Grace Takes Off

by Julie Hyzy

  Nico worked his jaw, then made as if ready to stand. At once Gianfranco and Angelo were at his side. “Signor?” Gianfranco asked.

  Nico brushed him away. “I don’t need your assistance to go to the washroom,” he said. “Not yet, at least.”

  The two manservants looked to Irena, who directed them silently. Her request was pointed and unmistakable: Keep an eye on him.

  Nico took several excruciating moments to unfold himself and get to his feet. Once there, he looked around in panic until Gianfranco rushed forward with a walker he’d hidden off to the side. Although his face was in profile, I read a combination of fear and fury on Nico’s face: embarrassed to be seen needing help to get around, relief when his fingers finally wrapped around the apparatus’s handle.

  Irena watched them go, and the moment the glass door slid shut behind them, she sighed deeply and turned to us. “My father is a wonderful man, but he suffers. And often, he forgets to be polite. You are our first visitors in a long time, and I’d hoped he could stay cheerful at least while you were here.” Her eyes closed, briefly. “I apologize if he’s been difficult.”

  “Not difficult,” Bennett said, “though I can’t help but worry about him. How long has he had trouble getting around by himself?”

  Irena wrinkled her nose. “It has been gradual,” she said. The three of us were alone on the patio, but she lowered her voice anyway. “He could do more if he allowed himself to, but ever since Gerard—” She pulled her lips in, shot a wary glance at me, then continued, speaking primarily to Bennett. “My father doesn’t like us to speak of Gerard, but he’s my brother and I miss having him around.” She paused, looking hopeful. “You’ve been my father’s friend for longer than I’ve been alive. . . .”

  Bennett breathed deeply, and sat back. “Nico shut me down when I wanted to talk about Gerard,” he said. “And Grace and I are only here for the day. We return to the United States tomorrow.”

  Irena leaned forward to pat him gently on the knee. “I understand.”

  “If I’d known the situation, I could have planned to spend more time with your father. He may have come around. As it is,” Bennett continued, “our charter leaves in the morning. If I weren’t required to be at a board meeting the day after . . .” He shot me a look Irena wouldn’t understand—Bennett had successfully steered a tricky buyout of another company and this meeting was key to final negotiations. “If it weren’t for that, I’d consider changing plans. I’m sorry.”

  “There is nothing to be sorry for,” she said.

  “Maybe,” I piped up, “you could show me around the villa, Irena. That could give Bennett and your father a chance to talk in private. Perhaps he would be more open to discussing your brother if he felt safe?”

  She gave a sad smile. “I will suggest it to him, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he refuses. He has made plans for your visit here, and my father is rather set in his ways. Deviation will be met with scorn. But if his strength holds out and he’s still alert after dinner, then you and I”—her eyes lit up—“will find our own fun. As you can imagine, I have very little opportunity for girl talk among all these men.”

  Spending my last night in Italy with a relative stranger didn’t appeal to me, but if it gave Bennett the opportunity to talk with his old friend . . . “That would be great,” I said, hoping I sounded convincing.

  Chapter 3

  THE DOOR BEHIND US OPENED, SIGNALING Nico’s return and preventing further discussion of Gerard. Bennett and I turned to see our host framed by the doorway and accompanied by Angelo and Gianfranco, who eased past their boss to stand attentively outside.

  “Bennett,” Nico called, beckoning with one gnarled hand as he held tightly to his walker with the other, “I have something of interest to show you.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “You girls may come, too.”

  Nico shuffled in place, turning his back to us as Gianfranco swooped in to tidy up our table. With an apologetic smile, he reached for our wineglasses, piling them and our untouched snacks onto a tray.

  I thought I heard Bennett chuckle. “Looks like you have no choice.”

  “Come, come,” Nico said as we crossed the threshold. Indoors, we were greeted by a dark-haired, mustachioed man. His prayerful hands tapped a quick rhythm close to his lips, and his glinting, deep-set eyes were harsh, conflicting with his obsequious smile. I disliked him on sight.

