by Ken Follett
Dee nodded.
ʺThen let us step outside.″ He took their elbows, one in each hand, and pushed them gently through the door. Outside, he glanced up into the sky. ʺThank God for wonderful sunshine,″ he said. ″Although you should be careful, my dear, with your complexion. What can I do for you?″
″We′re trying to trace a man,″ Dee began. ″His name was Danielli. He was a rabbi, from Livorno, and we think he moved to Poglio in about 1920. He was ill, and not young, so he probably died soon after.″
The priest frowned and shook his head. ″I have never heard the name. It was certainly before my time—I wasn′t born in 1920. And if he was Jewish, I don′t suppose the Church buried him, so we will have no records.″
″You have never even heard him talked about?″
″No. And there is certainly no Danielli family in Poglio. However, others in the village have longer memories than mine. And no one can hide in such a small place.″ He looked at them hesitantly for a moment, as if making up his mind about something. ″Who told you he came here?″
″Another rabbi—in Livorno.ʺ Dee realized the priest was desperately curious to know why they were interested in the man.
He hesitated again, then asked: ″Are you related to him?″
″No.″ Dee looked at Mike, who gave a quick nod. ʺWeʹre actually trying to trace a picture which we think he had.″
″Ah.″ The priest was satisfied. ″Well, Poglio is an unlikely place to find a masterpiece; but I wish you well.″ He shook their hands, then turned back into his church.
The couple walked back toward the village. ″A nice man,″ Dee said lazily.
ʺAnd a nice church. Dee, shall we get married in a church?″
She stopped and turned to look at him. ″Married?″
ʺDonʹt you want to marry me?″
″You only just invited me—but I think you made a very good choice.″
He laughed, and shrugged his shoulders in embarrassment. ″It just kind of slipped out,″ he said.
Dee kissed him affectionately. ″There was a certain boyish charm about it,″ she said.
″Well, since I seem to have asked you ...″
ʺMike, if it′s anyone, it′s you. But I don′t know whether I want to marry anyone at all.″
″There′s a certain girlish charm about that,″ he said. ″One all.″
She took his hand and they walked on. ″Why don′t you ask for something a bit less ambitious?″
″Such as?ʺ
″Ask me to live with you for a couple of years to see how it works out.″
″So you can have your evil way with me, then leave me without any visible means of support?″
ʺYes.ʺ
This time he stopped her. ″Dee, we always turn everything into a joke. It′s our way of keeping our relationship in an emotionally low key. That′s why we suddenly start talking about our future together at a crazy time like this. But I love you, and I want you to live with me.″
ʺItʹs all because of my picture, isn′t it?″ She smiled.
″C′mon.″
Her face became very serious. She said quietly: ″Yes, Mike, I′d like to live with you.″
He wound his long arms around her and kissed her mouth, slowly this time. A village woman walked by and averted her face from the scandal. Eventually Dee whispered: ″We could get arrested for this.″
They walked even more slowly, his arm around her shoulders and hers about his waist. Dee said: ″Where shall we live?″
Mike looked startled. ″What′s wrong with South Street?″
″It′s a scruffy bachelor pad, that′s what.ʺ
″Nuts. Itʹs big, it′s right in the center of Mayfair.″
She smiled. ″I knew you hadn′t thought much about it. Mike, I want to set up home with you, not just move into your place.″
″Mmm.″ He looked thoughtful.
ʺThe apartment is knee-deep in rubbish, it needs decorating, and the kitchen is pokey. The furniture is all odds and sods—ʺ
″So what would you like? A three-bedroom semi in Fulham? A town house in Ealing? A mansion in Surrey?″
″Somewhere light and spacious, with a view of a park, but near the center.″
″I have a feeling you′ve got somewhere in mind.″
ʺRegentʹs Park.″
Mike laughed. ″Hell, how long have you been planning this?″
ʺDidnʹt you know I was a gold-digger?ʺ She smiled up into his eyes, and he bent his head to kiss her again.
″You shall have it,ʺ he said. ʺA new place—you can get it decorated and furnished when we get back to town—ʺ
ʺSlow down! We don′t know if there′ll be a flat vacant there.″
ʺWeʹll get one.″
They stopped beside the car, and leaned against the hot paintwork. Dee turned her face up to the sun. ″How long ago did you decide ... about this?″
″I don′t think I decided at all. It just gradually grew in my mind—the idea of spending my life with you. By the time I noticed, I was already too far gone to alter it.″
ʺFunny.ʺ
ʺWhy?ʺ
″It was just the reverse with me.″
″When did you decide?″
″When I saw your car outside the hotel at Livorno.
Funny that you should ask me so soon afterward.″ She opened her eyes and lowered her head. ʺIʹm glad you did.″
They looked at each other silently for a minute. Mike said: ʺThis is crazy. We′re supposed to be hot on the trail of an art find, and here we are looking cow-eyed at each other.″
Dee giggled. ″All right. Let′s ask the old man.″
The man with the straw hat and the walking-stick moved with the shade, from the steps of the bar to a doorway around the corner. But he looked so completely still that Dee found herself imagining that he had been levitated from the one place to the other without actually moving a muscle. As they got close to him, they realized that his eyes belied his lifelessness: they were small and darting, and a peculiar shade of green.
