Naples, the last days of spring 12:17
I arranged to meet Michele again in the afternoon and then, before going to lunch with Àrtemis and my in-laws, I took a taxi to the Églantine, my antique gallery, in via Chiatamone.
A few years earlier I had lost my partner and friend Bruno von Alten, who had been murdered in the same convoluted story during which I had met the doctor who had saved Àrtemis’s life. After I had recovered from that experience, I had been on the lookout for an assistant, and an antiquarian colleague of mine, perhaps thinking that he was passing off a lemon on me, had introduced me to a young graduate studying conservation of cultural heritage who he claimed was a phenomenon – a kind of living archive of everything concerning antiques. Indeed, Bartolomeo Pacifico, known as Bart, was a walking database, fond of antiques and already experienced in distinguishing a good piece from a piece of worthless wood. In my opinion, however, he had one infuriating habit.
“Hey, how are you Lorenzo, how did it go in Prague, what was the show like, did you enjoy yourself, everything here is great, I sold the two late nineteenth century bedside tables which I told you about on the phone and…”
As I entered the shop I was submerged by a barrage of words coming at me at an unimaginable speed and without giving me time to distinguish one word from the other. Bart didn’t have a tongue, he had a machine gun loaded with vowels and consonants.
Imitating the gesture of Michele de Sangro, I tried to stem the flood of words by closing my eyes and raising my hand, just like a policeman at an intersection. Incredibly, Bart suddenly stopped.
Why had I never thought of that before? I asked myself. Had I finally found the spell that could halt off his murderous logorrhoea? I hoped so.
“Good work, Bart,” I said, opening my eyes and speaking slowly. “Let’s have a quick look at the paperwork, because I’m busy for the rest of the day.”
The boy, who despite his healthy physique possessed an innate grace, walked calmly to the office, and I followed him with a smile on my lips. I missed Bruno and his discreet, professional presence, but Bart amused me. Especially when he managed to keep his mouth shut for more than thirty seconds.
*
After sorting out a few things at the Églantine and cutting off another verbal assault from my young assistant, I headed on foot towards Piazza Amedeo, passing through the Chiaia neighbourhood, with its beautiful Art Nouveau buildings. Àrtemis and her father had insisted we try a new Greek restaurant that had recently opened, and I had agreed, even though I trembled at the thought of what would await me there: whenever I went to a restaurant with Dimitris, who we all called Mitzos, I never knew when I would be released, nor in what condition. He was quite capable of sampling every dish on the menu – and forcing me to do the same.
I came to the tavern, the Dioscuri, crossed the threshold and found everyone already seated inside. Àrtemis waved me over and Mitzos leapt up immediately to greet me. His vast frame took up half the restaurant, and to greet me he had to ask two people sitting at the adjacent table to stand up to make room.
“Kalòs ìrthes, Lorenzo!” he cried, grabbing me and embracing me forcefully.
He was nearly eighty years old, but still a force to be reckoned with. I called him the ‘Lion of Athens’. He had been one of the most respected Greek language and literature teachers in the Greek capital’s university and had passed on his talent to his daughter. Thanks to his studies and his publications, he had received accolades from all the most important cultural institutions of the old continent and was an honorary member of numerous associations in various parts of the world. His final satisfaction before retiring had been demolishing the fanciful theory of an Englishman who was convinced he had found evidence of the existence of Atlantis in the middle of the Cyclades islands.
“It’s all nonsense!” he had thundered during an international conference organized by the Sorbonne. “The evidence mentioned by Dr Gonland simply does not exist, or if it does it refers to the Minoan civilization which, as far as I’m concerned, merits much more interest than your mysterious island.”
All the professors of the old school who had been present – and who were in the majority, truth be told – had exploded in applause after Mitzos, giving more and more evidence, had concluded his speech. Dr Gonland and his colleagues had abandoned the theory with their tails between their legs.
That was Dimitris.
And Hrista, his wife, was not far behind in terms of character. She was a talented violinist, born in Santorini, who had left Greece as a teenager and had played mainly in Germany and Italy, enjoying considerable success. Once, during rehearsals for a concert in Bayreuth, she had broken the bow of her violin on the conductor’s music stand.
“Why did you do that?” Dimitris had asked her afterwards.
“He kept saying nein, nein, nein and telling me that my playing was awful,” she replied angrily. “But he was the one who knew nothing about music.”
She was right. Two days later the conductor had been relieved of his duties and replaced.
My wife had inherited the best and the worst of those two characters. An explosive mixture.
“So, how is our antiquarian of mysteries?” said Hrista, as soon as I sat down, her face – framed by the same curls as her daughter – still fresh despite her age.
I smiled. “Nobody has ever called me that before.”
“It suits you, Lorenzaki!” said Mitzos. “As long as the mystery doesn’t get you into trouble the way it usually does.”
“You know how it is – if I do things in a normal way, I get bored.”
I thought back to how they had suffered because of Àrtemis’s illness and their joy when, despite there being almost no hope left, they had seen her health improve. A miracle, in part thanks to the mystery of which we were speaking.
Meanwhile, the table had begun to fill up with dozens of dishes, just as I had feared, until I was on the verge of collapse from all the souvlakia, moussaka, feta, rice rolls in vine leaves, tzatziki sauce and chtapòdi sta Karvuna – grilled octopus.
“God, I’ve eaten too much,” I said, loosening my belt at the end of the lunch, “I'm about to explode.”
“Dad, you have to stop stuffing Lorenzo like this, you know that he can’t say no to you,” said Àrtemis, coming to my rescue. “Next time, we’re doing the ordering!”
Mitzos raised his glass full of tsipouro and his big Brezhnev-like face took on a sage air. “My dear daughter, who knows if I’ll still be alive tomorrow. Let’s enjoy ourselves while we can. Opa!”
And to his expression of pure epicureanism, there was not much to add.