The Train to Orvieto

by Novelli, Rebecca J. ;

  Next, Losine called at the studio of an artist and printer he had known during the War, a specialist in forgeries of all kinds and able to work quickly. “I’ll need a perfect copy of this piece and supporting documentation.” The order would be costly. Never mind. Damn the cost! He would still have the fresco. People like Willa are charming, he reflected, but they don’t take into account that all decisions can have unexpected consequences. They confuse their false hopes and unwarranted trust with diligence. If things don’t work out, they expect to start over. Against what he regarded as Willa’s impulsive nature, Losine contrasted his own ability to evaluate the available alternatives with cultivated dispassion and then choose the best course of action according to the circumstances. While it was true that a temperament like Willa’s could lead to this sort of inconvenience, he certainly was not angry. Just then, a tall, stylishly dressed woman passed him on the sidewalk. There are many attractive and interesting women in Milano, he thought, but none as beautiful and lovely and warm as Willa. Whatever the problems, he looked forward to seeing her the next day.

  In the late fall sunshine, Losine noticed the declining angle of the light that reflected dully in the numerous puddles, the silence left by departing birds, and the absence of street vendors. Spring seemed unimaginable. He thought of Willa, her body curved against his own, bare and warm, her hair tangled on his pillow, under his cheek, enveloping him in the fragrance of carnation and freshly washed white linen. Despite the oncoming winter, he felt in the rush of his own blood a sense of sap rising, and understood the cry of new life within a self long forgotten, a sense of hope that he had not believed possible. As he stood amid the swirl of midday traffic, he recalled Willa’s sumptuous delight in him. Him! He felt resurrected, willing to do something unprecedented and likely quite foolish.

  Nearby, a policeman blew his whistle and shouted at a man to stop. Losine watched the man huddle in a doorway and then look away, avoiding the eyes of passersby. He pulled Willa’s telegram out of his pocket and reread it. Are the police already looking for me? He continued walking. What if they have orders for my arrest? He walked faster. Would they try to arrest him here in Milano, a place where he was known, safe, respected? It would never happen. Or would it? He fled toward the train station. When he had gone a few blocks, he looked back. No one was behind him except a uniformed nanny pushing a baby in a pram. I must get the antiquities back before this nonsense goes any further, he thought.

  “One first-class ticket for Firenze. Tomorrow,” he told the clerk.

  “The morning train arrives about noon.”

  “The night train, then.”

  “The sleepers and couchettes are already booked, sir.”

  “I’ll sit.” His leg would be stiff by the time he arrived. No matter. He returned to his office and cancelled his appointments for the following day, including the one with the gemstone dealer, and booked his usual room in Firenze.

  8

  When Losine arrived in Firenze the next morning, he went immediately to the hotel. “I want to order twelve dozen roses in twelve vases. Place them around the room,” he told the concierge. It was extravagant, of course, and he savored the fact that he could know and feel pleasure again, if only for something as simple as flowers. For the first time in years he took a full, deep breath without choking on the loss of Greta and Paul.

  “One exquisite rose would be a very succinct and elegant statement,” the concierge said, “and much less expensive.”

  “It’s not enough,” Losine said. One rose could scarcely match his growing feeling about himself, about Willa, and about the rush of delight he felt when he anticipated her reaction.

  “It will be very difficult to get so many this time of year and very expensive, Signor. I cannot promise.”

  “Please, it’s very important. A surprise.”

  “A waste when so many people are still hungry. You should give your money to the war orphans.” Losine felt momentarily guilty. Haven’t I contributed to the reconstruction effort already? Aren’t I entitled to do as I wish with my own money? Haven’t I, too, suffered grievous losses? He waited for the concierge to complete the order, imagining Willa’s response, pleased that he had not given up, even in this small matter. At last, I, too, am beginning to recover.

