fade into the background.”
I looked back in the direction from which we’d come in search of someone who might qualify as a security officer, but we were alone.
“Did you tell the police that we were coming to this town?” I asked.
“No.”
“So how would they follow us?” I asked, thinking of the speed at which Curso had driven.
“They have their ways,” he replied. “Not to worry, Jessica. You’re in very good hands.”
“If you say so,” I said, not brimming with confidence.
We set off up the path at a slow gait, stopping now and then for me to rest, although I really didn’t need to. I was feeling fine, so we picked up the pace until we reached a small plaza amid a jumble of ancient stone buildings that appeared to be built one atop the other. Curso said the town dated back to at least the thirteenth century, and from the looks of it, it might have been even older. At the center of the plaza was a small provincial church, which we stopped to admire.
The plaza was lively. Outdoor cafés were crowded with an assortment of men, women, and children. Some of the men wore saris and sported long ponytails. The attire of their female companions ran the gamut from jeans and T-shirts to floor-length flowered dresses from another era. I noticed one couple in pajamas enjoying a drink in a café. A man put on a puppet show, and two guitarists competed at cafés opposite each other. Everywhere were signs advertising art galleries, many tucked away down tiny streets off the plaza, others on the square itself with outdoor displays of the artists’ latest works.
“Hungry?” Curso
asked.
“As a matter of fact, I am,” I reported.
“Good. I’ve made reservations at a charming restaurant, Grotta dei Germogli, owned by a friend, Pancho Garrison. He’s an American. His partner, Paul Steffen, was a dancer and choreographer in Hollywood during its heyday. His stories about the great stars he knew are always amusing. Don’t let the surroundings throw you off, Jessica. It’s in a cave lined with mosaic tiles. But the food is good—nouvelle Italian, I suppose you could call it.”
“And of course you know the bartender there,” I said playfully.
“The owner mixes the drinks. He’s quite good at it, although I suggest we stick to wine. Come, it’s only a short walk.”
The restaurant certainly was built inside a cave. You had to duck to enter through the cave’s mouth, and the space between tables was just enough to slide by sideways. Curso was greeted by his friend, the owner, and we were seated in the deep recesses of the space. A few other tables were occupied by tourists who spoke Italian. “Calcata is a favorite getaway for Romans,” Curso explained. “For them it’s like traveling to a different world only thirty miles away.”
Our dinner was excellent. The owner insisted that he choose the menu for the evening—I’m not sure what all the ingredients were, but the result was tasty and not heavy, for which I was grateful. The only problem was that sitting for more than an hour in a cramped space caused my shoulder to begin to throb, not to the point that I pulled out the sling, but enough to cause me to shift position frequently.
We eschewed dessert and stepped out of the cave into a pristine evening. Guitar music led us back to the plaza, where even more people crowded into the cafés or sat on many benches ringing the area.
“Up for another walk?” Curso asked.
“The surprise you mentioned?”
“Yes.” He took my hand. “Come. It isn’t far. It’s called Giancolo Hill, near the church of Santa Maria di Loreto and the American Academy. There’s someone there that I want you to meet.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said, and we left the plaza and went down a street that gradually became steep.
“You’re all right?” Curso asked frequently.
“Yes, although my shoulder is beginning to protest. I think I’ll put on my sling.”
We stopped as I placed my arm in the sling. It worked, taking the pressure off and alleviating any pain I’d been feeling.
Ten minutes later, we came to the entrance to another cave that had been turned into a living area. Curso stuck his head through the entrance and yelled, “Hey, Vittorio. It’s me, Tony Curso.”
I looked past Curso into the cave, which was illuminated by oil lamps and candles. Curso repeated his call. Soon, an imposing figure filled the interior of the cave and emerged. He was a mountain of a man, easily three hundred pounds, who towered over me and the shorter Curso. Vittorio had a salt-and-pepper beard that reached his chest, and hair of the same color flowed down over his shoulders. His brown eyes were watery and puffy, with fleshy bags hanging beneath them. He wore a badly stained pair of brown farmer’s coveralls over a T-shirt that had been white many years ago. His large feet were encased in sandals.
He squinted at Curso, then at me, before grasping Curso in an embrace that threatened to smother my friend. “Hey, Curso. What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice eroded by too many cigarettes, cigars, and, I presumed, alcohol.
“What, you aren’t glad to see me?” Curso asked.
“Oh, yeah, sure, I am always glad to see my rich American fan.” He looked at me. “You have a new girlfriend, huh? You beat her up?”
“She’s not my girlfriend, Vittorio. She’s Jessica Fletcher. She writes books, murder mysteries, good ones, big sellers.”
Vittorio extended a hand the size of a ham and enveloped mine. “He tells the truth?” he asked. “No girlfriend?”
“No, I’m not his girlfriend,” I said.
“I need a girlfriend,” Vittorio said through a loud rumble of a laugh. “Maybe you stay around, huh, be my girlfriend.”
Curso saved me from responding. “So, Vittorio,” he said, “I’ve come, like I promised I would, and brought this lovely lady with me.”
