Cold Tuscan Stone

by David P. Wagner

  Rick listened, nodding at the appropriate moments, while he studied the man. He wondered how his uncle the policeman would have sized up Landi, and what characteristics would have made an impression, positive or negative. The exterior was not important, you couldn’t deduce anything about the man by his looks, since he didn’t appear any different from hundreds of people that Rick had met in Italy, all of them honest people. Same with Landi’s smoking. The habit was not illegal, though the way the government was moving these days, it soon could be. Landi behaved as expected of a businessman in this situation: ingratiating, with frequent glances to check Rick’s reactions. The man wanted the sale, and this could be a big one for him. One would conclude that the shop was his main business and only business, not a front for an illegal operation which brought in the big money. After about twenty minutes Rick said that he had really taken too much of Signor Landi’s precious time, perhaps he could return another day. Better not to appear too eager.

  “But of course, Signor Montoya, you may return whenever you wish. I think it would also be of interest to you if—ah, Orlando, you have arrived at the perfect time.”

  Rick turned to see a small man peeling off his leather gloves as he entered the store. He wore a camel hair overcoat that extended below his knees and his neck was protected by a long red scarf. Stuffing his gloves in his pockets, he pulled off a wool cap to reveal a mostly bald head. Did the man fear losing most of his body’s heat through the top of the head? One thing for sure: this man disliked cold weather. Landi introduced him to Rick as Orlando Canopo, his assistant and the manager of the workshop that produced much of the store’s stock. Beaming, he told Canopo of Rick’s reason for the trip to Volterra, then turned back to his visitor.

  “He is quite an artisan himself, Signor Montoya, but Canopo was meant for better things than just carving alabaster.”

  Canopo glanced at his boss with a pleased look on his face.

  “I was just about to suggest to our visitor, Orlando, that he visit our workshop. If he sees the excellent craftsmen working there he will appreciate the quality of our products even more.” Landi turned to Rick. “If you have time now, I’m sure Orlando would be glad to accompany you.”

  Rick glanced at a clock on the wall as the two men waited for his reply. Like almost everything else in the store, it was made of alabaster, but with bronze numbers and hands.

  “I have an appointment at six, at…nearby. Would there be time?”

  “I think there would,” answered Canopo in a deeper voice than Rick expected, even given the man’s somewhat diminutive size, “but if you run late, you can return when it would be convenient. It’s only a few blocks from here.” There was a slight accent that was not Tuscan. Somewhere in the south.

  The store owner grinned, shifted his eyes between the two men and rubbed his hands together as if he were about to sit down to a steaming bowl of pasta. “Excellent, now you won’t have to take off your coat, Orlando.” There was a private joke here that would not be shared. Landi shook hands with Rick. “I look forward to seeing you again, Signor Montoya. Tomorrow?”

  “It has been my pleasure, Signor Landi.” He wondered how much nicotine smell had passed to his fingers. “Yes, tomorrow. A domani.”

  Landi watched the two men leave the store and then pulled Rick’s card from his jacket pocket, studying it carefully. He ran his fingers over the paper, as if testing its fiber content, before placing it in a small drawer next to the cash register. The girl, who had been standing silently in a corner of the shop, watched her boss with an expressionless face. He glanced at her, walked to the back of the shop, and disappeared through the door. She stood for a few moments before returning to her place among the jewelry.

  Outside, Rick and Canopo walked down the street, now filled with afternoon shoppers. A light wind brushed their faces.

  “Perhaps something to warm us up, Signor Montoya? The workshop can get quite drafty.”

  “That sounds like an excellent idea. It is getting chilly.”

  “I won’t have to put my gloves back on just yet.”

  As they entered the bar, conversation stayed on the weather. Canopo was born in Sicily, and though he’d been living in Volterra for fifteen years, he still was not used to the cold winters of Tuscany. He asked Rick if he had spent any time in Sicily, and looked at the American in sadness when the reply was negative. Their espressos arrived with a pair of clinks as they were set onto saucers, and the barman splashed a shot of grappa into Canopo’s cup without asking. Rick declined the liquor and stirred a spoonful of sugar into his coffee. Canopo drained his in one gulp before patting a paper napkin to his lips.