  Behind me, Irena unsuccessfully muffled a groan. “I didn’t realize you were visiting today, Cesare,” she said as she came around me to embrace the short man, kissing him on both cheeks.

  “So pleasant to see you again, my dear.” Cesare’s heavily accented English was luxurious and soft, in stark contrast to his firm grasp of Irena’s upper arms.

  With effort, she shook him off. “What a wonderful surprise.”

  Unfazed, his eyes glittered. “But I was certain your father told you I would be here to meet with his lovely guests.” Before she could respond, he said, “No matter. You must have simply forgotten.” He turned his attention to us and continued smoothly, “And you must be the venerable Bennett Marshfield.” He gave a brisk bow. “I am honored. Cesare Sartori, at your service.”

  After Bennett introduced me, Cesare took my hand in his warm, pudgy one, and explained his presence. “My services have been engaged for this special evening.” He bowed again and I realized who he reminded me of. The guy was a doppelgänger for the actor David Suchet, who so elegantly depicted Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot on TV—except Cesare was much oilier.

  From the back of the room, Angelo pulled out a wheelchair and helped Nico get settled into it, adjusting the older man’s positioning and locking in place the metal footrests.

  Through it all, Cesare kept talking. “I am the proprietor of a happily successful auction house not far from the Ponte Vecchio. From time to time, I am fortunate to acquire priceless items on behalf of Signor Pezzati. Most of what you will encounter here this evening has come from my acquisitions. Because my esteemed client no longer possesses the mobility, nor the vision, to do so, he has asked me for, and it will be my humble privilege to provide, commentary on some of the incomparable treasures you will see this evening.”

  As Cesare went on, Irena pulled Angelo off to the side to whisper in angry Italian, while Nico tried to get a word in edgewise, wagging a finger at them both from his low vantage point in the wheelchair. I wouldn’t have been able to understand what they were saying even if I could make out the words, but none of them looked particularly happy. Cesare appeared unruffled by their lively discussion, expounding—with excessive animation—on how he dealt with only the most respected clients and vendors and how his name was accepted like gold throughout all of Tuscany.

  I suspected he would continue with the self-admiration all night if Nico hadn’t interrupted him, bellowing, “Just get on with it, man, before we sprout roots and are stuck here forever.”

  Cesare’s mustache twitched ever so slightly. “Follow me.” He clasped his fingers together in front of his chest and, with an odd forward-tilting posture, led us deeper into the massive home.

  We returned to the dark room Bennett and I had passed through earlier. Marco had evidently been apprised of our impending arrival, because the draperies had been thrown open and sunshine filtered between dust motes that danced in its rays, bringing the cluttered, treasure-strewn room into sharp focus.

  Cesare made his way first to the coat of arms hanging over the massive stone fireplace. He pointed upward, telling us the story of the origins of the Pezzati family and how experts from his “happily successful” auction establishment had been able to trace the lineage and reclaim heirlooms that had been lost or stolen over the centuries.

  Next, Cesare talked about the tapestries that had been recovered, then more about how he’d overseen the authentication of each one and how his team of experts was among the
most respected in the world. I stifled a yawn. At Marshfield, we had hundreds of tapestries and our own team of experts that we relied on to verify provenance, but I did my best to pay attention to the man. One never knew when there was a tidbit to be learned. Bennett was to my left, Nico to my right. Behind him was Angelo, ready to wheel his master to our next stop. Near Angelo, Irena noisily shifted her weight and let loose with impatient sighs timed, it seemed, to coincide with whenever Cesare took a breath.

  The man was a font of information and his eyes grew wide and his brows expressive as he talked about the history of each piece he’d brought to Villa Pezzati. “This, as you can tell, is the signor’s private room, the one where he keeps all family items. He will want me to show you his more expansive collection. Please, come along.”

