by Janet Pywell
‘Why didn’t you phone me?’
‘I didn’t want to frighten you. I have been thinking what you said about this journalist fellow. I thought maybe it was him but this man did not look like a journalist.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He was wearing a dark suit and looked very out of place. He is young and bald. He had a shaved head.’
‘Police?’
He shrugs. ‘I probably wouldn’t have taken any notice but he was watching the villa and this afternoon he was here in the square.’
‘Only Padre Paolo and Dieter know I have the Golden Icon.’
‘Could Dieter have told them, or perhaps–’ He breaks off mid-sentence.
I wait and we regard each other silently.
‘Padre Paolo, might have mentioned it to someone,’ he says.
‘Padre Paolo? Don’t be crazy,’ I lower my voice. ‘He wouldn’t tell anyone. I know you are upset I confided in him, but he was the only lifeline I had, and he still is. He may be the only one who can make sense of all this.’
‘Listen to me. None of this makes sense. Someone else must know you have the icon.’
‘Why?’
‘You said you saw the journalist Karl here in Comaso, and now this man is watching my villa.’
‘But why is he watching your villa and not my apartment?’
‘They must know we are together. It’s getting dangerous, cara. You must be careful.’
I shake my head. Is he deliberately trying to frighten me?
‘Padre Paolo says that he will speak to Padre Stefano on Saturday. I only have three days to wait.’
‘Ay!’ He leans back against his chair and shakes his head. ‘You are so stubborn. Let’s just take the icon and leave here. We will have money to do what we want, and we can begin a new life together. Why are you so unreasonable?’ His voice modulates from caressing to anger. Then he hisses loudly. ‘Why are you so stubborn?’
‘It’s not stubbornness.’
‘It’s dangerous.’ He leans across the table and I look at the dark hairs on his wrists. ‘I don’t like it. Beside I have made some enquiries of my own.’
‘You what?’
‘Shush, it’s not like that.’
‘Enquiries? Who have you told?’
‘I haven’t told anyone. All I did was to contact Sergio, my friend in Lenno.’
‘What for?’ I snatch my hand away.
‘He’s an art dealer and he’s very discreet.’
‘Oh Raffaelle, I don’t want the art world knowing about the Golden Icon. That’s precisely why I haven’t been to anyone.’
His face is filled with disbelief. ‘But you need information. I want to help.’
‘I don’t want help from an art dealer I can’t trust.’
‘I didn’t tell him you have it. I talked generally and he says it would be worth a great deal, hypothetically, if it did exist. He could broker a deal for us. The Serbs and the Armenians are willing to buy anything on the black market. No-one else need know. It doesn’t have to be traced back to us.’
‘I’m not selling it.’
‘Sergio also said that if this Golden Icon was found during the war and no-one knows who it really belongs to, then it is ours and we have the right to sell it.’
‘No! Oh Raffaelle I can’t believe you have spoken to someone about this.’ I hold my head in my hands.
‘Sergio can be trusted. It is what he does. He is used to business like this. Besides, you must act quickly. I think Santiago knows something is going on. Padre Paolo must have said something.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He has been in the village square the past two mornings drinking coffee.’
‘So?’
‘Chief Inspectors do not sit drinking coffee watching who gets on and comes off the ferry. He was there yesterday when you came back from Milan. Did you not see him?’
Raffaelle is making me panic and I wonder if this is his intention. I stare at him. I control my breathing and I take a deep breath.
‘Listen, I need Padre Paolo to get me the information. I must do the right thing. We’ve been over this before. It does not belong to us. We must be patient.’
‘The man at my villa did not look very nice. Perhaps he works with that man, the one Dieter warned you about, Maximilian Strong. Did you not say he had a nephew? He looked like a criminal. We must be careful. We cannot hide this Golden Icon forever. We’ve left it buried near the church and it’s a waste.’