  “So, Signor Montoya, you are interested in the art of the land of the Etruscans.”

  Rick sipped his espresso and thought that it was almost as if Canopo knew of his real mission in Volterra. Perhaps this would be the man to field his hints when the time came, when he had established some trust and his credentials as a real buyer were accepted. Or with both Canopo and Landi.

  “The pieces I saw in the shop were very beautiful. Americans are always impressed by Italian design and workmanship, but the Etruscan angle adds an additional fascination to the work.”

  “And an additional profit to be made?” The cognac seemed to have warmed up Canopo in more ways than one.

  “I suppose you could say that,” Rick answered.

  “You have been to Volterra before, I trust? From your fluent Italian I assume you have been to most parts of the country. Except Sicily, of course.” The last sentence was said with either regret or reproach, Rick was not sure which.

  “No, this is my first visit.”

  “Ah,” was Canopo’s simple reaction. “In many ways it is not very different from my native island. There are good people and bad people. The Tuscans claim to be above all the rest of us, but in truth they have the same vices as everyone else in Italy, those vices are simply dressed in more elegant attire.” He had been staring at his empty cup and now looked at Rick. “You have a rare gift, Signor Montoya, of getting people to talk freely.”

  “This is the first time I’ve been accused of that, Signor Canopo.”

  Canopo narrowed his eyes as he looked at Rick’s face. “But it’s true, I sense such things.” The smile returned. “I also sense that you won’t take my comments the wrong way. I am very happy here, I have a wonderful family and Signor Landi has treated me well. All this despite the wretched cold of this city.” He glanced at his watch, as if to remind them both of Rick’s other appointment. As he did, Rick pulled back his coat to reach into his pants pocket.

  “Don’t take out your money, Signor Montoya; it is of no value here.”

  Rick thanked him for the coffee as they walked through the glass doors. They stepped into the street and Canopo gestured to the right with his hand.

  “The shop is in this direction, I think you will—”

  Rick had been looking down the street where Canopo was pointing, but now glanced at the man’s face. The smile had gone and what was remained was either annoyance or concern.

  “Please excuse me for just a moment.” Canopo’s voice sounded a bit higher than it had inside. Without waiting for a reply he left Rick standing and strode quickly across the street toward a shoe store. Like all such establishments in Italy, the shoes were displayed along a glass corridor which lead to the entrance. This is a strange time to buy a pair of shoes, thought Rick, but then noticed a man standing close to the shop door. Because of the angle, he could see only the man’s left shoulder and his left arm inside the pocket of his coat. This limited view was soon blocked completely by Canopo, who stared through the glass, avoiding eye contact with the other man as the two talked. Before Canopo turned, Rick looked away so the two would not see him watching them, and he was checking the watches of a jewelry store when Canopo reached him.

  “Signor Montoya, I am mortified. Somethi
ng has come up and I will have to show you the workshop tomorrow. I pray you will forgive me.”

  “Of course, of course, I understand completely. It may have been a bit tight for me to get to my appointment anyway.

  “You are very kind. Until tomorrow then.” Canopo pumped Rick’s hand and scuttled down the street, pulling his hat down over his head as he went. Rick watched him for a few seconds, then turned to see what had happened to the other man, but he was nowhere to be seen. Must have gone into the shoe store.

  There was still more than an hour until Rick’s appointment with Commissario Conti, enough time to wander the ancient streets of Volterra. He felt a tinge of guilt at engaging in some tourism on the ministry’s dime and time, but it quickly passed as he walked in the opposite direction from Canopo. At the corner the street dropped steeply toward the west wall. If he descended he would have to climb back up, so he opted for a left turn, bringing him out in a small square. It was the capolinea for provincial bus routes from outlining towns. Two busses were parked at the curb, one with its motor running softly, while their drivers stood on the sidewalk talking. Rick continued along the street which narrowed as it became cobblestone and started a soft incline.

