Etruscan Chimera

by Lyn Hamilton

  I was about to protest, but then Dottie and her new dinner companion got up and started to leave. There didn't seem to be any point in hanging around the piazza anymore. Nicola tossed a bill onto the table, took my arm, and we were off. Using Nicola as a shield of sorts, I had a quick look at the mystery man of Dottie's as they left the square. I didn't recognize him, but he and Dottie seemed to be close. He handed her his handkerchief as they went by, and she blotted her eyes.

  Nicola chose a pleasant restaurant where he seemed to be well-known, and where, despite the lineup outside, we were seated at the bar immediately and at a table a few minutes later.

  "How did you manage that?" I said.

  "I eat here a lot," he said. "It's not far from my place. The maitre d' is a cousin, which doesn't hurt. The gnocchi are wonderful, by the way, and I'd recommend the steak or any of the seafood."

  We spent a very pleasant evening together. We talked about art, music, theater, all the subjects I love to talk about. He told me he painted for relaxation. I told him I had no hobbies except my store. He flirted a little. I flirted back, just a little. It was altogether a rather wonderful evening.

  "Can I interest you in a nightcap?" he said. "At my place?"

  I smiled. "Thank you, but I think I have to say no."

  "You're spoken for, aren't you?" he said.

  "Yes, I am," I said.

  "I thought so," he said. "I don't know why. No ring, but I just thought you were."

  "I hope you don't think I've been unfair here. I've had a wonderful evening."

  "I have, too, and I don't want it to end just yet," he said. "So please, come and have a nightcap. Despite what you have heard about Italian men, I promise to behave myself. What does this partner of yours do?"

  "He's a sergeant in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police."

  "Really?" he said. "A Mountie? Then I really must behave myself. How daring of you. Or is it public spirited?"

  I laughed. "He's a really fine person," I said. "I grow fonder of him all the time."

  "Fond," he said. "Interesting word, but I think I won't probe. Speaking of police," he said, "I don't believe you ever answered my question about why you were in the Arezzo carabinieri station."

  "I was checking on an antiquity," I said. "As you know, you can't be too careful."

  "Very wise," he said. "There was a beautiful one there, by the way. I was called in to have a look at it. They caught some woman red-handed with it. An Etruscan hydria. You know what I mean by hydria, don't you? Water jug with three handles? Yes? Stunning."

  "And was it authentic?" I said in my most neutral tone of voice.

  "Almost certainly," he said. "A really fine example, in perfect condition. Now, let's go see my place."

  The building was rather unprepossessing, and the elevator more than a little rickety. I took a quick look behind us as I entered the place, but I couldn't see anyone I knew. To my surprise, Nicola's place was a stunner. It was a very large room on the top floor, loft-style we'd call it, with a glass wall on one end, and a fabulous view over the rooftops. There was a small kitchen on the wall opposite the window, a partitioned-off area for the bed, which I stayed away from, and decorated with a few pieces of very modern, beautifully designed, Italian furniture. While I'd been rather careful not to ask him about his personal life, it was so obviously a bachelor's place, I knew I didn't need to probe. The walls were covered in art, some of it really quite good.

  "Can I take your coat?" he said.

  "Sure," I said. "But just toss it somewhere."

  He took it and, despite what I'd said, he carefully put it on a hanger and placed it in a closet near the door. He then took off his jacket, folded it very carefully, looked about to put it on the back of a chair, but then hung it up as well.

  "I'm surprised we've had such a pleasant evening," I said with a smile. "I'm rather untidy, you see. I call it creative clutter." We'd end up killing each other, I thought.

  He smiled, too. "You've noticed I am somewhat compulsively neat," he said. "Sorry, does it bother you?"

  "Of course not. I'm just jealous," I said. "I'd love a modern home like this. It's just that modern is minimalist, and as certain friends have pointed out on more than one occasion, I don't do minimalist. Mine is rather more, shall we say, eclectic in taste. Modern, primitive, whatever catches my eye, and lots of things do."

  "Seriously," he said. "Do you like the place?"

  "It's fabulous. I'm surprised, for some reason. I'd have thought a curator would have, I don't know.. .."

  "Less modern furniture and art?" he said. "It's not as strange as you think. I've found I enjoy good design, regardless of era. But more to the point, I can't own antiquities, now, can I? And once you've seen the real thing, reproductions don't work, at least not for me. This furniture is the genuine article. I've collected some of the best examples of what I think is called mid-century modern where you come from. I work with thousands-of-years-old artifacts during the day, which have a beauty all their own, and then I come home to a different kind of world, a different kind of beauty, I suppose you might say."

  "I can tell you picked each of these pieces, the furniture, the area rugs, the glass vase here, the paintings, individually. I know I'm not expressing this properly, but some people just buy stuff, they don't choose it with real care. They buy sets, or something. Or is that a North American phenomenon?"

  "I'm not sure," he said. "But you are rather perceptive. I did pick each piece individually. I'm a collector at heart, I guess."

  "But a very selective one," I said.

