The Art Lover

by Andromeda Romano-Lax

  “A team of four.”

  “Or five.” He returned my stare. “My brother could never have afforded that engagement ring.”

  “He said Keller paid him for helping to choose a new car.”

  “Keller paid my brother enough to buy his own car. My brother bought an expensive ring. He can’t even afford a good pair of shoes but suddenly—diamonds. Don’t you see?” Cosimo sniffed his fingertips: “Turkish tobacco.”

  “We should fear the Turks, now?”

  He gave me his heavy-lidded look. “Many German smokers prefer Turkish tobacco.”

  “And many Germans,” I countered, “don’t smoke at all. We’re discouraged from it, as a matter of fact. It’s not even allowed in our offices. You Italians light the second before you throw away the first.” A ridiculous argument, but I still didn’t want to believe. “Even if Keller were in charge, even if this were his own private heist, wouldn’t he have mostly Italians helping him?”

  Cosimo began to swear, cursing Keller’s name again.

  “You knew something was wrong last night,” I reminded him. “You knew it as soon as you saw the ring. You knew when Enzo told you, ‘Don’t worry, go along.’ Why didn’t you do more?”

  Cosimo inhaled deeply. “I hoped he would change his mind. I could not change it for him. But now it is bigger than that. I fear, Mister Vogler, that it is bigger than both of us.”

  Back on the road, we traveled in silence to the Monterosso turn-off, and I kept my eyes fixed on the di Luca guide in my lap, fingers tracing the embossed letters on the thick, green leather spine while Cosimo, driven with what I hoped was only paranoia, steered us ever farther from the main road.

  Goats bleated from the shade of a chestnut tree. Above us in the hills, a rooster crowed its dawn alert several hours too late. Just one of many reasons not to live in the countryside.

  “I need to visit the bushes,” I said.

  When I walked back to the truck, Cosimo was sitting with a photograph balanced against the steering wheel, studying it as his lips moved silently—seeking comfort or guidance, it seemed, which was only further proof that Cosimo was taking his own dire premonitions too seriously.

  A raven-haired woman stared back from the center of the curling photo with one blurry hand lifted to her forehead, sweeping back a piece of hair. She had prominent cheekbones, a wide mouth, and an impatient but somehow not off-putting expression, like someone who didn’t want to be photographed. That explained the blurry hand. This woman, attractive as she was, had no desire to be admired, or to wait for a man’s approval.

  “Rosina. She would know what to do,” he said, acknowledging my presence, eyes still focused on the curled image in his hand.

  Rattled by Cosimo’s superstitious gloom, I feigned a lighthearted tone. “I wouldn’t say it if Enzo were around, but she is much more beautiful than Farfalla.”

  When Cosimo responded with a dismal expression, I continued uncertainly. “Intelligent eyes, a wonderful smile.”

  “She isn’t smiling.”

  “But she wants to smile; she is considering, but perhaps she isn’t easily persuaded.”

  “Trust me,” he said, “she isn’t a woman who can be persuaded about anything.”

  The more I looked, the more I saw it. In the photo, the woman appeared undecided about whether to berate the photographer or burst out laughing.

  “I’m not teasing you, if that’s what you think. I’m trying to make you feel better. You haven’t broken it off with her, have you?”

  “No,” he said, pushing the photo back into his pocket. “I see her all the time.”

  “Well, then—one ray of hope in dark times, yes?”

  “Mister Vogler,” he said, starting the truck again, tapping the gas until the guttering roar eased back into a steady rumble, “she is my sister.”

  We saw a young boy tugging a goat alongside the road, the animal’s satiny blue collar glinting in the sun.

  “There.” Cosimo swung toward the shoulder, jumped out of the truck and stood next to the boy, questioning and pointing while the boy pulled his goat nearer.

  “We’re close,” Cosimo explained, back in the truck.

  “To the farm?”

  “No.”

  “What did the boy say?”

  “I gave him a coin and I asked him if he saw a yellow sports car early this morning. He said yes, maybe. I asked him if he saw a silver sports car. Yes, also. And a blue one—that, too.”