Dee said: ″Good morning, sir. Can you tell me whether there is a family named Danielli in Poglio?″
The old man shook his head. Dee was not sure if he meant there was no such family, or simply that he did not know. Mike touched her elbow, then walked quickly around the comer in the direction of the bar.
Dee crouched beside the old man in the doorway and flashed a smile. ″You must have a long memory,″ she said.
He mellowed slightly, and nodded his head.
″Were you here in 1920?″
He gave a short laugh. ″Before then—well before.″
Mike came hurrying back with a glass in his hand. ʺThe barman says he drinks absinthe,″ he explained in English. He handed the glass to the old man, who took it and drained it in one swallow.
Dee also spoke in English. ″It′s a pretty crude form of persuasion,″ she said distastefully.
″Nuts. The barman says he′s been waiting here all morning for some of the tourists to buy him a drink. That′s the only reason he′s sitting there.″
Dee switched to Italian. ″Do you remember back to about 1920?″
″Yes,″ the old man said slowly.
″Was there a Danielli family here then?″ Mike asked impatiently.
ʺNo.ʺ
ʺDo you remember any strangers moving to the village around that time?″
″Quite a few. There was a war, you know.″
Mike looked at Dee in exasperation. He said: ″Are there any Jewish people in the village?″ His skimpy Italian was running out.
″Yes. They keep the bar on the west road out of the village. That′s where Danielli lived when he was alive.″
They looked at the old man in astonishment. Mike turned to Dee and said in English: ″Why in hell didn′t he tell us that at the start?″
″Because you didn′t ask me, you young cunt,″ the man said in English. He cackled merrily, pleased with his joke. He struggled to his feet a
nd hobbled off down the road, still cackling, stopping now and then to bang his stick on the sidewalk and laugh even louder.
Mike′s face was comical, and Dee too burst out laughing. It was infectious, and Mike laughed at himself. ʺTalk about a sucker,″ he said.
″I suppose we′d better find the bar on the west road out of town,″ Dee suggested.
″It′s hot. Let′s have a drink first.″
″Twist my arm.″
They walked into the cool of the bar again. The young barman was waiting behind the bar. When he saw them his face split in a wide grin.
″You knew!″ Dee accused him.
″I confess it,″ he said. ″He wasn′t really waiting to be bought drinks. He was waiting to play that trick. We have tourists here only about once a year, and it′s the high spot of the year for him. Tonight he will be in here, telling the story to anyone who′ll listen.″
ʺTwo Camparis, please,″ Mike said.
III
THE PRIEST STOOPED ON the cobbled churchyard path to pick up a piece of litter: a stray candy bar wrapper. He crumpled it in his hand, and stood up slowly to placate the nagging rheumatism in his knee. The pain came from sleeping alone in an old house through many damp Italian winters, he knew: but priests ought to be poor. For how could a man be a priest if there was one man in the village who was poorer? The thought was a liturgy of his own invention, and by the time he had run through it in his mind, the pain had eased.
He left the yard to walk across the road to his house. In the middle of the street the rheumatism stabbed him again: a vicious, angry shaft of pain which made him stumble. He made it to the house and leaned on the wall, resting his weight on his good leg.
Looking down the road toward the center of the village he saw the youngsters whom he had spoken to earlier. They walked very slowly, their arms around each other; looking and smiling at each other. They seemed very much in love—more so than they had half an hour earlier. The understanding which the priest had gained through many years of listening to confessions told him that a change had been wrought in the relationship within the last few minutes. Perhaps it had something to do with their visit to the house of God: maybe he had given them spiritual help, after all.
He had sinned, almost certainly, in lying to them about Danielli. The untruth had come automatically, by force of a habit he had got into during the war. Then, when he had felt it imperative to conceal the Jewish family from all inquirers, the whole village had lied with his blessing. To tell the truth would have been sinful.
Today, when a couple of complete strangers had arrived out of the blue, and asked for Danielli by name, they had touched an old, raw nerve in the priest; and he had protected the Jews again. The inquiry was bound to be quite innocent: the Fascisti were thirty-five years in the past, and no longer worth sinning about. Still, he had not had time to think—which was the reason for most sins, and a poor excuse.
He toyed with the idea of going after them, apologizing, explaining, and telling the truth. It would expiate him a little. But there was little point: someone in the village would send them to the bar on the outskirts of Poglio where the Jews eked out their living.
His pain had gone. He went into the little house, treading on the loose flagstone at the foot of the stairs with the twinge of affection he reserved for familiar nuisances: like the rheumatism, and the unfailing sins he heard week after week from the irreformable black sheep in his little flock. He gave them a rueful paternal nod of acknowledgment, and granted absolution.
In the kitchen he took out a loaf and cut it with a blunt knife. He found the cheese and scraped off the mold; then he ate his lunch. The cheese tasted good—it was the better for the effect of the mold. There was something he would have not discovered if he had been rich.
