by Cameron West
“With those big matzo balls,” she said defensively, showing me the size with her hands. “They’re the best!”
“You’re saying you’d actually go to the Carnegie Deli andnotorder corned beef?”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying.”
I got to my feet, threw my hands up.“Well . . . then I think I’ll leave.”
“What? Sit down, buster!”
I made for the door. “Later.”
“I saidsit,you son of a bitch!” she screamed.
I turned. Antonia’s lips were tight, her face lobster-red now. Then her composure crumbled and she started to cry. “Goddamn you,” she sobbed.
Shocked, confused, and embarrassed, I took a step toward her. She gestured with her hand for me to stop. “Don’t you come near me! Don’t you threaten to leave me.”
“Really, I was just—”
“All your guns and money—a magic fucking dagger!” she shouted. “I just want my life back!” She sobbed into her hands, her small shoulders shaking inside that big robe.
I stepped over to her. She sniffled, wiped her eyes, and grabbed my hand. I felt a spark, suddenly needing to kiss her to put out the fire or fuel it. Letting go, I backed away.
“I don’t like this either,” I said.
“Bullshit! You should have seen your face when you were talking to that Nolo Tecci on the walkie-talkie. Something was turned loose in you. And when you put on Archie’s guns? This is your world, and you . . . dig it!”
I pointed at myself, incredulous.“Idig it?”
She wiped her nose on her sleeve, leaving a trail that glistened in the lamplight. “Yes,” she stated emphatically. “There’s something about this you like, Reb—don’t deny it. I’m intuitive. I look at a painting and see every color, every nuance. As if I was standing there when the painter painted it, one stroke at a time, one color at a time. And you, you’re—”
“Here it comes . . .”
“Complex, multi-textured, totally abstruse. But the one thing that’s clear is youlikethis.”
I started to speak but all I could do was just stand there, pointing at myself, with my chin hanging down as if it were too loose a fit for my mouth. Antonia wiped her tears off on her other sleeve, glaring at me with an accusatory smile that said, “See, I’m right.”
I shut my mouth and made for the bathroom, more than a little confused. She asked where I was going. I didn’t answer, just closed the door. I turned on both gold spigots, put my hands on the edge of the sink, and leaned in toward the spotless mirror. There I was looking back at me, two semi-automatics hanging under my armpits.
But this time the cameras weren’t rolling, and the ammunition was real.
I closed my eyes, seeking sanctuary. The sound of the tap water summoned up images of a camping trip I’d taken with my folks in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. It was the Fourth of July, 1976. I was seven and the United States was two hundred. The temperature was half that and the air was as gummy as rubber cement.
We’d carried our packs for what seemed like two years up a steep grade and pitched our dome tent on a flat spot with a long view by a bubbling stream. I was picking my way from rock to rock to cross the creek when I heard what sounded like gunfire off in the distance. I looked up to see where it was coming from, forgetting what day it was and that you’ve got to pay attention when crossing streams. My boot slipped off a wet, mossy rock, and I sank halfway up my calf in the cold mountain water.
There was something about that scene I’d liked. The icy water enveloping my leg, the slippery rock that got me when I wasn’t looking, the unavoidable irony of humanity, blasting off fireworks when it was supposed to be quiet. It was nature, all right—unstoppable— totally imperfect in all its perfection.
Opening my eyes, I saw myself in the hotel mirror: imperfect, absolutely unstoppable, probably abstruse.
Antonia had changed back into her clothes, for which I was grateful. The dinner cart had arrived, too. It was laden with fruit, a silver bowlof cold jumbo shrimp that were fanned out side by side, leaning over the lip like tired tourists, a loaf of bread, a chunk of cheese, and a bottle of Chianti.I poured us each a glass of wine, which Antonia immediately slugged down. She wagged her glass at me, without looking up. I filled it again and she knocked it back. I quietly fixed myself a plate of food. Antonia did the same, avoiding my gaze. She was a professional eater, digging right in with the delicacy of a pit bull.
“You know,” I said, trying to get back in her good graces, “I just realized I don’t even know your full name.”
“Antonia Ginevra Gianelli,” she said, a little chunk of cheese shooting out of her mouth onto my knee.
