Except that I refused to eat on the hoof. I walked on, trying to stir up a breeze, looking for a pleasant bench or a clean step. At 9:20, according to the public clock that was ten minutes fast, I wiped the crumbs from my hands and opened the sketchbook I’d brought, intent on drawing the object in front of me, a dry fountain topped by a statue of two cherubs holding hands. It was not well made, and there are few things more forlorn in a once-great city of aqueducts than a fountain without water—proof enough, I told myself, that Italy had more art and architecture than its citizens could appreciate. But sketching was something to do, and I’d finished half the picture when three children ran loudly up to the cherubs and began climbing up their fat legs and swinging from their chubby, linked arms.
“Get off,” I called to them in German, but they only laughed and scrabbled about, pleased to have an audience for their daring. “Go away. Haut ab!” Their laughter turned maniacal, even more so when I jumped to my feet, waving my arms above my head. They were no more afraid of me than the pigeons, which startled into the air and then settled again, bobbing their gray heads as they walked.
I slapped the sketchbook shut and reached in my jacket pocket where I had stored the three postcards I bought at the pensione, all destined for my sister Greta. She had made it a practice, ever since our father had passed away, to write me regularly from her home in Bamberg, two hundred kilometers from Munich, and she expected me to do the same. Her letters always followed a strict protocol: the greeting, the description of the current weather, an inquiry into the recipient’s weather, followed by carefully filtered news, nothing upsetting. I found my pen, set a postcard on top of my journal, and looked up at the sky: blue and cloudless. I greeted her and her husband, skipped a line, and wrote:
It is . . .
I paused, thinking that “hot” would sound like a complaint
. . . pleasant.
But I didn’t feel like writing anymore, and I didn’t feel like being a tourist. Until I accomplished at least some part of what I’d been sent here to do, I’d have nothing to report. I did not even want to recite the formulaic pleasantries that would be expected.
I put the card away and pulled out the di Luca guide. I rubbed a hand across the book’s padded green cover, opening it without looking at the now-familiar gift inscription. I tried to immerse myself in the illustrations and old photos I’d studied so often, the lines and shadows I knew by heart. It was a calming exercise, so calming that I soon forgot my irritation, and jumped with surprise when a small leg rubbed against mine—the overheated appendage of a bold child, maybe five or six years old, one of the climbers, trying to see into this magical book that had commandeered my attention.
I ignored him, but he kept looking. Out of the corner of my eye I could see his round cheek and the long, black eyelashes batting every few seconds. I could hear the soft, ticking sound as he failed to suppress a swallow. He reached out one finger tentatively, toward the wine-colored ribbon trailing from the bottom of the book, marking a place several pages further on.
“You want to see that page? Well not yet. I’m not done here.” I said it in German, but he did not appear surprised by the unfamiliar sounds. I welcomed my chance to have a first genuine encounter with a Roman (the pensione lady and the waters, paid to serve me, didn’t count)—one who was willing to let art be the universal language drawing us into a brief fraternal bond. The brown finger touched the bottom of the bookmark, then pulled back, hovering near the open page.
“This is the Venus de Milo,” I said, and paused, waiting to see how long his attention would last. A minute later, I continued, “You’ve probably seen an image of this before, or perhaps a replica. But did you know that it was discovered in an underground cave, by a farmer?”
No reply in any language—yet he kept staring.
“Good. You’re not going to ask me why her arms are missing. I’m glad.”
He blinked, his long, dark lashes fluttering rapidly like butterfly wings before he froze again. I turned the page and felt him lean in closer, and more of his small, curly head came into my sidelong view, so that I could make out the tendrils—moist from the sweat of clambering all over the piazza—framing his round face. I could just see a stripe above the boy’s soft jawline, where a trickle of sweat had made a pale track across an astonishingly dirty cheek.
