Etruscan Chimera

by Lyn Hamilton

  "You haven't been rearranging the store again in my absence, have you?" I said suspiciously. Usually Clive wants me to hustle right back and help him with the shop.

  "I have not," he said, sounding hurt. "You shouldn't always think the worst of me, Lara. I just noticed you've been looking tired lately. Alex and I can manage here for a few more days," he added, referring to Alex Stewart, my friend and neighbor who helps out in the shop. At least with Alex there, I could relax, knowing he wouldn't let Clive do anything too awful. And, as Clive pointed out, whether he knew it or not, we could afford it, all right. Lake's advance would more than cover my time in Paris, and if I could get the Bellerophon, I'd be coming home with a new Internet bank account and lots of cash.

  "That's nice of you, Clive," I said in a conciliatory tone. "I think I'll take you up on it. I'll let you know where I'm staying in case you think of something else we might need from Paris while I'm there."

  As Lake had pointed out, I like to do my homework. I consider myself first and foremost a furniture expert, although in the business I'm in, I need to know something about a lot of things. More than anything else, I rely on years of experience and the kind of sixth sense one acquires along the way about what's good and what's not. I couldn't say I was an expert in Etruscan antiquities, but I did know where and what to look for. First I went to the Villa Giulia in Rome, one of the premier Etruscan collections, and had a really good look at what was there. Along the way, I picked up a pile of recommended books on the subject, a couple on Etruscan art, another on the Etruscans themselves, an archaeological study, and then, just for fun, D. H. Lawrence's Etruscan Places, some essays on travel the author undertook in the 1920s to Etruscan sites.

  What I found interesting was how much, yet how little, we know about the Etruscans, or the people we have come to know as Etruscans. It is unlikely they ever referred to themselves that way. That name came from the Romans, who referred to their neighbors, occasional allies, and in the end, intractable enemies, as Tusci or Etrusci. The Greeks called them Tyrrhenoi, after which the Tyrrhenian Sea is named. The Etruscans called themselves Rasenna, or Rasna.

  Their language, a rather unusual one that, unlike almost all other European languages, did not have Indo-European roots, has been deciphered to a large extent, but when it comes right down to it, there is very little to read, other than inscriptions on tombs and such. They may have had, indeed must surely have had, a rich body of literature, but it is lost to us, so what we know about them comes from archaeology or the writing of others: Greeks and Romans for example, whose own particular biases are reflected in their accounts. They also must have had a complex ritual and religious life, because we know that long after the Etruscan cities came under the domination of Rome, Roman citizens were still calling upon Etruscan haruspices, diviners, to aid them in important deliberations and decisions. The number and elaborate nature of their tombs indicate that there was a social structure, including a wealthy elite, but that also they believed in an afterlife. What exactly they believed, however, is, to a large extent, shrouded in the mists of time.

  What we do know is that people who shared a common language, customs, and beliefs, dominated a large part of central Italy, what is now Tuscany—the word itself speaks to its Etruscan roots—part of Umbria and northern Lazio near Rome between about 700 b.c.e. until their defeat and assimilation by the Romans in the third century b.c.e. Their territory was essentially bounded by the Tiber River on the south and east, and the Arno to the north. To the west was the Tyrrhenian Sea. They lived in cities and used rich metal deposits along the Tyrrhenian shore to develop extensive trade by land and sea. In time, a loose federation of twelve cities, the Dodecapolis, grew up. The ruling elite of these cities, city states, really, met annually at a place called Volsinii to elect a leader.

  During their heyday, before the birth of the Roman republic, there were Etruscan kings of Rome—the Tarquins—who, between 616 and 509 b.c.e., were instrumental in building the city that would ultimately defeat them. The last king of Rome was Tarquinius the Proud, who was expelled from Rome in 509 b.c.e. From that time on, Rome and the Etruscans were enemies, fighting over every inch of ground.

  In the end, the Etruscan federation could not hold against the might of Rome. For whatever reason, the cities did not band together to protect themselves, and one by one, they fell. Their cities were abandoned, or fell into ruin, or were simply replaced by others, until they were reborn, in a different form, as medieval cities, some of the loveliest in Italy: Orvieto, Chiusi, Cor-tona, Volterra, Arezzo, and Perugia among them.

  As mysterious as these people may have been, I noticed that many had opinions on them. Indeed, I would say that the Etruscans presented a blank slate, in a way, on which later people found a convenient resting place for their own hopes, beliefs, and desires. Cosimo de Medici was hardly the first to use people's rather vague notions about the Etruscans for his own purposes. A Dominican friar who went by the name of Annius of Viterbo, determined, in the fifteenth century, that the Etruscans, a noble and peace-loving people, according to him, had helped Noah repopulate the earth after the Flood. To prove his point, he argued that their language was a version of Aramaic. Despite his rather outlandish views, Annius's theories may have helped save some Etruscan antiquities from destruction by the church as pagan symbols. The Etruscans could have used Annius a century later, when something like six tons of Etruscan bronzes were melted down to adorn a church in Rome.

