‘So you have not seen this item?’ asked Conti. He preferred a direct approach to his enquiries.
‘Me?’ replied Marinetti, his voice now firmly under control. ‘But where would I see this precious object? There is a black and white photograph of it on the Internet… Very old, from before the war … but that is the only image I have seen.’ He smiled at the policeman, wondering if he had given too much away. ‘I fear that nobody will see it ever again, until the police and other agencies have better fortune in their attempts to locate it,’ he continued, his confidence growing as the panic receded. ‘It has been missing for nearly sixty years now, but the police might meet with ultimate success and trace it… Who is to say?’ he concluded raising his eyebrows.
Michele Conti wasn’t sure, but had the feeling that this man had just delivered a non-too-subtle dig at the police. ‘That is always possible,’ he replied as he turned to face the window and the street. ‘You are remarkably well informed about this specific object, Signor Marinetti, when I consider the coincidence of my walking in out of the blue and asking you about it, and you being such a veritable mine of information about that same object…’ The inspector paused to allow what he had just said to sink in. ‘Especially when I am told by Sergeant Pascoli that there are perhaps in excess of 150,000 stolen artworks still to be found and returned to their legal owners; the von Hohenwald screen is but one of very many.’ The inspector did not turn around, but addressed Marinetti over his shoulder. For his part, Marinetti continued without a pause.
‘It is, indeed, a coincidence that I should recently have read about that very same treasure, but that is part of my job … to be au courant with what is going on in the world of antiques. I am very highly thought of in my profession,’ he replied immodestly. He laughed with considerably more success than before, but his feet were swimming in his shoes. The smile on his face was also, possibly, a little too jovial to be convincing. Conti observed none of this.
‘I am impressed that you find the time in your busy career to consult the databases of HARP or IFAR or even our very own CLAE.’
‘Oh yes … indeed … that is where I have seen the photograph I spoke of, but I cannot remember which website specifically,’ muttered Marinetti, truthfully. He had searched the Internet for details of the screen when he had first heard of the collector who was interested in acquiring it. It had been quite by accident that he had discovered a less than reputable agent to supply him with it – no questions asked. Risky as it was, the transaction was well worth the gamble as it would resolve his financial nightmare once and for all. ‘What on earth makes you think that such a priceless, looted object might turn up in an establishment as humble as mine?’ he asked with exaggerated surprise. This policeman and his questions had become somewhat annoying.
There was a momentary pause before Conti replied. ‘We have received a note to that effect.’
‘Saying that the object is here … in Lucca?’
‘Not only that, Signor Marinetti, but the note also claims that the object is here in this very shop,’ replied the inspector without turning around.
That unexpected revelation caused Nicola Dolci, who had been listening to the conversation, to look up and pause in her task of packing the Neapolitan chest.
‘But that is ridiculous,’ exclaimed Marinetti, careful to keep himself calm.
‘Be that as it may, we are obliged to investigate. That is the nature of our profession,’ replied Conti. ‘What of your staff? Could they possibly know something about the whereabouts of this object, something that is unknown to you?’
Gregorio Marinetti had reached the stage where he did not know whether to throw himself on the dubious mercy of the authorities or pick up a heavy black marble obelisk and bring it down smartly over the inspector’s head.
Conti spared him having to make such a decision by suddenly turning to face him.
‘I do have an assistant – Nicola Dolci,’ said Marinetti. ‘As you can see, she is presently busy packing the small chest I have just sold. Please … feel free to question her. Nicola! A moment of your time if you please,’ called Marinetti.
He was certain that she would know nothing. He had given her the afternoon off the day the screen had been delivered. He had made sure of that – the fewer people who knew about the screen, the better.
‘I doubt if she will be able to help us at all,’ he whispered, smiling, as Nicola Dolci appeared at the office door.
That, indeed, proved to be the case.
‘Hmm…’ mumbled the inspector in a non-committal manner, once the two of them were alone again in the little office. ‘Do you have any storage space?’ he asked, emerging once again into the display area of the shop. He cast his eyes around the crowded contents as he spoke. ‘Do you have any other items … safely in store, perhaps … which are not on show?’
Through a well-hidden superhuman effort, Marinetti appeared to be calm and totally unflustered, despite the wet feet, which had now been joined by wet armpits.
‘I do,’ replied Gregorio, a little over-eagerly. ‘I have a small storeroom. Over here… Please take a look, if you wish.’
The inspector crossed to the door of the storeroom and opened it, but he knew he would find nothing. In Conti’s opinion, this man was far too calm to be hiding anything. Possibly, he was a little nervous, but the appearance of an inspector of the Polizia often had that effect on people. He closed the door and turned back into the shop again.
