“Now, if you will excuse me, I will make the necessary arrangements.”
As he picked up his hat and pushed back his chair, he noticed Mrs. Hart glance nervously at her mother as if seeking guidance.
Before he could rise, she spoke hesitantly. “Perhaps…”
“Yes?”
“Perhaps … there is a way that both you and my husband can benefit from this situation.”
Valfierno’s heart began racing. Was it possible that she was about to make this even easier?
“And how would that be?” He settled back into his chair.
She turned again to her mother, and Valfierno could sense the longing she felt to share this with her. Finally, she turned back to him, a thin mask of resolve on her face.
“You could tell my husband…” She hesitated.
Valfierno encouraged her with an inquisitive look.
She drew in her breath for an instant before letting the words rush out. “You could tell him that you will produce the passport only if he buys the painting.”
“Mrs. Hart,” Valfierno said with genuine astonishment, “you surprise me.”
She leaned forward. “It would only be fair considering the amount of trouble you’ve gone to.” She said this with unexpected fervor, but she quickly caught herself, straightening up as she added, “And, besides, I know that my husband, despite his misgivings, would still like to have the painting in his possession.”
This was more than Valfierno could have hoped for. Directly proposing the exchange ran the risk of making Hart suspicious. Or Hart might feel cornered and simply refuse out of hand. But if his wife presented the idea and told him that she had thought it best to agree—at least in principle—Hart would be more inclined to go along with it. Of course, he might reproach his wife for agreeing on his behalf, but Valfierno justified this by telling himself that it was also to her and her mother’s benefit to leave Buenos Aires as soon as possible.
“As you said,” Valfierno mused, “for our mutual benefit.”
“I’ll tell him.” She was fully committed now and warming to her idea. “I’ll tell him that I met you on the street, that we talked, and that you outlined this proposal. Time was of the utmost importance, so I took the liberty of agreeing in his name to the arrangement. Don’t you see? It solves everyone’s problems. You will be paid for your efforts, and we will be able to return to New York tomorrow.”
Valfierno pretended to weigh this in his mind as he marveled at her enthusiasm for the idea.
“He may be less than pleased that he was not consulted in the matter,” he finally said.
“The money is not important to him,” Mrs. Hart said, trying to sell the idea now. “He has some concern about the authorities, yes, but it’s nothing compared to his desire to leave your beautiful city as soon as possible.”
Valfierno looked away, tilting his head and forming his face into an expression of amused uncertainty.
“Well,” she challenged him, “what do you say?”
Valfierno looked at her, letting the moment stretch a bit longer before an appreciative smile formed on his face.
“I say, Mrs. Hart, that you are a most remarkable woman.”
Mrs. Hart was clearly pleased that he had accepted her proposal. But her smile lasted only a few seconds.
“Well, then,” she said, composing herself. “Mother, we should be going.”
Valfierno rose as Mrs. Hart gently guided her mother to her feet.
“We will see you at the dock tomorrow morning at ten o’clock,” she said, gathering up her hat and long white gloves, “an hour before the boat leaves.”
“And you are sure you want to do this?”
“Yes, I’m quite sure. Good day to you, Marquis. Come, Mother.”
As Mrs. Hart guided her mother back in the direction of the hotel, Valfierno experienced a strange combination of feelings: exhilaration in the knowledge that his plan had succeeded beyond all expectations, and a measure of guilt for having involved her.
Turning to go, he noticed a single white glove lying on the ground beneath the table. He picked it up and was about to call after her when he stopped himself. He felt the silky fabric of the glove between his fingers, hesitated a moment, then slipped it into his pocket.
Chapter 6
At dinner that evening, Julia proved to be an entertaining guest, at least to Valfierno and Yves. Émile said little as the meal progressed. Valfierno’s housekeeper, Maria, served carbonada criolla, a thick beef stew spiced with sliced pears. Despite the uncertainty of what tomorrow was to bring, the group ate heartily and made short work of a number of bottles of dark red Tempranillo wine. After finishing a dessert of sweet honey cakes, Valfierno and Yves peppered the newcomer in their midst with questions.
“So how exactly did you pick up your particular talent,” Valfierno asked, rubbing the tip of his thumb and forefinger together to illustrate her unique aptitude.
“Yes,” added Yves. “Tell us, how old were you when you got started?”
She took another sip of wine and smiled proudly. “Eleven.”
“Eleven?” Valfierno was impressed. “Why such a late start?”
Valfierno and Yves shared a friendly chuckle, but Émile simply stared into his half-empty glass of wine.
“Go ahead and laugh,” she said good-naturedly, “but eleven actually is a bit late.”
“And have you ever been caught?” Valfierno asked. “I mean, before yesterday?”
“As a matter of fact, I was caught red-handed the very first time I tried to pick someone’s pocket.”
“Oh, dear,” Yves said, amused at how casually, even proudly, she said it. “That was unfortunate.”
“Actually, it was just the opposite,” she corrected him, “because I was caught by my uncle Nathan.”
“You tried to pick your own uncle’s pocket?” Valfierno asked in amazement.
