by Lyn Hamilton
"He also said to tell you he misses you," Clive said. "I suppose I should have mentioned that first."
"Good-bye, Clive," I said. "If Rob calls again, tell him I miss him, too."
It was at this point that I hatched what I thought of as Plan A. I would get the hydria to Lake. He would then have one of his minions call a news conference on his behalf, or whatever it was he'd been planning to do with the bronze horse, and announce with a flourish that he'd managed to track down an Etruscan antiquity, probably by the Micali painter or one of his followers, that he believed to have been stolen. There'd be a nice speech about returning it to the museum where it belonged, where all could enjoy it and appreciate the rich heritage of the Etruscans and so on.
The plan wasn't perfect. There'd be questions about where he found it, and I needed to come out of this with a clean reputation and a nice commission, even if I hadn't paid anything for the hydria, and we'd both have to count on the fact that no one would recognize it as the hydria in Godard's place. I might be able to say that I bought it from Godard, at Lake's request.
Now that Godard was dead, who was going to argue with me? With a bit more refinement, I hoped Plan A would work. It had to. There was no Plan B.
I put the carton with its precious contents back in the trunk of the car to keep it out of sight of the prying eyes and possibly clumsy hands of the housekeeping staff and settled in to wait for Lake to contact me.
I didn't hear from him that first evening. I tried calling the number he'd originally given me, Antonio's cell phone, but there was no answer. I left a voice mail message to say I'd arrived. The next morning, I sat in the lounge of the inn drinking tea with lemon and slowly eating toast, hoping my stomach would settle down, waiting for Antonio to show up. After a couple of hours of this, I couldn't sit still anymore and headed out.
Volterra is a really spectacular place, a medieval town set high up, maybe 1,800 feet on high cliffs, the baize as they're called, over two huge valleys, with views in every direction. It's about thirty miles from the sea, which you can occasionally see, and it can be a pretty wild and windy place. It has narrow cobblestone streets that have a claustrophobic feel to them as the buildings on either side hang over the street. It has gorgeous public buildings, the Duomo and several churches, and here and there you can find reminders of a much earlier Volterra, the Velathri of the Etruscans and the Volterrae of the Romans.
D. H. Lawrence, visiting during a cold and rainy April, found Volterra to be a gloomy place, cold and damp, the people rather sullen. On that day, however, the sun was shining, and although, because of the steep and narrow streets and the buildings that shielded them, sunlight rarely reached street level, hovering instead over the red tile rooftops and the crenellations of the grander buildings, I found it all rather beautiful.
Realizing that I was hungry at last, I sought out a trattoria on a steeply sloped street near the center of the medieval part of the city, the Piazza dei Priori. It was late, the place was empty except for a couple of men at the back, and the server, a rather robust woman who obviously loved to talk, hovered after she brought my insalata mista, a lovely green salad with carrots and radicchio.
"Just here for the day?" she asked.
"A couple of days," I said. "I arrived yesterday and may stay a day or two longer."
"Most people just come for an hour or two, on their way to or from San Gimignano," she said. "There are nicer places to stay in Tuscany than Volterra."
"I think it's beautiful here," I said.
"You wouldn't think so if it was raining or really windy."
"Perhaps not," I said. Why argue? I just wanted to eat.
"You're not with the media, are you?" she asked a few minutes later as she brought a steaming bowl of pasta al funghi, mushroom pasta.
"No," I said, tucking into the food. "Why would you think that?"
"That Ponte business," she said. "The reporters, the police. What an affair!"
"Ponte," I said. "Is that the fellow who—"
"Jumped off the baize," she nodded. "You should have some wine with this," she said. "I'll bring you a nice glass of Vernaccia de San Gimignano."
"Okay," I said. I wasn't going anywhere.
"I saw him that very day," she, said, placing the glass in front of me. Vernaccia is one of my favorite whites, so I took a sip and smiled. "Good?" she said. I nodded.
"He walked right past here," she said. "I was outside sweeping the street in front of the place. He walked down the hill and through the gate, the Porta all Arco. Have you seen it yet? No? You should. It's Etruscan, the bottom part, anyway, and the heads. They're supposed to be Etruscan divinities of some kind. Tinia, I think, plus a couple of others. They're guarding the town. Anyway, Ponte—we all know him here—he has a splendid villa, vineyards, everything, very fancy, on the road between here and San Gimignano. Later on, when I was going home, I saw him just standing there, outside the gate, looking over the wall. He'd been there for at least an hour. They found him the next morning at the foot of the baize. I say he killed himself. Why else would he just stand there looking out from the gate? I suppose he decided it wasn't high enough there to kill him, so he went over to the high cliffs, waited until dark so no one would see him, and then threw himself over the side. Lots of people jump off the cliffs there. They say suicidal people are drawn to that spot. Perhaps it's the sound of the wind calling out to them. Although why Ponte would want to, with that beautiful wife and children. You never know about a marriage, though, do you?" She turned to a call from one of the men at the back. "I'd better go. Enjoy your meal."