  “You paid him. He was trying to please you.”

  “But when I asked him if he saw a red car early today, he said, ‘Assolutamente no.’ The problem is not that I paid him. The problem is that someone else already paid him more.”

  “But surely you’re not going to take a little boy seriously—”

  “You think I was only listening? I was looking. I saw the collar on the goat. The boy told me he has owned it since the goat was born.”

  “So?”

  “It was Enzo’s necktie.”

  I hurried to look over my shoulder at the boy, getting smaller on the road behind us. It was possible that the tie had fallen from Enzo’s jacket pocket the night before, while he was riding. But Cosimo was impervious to doubt. Tense with dread, he was sitting up so straight that no part of his spine touched the back of the truck seat, and he was driving slower yet, at barely more than a brisk walking pace.

  “This is very important,” he said after a while. He instructed me to look on the right side of the road; he would search on the left. “If we find his scooter on my side, he was coming back from the farm. If we find it on your side, he never made it.”

  “If we find his scooter at all. If it isn’t parked safely up some dead-end road kilometers from here,” I added, but Cosimo showed no sign of hearing.

  In some places the shoulder was clear and climbed directly up to farmlands or dry, unplanted hills. In other places there was brush and high grass. I scanned with concentration, arm hanging over the sun-beaten windowsill, sweat tickling my neck. But we found no sign of anything in the next two minutes or in twenty.

  And of course, this search was taking us farther away from the bigger road along which we’d been traveling. We were losing time. Even the addled roosters had stopped crowing, silenced by the day’s building heat. Our benzina supply: diminishing. Our own energy for the long drive still ahead: draining away. This was idiotic. We were going the wrong way, damn it all. We were digging ourselves deeper.

  “Anyway, is there a difference?” I finally asked. “Does it matter, if he was coming or going?”

  Cosimo would say no more.

  Irritated as I was, I was not immune to the contagion of his superstitious imagination. As the hot, slow minutes ticked by, the paired possibilities took shape in my mind: Enzo making it to the village, halfway through his future in-laws’ celebratory dinner, making a grand entrance, being enfolded by the arms of Farfalla’s brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles. Fitting an extra chair at the table. Bringing another plate, another glass. Enzo apologizing for his appearance—the dirt of the road, the golden hair standing on end. And then toasting and dancing for the bridal couple. Enzo cornering Farfalla’s father, and then returning to the table and tapping a glass. A proposal to the bride’s younger sister. I imagined her saying yes, and everyone turning a blind eye when Enzo fell asleep not in the main parlor, where a half-dozen male relations shared a nest of blankets, but somewhere else—a cellar perhaps, or a farmer’s shed. Somewhere with Farfalla.

  But that was only the first possibility. The second possibility was a night ride, dusty eyes straining to see the outline of road, an obstacle—rock or stick or wild animal—and then the spinout of scooter against chalky road. The scooter sliding toward the shoulder and into high grass. No party, no Farfalla. No memorable night in the cellar. At the last minute, in that coldest part of the night just before dawn, a thought sent out into the starry ether, toward the only person who could receive it.

  (Did I believe that t
wins could be connected in such a way? Given my own genetic anxieties, I had to believe it was possible. Do I still believe, a decade later? If the world holds no mystery at all, no romantic possibility, then my second trip to the Piedmont is futile—so yes, I choose to believe. War takes away nearly everything, but perhaps not that final illogical tendency that allows us to continue living.)

  Scanning the road for any sign as the truck continued along at its creeping pace, I weighed the scenarios, wondering which was better or worse: to leave behind a ruined woman, following a night of pleasure; or to miss that night, but in missing it, to spare her considerable grief.

  “Where are you hoping to find him, Cosimo?”

  “To anyone who has felt love, it is clear.”

  It wasn’t clear to me.

  There was a long pause as Cosimo stewed before surrendering the answer. “Left side. Coming back. To have one night with her at least. To have one night with a wonderful, beautiful woman. Of course I must wish this for him.”

