"What would you say his feelings were on clerical celibacy?"
He reddened, looked away and paused too long.
My hunch had been right, I was certain.
"Well…" he began. "It is a controver—"
"He didn’t believe in it, did he? He was against it all the way. In fact, he had a girlfriend, didn’t he?"
"No!" he said. "I mean…No."
"I am not prying just for the sake of prying," I said slowly. "But it is very important that he be located, quickly. I do not mean to imply an illicit relationship. I just used that as a lever to get you talking. I do have reason to believe he saw a woman occasionally for, let us purposes unknown. I need her name. Perhaps she can help me find him."
"Just how important is it that he be found?" he inquired.
"It is very, very important. That is all I can say. If he did make her identity known to you and you were to tell it to me, I can assure you I will be discreet with the information. I simply want to talk to her, briefly. "
He paused to light a cigarette.
"I do not want to see him in any sort of trouble," he said after a time.
"How do I know you are not some sort of detective or an attorney?"
"You don’t," I said. "But I’m not."
He smoked in silence a while, then rose.
"Wait a moment," he said, and he left the room.
He returned shortly and handed me a small slip of paper he had folded in half.
"Here," he said. "It may be what you are looking for and it may not. All I know is that he gave me this one afternoon and told me that he would not be home that evening, but that if anyone trying to reach him should call me, I was to phone him there, personally, and give him the message."
I accepted it, glanced at it, put it into my pocket.
"Thank you, Father," I said, rising. "I guess I had better be going now."
He nodded, left the room and fetched my things.
"Well, good night then, Father," I said, donning my coat.
"Good night, Mister Wiley."
He did not seem to notice my outstretched hand, so I turned and went out the door, down the steps, through the hallway and into the wet darkness beyond.
IV.
Coincidences are things I distrust. Though they have cropped up often in my life, I tend to regard them with full skepticism when they touch on matters of importance.
This is why I felt uneasy when raising the phone, making the call.
Maria Borsini was the woman’s name…
I was certain it would be the same woman. I just felt it coming.
Carl Bernini’s girl.
I remembered a dark-haired, dark-eyed, slightly hefty, but narrow-waisted girl who had welcomed us to Naples on our successful return from England. We had had a private celebration, just the three of us. I had uncorked the wine, and she’d made herself comfortable in Carl’s lap while I propped the fruits of our expedition in strategic places about the room. Fourteen in all, by Dutch and Flemish artists. We very seldom went after an Old Master. Strictly special-order business there. Too hot to handle normally. The seventeenth century, however, was most obliging. The Dutch and Flemish seemed to love eating and looking at flowers. When they were not doing these things, they liked to look at paintings concerning them. Also, they tended to keep the paintings a convenient, under-the-arm size. Too, many of them would do four or five studies of the same subject. It is next to useless to send art dealers and museums a "reported stolen" list describing the missing-in-action item as depicting a vase of flowers, a bowl of fruit or a gang of peasants sitting about a table eating, and expect an immediate identification. Italy is a perfect place to dispose of such things. They operate under Roman law which makes it just about impossible to recover something purchased in good faith; hence, the buyer has something like a guarantee in those matters.
The paintings positioned, I poured the wine. Carl stopped stroking Maria’s hair long enough to raise his glass in a toast.
"To the arts," he said, then smiled.
"…and a good present for the past," I added.
"A prosperous future to their handlers," she said, then drained her glass in a single gulp and giggled.
As I went about the refilling, I could not help but notice the tanned smoothness of her legs, her eyes upon me as I did so. Speculative? Flirting? I do not really know. There is some honor among some thieves, advance publicity to the contrary.
She had had a hardy peasant way about her and a slightly slutty appearance, strangely surrounding a mind of which some steel traps might be envious. She had learned and retained an awful lot about art in the erratic up-and-down years of her off-and-on association with Carl Bernini. She even seemed to like some of it. I wondered what things about her were for show, what was for Carl and what was for real.
One morning, she had joined me for my wake-up coffee while Carl was still asleep, and she asked me what I felt like at having been the only survivor of the 747 which had crashed in Athens several months earlier.
"Lucky," I said, sipping.
"Yes," she agreed, after a moment. "Nobody will play cards with you anymore, though it does not seem that you cheat. Carl has had many setbacks in his life, but since he has been working with you it is all different. You never get caught. There are few complications. You always get the best prices. Even Carl, who says he does not believe in such things, says that you have been his lucky charm, this past year."
Here, she fingered a holy medal she wore about her neck, smiled when she realized what she was doing and let it fall into the valley of her breasts.
When she leaned forward to pour more coffee, the valley deepened and she did not adjust her robe, a green thing with orange flowers. Matisse would have used a single, curved line. I personally preferred the shading that was there.
When she continued, she spoke more slowly and her face assumed an inquisitive expression. Her voice actually changed, as well as the grammar and precision with which her words were delivered. The sophisticated effect it produced was like an extra cup of coffee in my veins.
