“And can I show you the bracelets?” He followed up.
I touched the necklace one more time and he slid it back under the counter, turning the drawer lock with a decisive click.
“I would love to see the bracelets.” I raised my voice, hoping I sounded like a matron of means.
We moved to that case. Serpents, diamond-lined chains, blue, gold, red, diamonds glittered under the strategically placed lights. He opened and closed the case keeping his eyes on me, as well as over my shoulder at his boss.
I lifted my arm and the snake emerged from under my sweater sleeve. “This is divine.”
“It looks fabulous on you,” he remarked.
“Oh, sure, brings out my eyes.” I smiled, he smiled.
“Ah, but not today I’m afraid, I have lunch plans and I’m already late.” I slipped off the bracelet and with a flourish handed it back to George. “You always have such beautiful things. You make a woman feel like a princess.” He nodded. I could only hope the shop purportedly selling stolen artifacts would be this accommodating.
I suspected not.
I left, studying the napkin Von Meiter gave me and comparing it to the map on the phone. A message—Passport ready Monday.
Another message from Tina, well, at least she texted instead of calling. When are you coming home?
Passport delayed. I texted back. Wednesday at the earliest.
Cruise is Friday—with a frowny face.
Sorry. I hesitated, then added my own frowny face.
The little shop was only a block off the square. Nothing like hiding in plain sight. If you were a tourist, carrying your Odyssey, Holland America, Princess Cruise complimentary shopping bag, and you loaded it up with bargains that included stolen artifacts, how difficult would it be to track you once you landed in Croatia or Greece or what had Von Meiter said? Albania? Or one of the Stans.
Difficult. Those cruise ships were the size of a medieval city, how would even a well-organized group steal the artifacts back out of a random state room? Either they wouldn’t or I do not possess a very adept criminal mind.
I entered the store, unlike the shops turned fast food outlets, this one looked like it was once a McDonalds now turned into a yard sale with shelves. A woman in her late twenties greeted me from behind the bulk of an old-fashioned cash register.
I smiled and approached the counter. To the right of the huge cash register was a woven basket filled with blue faience pieces; they could be plastic, they could be the real deal. How obvious would it be if I snatched them all up and poured them into my purse?
Obvious.
There was something familiar about the woman. Her hair looked hand cut and was streaked with faded pink highlights. Poor thing, her skin was pocked and rough, well covered in foundation a shade too light. She slouched against the counter as if exhausted. Too many wild nights. Like I could criticize.
I reluctantly left the basket alone, nodded to her and purposefully wandered through the shelves. I didn’t want to seem to anxious or focused on that basket of possibly stolen goods. The shelves were dusty and crowded with junk. This was exactly the kind of store Miranda loved best. You could pay pennies for something precious; you could overpay for something worthless. It was gambling, thrilling. The chase and the hunt all in one.
I touched a dusty Murano glass vase. To even find the right kind of bargain you’d need an eye, education and connections, an interesting collection of disparate skills. I had perused the UNESCO Cultural Objects at Risk before I left the apartment. The range of items was remarkable and depressing. So many beautiful culturally important objects were sifted out of the sand and spirited out of the country. Faience, small ceramic jars, gold coins, gold necklaces impossibly elaborate, like what Schliemann discovered in what he decided was Troy and subsequently loaded onto his wife. This is how good it was in the nineteenth century—Schliemann actually took a photograph of his wife, wearing irreplaceable, ancient jewelry before she walked out of Turkey wearing it all. And no one stopped her. The necklace and headpiece were never recovered. Now there’s an interesting plot. I ran my fingers, still perfectly tipped in those bright red gels, through a dish of beads and chains. No Trojan treasure here.
I sucked in a breath and examined a small chunk of plaster. But what if I did find something amazing?
I knew quality. I knew originals from copies. I didn’t realize how much I missed my old life, a life that I had curated as carefully as Von Meiter curated his beautiful girls.
I earned my degree at FIDM in San Francisco because, in my parents' eyes, San Francisco was not as dangerous as New York City. And in the late '70s, they had a point. But to their consternation I fell in love with Manhattan anyway. And there is where I plied my trade, briefly as a model, longer as an assistant and stylist. Was the pay good? That was always the Vince/Vance question. What are you paid? Where is your 401K? Retirement? Life Insurance?
Where indeed. At the time the pay was secondary to the adventure.
I touched the glass objects—the cheap ashtrays shaped into awkward gondolas, bowls of grimy Murano glass-candy.
I trailed past plaster casts of Anubis, Isis, and Tut. A whole shelf of Tut. Popular guy. I tried to linger long enough to make returning to the basket a final, last compromise. Trying to look disappointed, I returned to the basket. I needed them all, but what would that look like?
I didn’t care what it looked like.
“I love these!” Using my index finger, I stirred the blue statues, some were a bit heavier than others, were the plastic ones more solid? They looked newer and, of course, in better shape. The real ushabtis were faded, cracked and lighter.
“I love that these look used.” I commented.
“Yes,” The girl stared at my bag, then stared at me. “We just received this collection. The legend is that the Egyptians buried these little figures in their tombs to work for them in the afterlife.”
