by Gerald Elias
‘I understand how you feel, Jake. But don’t forget, without your help I’d never be making all the money I am now.’
‘How do you know this Bertoldo will be willing to help?’
‘He’s like Borlotti!’
‘A violinmaker?’
‘No! He’s an Italian male.’
By day’s end, Yumi had arranged it all. First thing the next morning they would drive to JFK Airport, where Yumi would leave her car. They had confirmed reservations to Milan, the closest major international airport to Cremona. Roy Miller agreed to take care of Trotsky while they were gone, which wouldn’t be more than a few days. Benson expressed relief that the trip wouldn’t incur any expenses upon the strapped resources of the EFPD, and wished them luck.
Finally, Yumi called Marcello Bertoldo. Not only was he fluent in English, he was a Dante scholar working on a new English translation of ‘The Divine Comedy,’ which, he laughingly admitted, he expected he would never finish. He was delighted to have received a call from the owner of one of his violins, and graciously agreed to help find the unknowns who had sent the mysterious wood to Borlotti and to be their interpreter. He eagerly awaited her arrival and of her esteemed teacher. He even offered to find hotel rooms for them, which Yumi had neglected to do.
‘Leave it to me,’ he said.
After hanging up, Yumi said to Jacobus, ‘I turned on the old charm,’ Yumi said, ‘and told him how much I love his violin. I’ve got him eating out of the palm of my hand.’
Or vice versa, Jacobus thought.
FIFTEEN
Friday, December 30
Nathaniel, jealous he wouldn’t be going with them, met them at the gate to wish them bon voyage. When it was time to board, a customer service representative helped Jacobus on to the plane, the first 747 he had ever been on. Yumi, carrying her violin case, followed them. The co-pilot greeted the passengers as they entered the cabin.
‘What’s that you’ve got in that case, young lady?’ he asked. ‘A machine gun?’
‘Anti-aircraft,’ Jacobus said, and everyone laughed heartily.
They were served breakfast shortly after take-off. After the food was cleared a flight attendant announced, ‘We will now begin our movie service for the flight to Milan. Our feature film today will be ‘Scent of a Woman,’ featuring Al Pacino.’
‘Is that the one where Pacino tries to act like a blind guy?’ Jacobus asked.
‘It is,’ Yumi replied. ‘It just came out. They say he does a great job. I don’t imagine you want headphones.’
‘Wake me when it’s over,’ Jacobus said and was soon snoring loudly.
After the movie, an early dinner was served. Jacobus had the pot roast, Yumi the teriyaki chicken. Both said it was OK, but bemoaned the good old days when airlines offered steak and lobster.
‘I’ll bet someday they might even make you pay for meals on planes,’ Yumi joked.
‘Never happen,’ Jacobus said, and went back to sleep.
It was late Friday night when they arrived in Milan, the combined result of the eight-hour flight and the six-hour time difference. They quickly cleared immigration and customs control, whose disinterested agents waved cigarettes in the air as they heatedly debated a contested goal in the 1956 soccer match between Juventus and Bologna. Once through, Jacobus and Yumi were greeted by Marcello Bertoldo, who apologized profusely that the airport bureaucrats wouldn’t let him go all the way to the gate to meet his distinguished guests. He embraced Jacobus so emphatically his glasses almost fell off.
‘And is it possible my poor violin could ever be as beautiful as its owner?’ he asked. He kissed Yumi on both cheeks. ‘No, it is not.’
’What do you think of pineapple on pizza?’ Jacobus asked.
‘It is an abomination!’ Bertoldo said. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Just wondering. Let’s go.’
Bertholdo drove his Alfa Romeo convertible a hundred miles an hour on the Autostrade, arriving miraculously intact at the Albergo Mariani, a three-story, fifteenth-century stone building on Cremona’s Piazza del Duomo. He commanded the bellhop to take their bags, light as they were, up the stairs to their rooms on the second floor, and make sure every courtesy was extended to il dottore and la signorina. Then he wished them both a buona notte, kissing Yumi on both cheeks once again.
‘A domani,’ he said. ‘Until tomorrow. I meet you here.’
After Bertoldo left, Jacobus said to Yumi, ‘Let me guess. He’s good-looking, too.’