When he had eaten the meal he wiped the plate with a towel and put it back into the wooden cupboard. The knock at the door surprised him.
People did not usually knock at his door: they opened it and called to him. A knock indicated a formal visit—but in Poglio, one always knew well in advance if someone was going to pay a formal visit. He went to the door with a pleasant sensation of curiosity.
He opened the door to a short man in his twenties, with straight fair hair growing over his ears. He was peculiarly dressed, by the priest′s standards, in a businessman′s suit and a bow tie. In poor Italian he said: ″Good morning, Father.″
A stranger, thought the priest. That explained the knock. It was most unusual to have so many strangers in the village.
The man said: ″May I talk to you for a few moments?″
″Surely.″ The priest ushered the stranger into the bare kitchen and offered him a hard wooden seat. ″Do you speak English?″
The priest shook his head regretfully.
″Ah. Well, I am an art dealer from London,″ the man continued haltingly. ʺI am looking for old paintings.″
The priest nodded wonderingly. Clearly, this man and the couple in the church were on the same mission. That two sets of people should come to Poglio on the same day looking for paintings was just too much of a coincidence to be credible.
He said: ″Well, I have none.″ He waved a hand at the bare walls of the room, as if to say that he would buy bare essentials first, if he had any money.
ʺPerhaps in the church?″
″No, the church has no paintings.″
The man thought for a moment, searching for words. ″Is there a museum in the village? Or perhaps someone with a few paintings in his house?″
The priest laughed. ″My son, this is a poor village. No one buys paintings. In good times, when they have a little extra money, they eat meat—or perhaps drink wine. There are no art collectors here.″
The stranger looked disappointed. The priest wondered whether to tell him about his rivals. But then he would be forced to mention Danielli, and he would have to give this man information he had withheld from the couple.
That seemed unfair. However, he would not lie again. He decided to tell the man about Danielli if he asked: otherwise, he would not volunteer the information.
The next question surprised him.
″Is there a family named Modigliani here?″
The priest raised his eyebrows. Quickly, the stranger said: ″Why does the question shock you?″
″Young man, do you really think there is a Modigliani here in Poglio? I am no student of these things, but even I know that Modigliani was the greatest Italian painter of this century. It is hardly likely that one of his works lies unnoticed anywhere in the world, let alone Poglio.″
″And there is no Modigliani family here,ʺ the man persisted.
″No.″
The man sighed. He stayed in his seat for a moment, staring at the toe of his shoe and wrinkling his brow. Then he stood up.
ʺThank you for your help,″ he said.
The priest saw him to the door. ʺI am sorry I could not give the answers you wanted to hear,″ he said. ″God bless you.″
When the door shut behind him, Julian stood outside the priest′s house for a moment, blinking in the sunshine and breathing the fresh air. God, the place was smelly. The poor old sod had probably never learned to look after himself—Italian men were used to being waited on hand and foot by their mothers and their wives, he seemed to recall reading.
It was amazing Italy could find enough priests, what with that and the celibacy ... He grinned as the thought reminded him of the recent abrupt end to his own celibacy. The elation which had come with the discovery of his own potency was still with him. He had proved it had all been Sarah′s fault. The bitch had tried to pretend she was not enjoying it at first, but the act had not lasted. What with that, and the sale of her car, and the Modigliani—maybe he was finding his form again.
But he did not have the picture yet. That last stroke of genius was essential, to put the crowning touch to his personal renaissance. The postcard from the girl who signed herself ʺDʺ was a shaky foundation on which to build his
hopes, he knew: yet it was by following up dubious leads that great finds were made.
The prospect of the Modigliani had receded a long way during the interview with the priest. If it was here in Poglio it was going to be hard to find. There was one consolation: it looked as if Julian was the first here. For if a painting had been bought in a little place like this, every villager would know about it within hours.
He stood beside his rented baby Fiat, wondering what was the next step. He had entered the village from the south, and the church was one of the first buildings he had come across. He could look around for a public building: a village hall, maybe, or a police station. The priest had said there was no museum.
He decided on a quick reconnaissance, and jumped into the little car. Its engine whirred tinnily as he started it and drove slowly into the village. In less than five minutes he had looked at every building. None of them looked promising. The blue Mercedes coupe parked outside the bar must belong to a rich man: the owner obviously did not live in the village.
He drove back to his first parking-spot and got out of the car. There was nothing else for it: he would have to knock on doors. If he went to every house in the village, it could not take all afternoon.
He looked at the small, whitewashed houses: some set back behind kitchen-gardens, others shoulder-to-shoulder at the roadside. He wondered where to start. Since they were equally improbable places to find a Modigliani, he chose the nearest and walked to the door.
There was no knocker, so he banged on the brown paintwork with his knuckles and waited.
The woman who came to the door had a baby in one arm, its small fist clenched in her unwashed brown hair. Her eyes were set close together about a high, narrow nose, giving her a shifty look.
Julian said: ″I am an art dealer from England, looking for old paintings. Have you any pictures I could look at, please?″
She stared at him silently for a long minute, a look of disbelief and wariness on her face. Then she shook her head silently and closed the door.