"…and one day, perhaps soon, you shall return to your own country, a reasonably affluent man," she said. "Doubtless, you will purchase respectability; and doubtless, too, you will retain some connection with the arts, for you love them."
At that point, she covered my left hand lightly with her right, and I wondered at her having guessed my intentions so correctly. While I had mentioned it to no one, I had begun to feel that luck of which she had spoken might be wearing somewhat thin. I had made up my mind that this job was to be my last. It would garnish my nest sufficiently for me to stop taking chances.
I shrugged.
"I might wind up an art dealer one day," I said.
"Soon," she replied, perceptive girl. "I feel that it will be soon. And when you go, the bad times will return. Carl can make money, but he cannot keep it. Sometimes, too, he gets into trouble. A painting is recognized or a dealer cheats him, and he cannot go to the police. Generally, he must hide. I always thought that one day he would make a large commission and be able to keep it. Then he would buy a home and live as other people do. This was my hope for several years. When you and he joined together, I thought that the time might be near. Now I know that it is not so. You are no longer interested in the work. I have watched you and listened to you speak of it. When you leave, it will be as it was before. You possess something that he lacks. I have tried to analyze it, but I cannot."
I shrugged.
"What is America like?" she asked me, leaning farther forward and staring into my eyes, a faint smiling occurring now.
"Big," I said. "Pretty in some places, ugly in others. The same as anyplace else. Its big cities are like most big cities. I like cities."
"I like cities, too," she told me. "I was once ready to become a nun, but I did not take the final vows—I could not—because I like to wear pretty dresses, and I like good food and wine and travel. So I came to the city and met Carl Bernini.
He gave me some of these things, sometimes. But more often, it was as if I were back in the convent. He lives from job to job, never thinking of the future."
She laughed then and located a cigarette, held it. I lit it for her. I could give her that, at least.
Then, "You will be a successful art dealer," she told me, and finished her coffee.
It was several days later, after we had disposed of our merchandise, that she and Carl had had an argument, most of which I did not overhear. He began slapping her around, however, and while it was none of my business I did the same to him, on general principles. It turned into a very nasty fight, and I expanded my Italian vocabulary considerably that day. This terminated our partnership, somewhat ahead of my schedule. I did not see him again until I found him in my gallery. I had not seen her since.
The telephone rang, and despite the years I recognized the voice that answered.
"Hello, Maria," I said. "This is Ovid."
*
"It has been so long…" she said, after a silence that made it about ten seconds longer.
"Yes," I agreed, "but here I am in Rome and wanting to see you. May I come over?"
"Of course," she replied. "But there has been so much time…What of Carl?"
"You haven’t seen him lately?" I said.
"No."
I decided then that it was best to be brief and blunt.
"He’s dead," I said. "I found his body."
"Oh."
After another pause, "How did it happen?" she asked.
"He was murdered," I told her. "With a knife. At my place."
"Who did it?"
"I don’t know. The police have not been able to find out yet. They suspected me, but I didn’t do it. They had to let me go."
"Was he visiting with you when it happened?"
"No. I wasn’t even aware that he was in town until I found his body."
"How long ago was it?"
"About a week and a half. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you."
"Do not be," she said. "It had been all over between us for a long while."
"Then why did you ask about him?"
"Curiosity," she replied. "He did once mean very much to me, and I wished him no ill. I am sorry that he is dead. I had heard that he was going to America. I had thought that he would visit his old friend—if for no other reason than to ask for money or a place to stay. I am very sorry about the way things turned out for him."
Since I could not see her face or hands, it was difficult for me to gauge her feelings. She was speaking again in that slow, dignified fashion I had heard on but one other occasion.
"So you think he was somewhat down on his luck?" I asked.
"He was when we broke up," she said. "Things were not going at all well for him. He had been in jail for a time. Then he was ill for a long while. He began drinking heavily. Our arguments grew worse and worse. Finally, I threw him out."
"About how long ago was that?"
"Oh, many months. April, perhaps…"
"Have you any idea who might have killed him?"
"No," she said. "I knew nothing of his current affairs."
"Is it all right if I come over now?" I asked. "I’d like to take you somewhere for dinner or buy you a drink or three."
"I am sorry, but tonight is impossible," she said. "I have to work until quite late. I only came home to eat, and I was on the way out when the telephone rang."
"Oh. How about tomorrow then?" I asked.
"Tomorrow is the opening," she said. "We are exhibiting over forty paintings by Paul Gladden, an American who has been living in Italy for the past five years. He is quite good. I work for Bruno Jurgen now, at the Sign of the Fish. You must remember the place."
"Yes. He was a very good fence. Probably still is. Has branches all over Europe and in both Americas. I like to see a man make good."
"If he had known you were in town I am certain he would have sent you an invitation. There will be dealers and art critics from several countries present. Why don’t you stop by around eight this evening? There will be champagne, and I am certain Bruno would be happy to see you again. Who knows? You might even see something you want to buy. We can talk then—or afterwards—depending on how busy things get."