‘Shush,’ I turn to look over my shoulder. ‘I can’t believe you are so indiscreet. Anyone could hear you.’
‘No one listens to our conversation. You are becoming obsessed about doing the right thing.’
‘It is not an obsession.’
‘You have changed. In the past two weeks you have hardly spoken to me. You have been on bad form since you lost the role of Tosca. You are constantly angry with me. You won’t listen and you are very difficult.’
I sigh. He is right. I need to be alone to sort out my feelings. I’m grieving but I cannot tell him this. ‘I’m sorry Raffaelle but–’
‘Is this about Glorietta getting Tosca? Is it because I had lunch in her villa and you think I supported her instead of you? Is this why you are punishing me?’
‘No.’
Luigi places steaming plates of mushroom spaghetti and salad on the table and I pick up my fork. From the speakers a Portuguese girl sings a medley of Bosa Novas which I try to concentrate on; the rhythm, notes and tone.
Raffaelle leans his elbows on the table and pours oil over his bread.
‘Barbara came to visit me this afternoon,’ I say.
‘Barbara?’ His mouth is open in shock. ‘Seán’s wife? From Ireland?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well?’ He tugs his moustache.
‘She wanted the family heirloom to pay off his debts.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘I told her I didn’t have it. I told her that I didn’t take it from Dieter. I said, I wouldn’t carry it through customs to Ireland.’
He forks pasta into his mouth then dabs his lips with the napkin. ‘Did she believe you?’
‘She has gone to Munich.’
‘If she had phoned Dieter first, she would know you were lying.’
‘She did phone him, but he didn’t pick up.’
‘She will know you have lied when she gets there. You have sent her to Germany for no reason.’
‘It was to give me more time. I need until Saturday. I must wait for Padre Paolo to find out some information for me. There must be a record of it in the Vatican.’
‘Why are you so keen to give this to the church?’
‘I’m not!’
‘Padre Paolo has done nothing for you in these past weeks. He is deliberately not helping you. I believe he has told Santiago about your secret, and he is now watching us too.’
I shake my head but Raffaelle continues speaking. ‘You are unreasonable. You have not been yourself recently. Cesare has phoned you with other opportunities. He even asked you to sing with the Philharmonic in London and you turn him down.’
‘I said I would think about it.’
‘You should be out there looking for more roles or other operas. You have been avoiding everyone. You have shut yourself in your apartment and you do nothing. You are feeling sorry for yourself and you are becoming dull, cara; very, very dull.’ He twirls pasta on his fork.
I push my plate aside. The pasta remains untouched and I reach for my glass.
‘We could have a new life,’ he urges. ‘New friends and mix in the right social circle. We could change our lives but you are not interested.’ He places his fork on his plate and takes my hand in his. My palm is perspiring. He traces the finely etched lines that lead to my wrist.
‘This icon could change our destiny. You hold our future in the palm of your hand. I will be with you. We will be together in Florence, Italy’s most beautiful city. All you have to d
o is say, yes. We can leave in the morning.’
‘No!’ I pull my hand away. ‘Just because you have squandered your inheritance.’
His cheeks are red as if I have just slapped him.
‘That is why you have taken the teaching job you hate so much,’ I say.
‘The art world is very unpredictable. My paintings have not sold. I need a prestigious exhibition to raise my profile. I can do that with your help with a little finance.’
‘You are lazy, Raffaelle. You have been given everything on a plate and you have taken responsibility for nothing. The only thing you have left is your Uncle’s villa which you are not allowed to sell,’ I lower my voice, ‘I will not subsidise your career.’
‘You are very hard with me, Josephine.’
‘You are incredible. You don’t think Barbara has any right to the icon. You don’t believe I should give it to her so that she can pay off Seán’s debts. Her children have lost a father and grandfather in the space of a few weeks. Their mother now faces bankruptcy and they could be forced to leave their home. Yet you think it is right for me to sell a stolen art treasure to finance your career.’
