Then the Customs bit, and Rome.
Marcello was the least likely crook I’d ever seen, and, knowing as many dealers as I do, I must have notched up four figures by now. He was fairly tall, dark-haired, fairly well dressed and youngish. He took me aback somewhat because I suppose I must have been expecting to meet a mini-Arcellano. So when a voice said, ‘Lovejoy?’ as I hung around the exit concourse among mobs disgorging from the Customs, I was surprised to turn to see this pleasant bloke smiling a real-ish smile. ‘Welcome to Roma. I’m Marcello.’
We shook hands, him quite keen to get on with the chat and me thinking Arcellano was playing a very mixed game. ‘I’ve borrowed a friend’s car to take you into the city.’
‘That’s very kind.’
‘Good journey?’
‘There’s no such thing.’
He gave me an appraising glance and asked, ‘Didn’t you want to come?’
‘Yes.’ My own answer seemed to satisfy him but it shook me rigid. Surely I couldn’t have meant that? All the way into the city I wondered, but stared politely at the novel scene.
Marcello’s car turned out to be a microscopic gadget which had room only on its roof for my suitcase. I’d somehow had the idea everybody in Rome had enormous Ferraris.
It was dark outside. I’d never seen so many cars driven at such speed and with such noise. Marcello entered into the spirit of things, occasionally raising his hands heavenwards and parping the hooter angrily on any excuse. Later he told me quite calmly he enjoyed driving. He could have fooled me.
An hour later we were finishing a bottle of wine in a trattoria somewhere in the centre of Rome. I’d no precise idea where we were. The place was quiet, only two or three tables occupied and music covering everybody’s conversation.
I couldn’t get over how good the grub was. I told Marcello this. He was delighted and insisted that this particular trattoria was really below average and that he’d only chosen it on account of its central position and quietness.
Until then we had sparred around the main subject. We’d talked of all sorts. I’d mentioned the weather. Marcello had mentioned a shopkeepers’ strike of the previous week. I said how pleasant Rome seemed. He praised my Italian, which was a bit effusive. I was relieved it worked with him as well as Maria. And Arcellano. There was very little wine left when I decided to open up.
‘Did you book me into a hotel?’
Marcello was surprised. ‘I’d instructions not to. I can tell you the names of some you could try.’
‘Thanks.’ I paused, weighing him up. ‘Look, Marcello. How much help are you supposed to be giving me?’
‘Whatever you ask, with two exceptions.’ He ticked his fingers. ‘Money.’
‘Great,’ I said bitterly. ‘And women, I suppose?’
He grinned. ‘I’m a married man with two young children. I can’t give a bad example.’ He shook his head. ‘No. Number two is the Vatican.’
‘Jesus.’
‘We’re to be casual acquaintances, Lovejoy. I gave you a lift, a typical stranger at the airport confused on his first visit to the Big R. I showed you a good cheap trattoria. You,’ he explained with a flash of wry humour, ‘are to express your gratitude by paying for the meal.’
‘Grazie,’ I said.
‘Prego,’ he answered politely.
So everybody was to be protected, except good old Lovejoy. Marcello was to be shielded from the arriving thief – me – and Arcellano was nowhere to be seen. He was therefore immune. Only Lovejoy was to remain exposed like a spare tool, having come to Rome for no obvious legitimate reason. I felt a twinge – well, actually a wholesome cramp – of unease.
‘Can I not contact you?’
He hesitated, obviously feeling sympathy. ‘If necessary. Learn my home phone number. If you’re desperate, you can leave a message. My wife is usually there. Just say you’ll be at the trattoria. I’ll know you’ll mean here.’
‘That casual?’
‘Why not?’ He seemed genuinely surprised but I’ll bet I was more surprised than him by a mile. I’d never heard anything like this in my life. Normally crooks never divulge anything about their families. I tried to look as if I understood what the hell was going on.
‘No reason. Just a bit more open than I’m used to.’
Piously he put his hand over his heart. ‘Us honest Italians.’
We both laughed and I paid the bill.
At the third go I found a room in a fair-sized hotel about an hour later. Marcello had gone home, leaving me walking between the hotels and muttering his phone number to keep it in my thick skull.
