When Marina first arrived in Buenos Aires she had been determined not to succumb to its charms. The ‘ratlines’ that transported Nazi war criminals to Argentina made her wary. Surely, she couldn’t love a country that welcomed the monsters who had killed millions of Jews.
But from the first night, with the smell of sizzling meats drifting out from restaurants and people dancing the tango in the streets, she fell in love with the vibrant culture. And everyone was so friendly. Taxi drivers offered directions. The owners of roadside carritos explained how to eat a choripán – a chorizo sandwich – with freshly prepared and spicy chimichurri sauce.
The city reminded her of Florence. The Metropolitan Cathedral was grand and imposing; the Casa Rosada, the presidential palace, made her think of the Pitti Palace. Only here there were no signs of war. No Red Cross offices where people were desperately trying to locate their loved ones, no gaping holes where palazzi once stood, or families without homes. Only wide boulevards lined with palm trees, and bustling market stalls in San Telmo that resembled the outdoor market in San Lorenzo.
She had hated leaving Villa I Tatti and agonised on the journey to Argentina about whether she’d made the right decision. Desi and Peter’s wedding had been one of the happiest days of Marina’s life. Desi had worn a long, white dress with a lace train as she walked across the rose-strewn lawn to Peter, holding a bouquet of lilies. Francesca and Luna scampered down the aisle like fawns.
Peter’s parents travelled over from Baden. Belle wore a striking chiffon dress with a feather hat that Marina worried would overshadow the bride. But then she saw the light in Desi and Peter’s eyes when they exchanged vows and knew that wasn’t possible.
The only shadow on the day came during the speeches, when the family expressed their wish that Donato and Carlos could have been there to celebrate. Marina stifled a sob. She grieved for Desi and her parents, but also for herself. She missed Carlos sitting beside her, imagined him whispering in her ear that it was their turn next.
After allowing herself a week to get to know the city, Marina turned onto Plaza San Martín to present herself at the address Bernard had given her. It was a small office above a dress shop, sandwiched between a bookstore and a cafe. A park engulfed by Jacaranda trees sat across the street, a stone fountain in the centre of the square.
‘Can I help you?’ a secretary at the front desk asked in accented English.
Belle had told her that most people in Buenos Aires spoke English, so Marina had practised her English on the ship.
The woman wore a simple brown sheath dress and Marina worried she hadn’t dressed appropriately. She wore one of the outfits she and Belle bought in Florence: a floral dress with a cinched waist which she had matched with a chic little hat and short white gloves.
‘My name is Marina Tozzi. I have an appointment with Señor Feron,’ Marina replied.
The woman smiled. ‘He’s expecting you. I’ll tell him you’re here.’
A man in his late twenties appeared. He was tall and quite handsome, with long legs and broad shoulders. His light brown hair was brushed to the side and his cheeks were tanned from the Argentinian sun. There was a dimple on his cheek and his teeth were very white. He wasn’t at all what she had expected.
‘Marina.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Luc. It’s nice to meet you. Come into my office.’
The office was simply furnished with a wood desk and two chairs. The only unusual thing was the number of file folders. They were everywhere: on the desk, propped against the windowsill and strewn across the coffee table. Among the folders were empty cups.
Luc followed her gaze, his hazel eyes lively.
‘As you can see, I have a lot of work. These are all open cases.’ He waved at the folders. ‘Thank God for Argentinian coffee. I practically live on it. I’m lucky my mother doesn’t see me every day. She believes too much caffeine spoils one’s chances of having children.’ He gave a small laugh. ‘That’s her way of pushing me to settle down and give her grandchildren. But the world is still a mess; there will be time for that later.’
Marina shifted nervously in her chair. She wasn’t used to someone being so forthcoming. And it had been a long time since she had talked to an attractive man.
‘I’ve been in Buenos Aires for a week and I’m eager to start working.’ Marina wanted to sound professional.
‘What did Bernard tell you about the job?’
Marina recounted their conversation. When she finished, Luc leaned back in his chair.
‘That’s not all of it, of course. Most Jews never returned from the concentration camps. Their relatives ask our organisation to retrieve their belongings: Torah scrolls, rare books, sculptures. And we assist various European governments.’ Luc rubbed his brow. ‘During the war, Hitler behaved as if the museums were his own personal department store. He plucked Rembrandts and da Vincis right off museum walls.
‘Much of the art smuggled out of Europe ended up in South America.’ He waved at the files. ‘Sometimes it feels like the cases will never stop coming. I’ve been given so much work recently, these files could be piled to the ceiling and still there’d be more.’
