Chapter 13

And it did take a fascinating turn, as Eli and Paul rehashed old times.

“We met in Paris,” Paul said. “Eli was doing a story for the New York Times.”

“It was Lyon, at an INTERPOL conference, where we met, but we may have done some carousing in Paris,” Eli corrected, with an easy laugh. He recalled for our benefit that he’d gone to Lyon to cover a meeting INTERPOL had convened to deal with stolen art and antiquities from Iraqi museums. Paul was present at the meeting as a member of the International Council of Museums, and he had provided Eli with a useful source, a specialist in illegal export of art.

Paul directed a wry smile my way, and I knew he was remembering that once I’d thought he was involved in art theft. Hard to believe now, that there was ever a time I had not trusted him. I smiled back and felt a surge of warmth, having our private moment.

“I wound up following INTERPOL’s incident team to Iraq for two months. Turned out to be a helluva story,” Eli said.

“And since then, have you continued to chase stories around the globe?” Alex asked.

The waiter set down a tall glass in front of Eli. It looked like a soft drink, Coke or Pepsi.

“Yeah, for a while I did.” Eli rubbed his hand through thinning hair. “I spent over a year on a series about human trafficking. Talk about chasing stories. I was in Romania, Singapore, West Africa—every story led to another that was more gruesome.” He picked up the glass and took a long drink. “I hit a rough patch, professionally and personally. Took some time off.”

“You’re back at it now?” Paul asked. “Or are you here on holiday?”

“Oh, I’m back at it.”

“Can you say what you’re working on?” I asked.

“Sure. It’s no secret.”

I was captivated as he told about an investigation by INTERPOL into a ring of jewel thieves working in Italy. “Petty criminals, all connected to the Camorra,” Eli said.

“Camorra,” Paul echoed, and he explained to the rest of us that the organization was a mafia-type crime syndicate, one that had operated in Italy for many years.

“These thieves work all over Italy. They move the jewels through the ports of Naples, to Sardinia, and then on to Nice,” Eli said.

A shadow crossed Paul’s face. “I wonder if you have come across the name of Antonio DeMarco. He is a collector in Nice. A ruthless, immoral man, the kind who would be connected with the Camorra.”

Another memory—Paul telling me that his brother had gone to prison because of Antonio DeMarco.

“Not a name I recognize, but I’ll bet INTERPOL has him on their radar,” Eli said.

“Tell me about these petty criminals,” I said.

He described how the jewel thieves worked, pulling off small capers, moving through several towns or cities until it seemed the authorities were closing in on their trail, and then they simply disappeared. When he’d finished, I mentioned the robberies in the Oltrarno district.

“The Italian police are not very forthcoming, so I don’t know what they have, so far,” Eli said, “but, yeah, I’ve been following those.”

Bella’s voice suddenly rang out. “Can we please stop talking about crime?”

Paul looked as confounded as I’d ever seen him. Eli stood up and said, “Hey, I apologize for crashing your party. I couldn’t resist saying hello to my old friend. Forgive me.”

“Eli, please, there is nothing to forgive.” Paul stood, as well. “Don’t go, please.”

Eli pulled some bills from his wallet, and in spite of Paul’s protests, he tossed a few beside his glass.

Paul walked around the table. The men shook hands, embraced in a loose, manly sort of way, Eli a good six inches shorter than Paul. He pressed a business card into Paul’s hand. “That’s my number. Call me,” he said, and Paul agreed that he would.

Eli bid us all good evening. When he had gone, Bella said, “A nice enough man, but honestly, I did not want to spend my birthday listening to his tales of criminals.”

“It is your birthday, of course,” Paul said, with a smile that was forced, if I was any judge. He motioned to the waiter. “It is time for the cake and champagne.”

* * * * *

Bella seemed to genuinely appreciate the simple silver bracelet from Alex and me. But our gift paled miserably in comparison to the gift from Paul, which happened to be another bracelet. Rich blue sapphires in an exquisite setting, the bracelet had to cost ten times what ours had cost—or more than that! What did I know of precious gems? Bella slipped it on her small wrist and held it out admiring it, saying it was just too much before giving Paul an enthusiastic hug.

“I have missed every one of your birthdays until this one,” Paul said in what struck me as a somber tone—or maybe it was just sentimental. “It is not too much.”