“No, Uncle Nathan was teaching me how to pick pockets.”
“Then I think we need to hear a little something about this Uncle Nathan of yours,” Valfierno said before signaling Maria to refill Julia’s glass.
“Well,” she began, “let’s just say he was the black sheep of the family…”
* * *
Her father was a midlevel banker in Manhattan, and she had lived a very prosaic middle-class life in Fort Lee, New Jersey, just across the Hudson River from the city. Her family had always considered Uncle Nathan something of a pariah, someone to be scorned or at best ignored. But to Julia, he was her most intriguing relative by far. Not that his reputation was ill deserved: He had spent three long years at Sing Sing Correctional Facility in upstate New York for check forgery. He had apparently learned his lesson and bid farewell to the world of crime. Though, in the eyes of most of the family, he traded that world for one even more reprehensible: show business.
He made his living touring the frayed edges of the vaudeville circuit in an act that consisted of picking the pockets of audience members to the amusement of their working-class brethren.
He was assisted in this venture by one Lola Montez, his comely—at least in the flattering glow of the dim stage lights—assistant, another sore spot with his family.
But not to Julia. On the rare occasions when Uncle Nathan came in from the road, she would spend as much time as possible with him, soaking up his sordid tales of the squalid yet exciting world of show business. And he delighted in passing down the one talent that he had mastered above all others: the art of pickpocketing. He traveled extensively and regaled her with stories of his foreign adventures, particularly in London, Paris, and Barcelona. He even taught her some French and Spanish, the latter of which had proved particularly useful lately. As he would always say, the larger the audience, the greater the number of suckers.
She was a quick study, and Uncle Nathan insisted that he could have made a killing with those small hands and long slender fingers of hers. He even hinted that one day Julia could join him onstage and, between the two of them,
they would elevate the act to a level that would draw the attention of the higher-class promoters in New York and Chicago. The notion stoked her dreams, populating them with visions of a thrilling and romantic future.
And then one day her mother announced that Uncle Nathan was dead, shot by his assistant Lola’s cuckolded husband. Her family was not a bit surprised. Julia’s world became suddenly very dull indeed.
The day after her sixteenth birthday, she ran away from home, her head full of the promise of far-off adventures and her pockets full of the dollar bills that her mother kept in her sewing basket “for a rainy day.” It had even been raining that day.
The money took her from New Jersey to Charleston, South Carolina, where she found Uncle Nathan’s skills invaluable. She fell in with a group of young prostitutes and came up with a foolproof scheme. Acting the part of a lady of the street—though never in fact playing that role, she assured her listeners—she would fawn over and cajole an eager john only to fabricate some perceived insult and stalk off in disgust. By the time the man realized that he had been relieved of his wallet, it was too late.
In most cases, the poor fool would drag himself meekly back to his home and family. But she knew that sooner or later, someone would be sufficiently motivated to go in search of her. So she never stayed in one place for too long and kept moving south, following the Florida East Coast Railway all the way to the burgeoning city of Miami. After she wore out her welcome there, she boarded a steamer for São Paulo, Brazil, eventually making her way to Buenos Aires.
* * *
“And now,” she concluded, “it looks like I’ve come about as far south as I can go.”
“Indeed,” Valfierno said. “Tierra del Fuego holds very little promise for someone in your line of work.”
“Besides,” she added casually, “the local police relieved me of my American passport months ago.”
“Well,” said Yves, “that’s quite a tale. Don’t you think, Émile?”
Émile looked at Yves and shrugged. “If it’s true.”
Julia gave him a look.
“True or not,” Valfierno said, “it makes for a hell of a story.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Yves raised his glass.
“You’ve been very quiet,” Julia said to Émile, a hint of challenge in her voice. “Don’t you have any amusing anecdotes?”
“Even if I did,” Émile answered, “I wouldn’t have been able to get a word in edgewise.”
“No fighting at the table, enfants,” Yves said in his most avuncular manner.
“I’m going to bed,” announced Émile, rising from the table. “Bonne nuit.”
“Buenas noches, Émile,” said Valfierno.
“Don’t forget this.” Julia held out Émile’s pocket watch.
Émile swiped the watch and stalked off.
“You shouldn’t tease him so hard,” said Valfierno after Émile had left the room.
“He’s a big boy,” she said, draining what was left of the wine in her glass. “He can look after himself.”
* * *
Later in the evening, Valfierno and Yves sat in the warm glow of candlelight in the carriage house, Valfierno puffing on a cigar and each holding a glass of Tempranillo.
“I don’t know what Émile’s problem is,” Yves said. “She’s a very engaging young lady.”
“She’s always picking his pocket,” Valfierno said with a shrug. “He hates that.”
The carriage house was an art gallery in itself. A number of easels supported copies of various masterpieces in different states of completion. Scores of other canvases lay stacked against the walls, mostly Yves’s original work. It had always been Valfierno’s considered opinion that, even though Yves’s paintings seemed to lack the precision of the copies he created, they possessed a distinctive, compelling style of their own.