‘And what will I do exactly?’ she asked.
‘Many of the pieces end up in private collections,’ he said. ‘I once attended a dinner party at the house of a wealthy Argentinian manufacturer. One of his guests was German. After the meal, the host and his guest slipped off to the study. I followed them. If anyone asked, I was going to pretend I got lost on the way to the bathroom. The German had a sketch by Rembrandt that had been taken from a Jewish couple’s apartment in Berlin after they were sent to a concentration camp. I was able to establish its provenance before it changed hands and return it to the couple’s surviving children.’
‘How were you able to retrieve it?’ Marina asked.
‘I cornered the guest and told him what I suspected, and he admitted it,’ Luc said, smiling. ‘You’d be surprised how often people blurt out the truth when they’re taken by surprise.’
‘Do you always use underhand tactics?’ Marina asked, amused.
‘Let’s just say I approach each situation differently,’ he offered with a grin. He looked even more handsome when he smiled.
‘A friend of my mother’s owns an art gallery. It’s in Recoleta, one of the most elegant neighbourhoods in Buenos Aires. The owner is Renata, and her clients are among the wealthiest in the city. She doesn’t know exactly what we do, but working there will give you access to the auctions and collectors.’
Marina missed working in a gallery. It would be wonderful to be around paintings.
‘You want me to get a job there?’ Marina asked.
Luc rifled through the folders and picked up a business card.
‘I’ve already given you a recommendation.’ He handed the card to Marina. ‘You’ll still have to impress her, but from what Bernard has told me, I’m sure you’ll have little trouble. Renata is a very competent businesswoman and the gallery is her whole life. She knows talent when she sees it.’ He paused. ‘You’ll learn a lot from her too. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.’
Marina was glad she had dressed formally. She slipped the card into her bag.
‘I’ll go right away.’
Luc sat forward. His face took on a curious expression.
‘I have just one question for you.’
Marina wondered if he was going to ask about her professional experience. If she could identify a Raphael sketch or value a Caravaggio properly.
‘I know you’re perfectly qualified,’ he said. ‘But why would a beautiful young Italian woman come all the way to Argentina when the war is finally over?’
Marina stood up. She smoothed her skirt.
‘It might be hard for you to understand since you weren’t in Europe during the war,’ she began. ‘There was so much loss. I decided it might be easier to start from nothing, rather than live among my memories of people and places that are gone.’ She paused, suddenly embarrassed at revealing so much. ‘That must sound silly.’
Luc shook her hand. He smiled appreciatively. ‘It doesn’t sound silly at all. I hope you count me as your first new friend in Argentina.’
Marina walked back out into the sunshine. Renata’s gallery was only a short distance away on the other side of the plaza, in a whitewashed building with gold lettering on the window.
Inside, the showroom was terribly elegant. There was plush white carpet and a small glass chandelier. Gold frames lined the walls and a sitting area held upholstered velvet chairs.
‘Can I help you?’ a woman asked.
‘I’m Marina Tozzi,’ Marina replied. ‘Señor Feron sent me.’
The woman was in her mid-forties. She had stylishly cut dark hair and wore an elegant navy dress.
‘Renata Gallo.’ She held out her hand and studied Marina critically. ‘You look younger than Luc described.’
‘I’m twenty-three,’ Marina said. ‘I worked with my father at his art gallery in Rome.’ She paused. ‘He was killed during the war.’
‘I’m sorry about your father. But I need to make something clear before we go any further: this is a demanding position. Recoleta is the most expensive neighbourhood in Buenos Aires. Our clients count on us to know which pieces belong in their homes.’
Marina glanced around the space. Many of the pieces were by Latin American artists but she recognised some familiar styles. She was quite sure the painting on the far wall was a Giacomo Favretto.
‘Argentinian art lovers used to travel to Europe to purchase paintings,’ Marina explained. ‘That stopped during the war. I know almost everything about Italian artists.’ She pointed to the painting. ‘That Favretto, for instance. It would go well in the living room of an elegant mansion.’
Renata’s mouth dropped open. The lines on her forehead relaxed and she smiled. She walked to the counter and tapped her long fingernails on the glass.
‘The other thing you’ll have to learn is how clients like their coffee,’ Renata said briskly. ‘There’s a coffee house across the street. A lagrima is hot milk with a dash of espresso, while a cortado is an espresso with a splash of hot milk. Most clients prefer not one but two medialunas – sweet croissants. It isn’t done to run out of pastry before finishing the coffee.’
Marina exhaled. She squared her shoulders.