“Excuse me?”
“Antonia Ginevra Gianelli,” she said, brushing the cheese off my pants.
My knee felt warm where she’d touched it. “Ginevra?”
“Yeah, Ginevra. You’ve got a problem with that, too?”
“Ginny?” I repeated, closing my eyes. I was on a fault line over a heartquake.
“What’s thematterwith you?”
Antonia stripped some grapes from a stem, popped a half-dozen in her mouth, and offered me a few. I took them, still avoiding her gaze. “Ginevra de’ Benci,” I said to the grapes.
“Born in 1475,” she recited, “the second child of banker Amerigo de’ Benci. Wrote poetry, called herself a ‘mountain tiger.’ ”
“Leonardo’s friend,” I said.“Myfriend, too.” My face flushed.
“What do you mean?” Her eyes were on me, penetrating.
I looked away, slurping my wine. “What does the first half of the page say?”
Antonia pulled two pieces of lined paper from her pocket, and handed them to me.
The first looked like this:
Con gran diligenza lavorai per il Magnifico e per tutti quei che’l mio sangue hanno richiesto. Non sangue delle vene beninteso ch’esso ne son certo si rigenera ma sangue della mente.
La nostra feconda terra si farà arida e sterile nelle mani degli uomini che pare a nulla valgan se non a vanamente devastare la cosa stessa che lor dona sostento. Con i miei occhi vidi alla luce del sole e nell’ombra del crepuscolo la bontà degl’inani e la lussuria dei forti.
In solitudine nella mia bottega mi misurai con la ricerca dei segreti della vita ed ogni ostacolo vinsi con successo senza curarmi dello sforzo necessario. I cerchi e i cerchi. Ammiro il mio valor, ma sono stanco.
On the other piece of paper was her translation, which she read aloud.
“I worked most diligently for il Magnifico and for all those who have demanded my life’s blood. Not the blood from my veins for that multiplies I am certain but the blood of my mind.
“Our fruitful earth will unavoidably become dry and sterile at the hands of men who it seems cannot help but wantonly destroy the very thing which gives them succor. I have witnessed in the light of day and dimness of dusk the goodness of the weak and the lust of the mighty.
“Alone in my workshop I have sought to discover the secrets of life and have met with success for every obstacle no matter how great yields to effort. The Circles and the Circles. How clever I am but tired.”
No cars beeped in the city below, no hotel toilets flushed. The brilliant passion of Leonardo’s heart had been unleashed from the rusty cage of time to a man and a woman, in close proximity, eyes fully engaged.
“The Circles and the Circles,” I said. “See, the Circlesandthe Circles, right? He’s talking about two sets, One and Two. You agree?”
“Yes. And you intuit from that . . .”
“That Circles of Truth One and Two go together somehow. And that Krell and Tecci have nothing.” I picked up both pages, studied the two sets of ten concentric rings. “There must be some kind of pattern here.” At the word “pattern” some association poked at a memory that didn’t reveal itself. I ignored it. Nothing else jumped out at me save the limitations of my intellect.
“Leonardo was amused by his own genius,” Antonia said. �
��Ponder that for a second.”
“He doesn’t say anything about the Dagger.”
She yawned. “I just couldn’t keep going, had to give my eyes a rest.”
“Well, can I coax you to do a little more now?”
“Hey,” she snapped. “Using a compact mirror to read tiny backward handwriting takes time and a clear head. I haven’t exactly had a peaceful day. I’ll finish it in the morning, unless, uh, you want to.” She faked going for the compact, turned toward me, and smirked. Then she flopped into the desk chair.
“Leonardo sounds depressed,” I said.
“Definitely. And ‘alone in his workshop’ and ‘secrets of life’ sound to me like he’s referring to his anatomy studies.”
“What does that tell you?”
“By itself, not much.” Antonia studied Leonardo’s notes, pointing to the two drawings on the back of her page. “What do you make of these?”
“Well,” I said, “this one is a harness—you know, like for rock climbers or bouncing babies. But the other one, this complex hoist, isincredible. I’m sure this didn’t exist in Leonardo’s time. It couldn’t have.”