“That is Nike of Samothrace, from the Hellenistic period. I can tell you like that one better, and so do I. You’re impressed by her large wings. One can imagine the wind blowing against the feathers and against the draping folds of her clothes. Just the thought of it can be cooling, on a day like this.”
He was even more still now, listening, if anything, more intently. His lips closed and I could hear the little whistle of his congested nose as he breathed softly through it, trying not to make a sound.
“It isn’t easy to convey movement using the medium of stone. An artist has to be talented to do that. But which artists first thought of doing that? We take it for granted, seeing a dynamic posture in a statue . . .”
I cleared my throat and prepared to turn the page, to reveal the most special of all pages, the one marked by the ribbon. In a flash, the chubby hand shot out.
“I was just about to show you—wait!”
The boy was scrambling away, his legs pumping so hard that his scuffed heels nearly spanked his own rear.
“Don’t go!”
Only then did I realize what the wicked cherub’s flurry of motion had accomplished. He had stolen the bookmark. He was running with it, joined now by his two friends, waving the thin red ribbon over his head without looking back, screeching and chattering like a pleased monkey, while I sat with my book in my lap, incredulous and finally resigned.
Back at the museum a half hour later, I was shown into a conference room where half a dozen men were gathered around a large table. Minister Ciano stood with his hands resting on the back of a chair. As soon as I entered, four young Italians in dark-blue uniforms walked away and waited on a balcony, where they lit up cigarettes.
Herr Keller looked up from the table’s far side, his arms folded across his chest and rested atop the paunch that had formed over the course of his Italian residence of the last two years. The shopkeepers of Rome had sold him ridiculous soft-soled shoes; the barbers had neglected to trim the slick waves that now fell nearly to his fleshy earlobes. But they had not managed to convert him entirely to their culture of indolence. He exhaled with impatience: “We’ve been waiting for you.”
“But I was told ten by a man at the desk, and it is ten o’clock, sir—or rather, a quarter to—”
“But we have been here since eight thirty. The reception clerk said he asked you to wait ten minutes—”
Oh, Scheisse.
“—and you vanished. We’re short for time, now. There are important matters to arrange.”
I strained to recall the receptionist’s expression as he held up his ten fat fingers; I regretted my insistence on wandering away instead of waiting inside. How much Italian had I claimed to speak back in Munich when I had accepted this assignment? I had not used the word fluent. Only capable. Capable enough to translate museum labels, anyway.
The minister nodded toward the men smoking outside on the balcony. Another man, younger, in a fine suit, translated. “Do you agree?”
Distracted by my past errors, I had let my attention wander. “Do I agree?”
“That the packing materials are sufficient. In which case, we can have these men load the crate for transport. But it must be done quickly, now. The train leaves in one hour. ”
I unbuttoned my suit jacket and reached for the pencil in my pocket, nodding smartly. “That’s not much time. But let’s begin the inspection. I will do my best to meet your schedule.”
No one spoke. Out on the balcony, one of the men turned away and blew a forceful stream of smoke and kicked with the toe of his black loafer at a loose iron rail, until he realized how quiet everything had suddenly become, and stopped k
icking.
“Herr Vogler, we finished the inspection one hour ago.”
I looked around then at what I had seen without thinking and what I had missed. There, on the conference table: four hammers and a nearly empty box of nails, as well as a road map of Italy. In a far corner, near the door I had entered: two more Italian men, in rather plain black suits—looking less sharp than the translator, less sharp even than the uniformed policemen. On the floor, beyond the conference table and nearly out of view: a closed wooden crate, more than two meters long, a meter and a half wide and equally deep. Here and there, beneath my own feet, stuck to the bottom of my right heel: scattered wisps of straw.
“You sealed the crate?”
The Italian minister found amusement in my distress. He stifled a smile, gestured for his translator to follow, and walked away from Herr Keller and me, toward the smoking policemen on the balcony.
“We supervised the packing and sealed the crate,” Keller confirmed quietly in German. “An editorial against the sale ran just this morning in the main city newspaper. I’ve put off returning several telephone calls as long as I can. People change their minds, you understand? Time is short.”