‘That won’t be a problem,’ Marina said confidently. ‘No one takes coffee more seriously than Italians.’
‘The pay is four pesos a week.’ Renata turned back to the counter. ‘You can start tomorrow.’
On the street the springtime air smelled of cherry blossoms. Marina was too excited to return to the pensione where she was staying. She decided to go for a walk in the park.
A Frenchman named Charles Thayer had created the many parks in Buenos Aires. They were designed in the European style with rose gardens and wooden pergolas. Everywhere you looked were emerald green lawns.
The park next to Plaza Martín climbed high above the city. Marina sat on a knoll and gazed down at the art deco buildings, at the clock tower that reminded her of Giotto’s Bell Tower in Florence. How wonderful it would have been to explore Buenos Aires with Carlos. They would have brought a picnic here after work. On the weekends, they would have visited the National Museum of Fine Arts. At night they would have made love. Afterwards, they would have opened the window to listen to music playing in the street.
Marina had never felt so alone. She longed for everyone she left behind. Before she left, Eli had given her a bottle of perfume so that she would smell better than all the signorinas in Argentina. Sara hugged her so hard that Marina almost couldn’t breathe. Bernard gave her a first edition set of his scholarly works, and Belle hid her feelings by piling her with dresses and shoes. Marina said she didn’t need a new wardrobe, but Belle counselled that a woman’s self-confidence began when she looked in the mirror.
She wasn’t going to think about Italy. She was in Buenos Aires for a reason. She had her job, that was enough for now.
Three weeks had passed since Marina started working at the gallery. The job was more enjoyable than she could have imagined. She adored the mornings when she arrived before Renata. When the cash register was sparkling clean and the cushions on the velvet chairs were newly plumped and the gallery smelled of lemon polish.
Marina made Renata’s coffee just the way she liked it. She organised the book of client names and addresses and suggested holding a monthly show for local artists with wine and hors d’oeuvres. Gradually, Renata’s reserve softened, and Marina learned a bit more about her. Her husband had died five years prior and since they had no children, the gallery became her family.
That afternoon, Luc called to give her the first important assignment. She locked up the gallery at closing time and briskly walked the few blocks to his office.
‘Marina, it’s nice to see you.’ Luc wore a white shirt with the shirtsleeves rolled up. His tie was slightly askew and his hair was brushed to the side. ‘You’re probably hungry and tired after working all day, I promise this won’t take long.’
‘I’m not hungry at all,’ Marina assured him, following him into his office. ‘One thing that Argentina and Italy have in common is that no one eats until late.’
‘Then I won’t offer you any of my leftover lunch,’ he said, sitting down and waving at a crumpled paper bag with a sandwich. ‘I received an assignment that is perfect for you. The client’s name is Saul Riggio, his family is from Venice. His parents were deported and died at Auschwitz. They left behind a portrait by Veronese.’
Paolo Veronese was a Venetian artist from the sixteenth century known for his large paintings and bright colours. Marina’s father once had a Veronese painting at the gallery. It took up an entire wall, and Marina had spent hours examining the vivid figures and bold colours before it sold a short time later.
‘Paolo Veronese didn’t paint many portraits,’ Marina cut in. ‘Most of his paintings were crowd scenes painted on huge canvases.’
‘You’re right. I’m impressed, many people don’t know that,’ Luc acknowledged. ‘I’ve managed to trace it to a gallery here. The gallery owner’s name is Hans Becker, he’s Austrian. He’s having a private event there tonight. There will be quite a few people from local art circles. I want you to attend.’
‘How will I get an invitation?’ Marina asked.
‘You won’t.’ Luc tugged at his tie. ‘You’ll say your invitation got lost.’
‘And once I’m inside?’ she asked, frowning.
‘It will be your job to find out if Hans still has the portrait. Here’s the address.’ Luc scribbled it on a piece of a paper and handed it to her. ‘I’m sure you won’t have any problem getting inside.’ He smiled. ‘Hans isn’t likely to turn away a beautiful young art enthusiast.’
The gallery, not far from Renata’s gallery, was in a modern building with black awnings. Through the window, Marina could see men and women in elegant evening wear. They held cocktail glasses and examined the paintings on the walls.
A tall man of about thirty hovered inside the door.
‘Could I please see your invitation?’ the man asked.
Marina wore a tea-length dress that Belle had given her. She pretended to search her evening bag.
‘I’m afraid I left the invitation at home.’
The man shook his head.
‘I’m sorry, this is a private event. You need an invitation to come inside.’