  At the end of the street he walked through a gate and found himself in a park. Not a small park with a bit of grass but an immense open green area surrounded by tall trees. In Italy, where there’s grass there are kids, and despite the chill and deepening dusk a small pack of young boys kicked a soccer ball in the middle of the field. Near Rick on wooden benches women sat next to empty strollers, chatting while keeping an eye on their toddlers scratching around for bugs in the dirt. The greenery formed a sharp contrast to the gray stone of the narrow streets a few hundred meters behind him. Rick raised his eyes, drawn to the view at the far end of the park. The walls of a huge castle rose high, a perfect backdrop for the set for a Disney movie. Strange that he hadn’t remembered anything about castle tours in his guidebook, since castles had been a passion of his since childhood. When he had moved back to Rome, one of his first tourist visits was a return to the Castel Sant’ Angelo, with its long history and great views over the Tiber. He remembered standing on its battlements as a kid while his father recounted the story of Pope Clement VII watching in helpless horror as foreign mercenaries sacked the city below. Volterra’s castle ramparts would have wonderful views of the valley, and while it didn’t date back to the emperor Hadrian like Castel Sant’ Angelo, there had to be some fascinating history in its stones. He made a mental note to find out. It looked like a keeper for sure.

  ***

  The wind was picking up now, bending left and right to follow the curves of the narrow stone streets. After leaving the American, Canopo walked in short, brisk steps, keeping his eyes to the ground as he thought about the upcoming meeting. Normally they met inside, where it was warm. Why would he pick this spot, possibly the coldest place in Volterra? He pulled his scarf tighter around his neck and stuffed his bare hands back in his pockets, better than putting on his gloves. He turned left and started down the street which ran along the top of the wall. As he had dreaded, the wind blew even more strongly there. It tore up from the ruins after whipping trees in the distance, picking up speed through the stone columns of the Roman theater. To add to the chill a cover of black clouds had started closing off the last few rays of sunlight, though it was not quite dark enough to cause the street lights to go on. It was no surprise that no one was in sight. Anybody with a brain would be inside at this time of day, likely with a warm drink. The thought of another shot of grappa made him smile, but his mood sank to match the temperature when he saw the expression on the face of the large man standing by the wall.

  “I came as quickly as I could.” Canopo joined the tall, silent figure. He looked up at the man’s face, waiting for him to speak.

  The man remained silent, gazing out over the ruins below, his slight frown showing concern or distraction. A long leather coat was his only concession to the cold wind that raced along the street. Canopo decided that sheer size must keep the man from noticing the temperature, like a bear hunkered down in a frozen forest. He wore no hat. His gloveless hands were placed on the edge of the wall as if he were about to make a speech to an invisible crowd gathered below. There was no offer of a handshake, or any other acknowledgement that a shivering Canopo now stood a few feet from him.

  “Canopo,” he finally said. Was it a statement or a question? He continued after a pause. “Mio caro Canopo, we’ve had a problem. The police have discovered our storage shed and confiscated everything.” Canopo tried not to show fear, but he could not prevent taking a short breath. The man continued. “So we’ve lost most of our stock. This will set us back months….Come over here so I don’t have to raise my voice.”

  Canopo scanned the empty street. “But there’s no one—”

  “Come here.”

  Canopo found himself standing next to the man, both of them now blankly staring at the stones far below their eyes. There was still enough light to make out the structures laid out by the Romans, those remnants that had not been carted off over the centuries. A wide arc of stone seats lay between them and a tower of Corinthian columns, all that was left of the theater’s stage. Only the outline of its semicircle was visible, cut into the side of the hill. Grass that grew among the stones was turning brown in the fall cold, matching leaves which had blown into small piles around the stage. Far off to the left a few cars were leaving a large parking area, one of several such spaces found outside the walls of what had always been and still was a pedestrian city. Canopo watched their red tail lights disappear around the distant edge of the wall.

  “What are we to think?” The man continued to focus on the stones below.