I shifted under her gaze. Finally, after a few awkward seconds passed, she spoke.
“You’re not Miranda.”
“No.” I met her eyes and started. “Cindy!”
For the first time since I entered the store, she offered a genuine smile. “Vic.” The last time we spoke, she was dressed in full Goth—black lipstick, black hair and nowhere to go—and I mean that literally. Miranda had kicked her out in favor of her returned lover. Me.
I felt bad of course, Cindy wasn’t so bad, profligate, and spendthrift with Miranda’s money, I didn’t feel bad about ending all that. But out of guilt I had bought her a ticket out of Venice so she could start over somewhere else. Like Poland, I’m not stupid.
And now here she was, looking a little worse for the wear. Gone was the thick black eye liner, the pale powder, the thick platform boots all the better to stomp you with. She was dressed in a flattering sheath printed with giraffes, a thing two spring seasons ago. On her, the tiny print looked fresh and appropriate. If it wasn’t for her skin and the haunted look in her eyes, I would have said the transformation was a miracle.
She in turn stared at me. Obviously, my confinement with my parents had not improved my looks.
I held out my hand, the purse dangled from my arm. “I’m surprised to see you still in Venice.”
“I left, just as you told me.”
I nodded. “I thought you were in Warsaw.”
“I was, it was amazing, and I met all sorts of interesting people! They gave me a chance to work back here, and here I am back!” She opened her arms to indicate the store.
“How long have you been working here?”
“Just six months.” She nodded. “Pays pretty good for retail. You like those?”
I continued to stir the tiny blue statues. I pulled out the dozen or so that looked more or less authentic.
“Miranda took the whole basket.” Cindy commented as I laid out my little workers for the next life. Miranda always took the whole basket.
“It must have been strange to see her.” I ventured.
She bit her lip. “Oh, not so much. She picked up a couple things, they weren’t valuable or anything. We talked about old times. She has a great place here.”
“She did.” Had Miranda improvidently invited Cindy for a re-acquainting drink? Had Cindy been invited to the Walk Like an Egyptian party? I was about to comment about Miranda’s death, but changed my mind.
“You’ve been away.” Cindy took her time and wrapped each little statue in tissue paper. I wanted to grab them and just stuff them into my purse, but I kept still.
“She looked good.” She dipped her head. “You too.”
I grinned. “That was the most insincere compliment I’ve ever received.” Except for my sister-in-law telling me I was good at caring for people. That still stood as most self-serving compliment on record.
“I hear you took care of Max.”
“You heard right.”
She took a breath. “I’m sorry he’s gone.”
“He was a good man and took care of a lot of people.”
She frowned, but I distracted her with a twenty-euro note.
She nodded and took the cash while I managed to stuff the little guys into the Max Peters, wrapping and all.
I touched her hand. “It’s good to see you doing so well.” Again, instead of saying I’m so sorry about Miranda, I held my tongue.
“Bunch of great connections and the money is pretty great. I’m saving for my own shop.” Her litany had a rote quality, but I was too much in a hurry to pay much attention.
“That’s wonderful.” I bade her goodbye, happy that one of Miranda’s rejected girls ended up at least better than she began, no matter what must have happened in the interim. When Cindy landed with Miranda, she had practically been run out of New York, with those "you’ll never work in this town again" kind of threats. I was glad she found something because even as I loaded her up on a train headed to the airport, I was not confident Cindy would thrive in the wild.
Once in my possession, I really didn’t know what do with my find. Return them? Add them to the collection in the hotel hold?
Three young men sped across the plaza and brushed by me, almost knocking the purse from my arm. I turned, but they disappeared around the corner.
Or show them to Nic and watch the expression on his face. Yes, that sounded more interesting.
Chapter 14
Nic sat on the steps leading to Miranda’s apartment. He looked a little damp, as well as appropriately pale and dejected. I smiled and stood in the door savoring the moment.
“You changed the locks.” He accused, but there was no bite in his voice. “Again.”
“This morning. There is still art in there, and my stuff, sometimes me. I changed the locks.”
He nodded.
“And where were you last night?’ Okay, I couldn’t resist, and it was a very, very old conversation. He will say, I was out. I will ask where and he won’t tell me because I should trust him.
“Out.”
“Out where?” I swept by him, key in hand.
“Out, jeez, don’t tell me you still haven’t learned to trust.”
When I first met Nic, I was dazzled. My very own Indiana Jones. But unlike Jones, Nic didn’t often have a whole group of close compatriots to help him. He worked alone, hiring the locals when he needed more digging, laying them off when the work slowed. He spent most of his grant money on permits and bribes. Mostly bribes. As I said, he was the poster child for hope over experience.
And me? I had no more hope. I had crappy experiences. I poured Nic more espresso.
“I’m working on a new project.” He hunched over his cup and stirred in too much sugar, it gritted on the bottom of the cup like sand.
I shuddered at the sound.