Marina couldn’t take no for an answer. She glanced at the window and noticed a painting of a farmer and his wagon in the middle of a farm. She was quite sure it was an Eduardo Sívori. Sívori practically founded the school of realism in Argentina. He had been dead for twenty years and it was becoming harder to find his work.
She smiled prettily at the young man and pointed at the painting.
‘Perhaps the gallery owner will make an exception. Please tell him I’m interested in that painting.’
The man disappeared and returned a few minutes later with a stocky man in his mid-fifties. He had thick blonde hair and wore a navy suit.
‘I’m Hans Becker. Can I help you?’ he inquired.
Marina pointed through the window.
‘I’m Marina Tozzi, I seem to have lost my invitation. I’m very interested in that Eduardo Sívori and I don’t have time to come back during the day.’
The man glanced at her with new interest.
‘You recognise the Sívori?’
Marina nodded. ‘I’m a huge fan of his work.’
‘Perhaps I can make an exception for a signorina with excellent taste.’ He opened the door wider and ushered her inside. ‘Please come in.’
Marina followed him into the gallery. She glanced at the paintings on the walls. The Veronese wasn’t there.
She pretended to examine the Sivori.
‘I’m also looking for something from the Italian Renaissance, it’s my favourite period.’ Marina turned to Hans. ‘Do you have anything I might be interested in?’
Hans frowned. ‘Art from the Renaissance is very expensive.’
Marina patted her hair.
‘I’m able to afford it,’ she returned. ‘For the right painting, of course.’
‘In that case, come with me.’ Hans motioned to her. ‘I have just the piece.’
Hans led her to a small room behind the main gallery. He unlocked a safe and took out a small frame.
‘You’re lucky. I received this recently.’ He turned it over. ‘As soon as I put it in the gallery, it will be gone.’
It was a portrait of a young woman wearing a velvet headdress, a cross around her neck.
‘Could it be… Surely it isn’t…’ Marina feigned surprise. She looked at Hans, her eyes wide. ‘It couldn’t possibly be a Veronese. I’ve only seen them in a museum in Italy before the war.’
‘You’re correct, it is a Veronese,’ Hans said. He was noticeably impressed.
‘How on earth did it end up in Buenos Aires?’
He waved his hand evasively. ‘The war made things happen that never seemed possible before. The portrait will receive a lot of interest.’ He appraised Marina. ‘Unless some lucky collector scoops it up first.’
Marina thought of the painting’s owners who died at Auschwitz. It wasn’t her place to say anything. Her job was just to confirm Hans had the portrait.
‘How much?’ Marina asked.
Hans eyed her sequined evening bag, her elegant high heels with black satin bows.
‘For you, signorina, 100,000 pesos.’
100,000 pesos was the price of a small car.
‘That’s a lot of money,’ she said, pretending to be shocked.
‘As you said yourself, it’s worthy of a museum. If you are set on Italian Renaissance art, you won’t find anything else of this calibre in Argentina.’
‘You’re right. I need time to think it over.’ She gave him a small smile. ‘One can’t rush into such an important purchase. Perhaps you could write down the name of the painting and the price on your card.’
‘Of course.’ He took a card from his pocket and wrote the details on the back. ‘I included my home number.’ He smiled. ‘Please call me anytime.’
Marina browsed around the gallery and then said goodbye to Hans. It was after 9 pm and she was hungry.
The loneliness she’d felt a few weeks ago had disappeared. She had enjoyed putting on the little charade for Hans. And she knew Luc would be pleased with what she’d learned.
For the first time since she arrived, she wanted to write to Bernard, Belle and Desi and describe everything. The young men on the streetcars who whistled, the fashionable women in their smart hats who walked their dogs on the boulevards, the blue and red buildings in La Boca, the children who crowded at the windows to wave to people passing by.
And she wanted to tell them about the gallery. The clientele was as snobbish as any of her father’s clients in Rome, but they valued her opinion. Last week, a client brought her flowers to thank her for choosing the perfect gift for her husband.
Tonight, she was going to enjoy the mild weather and treat herself to a plate of locro – traditional Argentinian stew made with corn and beans and squash.
The restaurants were just beginning to fill up. They would stay crowded until midnight, when the young people piled into taxis and went on to nightclubs and parties.
She sat outdoors at a cafe and waved to the waiter.
‘Are you waiting for someone, señorita?’ he asked.
It wasn’t common for women to eat alone in public, but she was tired of eating in her room at the pensione. She shook her head and smiled.
‘I’m by myself tonight.’ She glanced at the menu. ‘But I know exactly what I want.’