  He returned to the station. There he bought several newspapers but he felt too restless to read. He stuffed the papers into his overcoat pocket and paced back and forth on the platform. He checked his watch for the third time in as many minutes. Willa’s train was already late. Nearby, he observed two pickpockets steal a traveler’s wallet. Instinctively, he reached under his overcoat to check that his own wallet was still there, still thick with cash for Willa. He heard the screech of brakes and a relieved hiss of steam. She had arrived.

  He watched the passengers disembark seeking among them Willa’s corona of auburn hair. At last he glimpsed her in the crowd, her hair unexpectedly restrained under a cloche the color of wisteria. Her cream-colored scarf printed with wisteria blossoms contradicted the severity of her military-style suit of the same color. He had not appreciated her stylishness. Her open-toed, high-heeled oxfords suggested an invitation that her leather briefcase immediately withdrew. He imagined that only he was privy to the luscious secrets concealed beneath her clothes. She waved at him. A throng of passengers surged between them. She threaded her way through the crowd to where he was standing and threw her arms around his neck.

  “Oh, my darling. I’m so happy you’re here.” She kissed him as if they were alone. When she took off her sunglasses, he saw that her eyelids were puffy and dark around the rims, her eyes bloodshot. Either she hasn’t slept or she’s been crying. He kissed her eyelids, assured her that he would take care of her, keep her safe. Uncertain of the implications for him of such vague desires, he hesitated, then kissed her, full and long, his decision made in an instant, mindless of consequences. She released him as if she had suddenly realized where they were.

  “Be careful. Someone may see us.” She looked around anxiously. “Gabriele wanted to know why I had to go to Firenze again so soon. I said that I took the wine and the box to be appraised because they were too valuable to leave where they were and that I was going back to get them. I know he’s suspicious.” She ran out of breath. “I wouldn’t put it past him to follow me.”

  Losine wanted to stroke her silky skin, soothe her. “No need to worry now,” he said.

  “Not if I return with everything immediately.”

  Better to tell her now, he decided. “That’s not possible. I don’t have them.” Her eyes opened wide. “Yet,” he added.

  “You don’t have the money? The box and the wine? Where are they?” Her voice, a crescendo of incredulity, dwarfed the competing sounds around them.

  “We’ll discuss it later,” he said.

  “No, tell me now. What’s happened?” Her distress made him anxious. Her voice seemed very loud. What if someone heard her? Saw that a woman was shrieking at him? That he had not pleased her. That he had failed? A warmth and dampness crept into his armpits and around his mustache. What if he lost her? Lost everything? An old fear seized him. He limped beside her, tasting loss. He feigned an interest in something at a nearby newsstand, affected a calm that he didn’t feel.

  “Can you get them back?” She pulled at his elbow. “Do you understand what could happen to me—to us?” He stopped. If he said “yes,” he would only confirm all of her fears, validate her perception of him as a failure. “This may be just a fling for you,” she said, “but a woman in my situation could end up on the street or in jail.”

  He edged closer to the newsstand. “You’re shouting.”

  She drew back as if he had slapped her and then followed him, coming close in a way that made him uncomfortable, anxious. “No,” she said. “I’m not.”

  He handed the news dealer several coins and took another newspaper identical to one that he already had. He folded the paper with deliberate slowness. “It’s not a crime to
sell or invest what belongs to you,” he said.

  “Perhaps not in Milano, but it’s different in Orvieto. These things belonged to Gabriele and to his family. They regard them like their land: only their children can own them.”

  Losine put the paper in his other pocket. “Legally, I believe that you are considered a part of Gabriele’s family in both cities.” He spoke logically, rationally, without looking at her.

  “My marriage will be over.”

  “Could we at least agree that your marriage has been over for some time?”

  “Yes, of course, darling, I wasn’t talking about us.” She began to cry, silent sobs that made her shoulders tremble. Losine hunched forward, a dog on a leash.

  “I feel like you want to get away from me.” Her voice felt shrill and accusatory, like the point of a knife.

  “Please don’t blame me for your situation,” he said taking her elbow. He wanted to take her outside, somewhere that no one would notice them. “You brought the antiquities to me and asked me to sell them for you.”

