by Cameron West
“You are holding a prototype microchip-driven automatic weapon. The magazine contains two hundred exploding pellets. The gun defaults to single shot. Press the button on the side of the trigger guard once and it will switch to semi. Press it again and it will go to full auto. The rubber forearm band will serve as a holster.”
“That’s it?” I asked after a second.“Nothing else? No name?”
“Nothing. What do you think?”
My mind was clicking like a card spinning in a bicycle spoke. Then it stopped on the only reasonable explanation:Archie changed his mind. Called Leah. Found out where I was staying.
I cursed myself again for raking his coals. I made a mental note never to put Archie in any compromising situation again.
Antonia listened intently as I explained.
I waited for her to say, “That’s crazy,” or “Your friend must benuts,” but she didn’t. She said, “Well, don’t just stand there, put them on.”
I loaded the guns, slipped the rubber inner tube over my wrist, and snugged the mini into it. I put on the double holster, then my jacket. With my sleeve unbuttoned I could reach right up and draw the weapon. I felt a sense of power and gratitude.
“Now let’s get out of here,” Antonia said, tossing me the car keys. “I’ve got some translating to do.”
“Where’s the best place for two people to be inconspicuous?”
She thought for a moment. “Milan. It’s close. It’s big. I know my way around. Milan doesn’t care. Do you have money? I only have a little.”
“We’re covered,” I said, getting behind the wheel, firing up the old heap. “Point me to Milan.”
Antonia directed me to the A4 and we settled in for the three-hour trip. It was a sunny spring day, cool enough to keep the windows closed so we could talk.“So,” I said, my eyes on the horizon. “I told you about me; tell me something about you. You’re American.”
“What’d you tell me, that you used to live in Berkeley? Not exactly in-depth coverage. But I know plenty about you. You were going to ditch me.”
“Well I didn’t.”
“But you wanted to.”
My skin started to crawl. “Can’t you start translating now? Oh, I forgot. You get carsick.”
“And your glibness is a dodge, a protective device.”
“No,thisis a protective device,” I said, opening my jacket to reveal one of the Sigs.
“There you go again,” she said. “Being glib.”
“Stop trying to analyze me. I’m not a painting. Analyze Leonardo’s page, why don’t you, so we can find the Medici Dagger.”
“I intend to,” she huffed. “When we get to Milan.”
“And don’t pick on me because you’re scared. It doesn’t help. Fear is . . .” I felt suddenly inarticulate.“Well . . . it’s just fear.”
“Something you know a lot about,” she said to the window. She breathed on it and drew a little dagger through the condensation.
I checked the rearview mirror for Archie or any of Tecci’s goons. Neither. I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass.What the hell did she say, that I ooze melancholy? Brother.
The motor hummed like a Singer sewing machine.
“So,” I said again, “you’re an American.”
Antonia sighed. “I grew up in New York.”
“Where?”
“Staten Island.”
“Your parents are Italian? You look Italian.”
“My father was. First generation. My mother, second. We spoke Italian at home.”
“So, Italian neighborhood on Staten Island. Catholic school, right? Six kids?”
“Two brothers. Four and six years older.”
“Close?”
“Not really. I kind of split off from the family.”
“How come?”
A commercial van pulled up next to us on the right. I reached for a holster, checked the van. Two workmen. The driver blew Antonia a kiss. She responded with an expressive gesture involving her hand and her chin. He laughed and drove off.
“Italian men . . .” she grumbled. “Where were we?”
“Your family.”
“My father was an electrician. Very traditional.”
“And your mother?”
“A very bright woman. She went to college. Had big plans, wantedto be Jackie Onassis. They met while he was wiring her dorm or something and she just lost her senses. She’s a hopeless romantic. He was too handsome and captivating. So she dropped out and started having children and misery. You know, the man she gave up a future for.”
“And where did you fit in?”
“My brothers took after my dad. I was my mother’s great hope. The delegated academic with a scholarship to Vassar.”