His voice is strained when he replies, ‘I think that the man who was in my garden this afternoon is with Maximilian Strong. I think they are after the Golden Icon. I am worried about you.’
‘Are you deliberately trying to scare me?’
‘Your time is running out.’
My throat is dry. My head begins to throb. I rub my eyes conscious that mascara comes off on my fingers. I wipe the smudges onto the napkin.
‘No, Raffaelle. Our time is running out. Maybe you should decide if it’s me you want or the Golden Icon.’
Luigi is busy behind the bar and a young waiter I have not seen before removes our plates. We remain silent until he leaves the table.
‘I saw Glorietta this afternoon. She came off the ferry,’ he says.
My glass hovers half way to my lips.
‘So Glorietta was here? How is she? How are the rehearsals? What did she want?’
‘She was with Bruno.’ Raffaelle won’t look at me.
‘The handsome toy-boy dancer?’
He frowns at me. ‘He’s too skinny.’
‘You mean he is too young. Don’t be jealous,’ I tease. ‘She probably likes her men skinny now that she is not with you.’ I nod at Raffaelle’s waist to make my point.
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘What?’
‘You know what I am saying. We split up a long time ago.’
‘She’s still in love with you,’ I say. I also think he is still in love with her.
‘She threw me out.’
‘Probably because of that young art student.’
‘It was nothing.’
‘It was to her. Besides, if she hadn’t we may not be together.’
He shrugs. He doesn’t deny he still loves her.
‘She invited me, well, she invited us both to the opening night on Saturday. She said she will send tickets.’ He has the grace and sensitivity to pause.
Samba music plays softly in the background. The thought of going to the opening night unsettles me and my pulse races.
‘You should go on your own without me. I know you would like to see it,’ I say. ‘I would not be brave enough to see her singing my role. I doubt I would have the composure to sit through the performance.’
He nods and shrugs, so I continue speaking. ‘She will gain international fame and recognition,’ I say. ‘It will be televised around the world and attended by anyone who is anyone. It is the first opera in the new theatre and a showcase to the world but also, it is an amazing opportunity for her. A major step in her career.’
He refills our glasses.
‘Don’t be hasty. You do not have to decide tonight. Let us see, nearer the time,’ he suggests. ‘You may change your mind.’ His dark eyes smile at me.
The tension leaves my shoulders but I cannot help imagining the opening night; the thrill, the rush of adrenaline, the orchestra, and the lights.
The waiter brings our food and we eat and for the rest of the meal we talk about nothing of any importance. It is superficial chat and I am sure that Raffaelle, like me, is busy with his own thoughts and feelings.
Our conversation flows easily and after the meal he insists on ordering limoncello with our coffee.
‘It will help us sleep,’ he says suggestively, as if sleep is the last thing he wants to do. He leans toward me and I kiss his lips. Then he freezes. He is looking over my shoulder. He pulls away and his face turns to a scowl and when I turn around, standing in the doorway is Santiago Bareldo, the local police chief, Glorietta’s brother.
He selects a table across the room. He nods and smiles at a few diners and raises his hand to us. Raffaelle holds up his glass in response, like a toast, to his health.
‘He’s like a skinny pig,’ Raffaelle says.
‘He was almost your brother in law,’ I reply.
‘He’s arrogant.’
‘You didn’t think that when you were with Glorietta.’
He laughs. ‘I had to be nice then. I don’t now.’
‘Yes, you do.’
He looks stubbornly at me. ‘You don’t like him either.’
‘He is pompous,’ I agree.
Raffaelle takes my hand he begins whispering how he would like to be pompous with me in his bedroom and we both giggle. We clink limoncello glasses and our heads are bent together across the table when I hear a voice beside us.
‘I was hoping I might see you.’ Santiago has jet black hair with patches of grey above his ears. His nose is long and pointed as if sniffing for clues and his eyes are hooded as if guarding a secret.
We lean apart and Raffaelle glares at him.