“That’s fabulous,” she said. “Did you see the picture of his bicycle inAtlanticus?”
“The one that Pompeo Leoni pasted on the verso, the back side of the page?”
“Your father taught you well,” she said.
“Well, actually I have a degree in Art History, too.”
“You do?” She looked surprised.
I didn’t respond.
“A stuntman with a degree in Art History? Hmm.” She moved from the desk and flopped onto the bed.
“A bicycle,” I said emphatically. “Leoni must have seen it, but he didn’t know what it was, and nobody else saw it until they took the book apart and turned the page over. If there were nothing else on these pages, we’d have Leonardo’s hoisting system. I wonder if it had anything to do with the Dagger?”
“Got me. Leonardo wrote and drew all kinds of things, many objects on the same pages, that had absolutely no relation to each other.”
I regarded the translation. “Il Magnifico was Lorenzo de’ Medici. At least we’ve got Medici on the same page as a set of Circles of Truth. Doesn’t exactly point us to the Dagger, does it?”
Antonia covered her face with a throw pillow. From under it she mumbled, “First thing tomorrow morning I’ll take a quick run and get back to the translation.”
“A run first?”
“Yeah. Helps me think.”
eight
Itook Leonardo’s notes and, stopping in my room to grab most of the money and the extra ammunition, went down to the lobby. Renting a box in the hotel vault, I placed everything in it for safekeeping. I returned to my room with the deposit-box key in my hand and Leonardo’s words repeating in my head: “Every obstacle yields to effort.”Leaving the guns on my nightstand and my clothes in a heap on the floor, I climbed into bed.
It occurred to me I hadn’t bought a new candle when we’d shopped. No dancing shadows tonight, only the outlines of those in my own frozen heart.
I breathed in slowly through my nose, counting to four, and breathed out through my mouth to a count of eight. Soon my eyelids began to sag. My thoughts became syrupy and dripped into the waiting night.
I dreamt I was an abacus, or a billiards scorekeeping rack, I don’t know which. Faceless fifteenth-century soldiers, with dirty fingernails and knee-length tunics of chain mail, kept sliding my alabaster Life Savers over, keeping track of something. It hurt every time, but I had to take it, their grubby mitts, greasy with chicken fat, sliming up my counting stones. I knew I couldn’t ever get clean.
I woke up early with my face pressed into my pillow, my cheek and lips wrinkled like the crotch of a linen suit. The gray morning lightpeeked in around the curtains as the dream replayed in my mind. I rolled onto my back and scratched my head, trying to figure out what the hell it meant.
What would Freud have said, or Emily, my ex? That I was involved in a dirty business. That everyone was counting on me and somehow that hurt. Like Antonia, I wanted my life back. But I couldn’t get it back without going forward. Maybe that Dagger was out there. As far as counting on me, well, there was Antonia “Ginny” Gianelli for sure. My parents, or at least my dad, waving his virtuous fist. There was the late great Henry Greer, peering at me with rat eyes from memory’s trench. Then there was Leonardo. I was certain the master himself was counting on me. And who was I to say “I’m busy” to Leonardo da Vinci?
And what about Nolo Tecci?
Ah, yes, Tecci. We’ll dance.
The phone rang at a little past six-thirty. “Ginny?”“That’s what you plan to call me?”
“Um. . . yes,” I said. “Ginny.”
“Do I have any choice in that?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, do you want to take a run with me or not?”
“Sure, sure,” I said, throwing off the covers. “I’ll be ready in a couple-of minutes. I’ll come knocking for you.” I hung up and plodded into the bathroom, brushed the stench out of my mouth, and took a look in the mirror. Whoa, a Tony Roma’s onion loaf on my head. I splashed some water on my hair, ran my fingers through it until it was passable, and toweled it dry.
I threw on yesterday’s T-shirt and my new running stuff, and did some stretches on the floor. I folded four five-hundred-thousand-lire notes into the top of each sock and doubled them over. Then I slungon the Miami Classic with the Sigs, and tucked the Mini into its holder. With roughly two thousand dollars and a small arsenal, I figured I was ready for a run.
