“I WAS SURE YOU wouldn’t come.”
“I didn’t intend to.”
“But you did all the same.”
“To be perfectly frank, I was fiendishly hungry.”
He looked at her as if to gauge the depth of her seriousness, then laughed out loud. “Well, you’re nothing if not blunt. Let’s order.”
The place he’d chosen was on the left bank of the Arno in that vaguely arty section of narrow alleys clogged with cafés, boutiques, and craft shops, lying between the river and the Boboli Gardens.
Recalling how she had bridled the afternoon before when he’d tried to tempt her with a hint of influential friends, he was careful not to select anything too flashy or imposing. Small, cozy, informal, warmed by a large woodstove on which bread was baked, the restaurant was what the Florentines call an enoteca. They offered good wine, better-than-average Tuscan fare, and the waiters were friendly.
He told her about his day with Torelli and his plans for the show in New York, scheduled to open in a few weeks. Careful to avoid any discussion of the part she might play in this, he spoke instead of the logistics of acquiring the necessary paintings—a job made up of equal parts of wheedling, begging, and twisting arms.
The work yet to be done in barely four weeks’ time was formidable. Publicity, advertising, and, most crucial of all, hanging the show so that its arrangement would not only flow smoothly from one gallery to the next but also track chronologically the stylistic development of the artist.
He told her about the incidents in Istanbul and Rome but later regretted it. Mutilated old masters and near-fatal human injuries were not exactly the sort of enticements designed to encourage a young woman to cast her lot with you.
Lastly, he spoke of the three missing Botticelli drawings and the unfortunate gap they would cause in the full series of thirteen which had never before been exhibited as a group. This was to be virtually the series debut before the public. He had to admit that, from all appearances, the odds were greatly against his ever getting his hands on the missing three.
He had spoken that day to the Interpol people at St. Cloud, telling them what he’d learned from von Marie, the art-thefts-division head in Berlin. They discussed the German’s belief that the thief or thieves had been Italian, possibly Corsican, and part of some quasi-military organization with vague connections to the loosely knit, nearly extinct Italian Neo-Fascist party. The people at St. Cloud had listened politely but were not impressed.
All the while he spoke of the theft of the three Chigi sketches in Leipzig, she remained perfectly silent. But slowly, the drowsy eyes widened and grew alert.
“This organization …” she interrupted.
“I don’t say it’s an organization that’s behind it. The Germans do. It could just as well be some solitary malcontent full of personal grievances and working out his own agenda for redress. I rather tend to that theory myself.”
Her brow arched. “Agenda for what?”
“Social change, perhaps. I don’t know. It could be anything.”
“Murder, theft, the mutilation of priceless masterpieces—that doesn’t sound like just anything.” Wine had punctured some of her reserve. “It sounds too planned, orchestrated, carefully worked out. Tell me, what did the Germans learn?”
“Nothing.” He refilled her wineglass. “Moreover, several of their own people who’d traced the drawings to Corsica and then Rome subsequently disappeared.”
“And so?”
“Nothing,” he said again, tight-lipped, reluctant to go on. “The Germans lost interest or, what’s more probable, funding to carry on the search. They just gave up.”
She picked idly at her salad. “There are groups like that still around, you know.”
“Groups?”
“Neofascists—little cells of them. Squadre d’Azione, Ordine Nuovo, and Avanguardia Nazionale. Men like Almirante and Pino Rauti. Elitists. They live in the past, these people. They want all foreigners out of Italy. They swagger about in black shirts and wear pistols on their hips. They blow up public buildings, railroad terminals, labor union headquarters. Italy for the Italians, that sort of thing.”
“Where do they get their funds? Who finances them?”
“There are some very wealthy people in Italy who would have preferred to see the war go the other way—industrialists, aristocrats, even some intellectuals. You’d be surprised at some of the names. People who wouldn’t be caught dead in the presence of such riffraff as the Squadre d’Azione but who subscribe on the sly to their agenda.”