“That’s an all-girls school.”
“So?” She looked annoyed.
“I thought girls who went to all-girls schools, you know, aren’t that into men.”
“Hah! Myth. Besides, it was a scholarship, toVassar.”
“What’d you study?”
“History, until I came to visit my uncle Fausto. I fell in love with art in Venice. That’s when I decided I wanted to be a museum curator.”
Just like my father, I thought, smiling at the coincidence.
“So you graduated and moved to Italy?” I asked.
“I went to graduate school here, got my Ph.D. I took a job at the Gallerie, where I’ve been under the sweaty thumb of Sergio Corta ever since. The man just keeps on not retiring, and instead of letting me do research, he has me giving lectures to visiting graduate students. It’s about a half-step away from handing out rental tape players for the museum tour. That imbecile.”
“What about men?”
“What are you talking about, ‘What about men?’ ”
“You said ‘Italian men’—they’re what? Too traditional for you, right?”
“They’re very romantic . . . at first.”
“I see. After the flowers stop coming, the apron’s next.”
Antonia didn’t answer.
“So what do you do for fun, other than drive boats?”
“Oh, scathing wit. You’re centimeters from me, practically a total stranger, and you’re engaging in repartee. That’s really good.”
“Okay. Can I just ask a real question, then? No snappy retort.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Whatdoyou do for fun?”
She paused a second and said, “I sing occasionally. Don’t laugh.”
“That’s so cool. Like in clubs?”
“One. An out-of-the-way place, where no one from the Gallerie would ever go. On amateur night.”
“What kind of music?”
“Anything soulful as long as there aren’t too many notes. I don’t have much of a range. I wish I did.”
“You have a smoky speaking voice.”
“Three cigars a day. Going on twenty years now.”
“Everybody needs a vice,” I smiled. “So, what’s the first tune you ever sang in public?”
Antonia said boldly, “ ‘Like a Virgin.’ ”
I pictured her cooing that song—a good image of her full lips against a microphone.“Hot number,” I said, trying to clear my head.
“Madonna or ‘Like a Virgin’?”
“Yeah,” I replied.
“It’s not the song you sing or the notes you hit, it’s how you hit them,” she said, absently smoothing out her skirt.“It’s soul that counts.”
That made me smile. She was looking out the window and didn’t notice.
“It’s not the same with painting,” she continued.
“No. Of course not.”
“Painting requires soulandskill. Infinite soul, finite skill,” she said animatedly. “The two have to mix in just the right balance, which varies widely from artist to artist.”
“Definitely. Varies widely. Why are you looking at me that way?”
“Because you’re yessing me.”
“I am?”
“You�
��re no longer paying attention. I hate that when someone repeats what you say so you won’t think they’re really ignoring you.That’s so vapid. You don’t even know what I mean about soul and skill in painting.”
“No?” I said. “I think what you’re referring to is most evident in portraits. Let’s compare, say, Franz Hals and, um, John Singer Sargent. One splashes color into everything, brings out the nobility in the barmaid and the beer-swiller in the duke, and the other daintily goes about his business making the rich look richer. Both had amazing skill. Who had more soul? Tragic that old Franz died in the poorhouse, wasn’t it? Show me a vapid stuntman, I’ll show you a Vassar graduate in a torpedo bra.”
A quick sideways glance revealed Antonia’s surprised look. She began to speak, then sank back in her seat, folded her arms, and stared out the windshield.
“I’ve spent my life in museums,” I said.
“Touché,” she said softly. “One car ride, two myths dispelled. God I’m tired.”
She weakly waved a hand, signaling me onward.
After three hours, Milan was in sight. Antonia had slept the whole way, mouth open, face wedged in between the headrest and the window.I had no intention of searching for a hotel without consulting her. As we closed in on the city I gave her a gentle shake. Sitting up, she wiped a little drool from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, then turned toward me, lids half open.