Opening my window, I placed the key to the deposit box out on the granite ledge, and closed the window tight. Unless a tidal wave or a hurricane hit, the key wasn’t going to move. It’s one of those things about flat metal keys. Mass versus surface area, or something like that. Throwing on my new sweatshirt, I stepped into the hall.
A janitor with a small, pinkish ski-jump nose and a John Travolta chin lingered by the window across the hall, holding a spray bottle and a cloth. I said,“Buon giorno.”In a series of seamless moves, he took two steps toward me, pointed the spritzer bottle in my face, covered his mouth with the cloth, and sprayed me with a sweet-smelling mist. I blinked once, gave my head half a shake, and disappeared into a velvety black hole. In the distance I heard the janitor reply,“Buon giorno.”
My eyes were sightless, my mind gooey, stretchy gum. I heard the unmistakable sound of metal being tapped against metal. A coin? A voice followed—that of a cultured Englishman. It said, “I believe Mr. Barnett is just now reentering our atmosphere.”I breathed in deeply through my nostrils, whiffing a hint of Old Spice, feeling my rib cage expand as if on spring-loaded hinges. The English voice called out again, with a musical lilt, “Oh, Mr. Bar-ne-ett. We eagerly await your arr-i-val.”
My nose itched, and I pawed it, but my hand felt like a catcher’s mitt.
“That’s it,” Old Spice said. “Open those eyes, Dorothy. You’re back in Kansas.”
Someone shook my shoulder and another voice, also English, though younger and more regional, added, “And we want to talk aboutyour ruby slippers.” Liverpool? Blackpool? One of the pools. Ringo wants to talk to me about ruby slippers. Slowly, neurons began firing again.
“The janitor,” I mumbled, somewhat surprised by the deep, anesthetized sound of my voice. I opened my eyes, seeing only a blur at first.
“That would be me,” he said, wiggling his brows once with pride. “That Windex’ll get ya.” He scrunched up his nose.
“Where’s my friend?” I managed.
“Friend!” the janitor snorted.
“That’s quite sufficient, Mobright,” Old Spice said. I turned toward the source of the voice, surprised to find I wasn’t restrained.
Sitting in a wingback chair, one thin leg draped casually over the other, dressed in an immaculate blue, double-breasted suit, was the short, slender man I’d klunked heads with outside of Francesca’
s office at the Accademia.
The fog in my mind began to lift as I looked him over. He was only about fifty, but had thin silver hair that he’d combed up over the dome of his head from an inch above his left ear, and shellacked. His nose was long and straight, his face gaunt. His eyes were intense and matched the slate gray raincoat and Borsalino hat he’d been wearing when we collided. I speculated that the coat and hat were hanging neatly in a nearby closet.
The man absently tapped a coin against an engraved silver money clip that held a wad of bills.
“The Accademia,” I said, my voice still thick.
“Excellent,” he replied.
“Where is she?” I demanded.
“In the next room. She’s perfectly fine, other than being under anesthesia. So rest easy.”
I cleared my throat. “You have good taste in hats.”
“I agree,” he replied, an amused smile on his lips.
“If not cologne,” I added. His smile remained.
The one called Mobright poked me hard in the chest. “Shut it or I’ll shut it for you.”
I turned to him and did my best to scrunch up my nose like he’d done. He leaned in toward me with a look of menace. Actually, a little more Dennis than menace. The collar of his white shirt was too big for his pencil neck, and although it was buttoned behind his black-and-red-striped tie, there was enough room for me to reach my hand right in and rip out his chest hair, if he had any.
I returned my gaze to the man in the chair, who withdrew a monogrammed hanky from his breast pocket.AB, it read. He dabbed his thin lips and tucked it back into his pocket. On his third finger, he wore a gold ring with an emerald in the shape of a parallelogram. “Mobright,” he said, “I believe some tea would do nicely.”
“Yes, sir,” Mobright said with deference. He did the nose thing again and stepped over behind AB.
“Do you take tea, Mr. Barnett?” AB asked delicately.
I wiggled my fingers. They tingled, normal sensation returning. I ran my tongue across my teeth and sat up slowly. “I want to see her now.”