‘Yes. He is.’
SIXTEEN
New Year’s Eve, Saturday, December 31
Bertoldo met them at the hotel bar for morning coffee. They sat in wrought iron chairs around a small, round, marble table facing a window with a view of the brick and stone piazza and the cathedral that dominated it. Though it was almost thirty degrees warmer than in the Berkshires, it was still too cold for them to sit outside. Since the view was of no import to Jacobus, that was fine with him.
‘Signori,’ the waiter said indifferently, approaching them from behind. He placed the prima collazione, pastries and espresso, on the table.
‘Madama Butterfly!’ he exclaimed when he caught sight of Yumi’s reflection in the window.
‘I think you’re mistaking me for someone else,’ Yumi replied, but not testily.
‘No, that is not possible! You are the … the vision of la Madama herself. If I am wrong, it is only because you are more beautiful than … than … I cannot find the words. Signorina, you must help me with my English so I will have the words. Will you teach me? I wish to learn. My name is Carlo. Tonight, perhaps?’
Bertoldo said something in Italian to the waiter – something brusque – who argued for a moment and then left.
Jacobus took a sip of espresso. Even better than my Folgers at home, he thought. If only the cup were bigger than a thimble.
‘What did you say to the waiter?’ Jacobus asked Bertoldo.
‘I know him. His English is good enough. I told him not to bother innocent young ladies.’
Yumi chuckled.
‘You found him amusing?’ Bertoldo asked.
‘And good-looking.’
‘More than me?’ Bertoldo asked. Jacobus couldn’t tell whether or not Bertoldo’s disbelief was sincere, but it was certainly convincing.
‘He had a nice smile,’ Yumi said.
‘His smile? But his teeth were not as white as mine.’
‘Nor as straight, now that you mention it. But Carlo does have nice lips.’
‘But not as full as mine.’
‘Maybe not. But I liked his dark eyes.’
‘They were dead. When I smile, my eyes dance.’
‘I liked his wavy hair.’
‘Girl’s hair! Do you not prefer mine?’
‘Short curls? Perhaps. The Roman senator look? Maybe. But Carlo did have a nice physique. I liked the way he moved.’
‘You think so? He had no muscle. If we were on a calcio pitch I would run him over.’
‘What’s a calcio pitch?’ Jacobus interjected. He was enjoying the free entertainment and wanted to be sure of the details.
‘A football field. Soccer.’
‘Oh,’ Jacobus said. ‘Say, could you order me another coffee from Carlo?’
‘Not here. We go somewhere else.’
Pigeons flapped around them as they strolled to another bar on the opposite side of the piazza. If Bertoldo’s description of himself was to be believed, Jacobus conjured up an image of Michelangelo’s David. Not that there was any way to know if the model for the white marble statue had dancing eyes, black hair, or who even smiled. Curiously, Jacobus simultaneously thought about Amadeo Borlotti and the stark contrasts with Bertoldo. It aroused his sympathy that circumstances out of Borlotti’s control – like physical appearance and, to some extent, personality – had conspired to make his existence almost invisible.
Bertoldo found them a table where they sat facing away from the previous bar.
‘The coff
ee here is much better,’ he said. ‘And the waitresses provide much better service.’
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ Jacobus said.
‘I hope your rooms were to your satisfaction,’ Bertoldo said, the charm in his voice returning.
Jacobus had no complaints. He appreciated the room’s spareness. No fancy gizmos that required a Masters in electronics. No extra furniture to trip over. One ancient wooden armoire, weighing a ton and smelling of mothballs; thick, velvet curtains that kept out the cold, and a bed with a mattress even softer than the one he had at home. His explorative hand did pass over something initially unrecognizable, with a smooth and hard surface, screwed to the wall above the bed . It took him a few moments to process the information as the plaster legs of Christ on a crucifix, but Jacobus considered it a minor price to pay for a comfortable room.
‘Slept like a baby,’ Jacobus said.
Bertoldo laughed boisterously.
‘Like a baby!’ he repeated. ‘Un scherzo! A joke! And you, signorina, did you, too, sleep like a baby?’ he asked, with an inflection quite distinct from the way he addressed Jacobus.