“We’re here,” I said, trying not to breathe on her. My mouth tasted like a gym towel.
Antonia blinked hard. “Where?” she asked, coming to.
“Milan. Remember?”
She squinted in the low afternoon sun and looked out the window, checking the signs. “Oh, yeah. Milan.”
“Pick a big hotel. A nice one.”
“How nice? Gritti-nice?”
“Sure. As long as they have a bathroom.”
She directed me to the Four Seasons, a medieval-looking manor surrounded by ancient walls. It was situated in the shopping district, Via Montenapoleone—the Rodeo Drive of Milan. I parked by the entrance, and extricated myself from the torturous little vehicle. A man in a white uniform and hat opened Antonia’s door for her. I tipped him and we headed into the building.
The lobby was not medieval, although impressive frescoes and columns intermingled with shiny new bronze, thick glass, and Murano chandeliers. In my soggy jacket I felt underdressed.
“I attended a day seminar on Leonardo’s influence on Raphael here once,” Antonia pointed out. “I always wanted to stay at this place.”
“Well,” I said, stuffing a wad of bills in my front pocket, “maybe today you’ll get lucky.”
We both did. In spite of having no luggage and looking as if we’d crawled out of a Dumpster—we had, albeit a small, blue one—we were offered adjacent rooms, the price of which Antonia was able to haggle down to just under five hundred dollars per night per room.
I pulled out the cash and gave the clerk what I thought was a pretty convincing line about having had our belongings stolen. He went right for the manager; ID is big in Italy. I repeated the story to him, grumbling about the two whole days we were going to have to suffer through before our new identification would arrive. “Thank God,” I told him, waving the thick handful of bills,“we’re prepared for anything.”
“Except for having no place to stay,” Antonia added.
It was a nice touch.
We signed in under assumed names. I was Chet Cook. I always thought Chet was a cool name, and Cook came to me because I was starving. Antonia’s nom de plume was Lisa Gherardini, which, she explained to me, was the maiden name of the woman many art historians thought to be the Mona Lisa.
I didn’t mention that I knew that.
Asking the Gritti to forward my clothes didn’t seem prudent. So, after converting some more dollars to lire at a money exchange and stopping for a pizza, we proceeded to pick up the things we needed at a couple of shops on Via Montenapoleone.The busy city felt preoccupied with itself, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched.
“Here,” I said, handing Antonia four million lire, about twenty-five hundred dollars, along with a thousand in U.S. currency.
She looked blank-faced at me, then at the money.
“Where’d you get it?”
“Just take it,” I said. “When you get low you can have more, no questions asked.”
“Just like that? I ask for money, you give it to me?”
“As often as you need it.”
She hesitated a second then took the bills, folded them, and stashed them in a change purse. She continued walking.
We stopped at the first men’s store we came to, where I purchased a change of underwear and some new running gear. Antonia stayed close by. A few stores down the road, she stopped at a lingerie boutique.
I said I’d wait outside.
She opened the stainless-steel and glass door, pausing. “Hey,” she said a little pensively. “Are you sure you don’t want to come in?”
“I’ll be right here,” I answered. “Go in. Panties await.”
She shrugged and entered. An eager clerk approached her.
I loitered under an expensive awning, watching Antonia through the window. A few hours ago she was a total stranger to me, someone I couldn’t pick out of a crowd. Since then I’d seen her drive a getaway boat with people shooting at her, cry and vomit, and snore in a beat-up car. I was chest-deep in the most profound adventure of my life with the very girl who was browsing through lingerie.
I recognized her now. I’d internalized the way the musclesbunched when she clenched her narrow jaw, memorized the tiny scar peeking out from the top of her right eyebrow. I had been hit by that girl—hard—and not just in the stomach. And I didn’t know what to do about it.
I shifted from foot to foot, hoping she wouldn’t spot me spying on her. I saw her pick out a bra and a handful of thong underwear.