  "Perfection is an important concept for me," he said. "In people, too, I'm afraid. It no doubt explains why at forty-six years of age, I still live alone. That and the fact I'm compulsively neat."

  "You paint, obviously," I said, gesturing toward an easel by the window. "Are any of these paintings your own work?" I felt we were entering dangerous territory here, conversationally speaking, and I thought I'd just change the subject.

  "No," he said. "I'm afraid mine are considerably less exuberant than these abstract paintings. I'm a detail person. You have to be to do the kind of work I do. So when I paint, I'm afraid that love of detail comes out, despite persistent efforts on my part to break free. I could show you some of my work, if you promise not to judge me against these other paintings."

  "I'd love to see it," I said.

  "There's one piece on the easel," he said. "And I'll bring a few more out." He went out into the hallway, and I started to follow him. "Just wait there," he said. "I have a little work space just down the hall, where I keep my work. It's a glorified bathroom really, just some extra storage space and a worktable when I bring stuff home from the office. Don't come, though." He laughed. "It's almost untidy." I followed him anyway. The room was filled with books, most of them on antiquities, and there was a worktable covered in shards of ceramics, and a kiln in the corner. It was messier than his living quarters but still awfully well organized. "I do some of my research here, as you can see," he said. "It's not a very sophisticated setup, but I can test a few hypotheses from time to time."

  I pulled one of the books from the shelf. It was a well-thumbed tome on Etruscan art. After idly flipping through it while Nicola looked through drawers, I put it back. As I turned away, I caught him pushing the spine of the book I'd just replaced, so that it lined up perfectly with the others.

  Despite his modesty on the subject and his compulsive tidiness, Nicola's painting was quite exceptional. It was, as he said, rather detailed, small works on canvas, some as small as six or eight inches square, that drew heavily, to my eye, anyway, on ancient designs.

  The brushwork was confident and the overall impression very pleasing. "I love these," I said, as I sipped a limoncello. "In many ways, perhaps because of the work I do, I feel more of an affinity to yours than some of these others. It's the ancient quality to it, I think, that appeals to me."

  "You are very kind," he said. "I don't show my work to many people. It's a
little like baring your soul, isn't it? Thank you for being so gentle with it."

  He was standing so close, our shoulders were touching, and I knew it was time to go home.

  "I'd better go," I said.

  "I'll take you back to your hotel," he said.

  "No," I said. "You don't need to do that. If you'll just find me a cab?"

  As I left, he kissed my hand. "Here," he said. "For you." It was a small painting. "I think this was your favorite?"

  "You mustn't," I said.

  "Please, I want you to have it."

  "Thank you," I said. "I'll think of you every time I look at it."

  "If you're ever back in Rome," he said, handing me his card. "Or if you grow less fond of the policeman, I hope you will think of me."

  The streets were almost empty when I left. I looked back through the rear window of the taxi and saw him standing, framed in the light, watching me leave.

  For some reason, the way the light hit the glass, perhaps, or the way the windows were framed, he looked to me as if he were imprisoned. Which maybe he was, with his immaculate clothes and his perfect furniture, carefully placed, and not so much as a crumb to be seen. For me, it was a stab to the heart.

  THIRTEEN

  AREZZO

  I SPENT MOST OF THE NEXT DAY IN BED, in a funk so black I could hardly lift my head from the pillow. I snapped at the chambermaid, ordered food but couldn't eat it, opting instead to drink cup after cup of coffee, until my nerves were so frayed my eyeballs hurt. Then I checked my E-mail, thinking it would make me feel better, but it made me feel even worse.

  "Hi Lara," the message said. "Hope you 're enjoying France, Italy, or wherever it is you are. The operation I'm involved in is taking a little longer than expected, but everything is fine. In fact, the assignment, as usual, is rather boring. I'll be back home soon. Hope you will be, too. I love you, Rob."

  I hit Reply. "Hi Rob," I typed. "Italy is fine. I just have a couple of things left to get under control here, and then I'll be home. I'll see you soon. Love you, too. Lara"

  I hit Send, then just stared at the screen for awhile. Rob had never actually said to my face that he loved me, although I suppose I knew that he did, in some fashion at least. Had he had to do it the day after I'd had dinner with a handsome Italian? Come to think of it, I'd never told him I loved him, either. I wondered what it was that had made him say it now, even if it was only electronically. I hoped his brief and cheery message wasn't covering up the kind of situation that mine was, both in terms of the mess I was in or the evening I'd had the night before. If it was, he'd be as suspicious of my message as I was of his. My mood grew even blacker.

  At about nine at night, I realized I had two choices: I could sit in the hotel room, staring out at a bleak interior courtyard as the rain dripped on the pavement below and the smells of the kitchen permeated the room, until I rotted, or I could face the music, as it were, and do what I'd been putting off for about three days.

  By ten o'clock, I'd showered and was in the car and back on the road. It occurred to me that, at that point of time, my personal version of purgatory was driving up and down the misnamed, at that moment at least, Autostrada del Sole, as the windshield wipers flapped and the rain poured down.