Yves’s original work fit into two categories. In the first, buildings with inward-leaning walls loomed over narrow streets as if they were about to pounce on the small unsuspecting pedestrians below; muted washed-out hues added to the sense of oppression. In the second, people, their clothing rendered in unnaturally bright and piercing colors, sat at outdoor cafés and leaned into each other much the same as the walls of the buildings had, but the mood was intimate, sensual even. Bright sunlight cast long, vivid shadows that contrasted with the luminous colors threatening to burn through the canvas itself.
“You know, my friend,” Valfierno said, taking a sip of wine, “they are really quite good. Your own pieces, I mean. You should spend more time on them.”
Yves shrugged off the compliment. “How can I? You work me like a mule.” But he smiled as he said it.
“After we have successfully concluded our current business, we’ll all take a break. No more copies for a while. You can concentrate on your own paintings. How does that sound?”
“Like hard work,” said the old man.
“And copying the masters is not?” challenged Valfierno.
“The most difficult part has already been done. The choice of subject. The composition. The lighting. The technique. Still, as you know, I always manage to find a way to leave my own mark.”
Valfierno smiled. Master forgers usually couldn’t resist making a small, virtually undetectable alteration in the compositions they were duplicating. Anyone taking the time to count the number of pearls in the nymph’s necklace in the painting in the museum would, after taking delivery of his new purchase, find himself the beneficiary of one extra pearl for his money.
“My point is,” Yves continued, “that technique can be learned. But the inspiration comes from another place altogether, a mysterious place, a hidden place.” He tapped his chest with his fist. “It is possessed only by the true artist.”
“You underestimate yourself,” said Valfierno. “Inspiration is just another word for heart, and you always find a way to put your heart into all your work.”
The old man decided to accept this. “True enough. Without the heart, it’s only paint and canvas.”
“Then it’s settled,” Valfierno declared. “You’ll create an original work just for me. A commission, if you will. Who knows, I might even pay you.”
Yves smiled in response, took a long drink from his glass, and asked, “So, will we catch our fish tomorrow?”
Valfierno pondered this for a moment.
“I believe that Mr. Joshua Hart of Newport, Rhode Island, will complete the transaction.” Valfierno took a sip of his wine before amending, “That is, with the kind assistance of Mrs. Joshua Hart.”
Chapter 7
Joshua Hart impatiently checked his pocket watch again. Behind him on the dock, his wife stood with her mother. Mrs. Hart clutched the handle of a bulging carpetbag, anxiously tilting her head upward to scan the sea of faces.
The hull of the 11,000-ton Allan Line steamship Victorian loomed above them, an overhanging cliff of gray steel. The blare of horns punctuated the babble of the uniformed crew members and burly stevedores as they struggled to board a throng of people.
“Where in blazes is he?” Hart demanded of his wife, who could only shake her head and shrug in response.
At that same moment, Valfierno stood with Julia just out of sight behind the wall of the nearby customshouse. He held the long leather valise containing the painting. Émile stood out from the wall observing the American and his party milling about on the dock.
“The boat is set to leave in fifteen minutes,” Émile said, nervously checking his pocket watch.
“Patience,” said Valfierno. “Timing is everything.”
Émile looked at his watch again before turning to Julia for support. But all Julia did was to annoy him with a teasing glance at his timepiece, which prompted Émile to thrust it into his pocket.
On the dock, a man in a dark blue uniform bellowed out a last call for boarding.
“Confound it!” Hart snapped. “Where the devil is he?”
“There!” Mrs. Hart called out, unable to restrain her e
xcitement. She pointed at Valfierno pushing his way through the mass onto the dock. Farther back, Émile and Julia hurried after him, but when Julia stepped onto the dock itself, Émile came to a halt. Julia stopped and looked back at him.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
Émile stared down at the wooden dock and the water glinting below, visible through the cracks between the planks.
“You’re not afraid of water, are you?” She said it more as a childish taunt than a real question.
Émile gave her a stony look.
“That’s ridiculous,” he said, right before stepping purposefully onto the dock and striding past her into the crowd.
Farther on, Valfierno walked up to Joshua Hart.
“Where the devil have you been?” Hart asked angrily. “You’ve almost made me miss the boat.”
“Forgive me,” Valfierno said breathlessly. “Our carriage lost a wheel.”
Émile and Julia emerged from the crowd and stopped behind Valfierno.
“Who is this?” Hart demanded, indicating Émile.
“My assistant, Émile. He helped me to procure the papers.”
“How good to see you again, Mr. Hart,” Julia said.
She stepped forward, extending a hand toward him in greeting. But she tripped over her own feet and fell forward, forcing her to grab onto Hart’s coat lapels for support.
“Oh, forgive me,” she said. “I’m all left feet.”
He briefly acknowledged her but was too distracted to take much notice.
“Well, have you got them?” Hart demanded, turning away from Julia.
“Of course.” Valfierno nodded to Émile. The young man produced a passport with various papers sticking out of it. Hart reached for it, but Valfierno put his hand out to hold Émile back.
“First things first, señor,” he said with mild reproach.
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