"I believe you've just been introduced to the Volterrans' love/hate relationship with their city," a man seated a couple of tables away said to me, as the woman retreated. I turned to look at him. He was very nicely dressed, a business suit with exquisite Italian tailoring, not terribly attractive, perhaps, but one of those Italian men who seem quite comfortable with themselves. He'd arrived a few minutes after I had. "Don't let her put you off your food," he added. "It is a lovely place, and all that nonsense about the baize is just that. Nonsense."
"Are you from here, then?" I said.
"No. Rome. I'd like to live here," he said. "But my wife is Roman, through and through. She'd much rather breathe pollution and gas fumes than be out in the country. We do have some property here, though, a vineyard and some olive trees, so I get to come here from time to time to check on them."
"I've always dreamed of having some property here," I said. "One of those wonderful old Tuscan farmhouses, a few acres of vines."
"Well then," he said. "My card. I know people in real estate I'd be happy to put you in touch with."
"I'd like to be serious about it, but no, I fear it's a dream only." I looked at his card. His name was Cesar Rosati. "Here's my card as well," I added.
"Antique dealer. How interesting," he said. "Are you by yourself, by the way?"
"Right now I am," I said. "But I'm meeting friends shortly." Not true, but I usually find it pays to be cautious in these kinds of situations. It was nice to have somebody to talk to, though. I'd been on the road for a long time, now, and I'd spent way too many evenings by myself in a hotel room watching CNN and eating room service food, which even in Italy isn't so hot.
"Do you mind if I join you? Talking across two tables seems rather unfriendly," he asked.
Why not? I thought as I gestured toward the seat opposite. "The Rosati Gallery," I said, looking again at the card he'd given me. "No doubt I should have heard of it, but I haven't."
He smiled. "There is no reason you should have. It's more a hobby than a business, and we can't compare ourselves with the fabulous collections in Rome. Like the Vatican, for example. It would be foolhardy, if not downright tempting fate, to try to compete with an organization with God on its side." We both laughed. "I'm semi-retired really. I used to be a banker. Now I just dabble in a few things. The gallery I do for the pleasure of it. My wife's family has some wonderful art, and we've opene
d a part of our home to the public."
"I must come and see it," I said. "What kinds of art do you have?"
"My wife prefers sixteenth-century sculpture, but her family has collected for well over a hundred years, so there's something for everyone: Etruscan right through to some twentieth-century paintings. It's small by museum standards, of course, but a very nice private collection. If you're in Rome, I hope you'll call me. I'll show you around personally."
"So, a gallery in your home," I said. "That must present some challenges. Security, and so on. With Etruscan artifacts, for example. There's probably a big market for those." I found myself asking the question, even though I wasn't sure I wanted to know the answer right at that moment.
"There is, indeed. It's a disgrace, really, how many Etruscan antiquities have been stolen or bought and sold illegally. We have very good security, of course, but we did have one break-in. Funny you should mention Etruscan artifacts. Only one object was stolen, a really gorgeous Etruscan kylix, nothing else. You know what I mean by kylix, do you? A two-handled drinking cup? Probably the Bearded Sphinx painter. I'm sure it was stolen on demand. Someone wanted that piece, and only that one, and hired someone to get it."
The woman returned with Rosati's order, raised her eyebrows slightly when she saw he'd moved, and asked if we'd like some more wine. We said we did.
"It bothers me," Rosati said, as she left us. "The way she talks about Gianpiero Ponte. I couldn't help overhear her talking to you about him. I knew Ponte. I wouldn't call him a friend, exactly, but he was a close acquaintance, and I dislike hearing people gossiping about him. Who knows what makes a person do what he did? Not the sounds of the baize, certainly. He had a lovely wife and family, and it's a terrible tragedy."
"I'm sure it is," I said.
Despite that gloomy subject matter, I spent a reasonably pleasant hour of conversation with Rosati over a second glass of wine, a tartuffo, and an espresso, all of which improved my sense of well-being no end. He made a few suggestions about sights in the area he thought I'd be interested in seeing and was obviously pretty knowledgeable about Tuscany as a whole. I learned some more about the market for Etruscan antiquities, although nothing, really, I didn't know by now. My one complaint was that he left his cell phone on and took three calls while he was sitting with me. I may be old-fashioned, but I really dislike listening to people talk on the phone while they're sitting in a restaurant, particularly if they're at my table. He made an appointment with one caller, had a mild disagreement with the second, and brushed off the third. Then he placed a brief call to someone to tell them where he was.
At some point in the conversation I mentioned where I was staying. "Lovely place," he said. "If your friends haven't arrived, perhaps we could have dinner together at the hotel this evening. I promise I won't bring my cell phone," he added. "I can tell you don't approve."
I hesitated for just a second too long.
"No pressure. I'm sure you're busy," he said. "Why don't we leave it that I'll be in the dining room at eight. If you're there, wonderful. If not, it's no problem. I have no other plans."
"I expect I'll see you then," I said. Why not, really. It was better than room service again.