Manship scoffed. “But they were around in the sixties and seventies, making bombs and conducting domestic sabotage. They’re mostly gone now.”
“Mostly,” she agreed. “Even hate dies without some encouragement. But you’re right—most of the big neofascist groups are gone. Yet there are still stubborn little pockets of them left over from the war. Their numbers are minuscule. Only the die-hard lunatics have held on. But they’re the most dangerous, the zealots.”
Manship slowly twirled the stem of his wineglass between two fingers. “I understand all that. But what I still fail to grasp is what possible interest such groups would have in Renaissance paintings.”
“It’s not money, if that’s what you’re thinking. They don’t steal these works of art with the intention of selling them for great sums of money. That’s not their game.”
“Then what is?”
She gazed up at the ceiling as if organizing her thoughts. “These people are xenophobic. They see themselves as heirs of Caesar, and Italy still as the Roman Empire before Charlemagne. These paintings are Italy’s greatest heritage, its claim to the greatness of its past. When Squadre d’Azione steal such paintings, it’s not for profit. They’re not quite so simple. When they steal, it’s to hold the paintings hostage.”
“Hostage?” Manship looked perplexed. “To whom?”
“I mean, to use them as a form of ransom to compel the government—”
“To do what?”
“To write laws more favorable to the organization’s agenda.”
“Such as?”
“Well, say, immigration or tax laws, work rules excluding certain ‘undesirable’ ethnic types.”
Manship’s fingers spun the stem of his glass more quickly. “I see. But if, as you say, they hold these paintings in such esteem, why mutilate them?”
“To impress the culture minister of the seriousness of their cause. Already there are a number of those in Parliament sufficiently intimidated to listen. Ah, here’s the antipasto.”
They were silent as they watched the waiter spoon generous servings of cold eggplant, onions, olives, artichokes, tomatoes, boiled eggs, sausage, and sardines onto their plates. When he left, she resumed speaking between forkfuls of food.
“There are people in Italy who see themselves as great patriots, who resent foreigners who come here with the intention of carrying off our art. These people are prepared to take steps, often very violent steps, to prevent that from happening. With people such as this, art has become a very powerful weapon.”
“Hence the threat to destroy it.” Manship set his fork and knife down on his plate. “But that’s insane.”
“I agree, but these people are insane.”
“What about the government?”
“Powerless. Corrupt. Many of the ministers and magistrates have been paid to look the other way. And others, particularly the police, are, in fact, privately sympathetic to the ideas of these people. Many of the older police were collaborators of Mussolini during the war.”
Manship tilted his glass back and tossed off his wine. “How do you know these things?”
“Because some of these very people we speak of I knew in my university days.” Some I occasionally still see. We run into one another on the street. We have a drink. They trust me because my family represented a part of this country’s past they would like to restore. In fact, at one time I was one of them.”
His surprise amused her.
“It was just for a brief time. I was very young, and one of the leaders of the movement showed me great kindness at a time when I needed kindness.”
She’d given that last word distinct emphasis.
“You don’t see that person anymore?”
“No.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know. Things happen. People change.”
“You or he?”
“I don’t believe I said if it was a he or a she.”
“You didn’t, but it was a he.”
“Yes. And to answer your question, both of us changed, I would imagine.”
She whistled a stream of cool air on her steaming tagliatelle, then, with a soft sucking sound, swept her spoon clean.
When she’d finished, he was suddenly aware that she was looking at him oddly.
“What is it?” he asked. “Is something wrong?”
“Would it be all right if I had just a touch more of the tagliatelle? And perhaps a bit more of the veal, too?”
Her sudden shift in talk made him laugh out loud. “When’s the last time you ate?”
“About three hours ago.”
He laughed all the harder.
When they’d brought her the tagliatelle, he sat thoughtfully at the table, watching her. He marveled that anyone that ravenous could be so elegant and thin. When she’d finished, he folded his hands and propped his chin on them. “You haven’t told me whether or not you’re going to New York with me.”