Without being asked Santiago pulls out a chair and sits down. He rubs the palms of his hands together and appears to be selecting his words carefully. ‘Signora Lavelle I hope you feel you can come to me for any, should we say, police matters. If you feel that there is anything that I can help you with, please do know that you can come to me.’
I smile graciously and before I can reply Raffaelle says.
‘And why would she need your help?’
I raise a warning eyebrow at him.
Santiago looks expectantly at me and I meet his gaze with an inquisitive smile.
‘Perhaps Signora Lavelle, would know better than you?’
‘Know what?’ I reply.
‘Why you may need me.’
‘I’m not aware of any reason.’
‘I have had a telephone call from the police in Ireland concerning you. The Gardaí, is that what they are called? They were looking for you and wanted to know where you lived. And then I had a call from the Irish Consul. It seems that they are very concerned about you. Presumably your ex-husband was murdered - but then, I think that you must know that.’
My heart skips a beat then does more rapid beats in quick succession. I begin twisting a paper serviette between my fingers, winding it over my index finger, round and round making it tighter and tighter.
‘Padre Paolo is also behaving strangely,’ Santiago continues. ‘He has been very guarded with me, as if he had a secret, and now, it seems, he is avoiding me.’ Santiago scratches his nose. ‘And I am beginning to wonder if the events aren’t linked in some way; the police in Ireland, the Irish Consul and Padre Paolo. The thing is, is that Padre Paolo and I were at school together and he can’t keep a secret from me for very long.’
‘That’s not very ethical for a Priest, is it?’ Raffaelle says, ‘Surely one can go to Padre Paolo in confidence?’ He tugs his moustache. ‘Isn’t that the whole point of confession?’
I kick Raffaelle under the table.
‘In the confessional Padre Paolo is discreet.’ Santiago’s nose points toward me. ‘But if matters are not discussed in the confessional there are ways of saying that something requires attention or that someone needs help.’
I am twisting
the serviette. It splits and I pull it from my index finger and throw the mess onto the table.
‘Tell me Signora Lavelle, did the man from the Irish Consul find you?’
I shake my head.
He smiles confidently as if he knows everything. ‘He will. I’m sure he will. He was very insistent. I think his name was David Mallery or Mallory or something similar. He seemed very concerned about your welfare. He says he met you recently in Ireland and that you sang at the funeral of your ex-father in law.’
I don’t reply. I am thinking about the letter. Have the police found it? Where is it? Who has it?
Santiago scratches his nose. ‘Bene, I will leave you to finish your meal in peace but please remember Signora, should you need any help or assistance, the Italian police are here to help you. Please contact me.’ He stands up.
I think he is about to walk away but he stops and turns as if he has remembered something important.
‘Will you be going to the opening night of Tosca on Saturday?’ Although Santiago’s question is directed at Raffaelle, he is watching me. ‘We are all very excited about the opera and the opening of the Teatro.’
I pick up my limoncello and wonder if I will be arrested if I throw it over this odious little man.
‘I think not,’ Raffaelle says. He places his hand over mine. ‘I believe Josephine and I will be on a romantic weekend exploring Florence. We are thinking of moving.’
8
Chapter 8
O Lord, in thee have I trusted: let me never be confounded. - Te Deum, Tosca
On Wednesday I wake with a sense of urgency. I am determined to speak to Padre Paolo. I want him to reassure me that he has not broken his confidence and trust to me. Why is he avoiding me and Santiago?
The small market in the port is busy. I push my way between locals and tourists, and stalls laden with fresh fruit, vegetables, flowers, and handmade souvenirs. Rich ripening cheeses heave a pungent smell and the aroma of fresh coffee from the lakeside cafe tempts me to sit beside the water and relax.
The early breeze is cool against my skin, the water is deep blue, and the sun is already hot on my back. On the slipway beneath the waterside cafe a drake and his family are bobbing on the lapping waves.