My clothes I left in my suitcase. In my innocence I didn’t expect to be staying very long. I lay on the bed and thought of the rip.
Arcellano’s story was somewhat porous. Of course, he’d no need to give me any story at all. Most crooks don’t – and I’d no doubt Arcellano was a hood of the first order. His family had owned this enormous suite of antique furniture, made by the great Chippendale himself as an entire household set, alcoves built for every single wall piece and suchlike. I’d been fascinated, half wanting to believe his account of an aristocratic family, a heritage in a mansion . . . I’d asked him where.
‘Mind your own business,’ he’d said straight back, which was fair enough.
Came the war and all hell broke loose, belongings scattered, families in ruins. Afterwards, Arcellano’s family set about recovering the various pieces. All eighty pieces were found, except one. I quite understood his eagerness. Remember that most so-called ‘Chippendale’ pieces are conjectural, and in any case were made only by his workmen. A vast historic genuine documented set was worth a king’s ransom. A vast but incomplete set was immeasureably diminished in value.
‘My cousin,’ he explained, ‘visited the Vatican Museum last year. Recognized the missing table, the very one at which his uncle – my father – had been made a papal count.’
‘Didn’t you write and ask for it back?’
He let his wintry smile loose. ‘You mean, simply walk in and say I want your priceless antique, please, Your Holiness?’
‘Well,’ I said lamely, ‘you could explain.’
‘Would you give it up?’
Indignantly I burst out, ‘Would I hell!’ before I realized. Of course, nobody would. ‘Are you certain it’s the missing piece?’
‘Positive.’ He held up his gloved fist. ‘Like I know my own hand.’ That too was fair enough. The rent table made the difference between a mindboggling fortune and a more ordinary fortune.
I lay in my hotel room listening to Rome closing for the night. All the usual sounds: voices in the hotel corridors, cars going, somebody speaking to a friend on the pavement outside, an elevator whirring, a woman calling to a neighbour.
My trouble was I was beginning to feel lost and threatened, maybe even set up. This Marcello, for instance. Nice as pie. Trusting, even. I wondered if he had only given me an accomplice’s phone number instead. It was all wrong, so bloody unlike any carry-on I’d ever known.
Okay, I admit it. Over the years I’ve done the odd rip, though honestly every time was a deserving case and none had done anybody any harm. I mean, nobody had starved or gone broke, nothing like that. Looking up at the ceiling of my room, I cheerfully absolved myself of any blame. You see, I’m not big on motive. To me there’s simply no sense in sussing out why people do things. There’s altogether too much talk about psychology and suchlike crap. It’s all rubbish. What matters is what a person actually does, not what he thinks or dreams. Consequently I was happy to accept more or less everything Arcellano had told me, except it was pathetically obvious that Lovejoy Antiques, Inc – all one of me – were the entire rip. I was the whole sodding army of villains, including the man driving the getaway Jaguar and piloting the Boeing out to a Bermuda haven. Still, nothing could be easier than knocking a single piece off, and from a church at that. I’d done much, much harder things. And here all around was beautiful Rome, a place I had only r
ead of in awe.
Ignorant nerk that I am, I went to sleep full of optimism.
Chapter 6
Rome is beautiful. Seen in the cool daylight of early spring it was exhilarating. Oh, the traffic and the noise were same as everywhere these days, but the place has a definite quality. From my hotel window you could see only the apartments opposite and a bit of the main road to the right with a shop or two, but new is interesting.
Breakfast proved two things: Maria’s language also worked in the mornings, and breakfast was unlimited coffee and rolls and jam, not the ponderous eggs-and-bacon slammer I’d never been able to afford. All my life I’d been making horrible coffee. Here in Rome there were real flavours in the cup you’d never dream of. Coffee will catch on.
Only a few people were down for breakfast early as me. We all watched each other with that surreptitious scrutiny of new acquaintances reluctant to become committed. I finally plucked up the courage to ask a woman and her daughter, poring over a tourist map of the city, where they’d bought it. They lent it me for a quick glance. The street and our hotel were marked with an inked cross.
‘Very near the Vatican,’ I remarked with delight.