“I’m not,” she said matter-of-factly, then put her fork down beside her plate. “That’s awful of me, isn’t it? Eating such a sumptuous dinner at your expense, then declining your offer. I should have told you before I’d had a spoonful of anything.” She seemed genuinely upset.
He tried to look unfazed, but in truth, he hadn’t been expecting that. And now what he felt was more than disappointment. He wondered what he’d tell Osgood. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I can do to change your mind?”
She shook her head, causing her gold loop earrings to sway gently against her cheeks. “It serves no earthly purpose, and, as I told you, this is an awkward time for me.”
“It’s none of my business,” he said, “but who was that young man at your place yesterday?”
“You’re right,” she said firmly. “It is none of your business.” Then, regretting her brusqueness, she added, “It’s my problem. I’ll deal with it myself.”
While they had coffee and she a sorbet, he studied her. The long, angular face seemed more Nordic than Italian, more Modigliani than Botticelli. For some reason, he felt sad, unable to think of another thing to say. The long silence between them heightened the sense of awkwardness.
“I suppose, then,” he said, “given what you’ve just told me about these people, I’m also at some risk.”
“As someone in the business of carrying masterworks of art out of this country, I should think you are.”
Her frankness was disarming, yet bracing—like a blast of cold air that clears cobwebs from one’s brain.
“I’m flying back home on Monday,” he said, signaling at the same time for his check. “If, for any reason, you have a change of heart, give me a ring.” He scribbled his number at the Excelsior on the back of his business card. “You can also reach me at the museum. My number’s right there on the card. “Oh, and here”—he rummaged in his inside pocket—“take these.”
Looking down at the envelope, she recoiled slightly. “What’s this?”
“Reservations for a round-trip flight from Milan to New York.”
“But I’ve already told you—”
“Yes, I know.” His manner grew curt and businesslike. “The ticket’s good for the next two months. If you don’t use it, I’d appreciate your mailing it back to me. The show opens on the evening of September twenty-second.”
She thrust the envelope back at him, but he evaded it, instead seizing her hand and pinning it to the table. “Please. Just hold on to it. That’s surely not too much to ask.”
They sat that way for a moment, he still pinning her hand, she staring hard at him until the tension in her arm relaxed. When he released her hand, she opened her bag and crammed the ticket into it.
By then, he’d signed the bill and had had his credit card returned. With a swift, almost angry motion, he drained the dregs of his espresso and rose. “May I take you home?”
“It’s better I go myself. If you’ll just have them call me a taxi.”
They sat, not speaking, until the waiter shortly reappeared and told them the taxi was out front.
They edged their way out through a narrow aisle of festive late-evening diners packed cheek by jowl into the cozy little enoteca. Manship noted a large, unkempt gentleman with closely cropped sandy-colored hair in a distant corner of the restaurant. Seated by himself, he was poring over a wine list. Manship had no idea what had drawn his eye to him. But in the next instant, she was talking again and he’d forgotten the man entirely.
It was still early, at least early for Florentines, who tend to dine late even on weekday nights. The evening was warm. Manship felt full from dinner and peeved at its unsuccessful outcome. Instead of taking a taxi, he decided to walk back to the hotel.
His way took him across the bridge, crowded with shoppers and strolling couples. All the way down the embankment to his hotel, he was plagued with a feeling of annoyance, impatience with himself, a sense of having fumbled some crucial maneuver. He was not accustomed to such feelings. Had he misplayed his hand? Had he overplayed it? He’d more or less taken it for granted that if his offer was proffered, it would be accepted. When it wasn’t, he was surprised, but not unpleasantly. Quite the contrary. That was the puzzling part of it.
And, after all, hadn’t he gotten what he wanted? She wasn’t coming. It had worked out just the way he’d hoped it would. So why was he annoyed, upset? In truth, the woman’s presence in New York at this time could only have been a huge nuisance. Moreover, it would have cast over the event an air of something faintly cheap. Not that she was cheap. She was the furthest thing from that. He admired her refusal to be used, and thereby cheapened by the event. She’d declined money even at a time when, from every indication, things couldn’t have been all that flush for her.