‘Actually, no,’ she said.
‘No? I will get you a better room!’
‘The room is perfect, Marcello.’
‘Then what is the problem?’
‘It’s just that I was too excited about being in Italy to sleep.’
‘Ah!’ Bertoldo sighed. ‘In that case …’
Bertoldo told them that since it was New Year’s Eve he would make plans for them. They would celebrate late into the night after visiting these mysterious violin people, so they would eat lightly and try to get as much rest as possible during the day. Would that be satisfactory? He would take care of everything, but first could they explain more what needed to be done?
Jacobus summarized Borlotti’s shop burning down and his ensuing disappearance, the arrival of the violin wood, and tracing the address to the outskirts of Cremona.
‘But that’s crazy! First of all, it is not legal to ship such wood out of Italy,’ Bertoldo said, with his accent in which every word ended in a vowel and the word ‘wood’ sounded more like ‘woooda.’ ‘I don’t know where they could have gotten this wood. We all try to get old wood. Otherwise it takes years to dry properly and who has such time? But we usually find it at shops of makers who are retiring. Sometimes they’ve had it in the family for generations. We are like the ants at a picnic. As soon as our little antennas sense the sweet dessert we all swarm to it. So, if these friends of Borlotti wanted to sell this wood, there are so many makers here that would buy it, no questions asked. And a good price, too.’
‘We thought Mr Borlotti was just a repairman,’ Yumi said. ‘Have you seen instruments that he’s made?’
‘I have never heard of him. And I thought I had heard of everyone.’
Jacobus sat in the back seat of Bertoldo’s sports car, which was comfortable if a bit cramped, until they reached the center of prosperous Cassalbuttano, a mere stone’s throw from Cremona. But when Bertoldo took the winding roads in the suddenly rural landscape as a cue to speed up, Jacobus was buffeted from one side of the car to the other. Bertoldo laughed each time the car swerved, and so did Yumi, but Jacobus could detect the nervousness in hers.
‘Aren’t you afraid?’ Bertoldo asked her at one point after a particularly enervating curve.
‘I’m fine,’ she replied. ‘You can let go of my hand now.’
As easy as Cassalbuttano was to find, locating Cerretello Secondo was a different story entirely. Not even knowing the name of the party they sought made finding the address particularly difficult. In between wrong turns they stopped and discussed what their strategy would be once they found where they were going.
‘What type of person would be shipping violin wood to Mr Borlotti?’ Yumi asked. ‘Another violinmaker?’
‘I don’t think so, princessa,’ Bertoldo said. ‘No violinmaker would part with the precious wood you describe. No matter how much he could sell it for, it would be worth much more when it finally became a violin. It must be a broker of some sort. Or a wealthy businessman with connections. Someone who can find such an obscure maker as Borlotti to sell wood to must know the world market profoundly.’
Jacobus laughed in the backseat.
‘You disagree, dottore?’
‘As far as we know,’ Jacobus said, ‘it can be anyone out trying to make a buck. It could be a carpenter who had some extra lumber. It could be a grandma on a pension who was cleaning out her attic. It could be a wholesale violin supply store. Or if you’re real lucky, Bertoldo, it’ll be a beautiful woman.’
‘But I am already so lucky in that regard, dottore,’ Bertoldo said. ‘Aren’t I, princessa?’
Yumi didn’t answer that question, but asked another.
‘Not knowing who we’re going to meet, how will we find out their connection to Mr Borlotti?’
‘Simple,’ Jacobus said. ‘We’ll ask them.’
Finally, after stopping a half dozen times to ask directions and getting conflicting advice from strangers who felt it imperative to also discuss government corruption and how their neighbors were cheating them, they turned off the correct dirt road and entered a dusty drive that ended at a rustic farmhouse. As they got out of the car, a brood of hens began to cluck anxiously from a pen, and a pair of old hounds trotted up to them, sniffed at their pant legs, and then wandered off. Painted on the stuccoed stone wall of the house was a sign: Cerretello Secondo. Famiglia Vassari.
No one responded to Bertoldo’s knock on the door. He knocked again, more insistently, with no better result.
