Etruscan Chimera

by Lyn Hamilton

  The article went on to talk about how the Etruscans, as all Italian schoolchildren knew, were the true ancestors of the Italian people, a fact that would no doubt be proven when the results of DNA testing became known, and that all Italians should be enraged by the fact that evil foreigners were allowed to go free. It was all rather overwrought, if not inflammatory, and a little light on both details and accuracy as far as I could see, but it was really depressing when one thought of Lola in jail. It was definitely not looking good for her. The article ended by asking Italians to express their views by E-mailing the reporter at Veii at an Italian ISP address.

  I looked up to find Dottie watching me over the top of her reading glasses. "Anything interesting?" she said.

  "I was just reading about some stolen antiquities," I said. "Apparently someone is smuggling Etruscan artifacts out of Italy. I suppose people like you and me have to be careful when we're buying."

  She looked startled. "We certainly do," she said after a moment's pause.

  "Speaking of buying," I said. "I'd better be on my way. I can't be idling away the hours here, no matter how pleasant it is, when there's work to be done. It was nice to see you again, Dottie. Perhaps our paths will cross again."

  "Why don't we get together for dinner?" she said. "Angelo knows some fabulous places."

  "That's very kind of you," I said. "But really—"

  "You have to eat sometime. We'll come and pick you up at your hotel around eight. Where are you staying?"

  I gave her the name of the hotel. There didn't seem any way around it. She wrote down the name and the street address. I kept thinking she must know, somehow, where I was staying, because here she was in the square just a few yards away. But there was absolutely nothing in her manner that would lead me to believe that. I decided I was being paranoid and that I should just get on with finding the fake Crawford Lake.

  "See you this evening," she said. "Maybe I could ask Angelo to bring one of his young friends for you."

  "No, thanks, Dottie," I said. The idea of spending an evening in Rome with a young man from a modeling agency just depressed me.

  I went to check telephone listings. My memory was a little fuzzy on the subject, but for some reason, I recalled that the agency name Antonio had told me about with evident pride had made me think of an Italian classical composer. I looked at the listings again. Arcangelo Corelli, seventeenth-century Italian composer, pioneer of the concerto grosso form. Corelli Ponte, actors' agency. That was it.

  I telephoned Corelli Ponte for an appointment. I spoke only in English and told them I was an advance scout for a small but particularly highly thought of film company. I told them I was looking for actors who looked good in suits and could pass for successful businessmen. I also told them my name was Janet Swain, and while I knew I was being completely unreasonable, hoped they'd be able to accommodate me that very day. There was a little protestation about such short notice, but in the end, they suggested I come in and look at some photos that afternoon.

  It was a small office in a very old building but in a good location off the Via Veneto. I rang at the street door and was buzzed in, then entered the office, which was on the main floor. A young woman took my jacket, motioned me into the first of a series of rooms that led off a central hallway, and then took her seat at a desk. The walls were covered in photos of very beautiful people, male and female. Two particularly large photos, one a man, the other a woman, were front and center behind the reception desk. The woman looked very familiar, one of their star models perhaps. The young woman at the desk asked for my business card. I made a show of rummaging about in my bag and then shrugged my shoulders. "Sorry," I said. "I must have left them at the hotel. The Hassler," I added, naming one of the more expensive hotels in town, and one, now that Lake's money had been cut off, way beyond my means. The receptionist, however, did not look impressed.

  "You'll be seeing Signora Ponte," she said in a low voice. "I would ask that you not mention the incident. She has just returned to work this week."

  "The incident?" I said.

  The young woman looked about to ask me if I were new to the planet. "Her husband," she whispered. "Killed himself." She may not have wanted me to mention the incident, but she was obviously rather keen on discussing it with me herself.

  "Of course," I said, suddenly putting the face and the name together with the news reports. "Dreadful. He threw himself off the baize in Volterra, didn't he?"

  "Yes," she said. "Can you imagine? Just left his office without saying anything, drove all the way to Volterra, and then threw himself off. They say the place is haunted, you know."

  "So I've heard," I whispered back. "Why do you think he did it?"

  "You just never know, do you? He ... shhh," she said. I could hear footsteps in the hall, and the woman whose glorious face, albeit a few years earlier, was on the poster behind the desk, entered the room.

  "Eugenia Ponte," she said, extending her hand. "How may we be of service?"

  She was a very attractive woman of about forty, shoulder-length hair bleached reddish blond in the style that Italian women of a certain social status seem to favor in Rome and Milan. She looked casually elegant in very slim black pants and a white silk shirt, black flats, and some simple but expensive looking gold jewelry, a bracelet, necklace, and a pair of large, round earrings. If she was grieving her late husband, she didn't show it. Her manner was completely professional.

  "I'm looking for actors who appear well-to-do, professional businessmen," I said. "They have to be able to act. It's not good enough they just stand there. They have to present themselves well verbally, too. Smart enough to learn their lines. Very presentable."