‘Do you have any enemies, Signor Marinetti?’ he asked abruptly. ‘Do you know of anyone who might be jealous of your standing in the antiques world, or even of your position here in Via Fillungo? Is there someone who might bear you a grudge for, well … for anything?’
‘My dear Inspector, despite any outward appearance of elegance or placidity, the antiques business is rather cutthroat. There are fewer quality articles than there are dealers who wish to deal in them. That adds a degree of danger to any transaction. But to even suggest that this…’ He paused for a moment, appearing to search for his next word, but actually marvelling at where the strength for the counter attack to the inspector’s questioning had come from… ‘Shall we say business rivalry might become violent or sink to the level of a vendetta is more than just a little melodramatic. We might deal with things from a past age, but we do not conduct ourselves as if we are in that past age.’
The inspector studied Marinetti’s face for some moments, but it gave nothing away.
‘If, by some quirk of fate, such an item were to come within your reach, Signor Mar –’
‘Then it would be my duty as an upstanding citizen and thoroughly respectable antiques dealer of many years outstanding reputation to immediately report such knowledge to you, Inspector,’ cut in Marinetti. On his face was an expression of total sincerity and earnestness, which would not have gone amiss on the face of any leading politician.
‘As, indeed, you should,’ concluded Conti, who found himself being considerably impressed by the earnestness of this man. He possibly had an over-inflated opinion of his own worth, but he also seemed to be quite genuine. ‘As a well-respected citizen of Lucca and a leader in your profession, we would expect nothing less.’
The two men stood and faced each other, looking firmly into each other’s eyes. Then the inspector nodded, shook the antiques dealer by the hand and turned to leave the shop. By doing so, he did not see Marinetti wipe his brow quickly. Another second locked into the inspector’s gaze and Gregorio’s nerve would have given way. This irritating policeman would then have known the truth. Marinetti shut his eyes tightly, trying to blot out any further thought of the consequences of such a slip.
Inspector Michele Conti was almost at the door when he suddenly turned around to once again face the antiques dealer. Marinetti’s heart suddenly plummeted and splashed around in his wet shoes. Despite this, he managed a beaming smile and raised his eyebrows enquiringly in preparation for the next onslaught of questioning.
‘You sing in
the Chamber Opera Group of Lucca, don’t you?’ asked the inspector.
‘Well, yes… Indeed I do,’ replied Gregorio, beaming.
‘I have tickets for your concert this Friday evening. What can we look forward to hearing?’
On his way back to the Questura, Michele Conti made a detour into the Café Alma Arte. He would take some time out and enjoy the pastry delights and delicious coffee the place was famous for.
16
Maria Santini sat at the table on her balcony. From her vantage point on the top floor of the building, a panoramic view of the city of Lucca spread out before her. On the chair to her right was a small pile of vocal scores, from the pages of which protruded bright pink slips of paper indicating the arias and ensembles she would be performing at Friday’s concert. On the table in front of her stood a large cup of cappuccino and a box of Carezze, ‘Caresses’ – a distinctive Italian chocolate speciality, each of which was crowned by a whole Brazil nut. They were Maria’s favourite. Not that she would admit it to anyone, but they, like most kinds of better quality chocolate, were her principal addiction – chocolate and singing. Chocolate, singing and then caffeine; that was probably the most accurate ranking.
She had recently emerged from her morning shower and was still clad in her silken dressing gown. It was a kimono-like garment that she had bought many years before when, as a young singer, she had been offered the role of the maid Suzuki in Madama Butterfly at La Fenice in Venice. In those days, when she had first worn the dressing gown, the herons, intertwined with the buds of spring blossom, curved their long necks in graceful arabesques to almost touch their beaks in discreet conversation under her breasts. Time and chocolate had not been kind to her and due to the gradual and seemingly unstoppable expansion of her proportions, the two herons, now faded through a great many washings, had not spoken to each other in years. Suzuki was also supposed to have been the beginning of a brilliant operatic career. Everyone had voiced their opinion that she was destined for great things – La Scala, San Carlo, Paris, Covent Garden…
‘Hmm…’ she sighed as she popped yet another Carezze into her mouth. The screwed-up silver wrapper landed in the saucer where it fought for a tiny part of the ever-decreasing space with all of the others that had preceded it. Maria no longer bothered to count them. What else did she have in her life these days, apart from chocolate, singing and caffeine?
