by Mike Sweeney
“Amphorae,” I said suddenly. “That’s what l’Anfora means, isn’t it?”
“You are a fast study.”
“Amphorae,” I said again. “A clay vessel. A Greek pot.”
“Please don’t bring that up.”
“That’s why I came to Padua!” Okay, this wasn’t working. Time to be a little more confrontational. “I think it might have been looted,” I told him point blank.
“It is possible.” Unhappily.
“What do you know about antiquities trafficking?” I asked him.
He was not happy with the direction of the conversation, but he answered anyhow. “If you are in the trade today, you must educate yourself. There are many items being offered which you should not be buying.”
The wine came. Two glasses. “Most Greek and Roman antiquities in the market come not from those countries but from their colonies. Magna Grecia. Sicily. Syria. North Africa. They are still a minority. Other cultures feel the worst of looting. Today it is Paracas Textiles. Before it was terra cotta statues from Mali. And always it is oil lamps from the Holy Land, but only if they can claim to have come from the time of The Christ.”
“They have fads?”
He nodded, grimly amused. “The looters, they aren’t organized. But they are smart. They know what the buyers are interested in. It is hard to blame them. They are the poor peasants, without a better way to make a living. They do all the work and take all the risks and they get little of the money.”
“And ISIS?”
“Yes, sometimes. Revolutions in Africa, drug wars in Central America. They loot like they were mining coal and they buy bullets with it. But it is still the poor who work and suffer. Only then at the end of a gun.”
“And then it gets to the galleries?”
“It gets to eBay.” He flashed a grin at my expression. “Or the auction houses, but today often just eBay. Most of what is looted is trash. It comes out of the ground in heaps and finds its way to auction with the dirt still on it. What they can’t sell they discard. Or destroy, to preserve the market.”
“Destroy!” I was shocked. “But not items like your calyx.”
“I only wish it were mine! No, items like that are different. They are rare. They are carefully cleaned and repaired, sometimes restored almost as professionally as a museum can do it. And when they sell, well…”
“I bet it takes someone pretty rich to buy that stuff,” I said. “Just to decorate their mansion,” I shook my head in disbelief.
“No, to decorate a museum. Yes, still today! All the big museums have done it. The Getty is in trouble over it right now. It is still the rich paying money, but what they get from their donation is their name on a wing and their spouse on the board. Even better than a bronze in the garden. The very big dealers, they do not think of themselves as crooks. They are wealthy men, they are society men. The bargain is not made in a backroom, it is started at a reception and concluded over luncheon at the club.”
“Wow.”
The food had finally arrived, and we tucked in to that. It was good. There was a sort of corn mash with mine. I held up a fork in question. Giulio put a finger to his lips. I still didn’t know if he was kidding.
I was glad we were friends again. There was still something off about his behavior, though. As open as he’d been about his feelings on antiquities trafficking there was a lot he wasn’t saying.
I didn’t think he was a crook. He certainly hadn’t sounded like he approved. But then, isn’t that exactly how a smart crook would sound? They wouldn’t go around wink wink nudge nudge to anyone they met.
“Here.” He’d refilled his wineglass, now he added a couple fingers to the other one. “Food is to be savored. It is just not right without the wine.”
“I can’t,” I said, almost angrily. Okay, fine. Maybe it would get him to open up. “I was…” No. Start the story earlier.
“Germany. That dig. This came out of the ground.” I popped open a photo I’d taken earlier today and spun the phone around to place it before him.
He studied it for a long time. “Are you sure?”
“You’re the expert.”
“This figure,” he said. “If I am right, the other is Enceladus.”
“A giant?” At the Atlantis Gallery, he’d mentioned the Gigantomachy. The battle between the Greek Gods and the Giants. Or perhaps the Titans. Mythology didn’t have One True Canon, like Star Wars after Disney. Legends morphed and combined, were translated and changed to meet the needs of new cultures.
“Sometimes,” Giulio was thoughtful, “A trafficker will break up a beautiful object so they can sell it piece by piece. They call these pieces orphans. It is a way to get more money. And a way for someone like the Getty to buy it bit by bit, so people do not ask, ‘Where did you find this perfect pot?’”
“You think that happened to Enceladus?”
“This was in Germany?” He asked instead of answering that.
“It was in Germany,” I said. “I have it now.”
He started hard enough to shove his chair back a couple inches. “You must turn it in!” he said.
“I’m going to.”
“No, you must turn it over immediately to the authorities!” He was getting agitated. I pushed my own chair back.
“To who?” I stressed. “I’m getting a little short on trust, here.”
“You do not understand. It could be dangerous.”
“I damn well understand it is dangerous!” I’d only had, what, two different attempts on my life?
“You do not understand,” he said. He reached across the table as if to touch my hand. Didn’t. “I do not want to see you hurt. That much money, it can cause people to do terrible things.”
I stood. “I am sorry you can’t be more honest with me. Well, I’m going to say this now and I don’t care who hears it. This orphan’s got an escort back to her home. Me.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
APPARENTLY VENICE WASN’T really sinking. I can’t remember where I read it, but it had something to do with pumping out the underground aquifers. They got their fresh water elsewhere now and the rate had slowed considerably.