  The truck swerved and braked. Ignoring my questions, Cosimo jumped out and paced along the left side of the road, where he’d evidently glimpsed something. I copied him, pacing along the right. But he seemed so certain that I couldn’t stop looking over my shoulder, watching as he pushed a long stick into what looked like a trampled stand of thick roadside grass. He crouched. Dropped the stick. Reached a hand into the grass, near the ground, and left it there.

  Even from across the road, I recognized the look on his half-turned face: the same look that Greta had worn the day I’d come home from my part-time job with Betelmann and she’d come to the hall, holding a handkerchief that had belonged to our mother. “The doctor just left. Vater isn’t back yet, he doesn’t know. You should go see her now, have your own moment, before he gets back and turns the place upside down.” But it was hard to take the next step. “Go now.” It was hard to move from that in-between realm of knowing and not knowing, accepting and not accepting; that frozen place from which every step is a step toward unhappiness.

  Nearing the spot, I saw that Cosimo’s hand was resting on Enzo’s ankle, just above his black shoe. The laces had come untied, and after a moment, Cosimo tied them, slowly and carefully, making the loops even and snug. That tender gesture held my complete attention as the rest of my mind raced to catch up with what I was seeing, what I was not believing: the shoe and the foot, the trampled grass, the motionless body. Then Cosimo patted his brother’s ankle again, leaving his hand there for a moment, until he nodded for assistance.

  Waving away the flies that were already buzzing around, I reached forward to help Cosimo roll the body over and struggled to resist recoiling. Enzo’s thigh was slightly stiff, but even through the cloth of his trousers I could feel a greasy emanation of heat. Yet there was no pulse. I’d expected a corpse to be cold. This was worse.

  “Normal?” I heard myself ask Cosimo, losing somehow the “is” and the “it,” along with the basic rhythm of breathing and swallowing, which now seemed to require considerable conscious effort. When the body in front of me lost solidity, I had to look away just to force open the shutter that was closing in my mind, blackening the view in front of me.

  Cosimo winced at the road rash on one side of his brother’s face. “There is warmth—for twelve hours, sometimes more.” His voice came out in a warped staccato, tinny and uneven, as if it had traveled over a long distance through a metal tube.

  He turned to cough into his sleeve before facing the body again, wiping at a bloody temple with his handkerchief, dabbing at Enzo’s matted, sticky hair, each touch tender but tentative, as if he could barely bring himself to make contact and then barely bring himself to break it.

  When Cosimo began to cough again, face hidden, I moved away and busied myself by pushing the scooter back onto the road. A string bag was still snagged on the left handlebar on the scooter, filled mostly with glass shards now, as well as some food items wrapped in newspaper. The ground was stained grayish white from what I realized was milk—milk that had been collected just hours earlier and handed to Enzo with a farewell clap on the shoulder. Milk in a glass jar, for Cosimo. That famous statue—of the twin boys with their cherubic, upturned faces, nursing side by side from a she-wolf. The founders of Rome. Romulus and Remus. Fifteenth century. Which brother slew the other and why? I couldn’t recall. It was the simplest question, but my memory wouldn’t cooperate.

  The countryside was quiet. No vehicle traffic or animal noises. No shepherd’s distant bells. A faint breeze failed to lift our clinging shirts from our damp backs.

  Cosimo stood next to me, a few meters from the accident scene, fumbling to strike a match and keep it lit within his cupped palm. Finally, he managed to light the cigarette and took his time smoking it. When the final ash fell, something more would have to be done. That part of the future seemed—for an odd moment—endlessly far away. Until the moment was now. Then it seemed too soon.

  He gestured for me to approach, and while he reached down for his brother’s top half again, I tried to take the bottom. But the trousers kept bunching and slipping. I worked my way higher up his legs, trying to get my shoulder under his thighs to push him up. As I was pushing, something edged out of his right trouser pocket: a corner of a banknote—a thick, folded pile of currency.

  Cosimo had seen. He ordered me to set the body down, crouched low to the road and emptied the pocket slowly—first, the folded Italian lire—one clipped-together bundle, then a second. He looked at me, and then pushed his hand into the pocket again. The third bundle was a thicker fold of Reichsmarks.