  “I don’t understand.” Canopo’s voice faltered.

  “It seems very unlikely that the cops just stumbled on it, mio caro Canopo. And there were only a few of us who knew its location. We have no reason to suspect the other members of the organization, so it has come down to one of us.” He shifted his eyes from the stones to Canopo. “I know that I never told anyone about the shed.” He swung around, and his finger shot out to punch Canopo in the chest three times, one for each word. “That leaves you.”

  “I never said anything to the police or anyone else, I swear.” Despite the wintry air, he could feel himself beginning to sweat. “Why would I do it? What would be in it for me?”

  “Money? You should be doing pretty well. You get a regular salary from the store, you’re paid well for our little operation, and now it seems you’re on the police payroll as well. Whatever the reasons, it doesn’t matter now.” He lifted his head and glanced quickly up and down the street.

  “What are you—” Canopo’s voice froze.

  Abruptly the man reached down and seized Canopo under his arms. The strong hands pressed in, squeezing a groaning breath from Canopo’s lungs as he stared up in shock. An instant later he realized that his feet were no longer touching the stone pavement. He pulled his hands from his pockets as he felt himself being lifted above the top of the wall. Canopo’s fingers clawed at the face, trying to hold fast to something, anything, that could save him. Suddenly all he felt was the frozen air rushing past him. He was cursing the cold when he hit the stone.

  ***

  “Did you see that, Herb?”

  “What should I be seeing, Shirley, I’m opening the car?” The man in a Nike jacket glanced up and saw a strange look on his wife’s face. “What is it?”

  “A man, at least I think it was a man, just fell from the top of the wall, way over there.”

  He squinted through his glasses. “Are you sure? It’s pretty dark.”

  “I’m not sure. No, I am sure. What else could it have been?”

  “Somebody throwing a sack of garbage? It is Italy, you know. They throw garbage all over the place. Remember Naples last week? This isn’t Davenport.”

 
“Herb, nobody would be throwing garbage down on the Roman ruins.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it.” He opened the passenger door of the rental car. “Come on, Shirley, I don’t want to be on these roads when it’s too dark. They’re dangerous enough with these Italian drivers.”

  ***

  His walk through the quiet streets of the historic center surrounded Rick with the richness of Volterra’s culture. He regretted that Erica wasn’t with him now, explaining all the art and architecture, putting everything in context as only a good art history professor can. He rounded the corner and entered the city’s main square, deserted except for a few people scurrying across its stone pavement. A strong gust of wind swirled through the piazza like a New Mexico dust devil, causing Rick to pull up his collar and hurry toward the police station. After mounting some steps, he entered the building and found himself in a large, bleak waiting room. It was flanked on one side by a classic, long, scuffed reception desk which must be a requirement in police stations worldwide. This one, at least, was wood, perhaps in deference to the age of the building. Various men and women, some in uniform, walked through the room looking busy. Rick approached the desk and asked for Commissario Conti. The uniformed man took his name and added it to a list on a clip board in front of him.

  “The Commissario has been detained.” He pointed to the equally long and scuffed bench at one side of the room. “He has asked you to please wait,” he added, before going back to his papers.

  The bench was hard, and became even harder the longer Rick sat. Fortunately he was not bored; the people circulating through the room kept up his interest, including several sitting with him on the bench. He thought of Grandma Montoya who loved people watching: give her a place to sit where people streamed by and she could not be happier. Periodically a policeman would appear to call out a name, and when someone popped up from the bench he would lead them through the doors into the heart of the building. Feeding the cycle, others came through the main doors to check in at the desk and take their place on the bench until their turn came. Many carried papers, and Rick supposed that they were working their way through the Italian bureaucracy to get some permit or perhaps pay a fine. He tried to analyze the people who sat with him, concluding that they were not wealthy or well connected. Anyone with money would have found some way to avoid the bureaucracy, or at the very least to skip waiting in line. It was not unlike encounters with the state bureaucracy in New Mexico, but here the language was Italian, not Spanish.