‘That’s funny,’ Jacobus said. ‘I’m sure I smell smoke coming from a chimney.’
‘I suppose they could have left a fire burning,’ Yumi said, ‘but there are also cars parked in front of the house.’
‘We will try a little trick,’ Bertoldo whispered to them.
Knowing very well Jacobus and Yumi didn’t know the language, in a loud voice he said to them in Italian, ‘There is no one here! We will wait until they return! In the meantime, let’s get out the wine and sit in their doorway!’
Shortly thereafter, there was some rustling from within.
‘Chi parla?’ came a nervous whisper from behind the door.
‘He wants to know who we are,’ Bertoldo said.
Bertoldo identified himself as Cremonese and if they felt it necessary to confirm that, he shouted out his phone number. The two people with him were wealthy Americans who wanted to see the real Italy.
Five minutes later the door opened. Bertoldo told Jacobus and Yumi to follow his lead.
‘Prego,’ said the young man holding the door.
‘He’s inviting us in. Just do as I do.’
‘Permeso,’ said Bertoldo, which Jacobus and Yumi repeated as they entered.
The inside of the farmhouse was not much warmer than the outside, even with the fire burning. Not the same kind of wood as in his own stove, Jacobus thought, judging from the scent, but it reminded him of home, nevertheless. They were escorted to a large wooden table in a room Jacobus quickly gathered was the kitchen. Sounds were brittle and echoey, indicators of hard surfaces and open spaces. Smells of food were abundant. He was seated in an old wooden chair that scraped on a stone floor. The room was acoustically alive, amplifying the sotto voce conversation of the handful of the men and women surrounding them. Though Jacobus could not understand the words, the undertone was crystal clear. Extended silences between clipped comments. Sentences ending in questions. Sudden bursts. He had the feeling that they were being scrutinized with suspicion even though the gurgle of wine being poured into glasses sounded friendly enough.
Bertoldo engaged the Vassaris in lengthy conversation. They spoke so quickly and with such passion, sometimes all of them simultaneously, that Jacobus’s years of listening to Verdi and Puccini were no help at all. One individual in particular – he had the strong voice of a young man – seemed to be the family leader. Unable to
withhold his curiosity any longer, Jacobus asked Bertoldo what he had found out about the wood.
‘Not yet, dottore. Not yet,’ Bertoldo said. ‘We are still talking about the wine. They make it from their own grapes. It is good, don’t you think?’
‘Yeah, it’s great, but tell them we can’t stay more than a week.’
‘First we gain their trust,’ Bertoldo said, ‘then we find out about the wood. These things take time. Pian piano. Little by little. There is for certain something they are very afraid about.’
Plates were set in front of them with the surly plunk of obligatory hospitality.They were served a peasant-style lunch, sausages and pig liver roasted in the fireplace, served with cheese, pasta with wild greens, and freshly baked bread. Wine continued to be poured. Though the food was better than at any Italian restaurant Jacobus had ever been to in the U.S., they had not been made to feel welcome in any other way. Every once in a while, someone would ask him, ‘You like?’ with little conviction. No one had attempted to engage him or Yumi in conversation or even ask them a question.
At one point Bertoldo leaned over to Jacobus and said in a quiet voice, ‘I am making progress.’
‘What’s the story?’ Jacobus asked.
‘The loud one, he is named Ansaldo Vassari. Both of our grandfathers fought in the Resistance.’
‘They were friends?’ Yumi asked.
‘No. They didn’t know each other. But if they had, perhaps they would have been.’
‘Excellent progress,’ Jacobus said.
‘Thank you.’
As the day progressed, the house warmed marginally, more from the sun than from the fireplace, but not enough for Jacobus to feel comfortable taking off his coat. He and Yumi conversed with each other, but otherwise kept quiet in their effort to decipher the verbal hieroglyphics.
As a rule, Jacobus preferred when people made no mention of his blindness, but being totally ignored was beginning to get under his skin. Whether it was the language barrier or something more, he wasn’t sure, though he suspected it was something more.
It was easy for Jacobus to tell that the ongoing conversation between Bertoldo and the Vassaris was becoming more animated as the meal progressed, but at the same time it continued to sound contentious.