I lowered my voice. “But my instructions—to make a status report before the packing and transport, for comparison with the arrival report, to ensure the most careful handling—”
“Reports . . .” He looked down at me almost tenderly, his soft chin tucked into his sunburnt neck as he dropped his voice. “Herr Vogler, reports are not held in the same esteem here as they are back home.”
“But they will matter on my return, if I am to keep my job.”
“Our payment,” he continued, “that has been followed with close attention. But all the rest changes like the weather.” Dropping to a barely audible whisper, he added, “In fact, the weather has grown gloomy in the last twelve hours. You will ask Enzo and Cosimo, when you are in the truck together, and they will explain.”
“Enzo and Cosimo?”
Now the two men in worn black suits appeared at my elbow, reciting their names as they offered to shake hands in that peculiarly Italian way, with slouched backs and hands held at groin level, infusing the gesture with an excess of discretion and masculine drive. Enzo Digiloramo, as he introduced himself, was about my age and the stockier of the two, with a loose mane of curly blond hair. He was the first to shake my hand, and he held it twice as long as did his brother Cosimo, who was quieter and less flamboyant. His hair was also fair, but cut much shorter than Enzo’s, the golden, nubby curls tight against his skull, almost like an albino African’s. I caught this Cosimo sneering at me until our eyes met and he attempted a crooked half-grin. Then I realized his sneer was only a permanent, pugilistic asymmetry—his beakish nose pressed firmly to one side, his left cheekbone a little flatter than his right.
A clap of Keller’s hands sent things into motion again, reminding everyone of how much time had already gone to waste. Enzo was dispatched to my hotel to get my things. I called after him, “Explain to the signora—explain that everything was suitable, more or less.” Though it hadn’t been, not really. “And there will be a shaving kit on top of a dresser, and a dictionary on the bed—”
I stopped, realizing I was speaking in German and there was no reason to assume he would understand. But he did. And only now was I beginning to intuit what would be verified later—that Enzo and Cosimo were not part of the pack of blue-suited Roman policemen, though they were also policemen, plainclothes from the northwestern Piedmont, and on friendly terms with the Italian minister, and perhaps on even friendlier terms with Herr Keller.
Cosimo was on his knees, propping open both double doors with small wooden wedges. The minister had accepted a cigarette from one of the four Roman policemen, all out on the balcony. Keller and I were as alone as we ever expected to be, and he used the moment to indulge second thoughts, quizzing me again.
“You were occupied this morning, perhaps meeting with someone?”
“No. I just went for breakfast—not much of a breakfast. I couldn’t get a table.”
“And this took you over an hour?”
“I walked. I sketched.”
“Making a little something on the side, maybe? I know many are ready to sell, dealers who will make all kinds of introductions. Have you met—?”
“I arrived only last night, Herr Keller. I am here in Rome for one reason only.”
The truth should have been the easiest thing to tell, but I’d never held up well under scrutiny. Or maybe it was just the day’s heat. I could feel the moisture beading above my lip. Herr Keller’s eyes were fixed there, too, on the perspiration, or perhaps on the tense set of my mouth.
He smiled. “You’ll forgive the questions. But you’re aware that the best items in Rome have been spoken for.”
“Of course. That has been my job, for the last two years—cataloging items for potential acquisition.”
“So you’ve had a head start, haven’t you?” He lifted his chin in the direction of Minister Ciano, who was peering into the room, the sun bright behind him, the sounds of the street below louder now: the squeal of brakes, trucks rattling by with poorly secured loads, the shrill goose-like honk of some miniature vehicle pretending to be an automobile. “All right. Here we are, then. No time to waste, is there, fellows?”
The four Roman policemen stubbed out their cigarettes and reentered the room, rubbing their hands, preparing to hoist the crate and carry it down one wide flight of stairs out to a large truck that would be driven by Cosimo.