You could have fooled me. There were lakes in Piazza San Marco, and duckboards on some of the fondamente as the little canals, the rio, that they bordered had risen to cover the paving. Venice might be sinking slower but the seas were more than making up the difference. Try and tell the Venetians global climate change was a myth.
Or maybe it was the wake from the cruise ships. There was a monster practically on the doorstep of the Doge’s Palace. I’d swear it was taller than most of the buildings, glittering white in the sunlight as it passed. There were a terrifying number of tourists here. Throughout my journey across Germany it had been rare to hear a word of English. Here, it felt like it would be rare when I didn’t.
The piazza was crowded, so crowded there were lines along the narrow calli as more people tried to get in. It was also noisy. Italians were a loud people. Americans, I was starting to realize, were louder. Maybe that’s why it sounded like all I was hearing was English. It made me want to put on an accent and pretend I wasn’t with them.
Fighting against this was music and other noises from the variety of buskers and hawkers and hucksters. Someone was doing marvelous stuff with some kind of weird looking steel drum. Another was getting romantic and mysterious music from a great many wine glasses.
And of course the architecture was spectacular. I had all afternoon before my ferry left. I still wasn’t going to spend it in line waiting to get into Saint Mark’s, as doubly spectacular as it probably was inside. I’d stick with admiring the outsides, at least this trip.
As I crossed the Piazza heading vaguely north I caught another of the “Ciao bellaaa!” that had become irritatingly familiar. They were mostly aimed at women who were younger and especially those who dressed younger.
My getup probably confused them. It wasn’t as casual as most of the tourists, many of whom were
not going to get into the Basilica without a cover-up. But it wasn’t stylish enough to be local fashion, either. The Germans, I had discovered, dressed neatly. The Italians dressed well.
A jaunty melody came from a portable amp. After a brief intro a strong, youthful tenor voice began. It was good to hear a little opera here. I was starting to be afraid it was all going to be pop music. He'd found a nice little niche just in front of the Diocese of Venice, a calm, relatively recent-looking building of classical white.
“La donna é mobile, qual piuma al vento…”
No. No way. I spun on the balls of my feet.
“Muta d’accento, e di pensiero…”
I knew those words. Giulio. He had been quoting, during our mock conversation at Atlantis. He’d been quoting opera. Oh, way to live up to the Italian stereotype!
I applauded vigorously after the singer finished on a nicely held high “A” and I placed a twenty euro note in his hat to tee up. A raised eyebrow was enough.
“Rigoletto,” he said. “Verdi,” he amplified, in a tone that said it shouldn’t need to be said.
Ah. I knew that tone. It was said there were two kinds of people in musical theatre; people who thought Weber was a hack, and people who had yet to be introduced to Sondheim. In Opera circles, that apparently corresponded to Verdi.
“So what is it about?”
“It isn't a terribly polite song.” He had a strong accent, but not local. “It is the Duke who sings it. Women are flighty, he sings. Changing their words and their manner. Saying one thing and meaning another.”
Sounded like half the conversations I'd had since I arrived in Athens. I was getting really tired of every conversation having a secret agenda and hidden layers of meaning.
“I'm not offended.” If Giulio’s first words were from an opera, the others might be as well. “Can you, can you help me identify a song?”
“An aria? I believe so. Can you hum a little?”
“I think I remember some of the words. ‘Visi darte’ or something like that.”
The reply was instant. “‘Vissi d’arte.’ Puccini.” He’d spoken Verdi’s name in tones of deep respect. Puccini’s, he said with passion. “It is not a song for a male voice,” he added with regret. “It deserves a Tebaldi, or a Callas.”
“What opera is it from?” I glanced around, conscious of a fellow performer’s need to grab and hold an audience. My twenty euros seemed to have bought me a little time, though.
“Tosca. She sings it when the evil Scarpia, Chief of Police, has forced her to bargain for her lover’s life with her own body. When Callas sung it La Scala, she stabbed Scarpia so hard the prop knife drew blood.”
I was ashamed to have to admit I really didn’t know my opera. The way Giulio had said those words, the intensity that had made me remember them, made me think it must mean something to him beyond providing a random Italian phrase for him to play-act talking in his language with me.
“They call it the Tosca curse,” the street singer said. “There are so many stories. Of broken legs, and trampolines, and of the time a University football team is told to ‘follow the principal off stage’ and does so exactly as directed. Right off Hadrian’s Tomb, rifles flying every which way.”
I laughed at the sound of it, even though I had no idea what it was he was describing. Another glance around. He still had an audience. He probably wanted more of one. “I am so sorry,” I said. “One last one. And forgive me if I get the words all wrong.”
He gestured at me to continue.
“Uh, Tu mio Principessa, something-something, garde le estella?”
“Nessun dorma!” Song burst out of him. Heads turned. “Nessun dorma.” Softer. There was a scattering of applause. Someone knew this song.
He touched a control and a quiet, sweet introduction played on his rig. Then he began the aria proper.