  Clasping his fingers in front of his chest as before, Cesare again ducked his head and moved rapidly to an adjacent room. He held open a heavy wooden door, allowing us to pass into the area first, and the moment I did so, I felt a change in the temperature and humidity. “Oh,” I said, my hand flying to cover my gasp of delight and surprise when I caught my first glimpse of the walls.

  The size of a basketball court, this room had been added on to the old fortress, much the same way the porch leading to the terrazzo had been. Instead of a comfortable, modern room meant for relaxation, however, this addition clearly served one purpose.

  Like the foyer, the room glowed. Strategically placed spotlights threw joyful explosions of illumination across the expanse. Ceiling-high windows, screened so as to prevent the sun’s rays from falling directly upon any artwork, brightened the marble floor. The two-story walls were a comforting cappuccino brown, and four cushy, orange sofas lined the room’s center. Two sofas faced north, two south. This was a gallery meant for long, lingering visits, for hours of art appreciation.

  And what appreciation! I glanced over to Bennett, who was watching me with a bemused expression. I wanted to rush over to the Monet on the far right, but just then a Sophie Gengembre Anderson nymph caught my eye. I started, stopped, and tried to remember to breathe. There was so much to take in at once.

  “You’ve far exceeded my expectations,” Bennett said to Nico, who grinned up at his friend with unabashed glee.

  “You like it, then?” Nico asked.

  Bennett’s answer was to stroll along the left wall, upon which hung a large John Singer Sargent masterpiece—an oil painting bringing all the pain and preparation of war to vivid, oversized life. “Where in heaven’s name did you unearth this?” he asked, arms spread in conspicuous delight. “I’ve wanted this one for my collection, but I hadn’t heard of it coming on the market for decades.”

  Nico curled and twisted his hand over his head, the way a magician might. But instead of producing a snowy dove, he pointed to Cesare. “There is my secret. Cesare brings beauty into my life. If it were not for this man’s able assistance, my old villa would be nothing but a barren prison. With his help, it has become a museum—much like your Marshfield,” he added with a wink up at Bennett, “where I can collect treasures and enjoy them during my last few years here on earth.”

  “Father, you mustn’t talk like that,” Irena chided. “You promised me you’d stay here, with me, for a very long time.” She waited for him to look at her. “Remember?”

  A look of understanding passed between them. He reached for her slim hand with his weathered one, and they gripped tight for a long moment. “Don’t worry, child, I have no plans to escape this mortal coil. Not yet.”

  Bennett stood about ten feet beyond the Sargent painting, next to a waist-high, sleek metal pedestal upon which a bronze cast sculpture stared out from beneath its Plexiglas container. With his hands spread, almost as though he intended to embrace the clear box, Bennett grinned. “You still have it. After all these years?”

  “Of course,” Nico said, wiggling two fingers behind him. Angelo wheeled him forward. The rest of us followed in their wake until we surrounded the piece of art. I wasn’t positive, but I would have guessed that this small masterpiece was a Picasso. I glanced to Bennett, who read my mind. He nodded.

  “Wow,” I said, coming around to get a closer look.

  “Nico purchased this—oh, how long has it been?” Bennett asked.

  “Too long,” Nico answered with a snort. “We were but young boys.”

  Bennett seemed delighted to tell the story. “We were just out of school and hadn’t found our footing in the business world yet,” he said. “There was this wonderful gallery in Paris, right off the Champs- Élysées.” To Nico: “You and I spent too much time there.”

  “We spent too much time in the bar across the street, you mean.” Nico sat forward now, eager to be part of the telling.

  High spots in Bennett’s cheeks flushed pink, though he didn’t seem displeased. “Thank goodness there’s no law against being young and foolish.”

  Cesare gave an appreciative chuckle. Irena giggled. Angelo, not understanding, stared straight ahead.

  To me, Nico said, “Your boss could have been quite the ladies’ man. The women found him handsome, charming, and excruciatingly polite.” He shrugged. “For an American.”

  Bennett was shaking his head. “I had Sally back home, waiting for me.”