  Lawrence, of Lady Chatterley's Lover fame, also thought the Etruscans were his kind of people, in touch with nature and their natural selves. He saw phallic symbols everywhere on his visits to Etruscan sites and wrote glowingly of what he saw to be their refreshingly natural philosophy. On the other hand, the philosopher Nietzsche, who arguably knew something about angst, called them gloomy—schwermutigen—although what made him think that was not clear. The art critic Ber-ensen dismissed all Etruscan art as being non-Greek and therefore unworthy, even though, if I'd interpreted what I'd read correctly, Greeks living in Italy had been responsible for some of it, and some of the art prized as Greek and Roman had later been revealed to be Etruscan. By the end of my reading, it was pretty clear to me that views expressed about the Etruscans said more about the holder of those opinions than about the Etruscans themselves.

  My last stop in Italy was Florence, for a look at the famous Chimera of Arezzo itself, now housed in its own room in the archaeological museum. Lake was right. As public sculpture, it was not particularly impressive. At only about thirty inches or so in height, it needed the Bellerophon to make it into something you could picture sitting in front of a temple, for example, or in a public square. But it was a magnificent piece of art. Using the lost wax method of manufacturing, the artist had managed to show the muscles beneath the surface, the ribs through the skin. The animal had already been wounded, and you could even see the blood spurting from the wound in its haunches. But still it—she—fought on, ferocious in combat, the snake head swaying, the goat's head rearing up, and the lion, its mane erect, roaring in rage. The sculptor had cut an inscription into the wax model before the bronze one was formed. The inscription on one of the front legs read, according to the notes I had, tinscvil, making it a gift to Tinia, the Etruscan Zeus. I had seen what I needed to see. I called Boucher and arranged to meet him late the afternoon of my arrival, two days after my meeting with Lake, at the Cafe de Flore.

  I booked myself into a lovely Left Bank hotel, rather nicer than the place I usually stay, but there was all that glorious expense money in the bank, and I did, after all, have to keep up appearances. They couldn't know Lake was my buyer, but they needed to know I could afford to move in these social circles. My check of the auction house catalogues told me I wasn't going to get the Bellerophon for less than a few million dollars, and that only if I got lucky. Still, Lake clearly knew he was going to have to pay big for it, and even if I couldn't get it for the lowest sum he mentioned and get the extra commission, I was going to
do quite nicely, thank you.

  Yves Boucher turned out to be a tall, thin man with short salt-and-pepper hair, nice cheekbones, and the requisite arty appearance: black jeans and boots, a collarless white and black striped shirt, and a black leather vest. He was seated at a table on the sidewalk, reading a newspaper, a glass of Pernod in front of him, when I arrived. I ordered a Kir Royale, for the equivalent of about twelve dollars, a ridiculous extravagance, but I was already enjoying being in Crawford Lake's employ.

  I wasn't quite sure what to think of Boucher at first. Not that I could point to anything specific that bothered me. He was pleasant enough, rather courtly and old world, really. He had a habit of placing his right hand against his chest, palm flat, fingers splayed, when he spoke to you, as if expressing heartfelt sincerity and conviction with every word. He was soft spoken, and from time to time he'd have to lean forward to speak to me, as the roar of the traffic on Boulevard St. Germain threatened to drown out his words.

  "Robert Godard," he said, reflectively. "Unusual man. Not easy to deal with, you'll understand. Rather anal, you know. Hates to part with anything. Despite the fact he needs the money, it will be difficult to get him to sell the equestrian bronze. I believe he will, but only if he likes you."

  I had not realized this was a personality contest, although I understood the situation. Collectors tend to be rather possessive people, some obsessively so, and if they need to part with one of their treasures, they usually like to sell it to someone they feel appreciates what they have.

  "Where can I find him?" I asked.

  "Good question," he said. "He moves around quite a bit and can be a little cagey about where he is at any point in time. I have a cell phone number where I can contact him. I'll set up a meeting for you." By this, Boucher meant he wanted in on the deal. Well, there was money to spare.

  "And your terms?" I asked.

  "Oh," he said with a wave. "I don't charge very much for making contact. We'll talk about that later."

  "I'd prefer to talk about that now," I said. "My client wants the bronze but doesn't have unlimited funds." A slight fib, but I suppose I could argue that even billionaires have their financial limitations.

  "One percent of the selling price," he said. Assuming the Bellerophon sold for a couple of million, that was a $20,000 phone call he was going to make, but I didn't know how to get in touch with Godard any other way.

  "And if the deal doesn't happen, despite the introduction?"

  "A flat fee. Five thousand."

  "Okay," I said reluctantly, hoping Lake wouldn't consider Boucher part of my expenses but would reimburse him directly. Boucher let his hand leave its apparently permanent position on his chest to briefly shake my hand.

  "Canadian, is he?" Boucher went on, signaling the waiter to bring us another round.

  "Who?" I said.

  "Your client," he said.

  "He moves around," I said.

  "What business is he in?"

  "E-commerce," I said. I figured that didn't narrow the field down much.

  "Not one of those revolting sixteen-year-olds who've made millions setting up Internet companies in their parents' basements, I hope," he said. "So brash. So American, really. I suppose it fits though. The kid probably wants to put a bronze statue of a horse on the front lawn. I wonder if his mother will permit it." He looked at me closely to see my reaction.

