Wayward Son

by Tom Pollack

  Amanda’s second choice was a depiction of the ancient naval Battle of Salamis. Here, not far from Athens in 480 BC, the Greeks had scored what must have seemed to Persian King Xerxes a miraculous victory. How could their puny forces have defeated the greatest armada in the ancient world? Spaniards of the Armada would pose the same question in 1588, a little over two thousand years later. The Greeks, like the English, had done it through a combination of cunning and pure, dumb luck. Giovanni Genoa conveyed the chaos—and perhaps the exultation—of spears, shields, helmeted crests, and swords with a brio that left the viewer in awe. “Score one for western civilization,” Amanda thought—otherwise the Iranian president might not need an interpreter on his visits from Tehran to the United Nations in New York.

  And, finally, there was the series on ancient Rome. The artist had clearly favored this time period, with more scenes devoted to Roman subjects than to any other. Cannae was there, with the humiliating defeat of Rome by the would-be conquistadors, the Carthaginians, in 216 BC, when over seventy thousand men perished in less than six hours. Next was Julius Caesar, falling at the base of Pompey’s statue in the Senate House on the Ides of March, with Shakespeare’s “three and thirty wounds” all too visible. A depiction of the Jewish uprising in Israel highlighted the slaughter by the Roman army. Emperor Nero’s persecution of the Christians, executed in thorn baskets and illuminated as human torches, displayed his horrific reprisal after the Great Fire of Rome in AD 64. Genoa had clearly read his Roman history in Tacitus. Even the sack of Rome four centuries later, when poetic justice reared its head, was painted in excruciating detail, with barbarians looting and burning the city as they exterminated its population.

  One of the largest Roman murals struck Amanda as especially notable. Occupying a central position in the group, it seemed as if the artist had given it primacy. The mural depicted a scene in the Colosseum, Vespasian’s amphitheater completed by his son, Titus, in AD 80. The proverbial venue for early persecution of the Christians, the Colosseum still figured on the top ten tourist sites in modern Rome—and, she reminded herself, it had given its name to Luc Renard’s villa.

  What distinguished this mural from many of the others, though, was the individualized presentation of one of the Christian captives. A semi-clad, red-haired woman, surrounded by snarling lions, stood stoically in the face of certain death. Others crawled around her in the dust of the arena. It was as if she were an island of peace in a stormy sea of suffering. Amanda briefly wondered if she could be so composed in such horrifying circumstances.

  “So you think my rendering of the Colosseum is giusto, Signorina James?”

  The white-jacketed artist was at her elbow, so abruptly as if to resemble an apparition. His bushy eyebrows seemed to bridge the space between them.

  Amanda extended her hand. “It is an honor to meet you, Signor Genoa. What a magnificent occasion. A triumph for your talent. Your portrayal of the Colosseum is certainly…powerful.”

  The painter received her assessment with a courtly bow. “It is my signature mural.”

  “I could not help notice that it alone remains unnamed,” she politely stated.

  “Indeed, Mr. Renard has a couple of ideas in mind for this painting, but he remains undecided whether to title it after the scene or for its principal character.”

  “I see, so the woman martyr represents an actual historical figure?”

  “Yes, but she was known by different names,” Genoa added.

  Then admiring his own handiwork and glancing up at Amanda, Giovanni quipped, “It must have been a great time to be alive—that is, if you were not the sacrifice! Grazie, signorina.” His smile was quizzical as he deftly stepped around her and continued working the room.

  Amanda’s circuit of the great hall had now taken her almost 360 degrees. She was due on the balcony at seven forty-five for her second conversation with Luc Renard, and there was no way she could be late for her airport departure at eight fifteen. With such concerns, it did not even occur to her to wonder how Giovanni Genoa had known who she was.

  ***

  Amanda threaded her way through an increasingly noisy crowd and reached the balcony at exactly seven forty-five. She looked around for Luc. Barely a minute later, she spied him exiting the library doors and walking directly toward her.