I think he’d just made another convert to Sondheim. I mean opera. I could stay here for a very long time. Here, in Piazza San Marco, against the afternoon sun, listening to such music.
There was a nice round of applause and more money in his hat when he was done. I added another bill myself. “That was lovely,” I said. I didn’t even try to reach for my scraps of Italian.
He opened a water bottle, obviously taking a break to rest his voice. “So…” I said.
“I am a student,” he said. “I hope one day to be among the blessed who have sung La Scala. Until then, this is good practice, and a little money always helps.
“Ah, the opera. Calaf, the Unknown Prince, has promised the Cold Princess Turandot he will release her from her promise if she can discover his name before dawn. No one but you shall know my name, he sings. But I change one line when I sing. In the opera, Calaf concludes with ‘vincero’ — victory. But this is not the proper spirit in which to woo a woman. So instead I skip to the finale of the opera, where to the same music the chorus sings ‘amore.’”
Smiles all around. Again it sounded impressive, and I wished I knew the full story as well as they did.
So. Police, and secrets, and a man without a name. Why had those leapt to Giulio’s mind when he decided to pretend to converse with me?
“For my next, I need a little help. You there, Sir, you look like a baritone.”
“I’m not much of a…” the audience member protested.
“Do not worry, Sir, the part of the Sacristan is simple. Here are the words; I will cue you. Now…’Dammi i colori…’”
Venice was an experience. Once I’d passed the Rialto Bridge, heading vaguely North, it got quieter, the calli narrower, twisting around buildings when not passing right through them, with many tiny sets of stairs up and down. Some of the rio looked almost narrow enough to jump across.
Venice was very much not a town to bring lots of luggage into either. No motor vehicles. Not even bicycles. There was of course water transport. Forget the gondolas; it was the vaporetto, public buses on water with pretty much everything that implied. And a faster, probably more expensive water equivalent of cabs. I’d forgotten what those were called.
The canals certainly made life interesting. The Venetians had filled up a couple over the years. It made me wonder if there had been a moment in history when Venice seriously debated going into the landfill business full time. When the city had been founded, the swamp was their defense. When the Venetians grew into a huge naval power their capitol was at least still handy to the water. Then somewhere, perhaps as early as the turn of the last century, it became known as a tourist destination and preservation became the aim.
I guess they got lucky. Throughout the world, even throughout Italy, fabulous and picturesque and very much historical buildings and districts and landscapes had been and were still demolished to make room for the growing numbers of humanity and the short-term interests of those with capital.
After the sack of Rome the ruins on the Seven Hills were left almost ignored for a century or more, except by people needing a little marble for their buildings and roads. It had even gone into the grinders to make concrete.
Now Venice was fighting those same seas, which were flooding the streets, rotting the foundations, and, I’d been told, stinking in the summer. It gave an extra fillip to the magic of Venice, an almost fin de siècle flavor. How brief the rose, indeed.
The next tiny shop that caught my eye was a bookstore. Libreria Acqua Alta, the sign said. Stacks of books living dangerously on the narrow walk and far too close to the water. At least the books inside were prepared. They had stuffed themselves into a full-length gondola. And at least one bathtub. The cats, however, would have to fend for themselves.
“Acqua Alta?” I asked.
“Not the worst one this year.” She reminded me irresistibly of an old gray gull.
“What?”
“We can always hope the worst is over. But you can never trust October.”
“I meant the store name.”
“Down!”
I ducked.
“Not you.”
She looked sternly at one of the many cats. Swinging back to me, “Yes, they are what we are named for.”
What, the cats? There was only one thing I could say in the face of all this confusion. “Grazie.”
I admired the art books but while my bag was many things, large it wasn’t. There were, however, a few English titles in paperback. Including, of all things, a well-worn Berlitz phrase-book for Greek. I was sold, even before I saw it had a bookmark inside from a Fleet Street bookseller, and a name and address written in careful Japanese on the flyleaf. This book had traveled.
A couple of short ponti and a mini-island to the North was a decent-looking osteria. I updated Drea as soon as I’d found a table.
Listening to opera in Venice! Hon, you are living the life.
It would be even better if I could drink the wine. Seriously, my enemy couldn’t have chosen a crueler torture. I wondered how sick I’d be if I had just a little.
But then, ordering foods I didn’t know off a menu I couldn’t read was no way to protect myself from food allergies, either. English might be the lingua franca of tourism, but that didn’t mean you could communicate anything more complicated than “how much?”
I’d decided phrase-books were stupid. What was the point in learning how to say, “How do I get to the train station?” if you couldn’t understand two words of the answer? And “Do you speak English?” Wasn’t that sort of a self-answering question?
Sigh. What was that old joke? What do you call someone who speaks two languages? You call them bilingual. Three languages? Trilingual. And what do you call someone who speaks one language? That was easy. You called them American.
Outside the sun had lowered enough I thought it might be smart to check up on the next leg of my transport. There was some complicated thing about how even if you’d ordered on line you still had to go to an office and get an official printout.
“Athena Fox!”
Oh, look who just showed up. He was on the other side of the narrow rio, looking out of breath and remarkably disheveled for a German.