"That sounds like a good idea," I said. "All right."
"How long will you be in town?"
"It’s hard to say. I’m not really certain yet."
"Buying trip?"
"Sort of a combination of a vacation and just looking."
"Excellent," she said. "I have to run now. I will see you tomorrow evening then."
"Right. Take care."
"Goodbye."
Click.
I cursed as I smoked and paced. Something was just too neat and cute for other words. It had to be more than coincidence, my connection with the renegade priest through Maria and Carl, with Carl turning up dead at my place and me on the spot this way. My man in Virginia must have known more than he had indicated, and I cursed him for holding it back when it might have been of use to me.
Finished with cursing, I went downstairs and up the street for dinner.
"It is no great wonder if in the long process of time, while fortune takes her course hither and thither, numerous coincidences should spontaneously occur," the historian wrote. "If the number and variety of subjects to be wrought upon be infinite, it is all the more easy for fortune, with such an abundance of material, to effect this similarity of results."
Crap, Plutarch! Crap! You and Berwick would have gotten along fine together.
I ate the food without really tasting it. I lingered over my final drink.
*
I found Anna Zanti, the fifth name on the Monsignor’s list, seated on the steps of a building one guidebook describes as "benin funerary style," her basket of flowers at her feet and small bunches of them spread, satellite-like, about her on the stair. She was a very thin, dark woman, with incipient cataracts and snow-white hair. She wore a shabby, plaid shawl and long skirts, and the lines in her face deepened as she leaned forward, frowning, to catch at the words of a customer. Since the conversation could prove lengthy and the day was young, I passed her on the stair and entered the concrete monstrosity.
Inside the thing was the altar itself, raised by the Roman Senate for Augustus Caesar around 2,000 years ago. When pieces of it were dug up in 1568, they were believed to be the remains of an old triumphal arch. It was not realized until approximately three centuries later that it was the Ara Pacis Augustae. And it was not until 1937 that it was fully excavated and the job of piecing it together was begun. Marble, atop a pyramid of steps, the outside screen a bas relief showing the suckling of Romulus and Remus by their bitch of a stepmother, Aeneus making a sacrifice, a gala procession, all above decorations of acanthus leaves, snakes, lizards, birds, flowers and butterflies. I mounted the steps and entered, pausing to study the garlands of fruit, foliage and pinecones strung between ox skulls that decorated the interior. The altar itself was a high slab of tufa stone, guarded by mythical animals. I have always been deeply moved by the Ara Pacis. It had been packed round by sandbags during World War II, to protect it. Now the whole thing is sheltered by the concrete barn. The windows, some of them 21 by 28 feet, are half an inch thick, specially made by the Saint-Gobain’s Caserte glass factory to withstand the rocks and such thrown by demonstrators. Lost, unidentified for centuries, somehow protected, a frail, delicate thing of hope. Poor old Ara Pacis Augustae, they did not have bombs in the days of your youth. I wonder how much longer you will be around, old altar of peace?
About ten minutes later, my respects to the respectable paid, I stepped outside and waited for Anna Zanti’s current customer to move away. Then I walked down and said hello, bought a corsage.
"Thank you," she said. "It is very fresh. Your lady will be happy."
I smiled.
"I am certain," I said. "It looks to be a good day, eh?"
"Yes," she agreed. "On days like this I sell more flow
ers."
"That is good," I said. "Did you know Father Bretagne?"
She gave me a quick face-to-toes-to-face survey, then leaned forward and cupped her ear.
"Pardon," she said. "I do not hear so well."
"A priest. Father Bretagne," I said. "Do you know him?"
She shrugged.
"I know many priests."
"But this particular priest—Father Bretagne…I am trying to find him. You and he were friends, no?"
"Pardon," she said again, leaning forward. "You will have to speak louder."
As I repeated it, she studied my face, squinting. Then she winked and smiled.
"You buy the flowers for your mistress, yes?"
I nodded.
Then she decided, nodding several times herself, "…and you want to divorce your wife for her."
I smiled again. It seemed the right thing to do.
"For forty years I was married to that son of a dog, Antonio," she said then. "Forty years! And he left me after the first! I could not get a divorce then, the way the laws were. Then when they were changed, I wanted one. But the Church still does not approve of such things. So I talked about it with the best priest I knew. That Father Bretagne! He is a saint! So wise, so friendly…Not like the others. No! So one day when he stopped to buy flowers I asked him about it. He talked to me for a long time then. He told me how it was a law of the Church and not a law of God. He made everything so clear that I did not feel bad about going to the lawyer at all. If you talk to him, he will explain it to you as he did to me, I am sure."
"Did he buy your flowers often?" I asked.
"Every few weeks."
"For whom did he buy them?"
She flipped her palms, raised her shoulders and let them fall.
"I never asked him. He never said."
"I would like to talk to him, about my—problem," I said. "Where can I find him?"
"Vatican City," she told me. "He works there. Someone will know."
The Dead Man's Brother Page 5