  “I beg your pardon, Amanda. I was detained with the mayor. He wanted to renege on his earlier commitment to hire Giovanni for the Los Angeles City Hall renovation. I fear that angels are not Giovanni’s specialty,” Luc mused.

  “Perhaps the mayor had his breath snatched away like so many others tonight,” she offered. “Maybe he’s afraid the conservative city council won’t approve of Mr. Genoa’s vivid images?”

  Luc seemed to file the matter away for later, and he focused all his attention on Amanda. “I know you’re on a tight schedule,” he said. “Have you considered my proposal?”

  “Yes, but I’m not sure about becoming a celebrity. It would be quite a step for me.”

  “You are the perfect host for this show. I guarantee you will have all the support you need. The Tokyo people are a media executive’s dream team. Benedict does not possess a fraction of your intellect. However, they made him look and act like a movie star.”

  “Ah…when would they like to interview me?”

  “Right away. We’ve got to be back in production within a week. In fact,” he added, as he reached into an inside pocket of his jacket, “I have made arrangements for you to leave tonight. Please examine this envelope.”

  Opening the folder inside, Amanda saw it was a one-way ticket from LAX to Tokyo on Japan Airlines. First Class.

  “I know you had planned to leave LAX for Italy,” Luc continued. “But I need you to land in Tokyo. This flight departs LAX at ten thirty. You’ll be met at Narita when you arrive and taken to the five-star Mandarin Hotel. Mr. Ito, our head producer, has been authorized to take you shopping at Mikimoto on the Ginza. There is a $25,000 gift certificate there in your name. Your belongings will be collected from your apartment and air-freighted overnight. When you get the job, we can explore more permanent living arrangements.”

  Amanda noticed he had said when and not if. She glanced at her watch. “Isn’t this cutting it very close?”

  Luc grinned broadly. “I’ve arranged late check-in at LAX. Meanwhile, one of my limousines will take you to the airport. I took the liberty of having your luggage transferred from your car to the limo. Your jeep will be stored here.”

  She extended her hand. “I still haven’t made up my mind, Luc. But I accept your kind offer of a ride to the airport. I’ll let you know what I decide.”

  “Very well.” Luc clasped her hand in both of his. “I know you will make the right choice. Many of us are depending on you.”

  She could barely look away from his stare as the charming host backed away and disappeared into the crowd.

  Ten minutes later, Amanda emerged onto the floodlit esplanade and peered into the driveway, looking for a Renard Enterprises limo with the golden crest RE on the doors. Then Rob appeared, sprinting out of the darkness.

  “Your limo is just coming now, miss,” the valet informed her. “I put your luggage on the backseat.”

  “Thanks, Rob.” Amanda pressed a couple of bills into her young admirer’s palm.

  Opening her door, the limo driver politely introduced himself as Harris and informed Amanda that he was replacing Mr. Renard’s usual chauffeur. As they passed through the gates of the estate and turned onto PCH headed south, Amanda asked if he would raise the tinted glass partition to seal off the passenger area for privacy. She might not have the time to change clothes at the business class lounge, she thought. She unzipped the Louis Vuitton, changed into a comfortable outfit for the flight, and extracted both her British Airways and Japan Airlines itineraries, as well as her passport, from the backpack.

  Her mind was flooded with conflicting thoughts as she considered both options. How could she decide something this importa
nt so quickly? “Follow your heart,” she remembered her mom repeating to her several times as a young girl.

  Four miles down PCH, the intercom chimed softly.

  “Miss James?”

  “Yes, Harris?”

  “Mr. Renard is on the phone. He would like to speak to you.”

  “Can you put the call on speakerphone back here?”

  “Certainly, Miss James.”

  “Amanda?” Luc’s normally resonant voice sounded a little strained, but it was crystal clear over the eight Blaupunkt speakers.

  “Yes, Luc,” she replied.

  “Everything okay? Is Harris taking good care of you? He’s new.”

  “Oh, yes. Excellent. And this limo is awesome.”

  “One of the latest models. State of the art. I had the Ferrari people deliver two of their stretched F1 360s last week. Anyway, I’m calling from the observation deck on the roof of Villa Colosseum. It was great meeting you, and I can’t wait to see you in Japan next week. We’ll have dinner together.”

