The waiter returned with a menu, but Losine let it sit unopened on the table. His immediate preoccupation in Orvieto that afternoon was neither the worsening weather nor his impending visit with Father Enrico, but, rather, the unprecedented risk to his business that he had assumed the previous day in Milano. He had received a special delivery letter regarding his recent negotiations to buy an exceptional number of fine uncut gems at well below market prices. He planned to sell shares in the gemstones and return a profit to the investors after selling the stones, taking a percentage of the profits as well as before- and after-sale commissions for himself. It was a speculative, but legitimate, opportunity to spread his own financial risk and gain a handsome return, the prospect of which, he had to admit now, had caused him to overlook the inherent riskiness of a transaction involving untested and unknown parties.
The rough fabric of his tweed suit, a gift from the owner of Knize in Vienna, irritated his skin. As he considered his situation, he reached down to scratch his bad leg. He was not himself, he decided, or he wouldn’t have acted so imprudently. It was quite out of character. He had to admit that he had made several misjudgments recently. He had been under strain, though he couldn’t say exactly why. It was as if something within could destroy him and required all of his strength to control it, ward it off. Perhaps he needed this holiday. He would simply sell the shares in the cache of raw gems when he got back and thereby mitigate any possible losses to himself. The simplicity and certainty of his plan made him feel calmer. An unwarranted attack of nerves. Nothing more.
He was sweating. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead, then put the handkerchief away quickly before the waiter could see his agitation. The liquid smoothness of his Washington Tremlett shirt, one of a dozen he owned, and the comfort of his custom shoes from Lobb reassured him. All of his clothing was bespoke. Gifts—very well, payments—for risks he had taken during and after the War to find the lost, the missing, and the dead. Most were Jews and most were gone forever by the time he found any trace of them. It would be more accurate to say that he had searched for and sometimes saved the damned by supplying them with false identities, papers, even disguises before moving them across borders to a fragile safety. The superficial tokens of gratitude that he now wore affirmed that he was someone who had done this necessary, albeit illegal, penance for his own sins. The latter he considered numerous and beyond forgiveness. He knew that for others he had often made the difference between life and death. I must remember this if only for the sake of accuracy, he reminded himself.
His impending appointment that afternoon with Father Enrico intruded on these already troubled thoughts. That Father Enrico had saved his life was a debt he could never hope to repay, and, in that light, his visit seemed paltry and any thanks he offered miserly. Recollection of his own helplessness at that earlier time invariably terrified Losine. Indeed, neediness, helplessness—his own or that of others—repelled him. Between a lightning bolt and the thunder that followed, he lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply, and gazed with half-closed eyes at the façade of the Duomo.
Religion. A lot of fuss over a lot of folderol, he thought. We’re born. We suffer. We die. That’s all there is to it. People want to shield themselves from the simple facts of existence. He adjusted his tie, recalling the way Heinrich Bauer, shirtmaker to the German high command, had only a few days earlier touched it admiringly and begged for its provenance. Losine had revealed the maker of the tie in exchange for information about the operations of the gem seller to whom he had made the now-regretted payment.
He felt an overwhelming and familiar fatigue that sleep did not relieve. Perhaps, now he could concentrate on the other reason for his trip, the photographs he intended to take of the ancient sites in Orvieto. His photographic practices were always the same: after researching a site and preparing a map in advance of his arrival, he paced out the terrain, checked the light at different times of day, noting the exact moment when the sun—or occasionally the moon—reached the right position. Since completing his photographs of ancient Greek, Roman, and Byzantine sites, he had begun work on major Etruscan sites. The following year, he intended to go to Jerusalem. “I’m a lover of ruins,” Losine told those who inquired about his expeditions and their motivation. The statement belied his actual purpose. Traveling under the cover of eccentricity enabled him to ask questions that might otherwise arouse suspicion. In the process of examining, say, a temple or a cathedral, he often met local experts and gained information useful in conducting his business transactions and his searches for the missing.
He had made the acquaintance of various experts. Frequently, they, too, provided useful information that went well beyond the technical aspects of photography or archaeology. In Zurich, he preferred to send his film to a laboratory there that was highly regarded for its meticulous attention to clients’ privacy, though it could hardly be said that Losine’s photographs contained anything personal, unless the viewer surmised that the very impersonality of the photographs was what was most revealing about them. He filed all of his photographs, which numbered in the tens of thousands, in a locked cabinet in the basement of his apartment building in Milano. He neither showed them to anyone nor looked at them himself.
Losine examined the menu in the same manner that he examined gems and jewelry, noticing the stains on the paper, the fine threads within the paper itself, and the watermark. The painting on the cover of the menu—originally a watercolor, no doubt—captured the same view of the Piazza that he had just observed, though on a brighter day. In the corner he was able to make out the signature of the artist: W. Marcheschi. The waiter came over to him.
“Something to drink, Signor?”
“Have you a good Orvieto?”
“In my opinion, the quality of the Orvieto is poor, Signore.”
“Why?”
“We assume tourists don’t know the difference, Signore. Perhaps the Vino Marcheschi.” When the waiter returned with the wine, Losine noticed the picture on the bottle. “Is Vino Marcheschi related to the artist whose work is on the menu?”
The waiter nodded and poured some wine in Losine’s glass. “Signora Marcheschi paints. Tourists seem to like her work. Customers ask about it.”
Losine tasted the wine and gestured that the waiter should fill his glass. “I didn’t say that I liked her work. Apparently, you do not.”
“Her work pleases tourists, Signor. That’s all. You’ll find many more in the Marcheschi’s enoteca across from the Duomo. Would you care to order something to eat?”
In the silence that followed, each man took the other’s measure. Losine decided the waiter’s opinion on tourists’ taste in art was of no importance. He glanced at the menu. The downpour outside became a torrent. Given the weather, completing the Orvieto photography would likely require a second visit. “I’m not a tourist,” Losine said to the waiter, “and I’ll have the wild boar.”