I tried not to, but I began to fantasize. Alone in the store, illuminated by soft lamplight, Antonia stood behind the cash register in a lace-trimmed teddy. Her chin was down, her eyes in a lover’s gaze as she curled a beckoning finger at me. I locked the heavy door behind me.
She moaned my name as I approached her. The sound of her voice, the sight of her hard nipples behind the thin satin made my breath soft and my erection hard. She uncapped a cherry-red lipstick and slowly applied it, never taking her eyes from mine. Replacing the cover, she sensually ran the stick over each breast and then south and out of sight.
I stepped behind the counter, feeling the heat radiating from her damp desire. I heard the lipstick clink against the floor, felt her hot hands slide up under my shirt, then down to my belt, deftly unbuckling me, hungrily unzipping me, and then . . .
Someone tugged at my sleeve. A short, old Japanese lady stood practically toe to toe with me, breathless with excitement.
“Pahdon me,” she said in a heavy accent, thrusting a pen and paper in my face. “You are famous Amelican actor Tom Sroane?”
She might as well have thrown a bucket of ice water at me. “No,” I said firmly, backing away from her. “Definitely not.”
The woman looked devastated, as though her dream of a lifetime had just been dashed.
As she walked away, I wished I’d given her Tom’s autograph.
At least one of us would have been happy.
seven
Back at the Four Seasons, Antonia and I adjourned to our respective rooms, agreeing to meet in an hour to give her some time alone to translate the page. I dropped my things on the bed and tried Archie’s phone number, though I didn’t expect him to answer. He didn’t.Where is he? What’s he thinking? Is he hunting Tecci himself?Pulling back the heavy Fortuny curtain, I looked out my window at the dots and dashes of cars and people, then over at the spires atop the Sforza castle, where Leonardo had lived at one time during the Renaissance—the rebirth—before floss and phones and mini machine pistols. Images of Greer and Tecci, Antonia and my father lay b
efore me. Feelings poured on top of them, mixing too quickly for me to identify. The amalgam became a quicksand of thought and emotion into which I began to sink.
I jump out of windows this high. Pinocchio, diving into the whale’s belly for adrenaline wages and a chance to become a real boy. Well, today this puppet killed. No blanks, no director shouting “Cut! Great, Reb, let’s do it again.” In this moment, I feel . . . everything. Fear, hatred, lust. Who am I? I’m still your son, Dad. I’m more than wood and vengeance.
My phone rang, startling me like a fire alarm. It was Antonia telling me I was late. I splashed water on my face, tried to collect myself, sighing into a thick towel. Stepping into the hall, I knocked on her door.
“Antonia, it’s Reb.”
The door opened a crack, still on the sliding double lock. A vertical strip of Antonia was revealed.
“It’s me,” I repeated, “your boating buddy.” She closed the door, unlatched it, and let me in.
She was barefoot, wearing a man-sized, plush white terry-cloth bathrobe, courtesy of the hotel. Hair pulled back, with a couple of tendrils dangling. She looked like an angel.
Slipping my jacket off, I slung it around the writing-desk chair and plunked down on an overstuffed sofa.
“You, uh, translated?” I asked.
“The first half,” she answered. “It’s backward, you know. It takes time. We’ll get to it. Hey, anyone ever tell you Reb sounds like it’s short for rebel?”
“Nobody,” I lied. “Could we get to it now?”
As Antonia sat on the edge of the bed, the collar of her bathrobe fell open at the top, exposing the slope of a breast. She let me look for a second before bunching the lapels together. She was working me, and I suddenly felt trapped.
“I ordered up something to eat,” she told me. “Be here any minute.”
“Please tell me it’s a potato knish and a corned-beef sandwich from the Carnegie Deli. Light rye, heavy mustard.”
“Fifty-fifth and Seventh Avenue,” she laughed. “Bowl of matzo-ball soup . . .”
“Are you kidding me?” I said with mock derision. “You’re at the Carnegie Deli and you order broth?”