  Silence on Amanda’s end before she finally spoke.

  “You’re making this very difficult for me. The offer is so generous and tempting, but I’m afraid I just can’t accept, Luc.” She wondered if she would ever tell Johnny what she’d just passed up, as she softly bit her lower lip.

  Silence, on both ends of the phone.

  “Amanda,” Luc finally murmured. “I don’t think you realize what a big mistake you’re about to make. It could be life altering. Please reconsider, I beg of you.”

  “Your confidence in me is extremely flattering. But for now, at least, I see myself in archaeology, not in TV. I don’t know how to thank you, Luc. I’m sorry if this is a disappointment.”

  At that moment, the limo accelerated and then swerved abruptly. Amanda lost her balance and found herself pressed hard into the corner of the backseat against the side of the door.

  The speakerphone went silent. “Harris?” Amanda screamed, hoping he could hear her through the smoked glass partition.

  “Yes, Miss James?” as the partition lowered.

  “What was that?”

  “Oh, nothing much. Just a careless truck driver.”

  The partition rose again, giving Amanda her privacy back.

  What Harris did not say was that, with pinpoint judgment, he had narrowly avoided a nasty collision with a Pacific Oil & Gas tanker. Just south of Malibu, the enormous vehicle had crossed the double yellow line and headed directly for the limo. Only Harris’s counterintuitive push on the gas pedal and his sudden veer to the right had avoided what would surely have been a fatal crash.

  The limo sped onward, so Amanda was not to see what happened next. Trapped by its vector and momentum, the tanker plunged over the seafront cliff, falling 150 feet to the beach and bursting into an enormous fireball that mushroomed over 500 feet into the air and was visible for miles.

  The speakerphone came back on.

  “Is everything all right, Amanda?” said Luc, who heard her yelling and then speaking more softly to Harris.

  She could hear a tumult of shouts and screams in the background.

  “Yes, Luc. But what’s all that noise?”

  “I think someone’s holding an illegal fireworks party near Malibu pier, and my guests are admiring the show. I’m sorry about your decision. I truly am. Have a good flight. Good-bye, Amanda.”

  On the observation deck of Villa Colosseum, Luc Renard pocketed his Blackberry and surveyed the inky Pacific for several moments. Polberto politely ushered the muralist and the other distinguished guests off the deck and down to the main library to distract them from the burgeoning fireball in the distance. Retrieving his phone, Luc scrolled down through a list of numbers, selected one from Italy, and dialed.

  “We have a problem,” he said. “You need to be at Fiumicino Airport tonight. I’ll call you in a couple of hours with the details.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Italy

  “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WE are beginning our initial descent to the Fiumicino Airport in Rome. Please check to see that your seat belts are securely fastened.”

  The British Airways flight attendant’s crisp voice impinged on Amanda’s drowsy reverie about Plato swatting a fly, and she awoke with a start. Dead tired when she boarded in LA last night, she had slept for most of the flight to London. During the stopover there, all the passengers were required to deplane so that the aircraft could be serviced. So she had occupied herself in the lounge at Heathrow with a New York Times crossword she brought with her and a sudoku puzzle she found in the Daily Telegraph. The Saturday crossword, always the most difficult, was no match for Amanda; she polished it off in twenty minutes.

  During the layover, she had thought of calling Juan Carlos to tell him the flight was on schedule, until she realized that her first-generation iPhone wouldn’t work in Europe. Never mind, she was sure he’d be on time at the airport in Rome.

  Night had fallen before she reboarded the plane for the flight’s second leg. She must have dropped off to sleep again.

  During the final half hour before landing, she reviewed what little she knew so far. Juan Carlos had mentioned that the new site in Ercolano was near the Villa dei Papiri, the principal model for the Getty Villa in Malibu. Although the ancient structure remained unexcavated, enough was known about it to establish that this region, just outside the town walls, was the site for the seaside mansions of some of Herculaneum’s wealthiest citizens in ancient times. Juan Carlos had also spoken of a bronze door with inscriptions in several languages, including Chinese. “Now that,” Amanda thought, “is the real puzzle.”