  I laughed noncommittally. Both of us were playing this pretty close to the vest. "So, when do you think I'll get to meet Godard?"

  "I'll call him this evening," he said. "And get in touch with you at your hotel as soon as I've made contact. I assume you want to meet him as soon as possible?"

  "I do," I said.

  "Fine. I'll be in touch. Is your schedule relatively free?"

  "Relatively," I said. "I have some other acquisitions I need to make when I'm here, but I'll do my best to accommodate M. Godard's schedule." I wasn't about to let Boucher think this was my only reason to be in Paris or the biggest transaction I'd ever made.

  "Good. I'll set something up with him and let you know when and where," Boucher said. He signaled for the bill. I reached for my handbag. "Allow me," he said, as the bill arrived. "You're a guest in Paris."

  He then made a big show of patting various pockets and looking embarrassed. "My wallet," he said at last. "I must have forgotten it. How embarrassing!"

  "It's my pleasure," I said, reaching for the bill. I didn't believe him for a moment. The bill was about fifty dollars for four drinks. Thank heaven for Crawford Lake. Having said that, there was a bright side to it. If Boucher was broke, then he'd certainly want to see that I got to meet Robert Godard.

  "I'll get the next one," he said, handing me his business card. I doubted that very much. The card was pretty simple, just his name and a phone number. Apparently he, Lake, and Godard all shared an aversion to having anyone know where they lived. I gave him my card, which is rather more fulsome, writing my hotel number on the back.

  "I'll be in touch," he said. "If you're not at your hotel, I'll leave a message."

  We shook hands again, and Boucher disappeared into the crowd.

  I treated myself to a nice dinner at a tiny restaurant on the Isle St. Louis, compliments once again of Crawford Lake. I was back in my hotel room when the phone rang.

  "Yves Boucher," the voice said. "I've been in touch with Godard. He's waffling, as I expected, on the bronze. Says he wants to think about it for a day or two. Don't worry, he'll come around. Just stay in town, and I'll be back in touch in the next day or so."

  It was disappointing, to be sure, but not the worst thing that had happened to me, having to cool my heels for a day or two in Paris. I wondered if my partner, Rob Luczka, could get a decent last-minute fare and a few days off to meet me. But then, did it matter how much it cost? I needed to get used to having money for a change. Rob and I never had anything remotely like a romantic weekend in Paris. Maybe it was time we did. I dialed his number.

  Rob Luczka is a sergeant in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. We've been friends for a number of years now, and recently got a little closer. I don't know how to characterize our relationship, nor even what to call him. My partner? Sort of. My spouse? Not really. Would we ever get to the spouse stage? I have no idea. I value his friendship more than I can say. I also enjoy his company a very great deal. But move in together? I don't know about that, either. Sometimes I just like to curl up in an armchair in front of my fireplace all by myself, put on the kind of music I like and he hates—because of my travels I rather enjoy Andean flute and some obscure forms of gamelan music and the like that drive him bananas—or watch weepy videos like Stella Dallas, wear my rattiest bathrobe, and just bliss out. I expect Rob has his own equivalent of these things too. He likes cop movies—of course—the blacker the better, and football. Not that I think this makes us an unusual couple or anything, and so far, it's working fine.

  If I'm a little ambivalent about the status of our relationship, there is one part of it about which I have no reservations whatsoever, and that is his daughter Jennifer. I adore her. I take her side almost all the time, the cause of some tension between us, and would happily have her around on a permanent basis. She's transferred to a university closer to home and is around most weekends now.

  It was Jennifer who answered the telephone. I got caught up on all her news—new clothes, a new beau, and the professor she thought was an idiot—and then asked about her dad. "He's on an assignment," she said. My heart leapt into my throat. RCMP assignments, in my opinion, are almost always dangerous, if not downright life threatening, although Rob says I overdramatize everything. When I first met him, he had a desk job, having been hurt in a drug bust, but he now had a clean bill of health and was back "on assignment." It made him happy. It drove me nuts.

  "I hate this part," I said.

  "Me, too," she said. We both thought about this for a few seconds. "He said he'd be away a few days."

  "Well, don't worry," I said.
<
br />   "You neither," she said.

  "Call me if you hear anything," I said.

  "Yes," she said.

  "Have him call me when he gets back," I said.

  "Okay," she said.

  "Don't worry," I said.

  "You said that already," she said.

  "Everything will be fine," I said.

  "I know," she said. "Love you."

  "You, too. Bye." So much for a romantic interlude. Now that I'd had this conversation, I sincerely hoped I'd get to meet Godard soon so I could go home and worry myself sick there instead of worrying myself sick in Paris. I mean maybe Rob's assignment was a stakeout somewhere, where all he had to do was record someone's comings and goings. Or maybe he was investigating some white-collar crime where the only possibility of violence would be someone throwing a pen at him. Or maybe not. Why, I wondered, had I taken up with a policeman, rather than, say, a banker or a civil servant?

  Get to work, Lara, I told myself. It's the only thing to do. You told Clive you were going to do a sweep of the flea markets and the antique stores, so that's what you're going to do.