  "Come in, come in," Lola's friend Salvatore said.

  "I'm sorry to show up so late," I said. "But I need a place to stay. Can I crash on your living room sofa, or the floor, or something?"

  "Most certainly not," he said. "I have a guest room.

  I don't have much company, but I believe the bed is reasonably comfortable, and the room is yours. I'm so happy to see you. Please tell me you've come with good news. Tell me you've found the businessman who was going to return the hydria and that he'll come forward and my Lola will soon be free."

  "Unfortunately not," I said, and his face fell. "I found him, but he wasn't who I thought he was."

  "You must tell me everything," he said. "Come, sit down and tell me." So I did.

  "Do you think if I told this story to the police, to that Massimo Lucca fellow, that he'd believe me?"

  "No," he said.

  "Well then, I'm just going to have to tell him the hydria was mine. There's nothing else for it. I don't know why Lola doesn't tell them herself, but I gather she hasn't."

  "I don't think that will help," he said.

  "You know, last night at this time," I said, checking my watch, "I was having a very pleasant evening with a man I just met. I went to his apartment, and he gave me a piece of his art."

  "So?" Salvatore said.

  "So, I'm in a relationship," I said. "My partner is a policeman, and right now he's on an assignment of some sort, which I can't know about, and which I'm sure is dangerous."

  "And did you violate the terms of that relationship?"

  "I didn't stay there, if that's what you mean."

  "And how would you feel if this partner of yours, the policeman on a dangerous mission, spent an evening with someone he met, and then left."

  "I don't know how I'd feel about it, but I know what the really terrible part of it is," I said. He waited. "I was traipsing about in Rome, eating a good meal, drinking fine wine, and flirting with a stranger, while Rob may have been in danger and Lola is fading away in jail."

  "Perhaps that's your way of dealing with difficult situations."

  "Perhaps it is. You know, for the last few years, I've felt reasonably comfortable about who I am and how I react to things. I'm not perfect, I know, but I've learned to deal with it all. Now, for some reason, I feel like the most awful person in the world.

  "I don't know what to do now," I said. "I feel so tired, so terrible. I don't even know whether to be angry or depressed."

  "If you have a choice, then be angry. It is so much healthier."

  "Then angry at whom? Myself? The reason that Lola is in this mess is that I was stupid enough to believe that someone as important as Crawford Lake not only knew who I was but wanted to do business with me. I mean, how stupid can I get? As for helping either Lola or myself, I simply have no idea how to proceed from here."

  He looked at me for a moment. "I know what you need," he said, rising from his chair at the kitchen table. "First: grappa," he said, taking a bottle down off a shelf and pouring a small tumblerful. "Drink," he said. "You're shivering.

  "Second," he said, taking a large pot and filling it with water before setting it on the stove and turning on the flame. "Pasta. You haven't eaten much today, have you." It was a statement, not a question, and he was right. "Pasta conaglio e olio, garlic and oil," he said, setting a skillet on a second burner and reaching for the olive oil. "And perhaps to fortify you, peperoncini, hot peppers. That should do the trick. Why don't you cut yourself a slice or two of bread to go with it.

  "And third," he said, walking over to a small CD player on a table by the window. "Music. Opera, of course. One is tempted, on these occasions, to move outside Italy, Mozart perhaps, or Wagner. Big music, even bigger emotions. Tannhauser or Don Giovanni. But no. Verdi. Otello," he said as the first jarring chord washed over us. "No matter what else there is for us to learn from Otello, it is about finding out the hard way whom to trust.

  "And now, while I cook," he said, handing me a pen and a large pad of paper, "you will write down the names of the people you have come in contact with, even in the most peripheral way, since this whole Crawford Lake affair began. Everyone, you understand? And if you can, put them in the order in which you came in contact with them. You must take action, not sit here feeling sorry for yourself."

  "Okay," I said and wrote for a minute or two.

  "Let me see," he said, taking the list in one hand, as he stirred with the other. "Antonio Balducci, the young man who followed you everywhere. Mario Romano, that's the fake Crawford Lake, no?"

  I nodded.

  "So you went to this apartment and only Lake or Romano and Balducci were there?"

  "Yes. I mean no. There was a maid by the name of Anna."

  "Just
Anna? No surname?"

  "Just Anna, I'm afraid."

  "So then you went to Paris, and Antonio followed you. There you met... ?"

  "Yves Boucher," I said.

  "And you were put in touch with him by Lake, Romano, I mean."

  "Not exactly. The person who set it up, according to Boucher, was Vittorio Palladini, who just happens to own the apartment in Rome."

  Vitali handed me the paper again. "Is his name here? Yes? Now, who is next? Pierre Leclerc, wasn't it? Or Le Conte with a question mark," he said.

  "He told me his name was Leclerc. Godard thought it was something else like Le Conte. Godard may simply have been mistaken."

  "And he is the one who died at the Tanella. I read about that in the paper. They hadn't identified the body yet, but foul play is suspected."