He took a breath as if anticipating my cynical response. I wasn’t cynical, but after about six months in the field, and numerous conversations with his peers, I realized that as romantic and handsome and convincing as Nic was, he wasn’t very astute at picking the right digs or the right time. He was tenacious, he was determined and in his own fashion, he was loyal. But not necessarily successful. Took me a while to figure it out, and then another year to realize I needed to cut my losses. Hope is most certainly the thing with feathers. I glanced at my watch, 1:00 P.M., just in time for wine. I poured a glass and joined him at the miniature café table.
He slid his coffee saucer back and forth on the table surface. “Okay, you dragged it out of me. I’m working with a corporation, can’t tell you who. They are building a discovery park, like those dinosaur digs in Wyoming where you can unearth your own dinosaur.”
“And you are building one with an archeology theme.” I sipped my wine, I had nowhere to go, no place to be. The realtor, Maria, may or may not stop by with clients. I glanced around the apartment with relief, it was undisturbed. Gotta love locked doors.
He leaned in, he had aged, we both had. But those eyes, I couldn’t look away. “This will be a boon to the area. Egypt needs more tourists, especially in Luxor, a lot more. I can help create a park, a draw, get people excited and passionate about archeology again.”
He was warming up, just as he did about ten minutes into a university lecture.
As he explained, I just listened. I had no doubt that people would pay good money for the privilege to sift sand under the hot Egyptian sun, it would be authentic, it would be an experience. And lucrative. The gift store, likely featuring tees printed with sayings like “I dig the Nile” and other erudite sentiments would bring in hard cash. The possibility for exploitation would be endless. I needed to support him and this new dream.
“A little off mission don’t you think?”
“My contract with the university wasn’t renewed.” He knocked back the coffee and set it down, hard. The cup rattled in the saucer.
“I’m sorry.” I put my hand on his. Both of ours were rough from work.
“Just trying to keep body and soul together.”
I smiled, he loved that phrase, it called to mind canopic jars where body parts were divided and stored, ready for reunification. I thought of the heart weighed and judged, the whole of the spirit traveling over the Nile by boat, and if all went well, reuniting with the body in the afterlife: body and soul. But this was maudlin, he was maudlin. To cheer him up, I retrieved my purse and upended it so the wrapped ushabtis tumbled onto the table.
He blinked. “You found the pick-up point?”
“Of course.” I appreciated seeing Cindy looking so good and so confident. Yet there was something that nagged.
“Bought the lot for twenty euros.”
“I’d say you got a hell of a bargain.” He held up a tiny statue to the window and squinted. “Some of these are the real thing.”
“I thought so.” And selling the real thing for only twenty euros was not good business. Unless you knew where they went. Transporting them safely out of one country to a country with more cooperative officials would be worth the twenty euros.
He picked up a tiny statue and studied it then set it aside. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”
I studied the real statue. What was lucrative? Priceless? Dangerous?
“Tired of waiting.” As I said it, I realized it was true. I was tired of waiting.
“You,” Sirens interrupted him.
I rose to the window. Speed boats roared down the canal spraying high plums in their wake. Black smoke billowed from a spot just off the square. There were of course, many shops, many apartments, many buildings surrounding the square. It wasn’t necessarily that specific shop. I glanced down at my collection, illegal certainly, but worth killing for? Worth destroying for?
I picked up my purse and tossed my phone into its now commodious interior. “We have to go.”
I grew up with wildfires. Roaring fires consuming enormous, unfathomable swaths of forest and fields, snaking down hills in bright uneven lines that glowed in the night. Smoke pouring over unaffected counties delivering heavy particulate matter. I was used to a ven
geful Mother Nature who shared the pain across as many counties as she could.
Contained in a tiny stone medieval town, fire is something else. The key is to keep the rest of the town from crumbling under the flames or collapsing into the canal. By time we arrived on the scene, firefighters had abandoned the tiny store to its fate and were busy spraying and choking the fire around it. Quick containment is everything.
The street was packed with shop keepers and residents all anxiously watching the progress. The store itself was already a charred shell, the only things left were the black struts of the second and third floor. Most of the stone facade streaked with smoke and dripping with canal water.
“I can’t believe it!” The voice was hysterical, loud, attention grabbing, and familiar.
I turned and watched Cindy push her way to the front of the crowd.
“No!” She cried and fell into a heap on the cobblestones. Ah, that’s right. I remembered now. Here is what will happen next: a sympathetic passerby, or better, someone Cindy had met last night at a rave, appears. Cindy marvels at the total coincidence and they in turn make sympathetic noises, pick her up and take her home by way of a nice restaurant and the Gucci outlet.
I’d witnessed her system more than once. It worked well during shows when there were plenty of young men at loose ends, happy to save a troubled and very pretty girl. I was disappointed that by now, she hadn’t come up with a better scheme.
No one picked her up.
My phone buzzed. Tiffany demanded to know where her paintings were. I had to get to her hotel and ship them. Right now!
turned the phone off. One drama queen at a time.
Cindy glanced up from under her eyelashes. But the members of the crowd simply gave her a few more feet of space. No takers. After a minute or two she stood, brushed herself off and ran her hands through her hair. She was still wild-eyed. That much appeared authentic. I moved towards her.
“It’s all my fault, it’s all my fault.” She looked around, but apparently did not see who she expected to see.
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