One of the blue-uniformed men kept saying something that sounded like “seguire,” and somewhere in my addled, disappointed mind, that verb—“to follow”—fought its way out of a conjugational haze and I understood that the Romans were going to be following us to the nearby train station in their own truck, an even larger model, military style, with olive-drab canvas flaps. We trailed after them outside the museum and loitered near the truck, watching them muster their energies for the required heavy lifting.
Herr Keller, preparing to depart before the crate was fully loaded—eager to return to his meals, romances, and profitable deals, no doubt—clutched my hand, speaking softly. “The border—three days. That is what I have guaranteed Herr Mueller. That is what he has guaranteed the statue’s new owner.”
The Collector. Our leader. We all avoided the name, and Keller did, too—a sign of his own nerves, or the fact that while he salivated at opportunities appearing on the horizon, he bristled at the limits that were equally drawing near. In today’s Germany, there was no such thing as an independent art agent. A man like Keller could call himself a “freelancer” or an “expat,” but in truth, he had one person to answer to, and one valid passport.
“Three days?” I asked Keller.
“Not a single day more.”
“But the train to Munich takes only one.”
His eyelids grew heavy with condescension. “Enzo will explain about that. But the rest—the importance of maintaining the timetable and avoiding any problems en route—do you understand?”
“Yes, of course—”
“If problems arise, some improvisation may be called for. Do you know what I mean by improvisation?”
“Not exactly,” I said warily.
“Because it is not only the on-time delivery that is important, but the appearance of competence and order. There are people in Munich who don’t understand that Italy is not Germany. Things operate differently here.”
I was worn out by his opaque references. But at least he had made no mention of Gerhard; he had not pushed the point about why I was sent in the place of an older, more seasoned curator. Did he know about my former mentor? Here in Italy, the shufflings of rank in distant Bavaria may have seemed inconsequential—or not. Perhaps he was content to deal with a younger man who would be more easily intimidated. But why intimidate me? Were we not on the same side?
“The last thing we need,” Keller continued, smiling, “is someone arrivi
ng to impose more order where that kind of order simply isn’t a possibility. It would interrupt the order that already exists.”
The order that exists: he and his own art-dealing associates. His network of art buyers and sellers, government insiders and disgruntled outsiders. This entire country was a treasure house with doors left unlocked, windows cracked, a man at the back gate allowing passage to the select few.
And now I remembered this also about Keller: museums had never interested him as much as private collections, and he thought official purchases of the best-known items came with too high a price tag. There were other, cheaper, and more discreet ways to buy artwork. In coming years, there would be ways to procure masterpieces by force of political pressure without paying anything at all. In the meanwhile, simple theft was equally commonplace. Der Kunstsammler, at this point, had no need to debase himself by stealing, but Keller was not Der Kunstsammler. I was still missing the essential fact: that Keller needed only to appear loyal in order to thrive. Like me, he was under the false impression that Italy was a world apart, a place beyond memory and consequence.
“Then, at the border,” he was saying, with a born liar’s bravado, “we take a breath.”
“I will take a breath with the unpacking in Munich,” I said, trying my best to exchange a brotherly, dutiful smile. “The final report—that is road’s end for a delicate and ancient object like this.”
“Yes. Well. The border, anyway,” he repeated, rocking back on his heels, and I knew, in less time than it took for my effortful smile to fall, that I was a fool—though I still did not understand to what extent.
“But I will be following the statue from the border to Munich . . .”
“Will it go to Munich?” he asked, as if quizzing his own memory. “Not our concern. We will let them handle it at the far end.”
“Let whom—?”
In response to his silence, I pressed harder: “Is it going directly to Linz?” In the wake of our annexation of Austria, the city of Linz had become synonymous with some plan, not yet fully outlined, for another new museum of art, perhaps an entire city of art, designed by the man who once dreamed of being an artist. “Am I being transferred to Linz?”
The Art Lover Page 3