Bella held out her glass for more champagne. I had stopped counting how many drinks she’d had. So far, she’d shown no effects of the wine, martini, and champagne, but with this glass, her speech turned a little woozy. “I think I’ll wait until Friday—no tomorrow is Friday. Isn’t it? I mean Saturday. I think I’ll wait until Saturday to go to Cortona. I’m having too much fun in Florence.” She raised her glass to her lips, no longer sipping the champagne.

Paul motioned to the waiter. I didn’t know if the word he mouthed was French or Italian, but I was sure he’d called for the check, to bring this night to an end.

“Can we go to some of the museums tomorrow, Paul? That famous one—the one with David? You invited me today, but you don’t mind going back, do you?” She tried to say Uffizi a couple of times but gave up, laughing after she couldn’t get it right.

“Today we were at the Uffizi,” Alex chimed in, with heavy emphasis on the word Uffizi. He was in his professorial mode now, the mode in which he had little patience for nonsense. “Michelangelo’s David is at the Accademia. Two distinctly different galleries.”

“I’m afraid I have an appointment tomorrow,” Paul said. He directed his apology to me. “Jordan, I did not get a chance to tell you that I have two business meetings scheduled during my time here, and one had to be tomorrow because the gallery owner is going on holiday.”

“I’ll go with you to the gallery,” Bella said. “It’ll be fun.”

“No, it is not appropriate. This is a business appointment,” Paul said.

I was very glad I could say, “I have plans to do a cooking class in Tuscany.”

“A cooking class? How delightful,” Bella said. “Where is it?”

“In Tuscany,” I said.

“At a villa that belongs to a friend of mine,” Alex said. I gave him a warning glance, fearing that Bella would ask to come along. “It’s arranged through a tour company,” he added.

“Do they have other tours?” Bella asked.

Alex said yes, certainly they did, and when she asked directly, he had to give up the name: Vivre la Toscana! I sighed. How I hoped she didn’t wind up in the cooking class!

Bella gave a dismissive gesture. “I might just go on to Cortona,” she said. She admired her bracelet again, holding it against the light, making the sapphires shine.

“I’ll call for the car now,” Paul said, rising from his chair. He went inside, where I imagined he would settle the check, as well.

“I think Paul is a little miffed. Do you think so? All I did was ask to go along—he knows how I love galleries. Was that what made him mad?” Bella asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “He didn’t seem mad to me.”

She scooted back her chair. “I’m going on to the hotel. It’s not far. I can walk.”

Alex and I both protested. She should not leave. Paul would be right back, and the car would be here soon. But Bella grabbed up her purse and the gift boxes.

Alex stood up, reaching out in a pleading gesture. “Please, Bella. It isn’t safe to walk by yourself.” I thought of the expensive bracelet on her wrist. How foolish!

She looked around for a way to leave. All that separated the terrace with its now half-empty tables from the sidewalk were large planters with lush greenery. Bella squeezed through a space between two planters. By now I was on my feet, too, calling to her, but she was running down the street. Paul came back just in time to see her before she disappeared into the night.

“She wanted to walk back to the hotel,” Alex said. “We tried to stop her.”

“Mon Dieu! What was she thinking?” Paul turned to us, his face drawn. “I am so sorry, but I think I should go after her. Everything is taken care of, and the car—you will recognize the driver who brought you here. He is on his way.”

“We’ll be fine,” I said.

He hesitated, and then with composure that was typically Paul, he said, “I am so sorry, Jordan. I will call you.”

“Go,” I said.

He did.

* * * * *

I wondered how Paul had imagined the night would end. I wondered, as I lay awake in my small, firm bed, in the absolute silence, the absolute stillness of my spartan surroundings. Maybe he would’ve had the driver drop Bella at the Westin and Alex at the convent and he and I would’ve gone on to a little café for late-night music and quiet talk. And then, a walk along the Arno, with the lights shimmering on the water. Would we have wound up at his hotel? As I pondered the possibilities, the fantasies, my phone made the noise indicating that I had received a text, and Paul’s words brought me back to reality.

Bella returned safely to the hotel. Apparently she took a taxi. She answered her phone at last, saying she is in her room. I am sorry this is how the evening ended, Jordan, more than I can say. I wanted to let you know so you will not worry. Sleep well, and we will talk soon.

So he was thinking the same thing I was—how the night might have ended. But he was giving me too much credit if he thought I was too worried about Bella. She might have been a temptation for muggers, with her pricey bracelet, but I couldn’t muster up more than a smidgen of concern as I pulled the thin coverlet up to my neck and—eventually—drifted into a sound, dreamless sleep.