‘This is why we stay here. Ten minutes’ walk.’
‘Are people allowed in?’ Subtle old Lovejoy starting reconnaissance.
They laughed. ‘Of course! It’s usually quite crowded.’
‘Is it best to go early?’
‘You get to see the Sistine Chapel before it fills up with visitors.’
That sounded promising. Caroline, the daughter, was a solemn lass, Elsie the mother a good deal chirpier and eager to chat. I deflected their kind offer to show me round on my first day, saying perhaps another time when I’d found my feet. Two women could be useful camouflage.
The conversation cheered me. I was ecstatic at the thought of all those crowds because crowds are concealment. When a rip is on your mind it is space which is the enemy.
I knew nothing of the Vatican beyond the travel agents’ window pictures of St Peter’s great church, and vaguely supposed the Vatican and the church must be one and the same thing. Elsie prattled that of course the Vatican, being nominally an internationally recognized city state, had its own everything. Post office, stamps, currency and—
‘Police?’ I joked.
That threw Elsie. Her face wrinkled in doubt. ‘They have the Swiss Guards,’ Caroline offered. ‘They wear a special uniform.’
I scraped up a dim memory of the fancifully-garbed elderly blokes somewhat resembling the yeoman warders, the so-called ‘Beefeaters’, of the Tower of London. Well, I’ve been in the Tower often enough without paying, so a couple of geriatrics in fancy dress would hardly cause me to break step. They were probably failed cardinals.
I smiled. ‘How quaint.’
Caroline touched my arm as we left the dining room. ‘You’ll love Rome,’ she informed me earnestly. ‘Everything about it is positively rapturous.’
‘I believe you, love.’
‘Do ask us,’ Elsie trilled, ‘if we can be of any assistance. We’ll keep looking for you.’
‘And I’ll do the same,’ I promised with poisonous heartiness, thinking, you see if I don’t.
We parted and I hit the road.
The city was a-bustle. Cars were everywhere, including on the pavement in the slant-parked way I quickly came to expect. People pleased with their eagerness to talk. I had a great few minutes with a tiny elderly woman standing by a street kiosk, to the amusement of the kiosk man. She was drably dressed, hunch-backed and wistful behind her specs. She somehow provoked me into bargaining for the tourist map I wanted, and argued I had made a terrible choice. We went at it hammer and tongs, both of us laughing and threatening each other. She offered to show me round for a few lire but I couldn’t afford a passenger. We parted friends.
It was all happening by then. Schoolchildren, housewives, and cars, cars, cars. Green buses, the gliding trams and the shops. I knew the essentials from Maria. For weeks now we had been over things like currency, the newly-opened Metro’s Linea A, the coins you must have ready, that kind of thing, so I was not too taken aback.
Not knowing what was coming, I really enjoyed myself for an hour. I tried out the buses for a couple of stops. I had a go on the trams, and even went one stop on the cleanest Metro in the world and was appropriately confused to find nobody at the other end wanting to check my ticket. Badly shaken by this assumption of honesty, I walked into the Piazza del Risorgimento bus terminus for the best cup of coffee since breakfast. I remembered Maria’s warning in the nick of time: stand and it’s cheaper; sitting costs extra. I thought, let’s live, sat and got the map out.
Wherever I had gone so far I had come up against the most enormous brickwork wall. Its foot sloped outwards from a point several feet above the pavement. It could not have been less than a good eighty feet high. Presumably the rear end of St Peter’s church was in some churchyard behind it.
I drank my coffee feeling decidedly less full of myself. If that was the wall of the Vatican, there was no way of climbing it, for sure. Still, a church is a church is a church. There was bound to be a proper way in. And out. Nicking an antique from a church would be child’s play. Always is.
Despite the early time of year, numerous tourists had begun to troop about when finally I left the café. I thought, follow the wall and you will come to the entrance. Nothing could be simpler. Full of resolution, I crossed by the tourist shops crammed with mementoes and religious statuary. A group of Germans, superbly organized, were already photographing a small gateway up ahead. I headed for them and mingled. I disliked what I saw.