  “I’m not blaming you,” she said.

  “You were,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, darling. I’m frightened. I’ll have no way to take care of myself.”

  He leaned nearer to her. “We’ll be together,” he whispered. “Will that be enough?” Had he wanted to make such a commitment or merely to quiet her? He wasn’t certain. He had felt so full of joy, of love for her, just moments before. It was as if Greta were always standing next to him, watching him, reminding him of his failure to protect her and Paul. Was it wrong to think he could go on? Wrong to think he could love Willa?

  “Yes. I only want to be with you. Nothing more,” he heard her saying. Well, we can be together in many different ways, some of them imperfect, he thought. He had won her, secured her for his own. It surprised him that he was capable of this. She hugged him with enthusiasm. Now, her arms felt like tentacles. He extricated himself from her grasp and restrained both of her hands with his.

  “Let’s talk about it after we retrieve your heirlooms.” Over Willa’s shoulder, he saw a nun detach herself from a group of other sisters and approach them. The nun pointed her index finger at Willa. He let go of her hands.

  “Willa Marcheschi,” the nun said. Willa replaced her dark glasses and adjusted her skirt slightly.

  “Sister Maria Cristina! It’s been so long since we’ve seen you,” Willa said smiling. Losine thought Willa’s face looked like plaster cracking. “Are you visiting Firenze today or do you live here now?”

  “A visit to another convent in our order.” Maria Cristina turned to Losine and extended her hand. “And whom do I have the pleasure of greeting?”

  “Sister, may I present my cousin, Michel Losine,” Willa said. Sister Maria Cristina stared at Michel Losine.

  “Cousin?”

  “Molto lieto, Sister,” Losine shook her hand warmly. It felt cool and strong against his own weaker one.

  “We grew up together,” Willa said. “Like brother and sister.” Maria Cristina looked squarely at Losine.

  “It seems you continue to enjoy one another’s company very much. I suppose you and Gabriele Marcheschi are quite well acquainted, then.” She smiled at Willa through pointed teeth. “Please, don’t let me keep you, and do remember me to Gabriele.” Sister Maria Cristina walked toward the train that would return her to Orvieto.

  “By tonight,” Willa told Losine, “all of Orvieto will know your name and exactly how I kiss my cousin.”

  9

  Located near the Ponte Vecchio, the villa, which had once housed the family of a minor Italian nobleman, dominated the Via Lambertesca, a medieval alley. The stone façade rose up to a tower. Double wooden doors, large enough to accommodate a hay wagon, appeared permanently locked, but the bright, brass plaque next to the bell suggested otherwise: Flavi e De Angeli, Antiquari e Vendite all’Asta, antique dealers and auctioneers. Losine rang the bell.

  “I met Signor Flavi many years ago,” Willa said. “He might remember me. Perhaps he’ll help us.” The portiere opened a small, barred window in one of the doors and peered out, first at Losine and then at Willa.

  “Signor Flavi,” Losine told him. “An urgent matter.”

  “He’s out.”

  “Nevertheless, we must come in.”

  The portiere closed the window. After a long delay, he admitted them into the vaulted foyer where light poured down from the windows in the tower overhead. They followed him to a desk in the next room where the receptionist accepted Losine’s business card. “I’ll get someone to help you.” She directed them to a circular banquette upholstered in tufted sepia velvet. They sat down. From this vantage point in the center of the room, they could easily view the tapestries mounted on bars bolted to the high, stone walls. Willa leaned her head against Losine’s shoulder. A ringlet of auburn hair crept out from under her cloche.

  Losine noticed her smeared lipstick, and he wiped her cheeks and lips with his handkerchief, frowning at the pink traces on the linen. He wiped his own lips. “You didn’t tell me I was covered with lipstick,” he said. “Was it there when I met Sister?”

  “I was too surprised to notice.” Willa said.

  “Yours is smeared,” he said. “Do repair it.”