  “I thought Keller ran him off the road, but now I am not sure,” Cosimo said. “Keller knew he carried money. If they saw the crash, they would have checked his pockets.”

  “You’re saying it was just an accident?”

  “Maybe he saw them coming in the distance, maybe he recognized the sound of the Spider coming around a curve. He panicked and skidded out.”

  “So you’re not blaming Keller.”

  He stared at me, eyes blazing. “Of course I blame Keller for talking Enzo into this. I will kill Keller if I see him.”

  “No, no,” I stammered. “We don’t need any of that.”

  Cosimo resumed digging through Enzo’s other pockets. I looked away, trying to give him a moment to do what he needed to do, trying to give myself a moment to breathe, to think. When I turned around again, Cosimo’s lips were pressed together, a fresh unlit cigarette between them. He held something toward me: Enzo’s lighter, shaking violently.

  I looked at it for a moment before understanding. I took and lit Cosimo’s cigarette for him.

  He inhaled once before holding out the other hand. The diamond ring rested in his flattened palm.

  “He didn’t propose?”

  Taking the cigarette from his lips, Cosimo pushed his face into the crook of his elbow, wiping once. “She said no.”

  “Maybe he didn’t even propose.”

  “I am certain. He would not fail to propose.”

  “You’re certain he asked?”

  “This was Enzo. Of course he asked. You can see that he made it there—the milk—and he was coming back. But she said no.”

  Cosimo crouched near Enzo’s body again, a little unsteady on his feet. “I have seen bodies before,” he said after his breathing had become more even. “But it isn’t the same.”

  “Do you need to rest for a moment?”

  The suggestion alone seemed to irritate him, bolstering his resolve. He was stoical beyond belief—an effect of his police training, I could only imagine. Again, he lifted Enzo under the arms. I struggled to hoist his lower half, my arms wrapped around his stiffening calves, feeling repulsed by the slightly pliable feeling of skin over hardening muscle, the curly hair pasted down with grit, dried sweat, trickles of brown blood. The bad smell wouldn’t leave my nose. It wasn’t the smell of death—not yet—only spoiling milk. Gripping Enzo’s legs, I tried to ignore the dizziness building in my head.


  We brought him to the truck, set him down on the ground. Both of us tried to look away, to see any part of Enzo but his stained face.

  “A minute, please,” Cosimo said, and I willingly walked toward the front of the truck and rocked on my heels as I listened for Cosimo to call me back again. I heard him jump into the back of the truck, rummaging and clanking around. Then a long pause, followed by quick steps, a thud as he jumped to the road, followed by an anguished moan.

  Racing to the back of the truck, I saw Cosimo doubled over, vomiting into the dust. I led him, still doubled over, farther away from the truck, farther away from Enzo’s body, to a low stone wall that ran along part of the road. He did not want to sit, but I made him, as I wiped his face with my handkerchief. I took each of his hands, guided them to a mat of herbs growing just behind the wall, and urged him to rub the old smell away, replacing it with the scent of rosemary.

  “A little better?” I asked.

  He had caught his breath. “It should have been me.”

  “Cosimo—”

  “No, please. Say nothing. It is better that way.”

  When my mother had died, I had said nothing helpful to my father, nothing even to my sister. When my father had died just before Christmas, I had such mixed emotions I was afraid to open my mouth, fearful of what would escape, the compressed emotions of my youth unrelieved by his passing.

  “It’s a common reaction,” I told him now, searching for the right phrase. “But there is no way to trade your life for his. You cannot bring him back, Cosimo.”

  “Truly,” he said. “It should have been me.”

  “It doesn’t help—”

  “You don’t understand.” He was firmer now. “It should have been me. Not me to die—me to propose. Farfalla and I were supposed to be married.”

  “She was yours? Enzo stole your girl?”

  “For a while. With Enzo, it was always for a short while.”

  “But this time . . .”

  He stood up from the stone wall. “What could I do? He is me, the same—but better.”