I was confused about what was going on. Was Vittorio the “surprise” Curso had promised? If so, I couldn’t imagine why he would have thought that my meeting his friend was worth the trek to Calcata.
“Benvenuti, come in,” Vittorio said, stepping aside to allow us to enter his cave. I had a momentary fear as I entered that I would find a colony of bats hanging upside down above me, or would hit my head on one of the stalactites suspended from the ceiling. Both fears were unfounded, of course, simply the result of my too vivid imagination at play.
We followed Vittorio from the small outer room into a vastly larger space, off which two other smaller areas were visible.
“Welcome to my home,” Vittorio said. He noticed me attempting to peer into the other rooms and said, “Just my bedroom. The other is for storage. You want to see?”
“No, thank you.”
Because of what Curso had told me about the town of Calcata and its attraction for artists, I’d entered assuming that our host was an artist. Once I was inside the main part of the cave, my assumption was verified. It was the quintessential painter’s studio, replete with multiple easels, shelves lined with tubes of oil paint, dozens of brushes, and an array of canvases piled against one another along the walls. Unlike the lighting in the entryway, here the illumination was electric, a succession of bare bulbs strung from the ceiling and across two of the stone walls.
“Here, sit down,” Vittorio said as he unfolded three battered director’s chairs and positioned them around a small table. “Drink?”
“A martini, cold, dry, and shaken,” Curso said.
Vittorio laughed heartily. “You still drink those fancy drinks, huh, Tony? None of that here. Grappa or Genepi, take your pick.” He held up a bottle of what he said was grappa, its contents clear as water.
I looked at Curso, who said, “An acquired taste, Jessica. Fermented peels, grape stems and seeds, potent stuff.”
“Nothing for me, thank you,” I said.
Vittorio held another bottle in front of me. “Maybe some Genepi, huh? It’s from the Alps, the Aosta Valley. Good stuff. Puts hair on your chest.”
I grimaced. Vittorio laughed. Curso said, “You have water, Vittorio?”
To my relief he produced an unsealed bottle of spring water, uncapped it, and poured it into three glasses that appeared to be relatively clean.
“To the beautiful lady,” Vittorio said, raising his glass in my direction. Curso matched his gesture.
“So, Tony, you got my message,” Vittorio said, downing his water in one swallow and refilling his glass from the grappa bottle.
“Yes, I did,” Curso responded. “That’s why I’m here. You’re serious?”
Vittorio’s expression changed. Until that moment he’d had a sparkle in his eyes and an almost perpetual hint of a smile on his lips, at least the portion of them that I could see behind the beard. Now he turned solemn and lowered his head, deep in thought.
“It’s a big decision,” Curso said.
Vittorio slowly shook his head. When he raised it, he said, “I’ve had enough, you know? These sanguisughe are too greedy, Tony. They would steal from their own mothers.”
Curso noticed my puzzled expression and said, “He calls them bloodsucking leeches, Jessica.”
“Who?”
“The Mafia.”
I looked at Vittorio. “He’s—?”
“No, no, Jessica. Vittorio is not one of them. But he has worked for them.”
If he worked for them, wasn’t that the same as being one of them? I silently questioned.
Vittorio started to say something but stopped, looking at me as though it was the first time he was aware of my presence.
“It is okay that she is here,” Curso said. “We are working together, writing a book.”
�
��Actually,” I said, “we’ve only discussed that possibility.”
“A book, huh?” said Vittorio. “You better not put me in it.”
“Not by name,” Curso reassured him. “Never by name. But your story will make the book a bestseller.”
I’d become impatient at the vague references being bandied about and now asked, “Just what is your story, Vittorio?”
The big man looked at Curso, who’d struck a cavalier pose in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, a small smile on his face. “Tell her, Vittorio,” he said.
Vittorio’s response was to haul himself up out of the director’s chair, which had sagged beneath his weight, and motion for me to follow him. He went to a far wall of the cave where dozens of framed oil paintings were stacked vertically against one another. He picked up one and held it for me to examine. It looked like the work of some old master, but I couldn’t identify the artist. I must admit that while I appreciate fine art, I’m not well versed in it. The subject was a pretty young woman draped in a gossamer robe that allowed a veiled view of her naked body. Cherubs seemingly floating in the air above looked down on her.
“What do you think, huh?” Vittorio asked in his deep, gravelly voice.
“It’s very nice,” I said. “Did you paint this?”
“Si, I painted this.”
“You’re very talented,” I said.
“So was Gozzoli,” Vittorio said.
“I don’t know that name,” I said.
“Benozzo Gozzoli, an artist from the mid-fifteenth century,” Curzo said from where he sat. “He was pupil and assistant to Fra Angelico. Very prolific, best known for his series of murals in the Palazzo Medici.”
“This particular work is very different from his usual settings and subjects,” Vittorio said. “Like most Italian Renaissance painters, he focused on religious subjects, but he had his lecherous side, too,” he added, winking at me. “This painting represents that side of him. It was probably hidden in a closet or beneath his bed.” The large man laughed. “She is pretty, huh, the young woman in the painting?”
“Very pretty, but I don’t understand. You say this is by an artist named Gozzoli, but yet you claim that you painted it.”