  She knew that Herculaneum’s ancient residents had possibly included Jews and Christians, so inscriptions in Hebrew and Aramaic, as well as Latin and Greek, would fit plausibly with the rest of the historical and archaeological record. But Chinese? How could that be explained?

  Contact between Europe and China along the Silk Road had begun in the early third century BC, around the time of the first Chinese emperor. Could such ties have encompassed a small seaside town on the Bay of Naples? Depending on what the inscription said, the hypothesis would have to be entertained, at the very least.

  Amanda absently doodled a few characters in Chinese on a paper napkin on her tray table. She had first learned the language when her family lived in Hong Kong in the early 1990s, a two-year stint for her father’s job. Before the British handover to China in 1997, Pacific Oil & Gas had built a big refinery there, and Roger James was placed in charge. While she was at UCLA, Amanda had taken several Chinese language courses, hoping she might go on an excavation there one day.

  As the aircraft continued its descent, Amanda glanced out the window. Lights along the Italian coast signaled that the landing in Rome was not far off. Her thoughts turned to Juan Carlos and their sixteen-month romance. How much, if at all, had he changed over the years since she’d last seen him? In college, he’d been passionate about everything, from soccer to motorcycles to his fervent religious faith. Certainly there was nothing in their conversation this morning to suggest he’d become any less intense. She wondered if he’d found a steady girlfriend.

  After passport control and customs, Amanda stepped outside the baggage claim. There was no sign of Juan Carlos, probably because the plane had arrived twenty minutes early. And, Amanda recalled, traffic in Rome, even this late at night, was notorious. Inside the airport it was sticky, even with the air conditioning, and Amanda decided to step outside and stand near the taxi line, perhaps saving Juan Carlos the trouble of parking while she enjoyed some fresh air.

  As she exited the glass doors, Amanda saw a tall, uniformed man at the curb. He was holding a large placard stenciled with her name, A. James. “Did Juan Carlos get held up and send a chauffeured car for me?” Amanda wondered. But surely he would have notified British Airways and had her paged soon after arrival. As she was wondering whether to approach the driver, she felt a tap on her shoulder and heard her name. Turning around, she was caught
up in an embrace and, almost immediately, kissed European-style on both cheeks.

  “Amanda!” Juan Carlos exclaimed. “You’re really here! You look fantastic! I am so sorry, there was a bottleneck on the way, and I’m late. Scusi, per favore.”

  His curly black hair was much longer now, Amanda noticed, but his rugged features and dazzling smile had not changed.

  “Juan Carlos, don’t be silly! You’re not late. The plane was early. It’s wonderful to see you!”

  “Let’s get going right away,” he said, scooping up her bag. “My car is about fifty meters down from here. I saw you as I pulled in, but the limos were lined up in front of me.”

  Amanda and Juan Carlos strode briskly down the pavement to a small but powerful-looking sports car, parked with its hazard lights blinking. She was so glad to see him that she didn’t even mention the chauffeur with the placard. Probably just a coincidence, she told herself.

  “Young lady,” Juan Carlos said gallantly as he opened the passenger door. “Step into my bambino!”

  “What a gorgeous shade of red!” Amanda gushed as she slipped into the seat. “I’ve never seen a convertible like this in America. What is it?”

  “Not many of these make it to the States. It’s a limited edition Alfa Romeo—the 8C Spider,” he replied as he shut her door and stowed her bags in the compact trunk space. “Some of the roads we’ll take down to Ercolano will show you what she can do.”

  Sliding behind the wheel, he smiled at his passenger. “Now, please keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle and fasten your seat belt!”

  With a push of the start button and a tap on the gas pedal, the engine screamed like a horde of banshees, turning the heads of nearly everyone in the passenger loading area.

  “Still a show-off, I see,” she teased, playfully pretending to plug her ears. Juan Carlos merely shrugged and eased the Alfa away from the curb.

  ***