  She asked a couple of questions about age, height, and so on, and then led me into a small conference room. "I'll have some photos and resumes sent in to you right away. I'm sure you will be able to find what you want here," she said. "Just make yourself comfortable. I'll have Angela bring you a coffee. Will an espresso do?"

  "Thank you," I said.

  "When you've made your selection, bring the albums to my office. It's the last one on the right," she said, gesturing down the hallway.

  The men were in alphabetical order, and given I didn't have a name, I had to start at the beginning. I found Antonio right away, Antonio Balducci. He looked so nice, with such a lovely smile, I just had to stop for a minute, a lump in my throat, and pull myself together. Angelo was next, Angelo Ciccolini. He looked rather fetching, too. It took me almost half an hour, but finally, there he was, Crawford Lake smiling out at me, only his name was Mario Romano.

  I was a little surprised by Mario's credentials. He'd actually appeared in a rather impressive number of films, and not always in small roles. He wasn't the male equivalent of Sophia Loren in terms of name recognition or anything, but he wasn't doing badly at all. I couldn't imagine why he'd bother to accept a small part playing a mysterious billionaire, a role in which, as far as I knew, he'd never be seen by anyone but me.

  I took the photos of Romano and Antonio to Eugenia Ponte's office, as directed. It was much larger than the other offices, befitting her status, and had glass doors that led out to a courtyard garden. Everything was very high style, great Italian design, elegant and contemporary.

  "Lovely office," I said, trying to establish some rapport.

  "Thank you," she said. "I like it, too. Now, what have you found?"

  "I'm interested in these two," I said, handing her the photos and watching her reaction.

  She fiddled with one of her earrings, but other than that, showed no emotion.

  "Can you tell me about them?"

  "Excellent choices," she said. "Two of our very best actors. I'm sure you'd be happy with both of them. However," she said, and this time, she chewed her lip. "Only one of them is available. This one is available," she said, pointing. "Mario Romano. Unfortunately Antonio Balducci is ..." she paused for a moment.

  Deceased? I thought.

  "Unable to accept assi
gnments," she said, finally. "I suppose we should remove him from the catalog."

  "In that case, how about Romano's availability?" I said. "We'll be shooting in the next couple of weeks."

  "Mario is extremely busy. You've seen his resume," she said. "But I'm sure we'll be able to work something out."

  "Would it be possible for me to interview him in person? It's rather difficult to tell from a photograph if he will suit our purposes. I'd have to hear his voice. It is just a small part in a commercial, but my director believes that all the details must be perfect. I'm sure you know the type of person I'm talking about."

  "Indeed I do," she said. "Difficult, of course, but attention to detail always shows, doesn't it? I can assure you Mario is utterly professional, so he will understand."

  "Could you tell me where I could get in touch with him?"

  "We will arrange for you to meet him here," she said.

  "Great," I said. "Could that be later today or tomorrow morning? Deadlines, you know."

  "I think so," she said. "But let me call Angela and ask her to see what she can set up." Removing one earring so that she could use the telephone more comfortably, she dialed an extension. I could hear the phone ringing down the hall.

  "Where is that girl?" she said with more than a touch of impatience. "Give me a minute, please.” She got up and I listened to her footsteps recede down the hall. In a flash I stood up, reached over to the file folders, opened Romano's, and found the address. As I did so, I inadvertently knocked her earring on the floor. I could hear footsteps coming my way. In a panic, I whipped around the desk, found it and was about to set it back in its place, when I noticed something that gave me pause. The earring was gold, heavy, and obviously good quality. On it was embossed a scene of some kind. I took a closer look. It was a chimera, with Bellerophon poised for the kill above.

  Seeing it stopped me dead in my tracks. I just stood there, holding it and staring at it, thinking that the earring reminded me of something else, although what, I just couldn't recall, and wondering what it all meant. Almost too late I remembered the footsteps in the hall. I set the earring in its place and, given I was on the wrong side of the desk and she was nanoseconds from coming through the door, turned quickly and stared out the doors.

  "Gorgeous garden," I said. "It makes such a difference, doesn't it? To have something beautiful to look at, I mean."

  She looked suspiciously at me but then, checking her desk and seeing nothing out of order, agreed. "Angela says you're staying at the Hassler," she said, reaching for her earring and putting it on. "Lovely hotel. We will set up an appointment for you with Romano and leave a message for you there. I know that time is of the essence, so we'll try to set up something for later this afternoon or first thing tomorrow."

  "Many thanks," I said. "I'm glad we'll be doing business."

  "I am as well. How did you hear about us?" she asked.

  Good question. I thought of the photo of Angelo Ciccolini. "Dorothea Beach," I said. "She's an antique dealer in New Orleans. She recommended you highly."

  "Ah, Signora Beach. Of course. We deal with her whenever she's in Rome. I must be sure to tell her we appreciate her recommendation," Eugenia said.