I checked for messages at the hotel. There were none, so I decided I might as well do some sightseeing. Plan A would work, I told myself. I just had to be patient and wait until I saw Lake again. By late afternoon, quite by accident, I found myself by the baize. The cliffs have something quite primordial about them, sheer drops and yawning crevices, where the wind whistles and groans far below. I knew what had created them. Soft yellow sandstone on top, they are a gray clay lower down. The water that falls on Volterra seeps through the surface stone, pooling in the clay below and destabilizing the ground. From time to time, great masses of the cliffs simply collapse into the depths below. The baize are, in many ways, starkly beautiful, but I could see that they'd be a place people would feel drawn to if they were desperate, or depressed, or just tired of life. I thought of Ponte, a man I'd never known, and Godard, one with whom I'd spent only the better part of an hour, both gone, perhaps both of them by choice.
Precariously near the edge of the cliffs stood the remains of an old building. Its walls were cracked and broken, and it looked forlorn, abandoned to its fate, as the edge of the baize crept nearer. Soon it would follow the Pontes of this world, the ancient walls and necropolises of the Etruscan city, and other much more recent buildings that had crashed into the dark chasms when the earth gave way beneath them. As I looked at it, I began to feel as if that abbey and I were alike somehow, that I, too, was standing helpless, unable to move, waiting to be pulled into the abyss. I wished I'd never met Crawford Lake nor been dazzled by his money and my own ambition. Annoyed with myself for being so deeply affected by the place, I pulled myself away to head back to the hotel, which seemed to me, with its bright lights and people, to offer a sort of sanctuary.
As I entered the grounds, though, I was fast disabused of that notion. The hotel had two small parking areas, one to the side of the hotel, the other around the back. I parked on the side, beside a red Lamborghini, the same one I'd parked next to in Nice, given the yellow umbrella in the back window, and entered the hotel by a side door. As I did so, through a hole in the hedge, I was startled to catch a glimpse of carabinieri in the back lot. To my horror, they were opening the backs of cars and peering in, shining flashlights against the dim light. I pulled back a little into the shadow of the hedge and thought what to do. The police were searching trunks. When they got to mine, unless I got it out of there, they'd find a stolen Etruscan hydria. I'd have to make a dash back to my car, drive off before they got to it, and find somewhere else to hide the hydria until I could contact Lake. I turned back toward the car.
At that moment, a dark green Passat with a broken taillight and a badly scratched fender pulled up to the unloading spot near the front door, about three or four cars from mine. The driver got out and signaled for a bellhop. As he did so, he turned slightly, and by the lamp at the entranceway, I saw who he was: Pierre Leclerc, or perhaps it was, as Godard had thought, Le Conte. This seemed just a little too much of a coincidence for me. Whatever his name was, he'd been in Vichy, and while I hadn't seen him, the damage to the car also placed him in Nice at the same hotel as I was. At some point between the time I'd seen the hydria in the glass case in Godard's chateau that first afternoon and the rest stop on the highway between Nice and the Italian border, the hydria, stolen not once, but twice, presumably, had turned up in my car.
Leclerc reached into the car, popped the trunk, and signaled to the bellhop to bring his bags in, as he went up the steps to reception. The boy took out two large suitcases and used his elbow to push down the trunk lid. Perhaps because of the damage to the back, it didn't catch, and the trunk bounced open a few inches as the two men disappeared through the hotel's front door. I really didn't think about what I did next, moving almost on automatic pilot. I looked about me quickly, saw no one watching, then in quick succession strode the few steps to my car, got the carton out of the trunk, placed it in Leclerc's, and got into my car and drove away. There was a Plan B after all.
I was several miles away before I remembered that I was standing up that nice man, Cesar Rosati.
PART II
THE LION
SIX
AREZZO
The hotel I chose in Arezzo was rather more modest than the places I'd been enjoying heretofore on this jaunt through Europe for Crawford Lake. If anything, it was a little down at the heels. Like many of the lesser establishments in Italy, it was decorated in red: red curtains, red bedspread, red tiles in the bathroom. Usually, this kind of decor offends my aesthetic sensibility. That's an occupational hazard for someone like me who deals with beautiful places and objects on a daily basis: We are a little hard to please in this regard. Here in the tiny albergo off the Corso Italia, Arezzo's main street, however, I felt much more at home than I had in Lake's lovely and expensive boutique ho
tels. Obviously, I'm a shopkeeper, not an aristocrat, at heart. In addition to the questionable color scheme, there was the hot water, when there was any, that clanged noisily as it made its way through what surely were prehistoric pipes, and the sounds in the next room, the rhythmic creak of the bedsprings and the grunts and groans of a rather energetic couple, came through the walls as if they were cardboard, which maybe they were. Still, the place had one overwhelmingly positive feature: No one, with the exception of Antonio, assuming he picked up his voice mail messages, knew I was there. I'd been very careful about that. I'd called the car rental agency and convinced them that the car they'd leased to me stalled all the time and insisted they give me a new one, which they did. Then I called the hotel in Volterra and told them that I would be checking out earlier than anticipated. I went back to the room and as quickly as I could, packed my bag, settled my bill, paying for an extra day so there would be no argument, and then disappeared—at least I hoped that was what I'd done—into the sunset.