Still, how to explain that to Osgood; worse yet, to Van Nuys, ‘with his stolid Dutch burgher’s mentality that couldn’t conceive of anything in the world that couldn’t be had for money.
When he reached the hotel, it was close to midnight. The lobby was jammed with guests returning from dinner, the theater, and conceits, all thirsty for tea or a nightcap in the bar.
When he asked the desk clerk for his key, he was also handed an envelope with his name scrawled across the face of it. Opening it, he found a sheet of hotel stationery with the day’s date and the time—11:20 P.M.—noted on the top—all but a half hour ago.
It was written in a large, open hand, with the sort of roly-poly letters one associates with the handwriting of a child. When he saw the name Cattaneo (that’s the way it was signed, just the surname) affixed to the bottom, his heart leaped.
“When did Signorina Cattaneo come by?” he asked the clerk.
“She didn’t, Signor Manship. The Signorina phoned and asked if I would give you the message. I merely took it down as she dictated it.”
“I see. Thank you,” he said, staring at the letter but not actually seeing it. He still hadn’t read it—only the signature at the bottom, which had been written by the clerk. Taking several steps backward from the desk, he turned toward the elevators. “Good night,” he said.
“Good night, sir,” the clerk replied, staring after him.
She’s changed her mind, he thought, and for some inexplicable reason, he felt disappointment. She’s thought things over and called to tell me she’ll be on the plane.
He’d deliberately put off reading the message until he’d undressed, washed, and slipped into bed.
Dear Mr. Manship,
I hope you will forgive me, but I cannot get your three stolen drawings out of my mind. You may recall I mentioned to you something about friends I had at university who were a part of those groups we discussed tonight at dinner.
I thought, if you had time, it might be useful to call on one of them, whom I occasionally still see. His name is Aldo Pettigrilli. I don’t have the number, but your concierge will get it for you. He lives in Rome, 18 Via Sestina. Tell him you are a friend of Isobel and ask if he won’t give you fifteen minutes or so. You’ll find him a bit odd, but in matters such as this, he’s quite knowledgeable. He may be able to help you locate those drawings. I feel I owe you this for having made such a pig of myself at dinner. Good luck with your show in September.
All best,
Cattaneo
Once more, he experienced that strangely ambivalent sense of annoyance—wanting her to go back to New York with him, yet impressed that she’d stuck firmly to her decision not to. He had no intention whatever of barging off to Rome on a wild-goose chase. For one thing, he hadn’t the time. The show was waiting to be hung. He was already seriously behind schedule, and here she was, offering him no more than some possibly diverting chat with her friend on the history of post-World War II neofascism in Italy.
He reached for the phone to call and thank her for her kindness. It was past midnight, but she would still be up, particularly since she’d dictated her message to him such a short time ago.
“Pronto,” the operator trilled. “Numero, per favore.”
“This is Mr. Manship, room four oh three.” Then, instead of calling Isobel, he asked, “Would you kindly get me, in Rome, the number of Signor Aldo Pettigrilli, eighteen Via Sestina.”
Even he was surprised as the name leaped with astonishing ease to his lips.
That night the voices woke him again. He’d been dreaming of the eyes again, the empty, sightless orbs. But then upon waking, they seemed to recede into the distance, until only the voices remained. One was a man’s voice, the other a woman’s. They sounded as though they were engaged in some sort of row. The voices floated up from somewhere below. They were muffled as they poured through the plaster of the walls.
Borghini’s damp hand clutched at the border of his quilt. He shrank down deeper into his bed, trying to drown out the shouting. He felt small and lost and helpless. Once again, he felt the old tightening in his throat. It told him he was about to cry. But he knew he mustn’t cry. Papa hated it when he cried.