  I turned to go but then had another thought. "Do you have any older women actors? Say about sixty. The kind who could play the part of somebody's mother, for example, or perhaps an older maid?"

  "Not many," she said. "But you're welcome to look at more photos if you wish."

  "Thank you," I said.

  In the older woman category, the pickings were pretty slim, a comment, I suppose on how society treats women actors over the age of about thirty. After only a few minutes of leafing through photos, I was interrupted by Signora Ponte, who had slipped a rather smashing black cashmere shawl over her shoulders. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave you," she said. "I have a luncheon appointment. But if you see anyone you're interested in, Angela will make the appointment, and you can see her at the same time you see the others. It's been a pleasure meeting you."

  "For me, as well," I said. "I look forward to seeing you when I come to meet the actor." I had no intention of returning, of course, something they'd figure out when they tried to leave a message for Janet Swain at the Hassler. It took me only a few more minutes to check the rest of the photographs. No sign of Anna, she of the lemon cake and tea. I went outside and hailed a taxi.

  Mario Romano, aka Crawford Lake, lived across the Tiber in Trastevere, a neighborhood known for good food, night life, and a place for artists, and I suppose, reasonably successful actors, to live.

  Romano, according to the names on the mailboxes, was on the top floor. A little girl sat outside the first-floor apartment, and after some smiling and waving on my part, she opened the door and followed me up to the first floor before giving up and going back to sit outside her door.

  A rather pretty young woman of about eighteen or twenty, close to Jennifer Luczka's age by my estimate, opened the door a crack. She was dressed very casually in jeans and a white T-shirt, her long, dark hair pulled back and tied with a black ribbon. She looked as if she had a bad cold, with her red nose and eyes. "I'm looking for Mario Romano," I said.

  "He's not here right now," she said.

  "Can you tell me when he'll be back?"

  "Soon," she said, but I wasn't sure she was telling the truth for some reason, a certain look about her eyes. It occurred to me she was alone and possibly a little nervous about strangers appearing at the door.

  "I'm a friend of Antonio Balducci's," I said.

  "Oh," she said, opening the door. "Come in. Isn't that the most awful thing? I can't believe Antonio would do that. Oh," she said, bringing her hand up to her mouth. "You do know that he's dead, don't you? I hope I'm not giving you a terrible shock."

  "I heard," I said. "So you're . . ."

  "Silvia," she said. "Mario's my dad."

  "Of course!" I said. I could see the resemblance now that she'd told me. "I've heard about you. I'm Lara. I'm just in Rome for a few days, and I saw the newspaper story about Antonio," I said. Silvia gestured toward the sofa, and I sat down. The newspaper article I'd just referred to was faceup on the coffee table.

  "Is there going to be a funeral?"

  "It's today," she said, glancing at her watch. "I'm terribly sorry, but you've missed it. You could never get there in time. Antonio lived in Rome, of course, but his family wants him buried in his village down south. That's where my dad is now. It's going to start in about an hour."

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I would have liked to have gone." That was true, actually. "I didn't see anything in the paper about the funeral."

  "No," she said. "It took a long time for the carabinieri to release the body so Antonio could have a proper funeral. But given what happened, the suicide and everything, it's just family and really close friends. I can't believe he did that, can you? I wouldn't have thought suicide is something Antonio would even think about. Do you think it had something to do with Teresa? He was so afraid she'd take up with someone else."

  "Yes, he was," I said. "He told me about Teresa and how all the other men were like bees around a lovely flower."

  She smiled a little. "That sounds like Antonio. I was, still am, a little bit in love with him. You won't tell my dad, will you? I've had a crush on Antonio for at least three years. I've just been sitting here having a bit of a cry about it. Dad wouldn't take me along, unfortunately, because he's going somewhere else directly after. Look, I'm being terribly inhospitable here," she said. "I haven't even asked you if you'd like a drink or something."

  "I'm fine, thanks. But tell me how your dad is doing."

  "He's okay," she said. "I suppose you heard he and my mother have split."

  "No," I said.

  "Well, they have. I'm supposed to be at my mother's right now, so please don't tell my dad if you happen to run into him. I like staying here better." She waved her hand about the room. I could see why she'd like the place. It was a cozy apartme
nt by North American standards, but probably sizable enough for Rome. The walls were covered in art and framed posters, a couple of them for exhibits of Etruscan art, and one whole wall was devoted to bookshelves. The furniture was large and comfortable, and the place had a nice, casual feel to it.

  "Dad's taken a few months off to get his life back together again. But his agency called a few minutes ago with something for him, so maybe he'll get back to it. He's with the Corelli Ponte agency. They're huge," she said. "The people wanted to see him today or tomorrow, though, so maybe it will be too late when he gets back."

  "Is your dad coming back tomorrow, after the funeral?" I said. "I'm only here for a day or two, so I'd like to get in touch with him if I could."