The gateway was one car wide. It had everything except size. Its traffic lights worked. It had businesslike gates folded back, but worst of all it had a group of vigilant blokes. They wore the navy-blue attire of tidy artists, slanted berets, cloaks with arm-holes, black stockings. That didn’t paralyse me so much as their air of diligence. No car was allowed to enter but these chaps scrutinized each car’s occupants and the passes. Worse still, an imposing-looking car earned itself the sailor’s elbow.
‘Excuse me, signor,’ I asked a man nearby. ‘What is this place?’
He did not understand and anyway saw his guide raise her folded multicoloured umbrella – the signal of the Roman guide – and was off with the rest. A hand tugged my elbow.
‘You never heard of the Vatican, son?’
My drab old lady who had ribbed me so mercilessly at the kiosk, her hat still with its ludicrous black cherries.
‘That’s the Vatican?’ I said weakly. ‘What’s the wall for?’
‘To keep bad people out.’ She chuckled at my face. ‘We Romans have this joke – it’s to keep the good people in.’
‘What are those men doing?’
‘In the gateway? They’re the Swiss Guard.’
I looked again, this time harder. Young, tough, vigilant and very fleet of foot should it come to a sprint. My heart sank. That bastard Arcellano.
‘How many of them are there?’
A slyness had crept into her voice. She tilted her head up at me, birdlike, her spectacles glinting. ‘Enough. You want to go in? There’s a museum, but the entrance—’
Irritably I shook her off and walked dejectedly along the wall pavement. People were drifting like a football crowd. Ahead were the pillars of the Colonnade rimming St Peter’s square. A toffee-maker and a trinketseller were doing a roaring business, blocking one of the arches leading into the square with tourists mobbing the stalls. The square itself was crammed. A pop group was singing somewhere on the Colonnade steps. There was a caravan shop selling Vatican City stamps, obviously an improvised post office. Ahead, between the fountains, rose the great basilica of St Peter’s. It was a real ball, everybody agog and full of good cheer, but I drifted into the throng feeling a right yeti.
Until then I had really felt quite confident. Idiot that I was, I had assumed the Vatican to be a church – okay, a big one, but s
till a church, with perhaps one or two elderly vergers pottering among the churchyard flowers. Now I was sure Arcellano had bitten off more than I could chew. It was like a frigging castle. Those calm diligent guards . . .
The mob of us moved like a slow tide, across the great circle and up the steps. The sheer scale of everything was awesome, doors a mile high and the basilica unbelievable in size and splendour. The last thing I expected was to find the place used, but there it was with people praying and milling and a Mass being said. I joined the crowd round Michelangelo’s exquisite Pietà, now behind protective glass, then wandered down to the main altar. The little birdlike lady happened to be standing near the great Bernini cupola, so I ducked in to see the Papal treasures, a mind-blowing session of rococo exotics. An hour later I reeled out exhausted in a state of unrequited greed. For somebody else to own all that wealth was criminal. And no sign of anything resembling Arcellano’s piece of furniture.
That familiar little figure was now flitting among some Japanese tourists. She seemed everywhere, I thought irritably. Anyway I was getting peckish. No good could possibly come of hunger when I had to suss out the Vatican, so I left St Peter’s in search of a nosh bar.
That bloody great wall was beginning to get me down. For one thing, it seemed formidably intact. For another, it emitted those chiming vibes which an antiquessensitive soul like mine hears louder than any foghorn. This wall, I thought uneasily, is not only massive and intact. It is old. A couple of corners and a few hundred yards and the wall turned left up the Viale Vaticano.
Halfway along there was a grand doorway complete with police-like guards and ice-cream-sellers and tourists trailing in and out of a few coaches. A notice announced that this was the Vatican Museum. I sussed it out for a few minutes, dithering and generally getting in everybody’s way until one of the guards started to notice. I found a pizzeria, a neat clean little place near the market. You choose a hunk of different pizzas cooked on trays, have your particular slice weighed and pay up. It’s everything grub should be – fast, satisfying and cheap – but I was coming to recognize that, like all things Italian, this famous type of nosh has style, even a kind of grace. So there I stood, oozing tomato sauce and miserable as sin.
The Vatican Rip Page 5