  Willa sighed and leaned down. “These cheap wartime shoes are so uncomfortable.” She untied her shoelaces, allowed her shoes to fall onto the marble floor, and wiggled her toes against the stone. She settled back with another sigh and closed her eyes.

  “Better keep your shoes on,” Losine said.

  “Why?” Willa said wearily. Just then, a slim man in a carefully tailored, black suit entered the room. He glided toward them, saw Willa’s feet, and winced.

  “Faustino De Angeli, piacere,” he said to them. Willa opened her eyes. “La principessa awakens to find all of her dreams have come true,” De Angeli added with a manufactured laugh. He extended his manicured hand, first to Willa and then to Losine. “I see you’re enjoying our tapestries. They’re a recent consignment from the German owners. Hidden throughout the war. Extraordinary pieces. Gobelins. Seventeenth century.” Willa put on her shoes.

  “We have come for our consignment,” Losine began.

  Signor De Angeli gestured toward a low doorway. “Please, come with me.” They followed him through a passage so narrow that the cell-like room at its end seemed spacious. Light flooded in through clerestory windows. At one side of the room, doors opened onto a courtyard where a marble Neptune and dolphins frolicked and spouted in a make-believe ocean.

  “Originally, this was the bedroom of the villa,” De Angeli said. “The tapestries depict the goddess Artemis and the different aspects of her nature.” He looked at Willa and then at Losine. “Extraordinary work and very charming,” he added, as if there could be only one opinion on the subject. De Angeli adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles with the sort of deliberation reserved only for the gravest matters, and sat down at a gilded writing table. He opened their file. Willa sat down on a fragile chair in the corner.

  “There is a problem with the consignment,” Losine said.

  “I recall this group. Exquisite pieces. Remarkable, in fact,” De Angeli said.

  “Regrettably, we must withdraw them,” Losine continued. Orsini held up his index finger for quiet. He examined the papers, placing his finger on the first page and tracing a line across the paper.

  “I see your contract with us has not yet expired.”

  “That’s correct. However, we’ve become aware that title is in dispute.”

  “We often encounter such problems,” De Angeli said, laying the contract in the folder. “I shouldn’t worry about title problems if I were you. We’re very experienced.” He closed the folder.

  “A sale could result in prosecution for one or both of us. Were I in your position, I wouldn’t want to have an association with items that might concern the police.”

  De Angeli crossed his arms over his chest. “We prosecute any consignor who
defrauds us or our customers.”

  “There’s no basis,” Losine said evenly. “You knew there were no permits. I made no claims about authenticity or legality when I consigned them to you. I’m coming to you now in the same good faith.”

  “The box has been sold.”

  Willa gasped. “No!” Her eyes filled with tears. Losine handed Willa his handkerchief.

  “There is nothing I can do, Signora. I’m sorry,” De Angeli said to Willa before returning his attention to the file.

  “For how much?” Losine asked.

  “Here it is: six hundred thousand lire,” De Angeli said. “We can prepare your payment while you’re here, if that’s helpful. With the usual deductions, of course, and a small premium for the extra work.”

  Losine understood that the sale had been especially profitable, but now that they must deflect Gabriele’s suspicions, profit wasn’t important. “Has the buyer taken delivery?”

  “It seems not.”

  “I bid seven hundred thousand lire. Cash.” Pleased by his own boldness, Losine glanced at Willa to see whether she had noticed that he was not merely a cautious man outside the sweep of life, but a decisive player in the events of their time. She blew her nose into the handkerchief. “Send everything to my hotel by tomorrow morning.” He took out his wallet and counted out the notes on De Angeli’s desk. “Wrap the pieces for shipment in unmarked packages and include a letter over your signature to Signora Marcheschi stating that their value cannot be appraised without further documentation of their origin.” He imagined Willa’s pride in him and in the excellent outcome he had effected. He had turned their weakness into strength, had protected the interests of all concerned. He imagined her next to him, naked and ecstatic. De Angeli shook his head.

  “Signor, the buyer has already accepted the contract.” De Angeli got up and put the folder in a file cabinet.