  Nico shook a finger. “You weren’t married yet.”

  “We were engaged.”

  Nico rolled his eyes. “She would never have found out.”

  Bennett sent his friend a warning look. “We were talking about the gallery.”

  “Which we visited almost daily.”

  “And one afternoon,” Bennett said, his eyes taking on a dreamy cast, “there it was. On display—in the back of the shop, mind you—next to a few trinkets that had been gathering dust over the months we’d wandered through.” Snapping out of his reverie, he said, “But you got to it first.”

  “That I did,” Nico agreed.

  “To my eternal chagrin.”

  Nico picked up the tale. “I purchased the skull immediately, using every franc I had on me, and even begging a few off of my good friend here. We knew there was a chance I’d been had, but there was an equal chance that the gallery’s proprietor hadn’t recognized the artist.”

  Bennett took a deep breath, staring off into some middle distance, as if the past was displayed there as clearly as if the events had taken place yesterday. “We raced to a reputable auction house”—at that he nodded acknowledgment to Cesare—“one that may very well, in its day, have been as respected as yours is, and we allowed their experts to take a look.”

  Nico grinned at Bennett. “And to think that on the trek to the auction house we were playing with it.”

  Bennett stretched out an arm, cupping his hand. “Alas, poor Yorick!”

  “You didn’t,” I said.

  “We did,” they said in unison.

  I was aghast. “With an original Picasso?”

  Bennett’s eyes crinkled with mirth. “Only on the way to the auction house. At that point, we still weren’t sure if we’d picked up something valuable or a piece of junk.”

  Cesare had moved closer to the group, his dark gaze bouncing between the two men as they bantered. From the auctioneer’s antsy body language, I got the impression that he wanted to join in the joviality but didn’t quite know how.

  Next to her dad, Irena smiled, keeping a protective hand on his shoulder because, caught up in the moment, Nico seemed ready to leap out of his chair. “Do you remember the look on the proprietor’s face?”

  Their laughter floated in the high gallery around us, filling the airy space with cheer and comfort. Bennett turned to me. “That’s when we knew,” he said. “The auction master called in one of his associates immediately and we were treated with the utmost respect. We discovered that Picasso had created this during the war, and even though bronze casting was forbidden a
t that time, a faction in the French Resistance kept the artist supplied.”

  Silence settled on us with strange immediacy, but the wistful looks on both men’s faces made it a good moment rather than an awkward one. Eventually, Bennett turned to the Plexiglas container, resting his fingertips on the box’s top edge. “Good memories,” he said.

  Nico inched forward in his seat. “You may take it out if you like.”

  Bennett’s fingertips rose. “It isn’t locked?”

  “Why should it be? This is my home.”

  With an expression of pure excitement, Bennett made eye contact with me, practically asking aloud, Can you believe this? He gently gripped the Plexiglas and raised the container. Cesare was at his side immediately, nodding and offering to take the box from him. Almost without seeing the other man, Bennett handed it over, his attention riveted on the sculpture before him.

  “Oh,” he breathed, as he lifted the skull and hefted it in both hands. “Heavier than I remember,” he said, then added, “so long ago. So long ago.”

  “I never really understood your excitement until today,” Irena said. “Until Mr. Marshfield was here to share in the telling.”

  Bennett nodded as he turned the skull from side to side, admiringly. Cesare looked like a man ready to have a heart attack. I think it was all he could do to not put the box aside and cup his hands beneath Bennett’s to catch the treasure in case it dropped.

  “Your father and I—” Bennett began with a smirk, then stopped himself mid-sentence. He’d twisted the piece every which way and was now scrutinizing a spot on the skull’s right, just below where the earlobe would fall—if it’d had ears, that is.

  When his face clouded, I asked, “What’s wrong?”

  Glancing up at the group, he shook it off. “Nothing,” he answered. He was lying, though I couldn’t figure out why. “I was just trying to remember,” he continued with a forced smile, “didn’t we both agree this looked like someone we knew?”