Life has to have something in it, to make it worth living, she thought as she rinsed the cloyed chocolate off her teeth with a mouthful of frothy cappuccino. Then she leant across to the pile of music and picked up the first score. It was Verdi’s Il Trovatore, ‘The Troubadour’. Balancing her spectacles on her ample cheeks, she turned to Act II and the gypsy camp. ‘Stride la vampa,’ she sang to herself in what was left of her deep mezzo-soprano, but not sufficiently loudly so as to carry over the handrail of the balcony. It was a technique she had perfected for herself – an exercise in placing her voice correctly and focussing it in a confined space without using too much volume. Maria claimed it worked wonders for her vocal production, but there were very few who agreed with her. On the contrary, there were many who muttered that this was just the outward manifestation of a totally neurotic has-been. ‘Stride la vampa’ – ‘The flames are roaring,’ she continued as she ran through Azucena’s aria, stopping only once to disturb the pile of crumpled wrappers by removing the cup for another mouthful of cappuccino. She had not quite made up her mind whether she would sing that old chestnut or opt for ‘Mon coeur s’ouvre à ta voix’, Dalila’s seductive aria from Samson et Dalila. With three days to go before the concert she was still undecided, not that that was anything to be concerned about. The Contessa was always very good about things like that. She always chose the ensemble pieces, but let her angels decide for themselves which arias they would perform at her concerts. Maria Santini finished Verdi’s aria and took another Carezze out of the box. She always bought the large size, but even that never seemed to last long. There were so many gaps amongst the remnants of the assembled Carezze that she could already see patches of white on the bottom of the box glaring up at her. She could hardly believe what she saw. The box had only been opened the previous evening.
‘Hrumph!’ she snorted, as if to put the box in its place. And what business is it of yours? I shall not be made to feel guilty, she determined. That was the argument she usually put forward for her addiction. She took another chocolate to emphasize her point; they were, after all, only bite-sized. She aimed the crumpled wrapper at all the others, but it hit the side of the almost empty cup, which now stood at a crazy angle on the saucer, balancing on the sea of crumpled silver. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of a siren wafted up on the early morning heat. At the same time, a telephone suddenly started to ring somewhere in the building. That was more than hers usually did. These days it was really only the Contessa who phoned her in connection with some aspect of a concert. On the very rare occasions when it was not the Contessa, she was so far down the track towards becoming a recluse that she found it difficult to have a meaningful conversation with anyone. In fact, Maria had even contemplated having the telephone removed – why should she keep it when hardly anyone called her? But then she had thought twice and decided against it; she had to keep her contact with COGOL open at all times. Take that away – she shook her head slightly. Take COGOL away and there was nothing.
In addition to her addictions, Maria was also a slave to her nerves; no longer because of her singing, but now for life in general. Her nerves had never been the same since that night of the oranges in the Teatro di San Bonifacio in Barga. In fact, her life had never been the same since then, either.
The sun was beginning to creep slowly across the balcony floor, as the morning steadily progressed. Maria reached for a second score – a book of mezzo-soprano operatic arias. Then she took one more of her chocolate delights out of the box before, with an almost superhuman effort, she rammed the lid back on the pitifully few Carezze refugees left.
That will be a reward, she reasoned, placing the one chocolate on the table beside her saucer, I had best save a few for later.
She turned in her chair, slid the box across the floor into the cool interior of her apartment, and then turned back to her operatic arias score and repeated her previous exercise, this time with Dalila’s aria.
‘That’s a good one,’ she said to herself as she finished, ‘and, I think, worthy of a reward.’
The Carezze wrapper joined all the others on the table. She had just bitten into its contents when she suddenly became aware of an irritation between two of her teeth.
‘Oh no!’ she muttered through the remains of the chocolate in her mouth. ‘Please! Not the filling again. Not three days before the concert!’
She had had similar experiences before, when her chocolate enjoyment had been temporarily interrupted by the discovery of a tiny portion of hard nut shell that had managed to escape the refinement of the manufacturing process and lodge itself, uncomfortably, as an unwelcome guest in her mouth. It was an extremely rare occurrence and it could happen to anyone, but Maria was distressed that it had happened to her; she had to be so careful of such things upsetting her fillings. She had accumulated four – not bad for a person of her age and palate, particularly with her penchant for chocolate. Over the years she had also become over-concerned with the notion that each addition to the natural topography of her mouth might affect the quality of her voice. The rest of COGOL, worn down by her unfounded anxiety on these occasions, had agreed that the only thing to have been affected by the introduction of the amalgam was Maria Santini’s already overworked nerves.
Despite her ample proportions, Maria Santini had extremely delicate, almost tiny hands, the fingernails of which were always beautifully manicured and maintained. They bore deep-red varnish, which she would replace with a colour more suited to the gown she would wear for the concert. However, at that moment, any consideration of her concert outfit was the last thing on her mind, as
first her tongue and then her index finger located the source of the irritation between two teeth in her upper jaw. She had broken out in a mild sweat – what if that blasted filling was playing up again? She wouldn’t be able to do anything about it until after Friday, at the earliest. And then what if she had to wait for an appointment at the dentist? She felt herself subsiding into a spiral of panic. With practiced movements, she deftly manipulated her finger and withdrew it from her mouth. With great relief she stared at the tiny piece of nut shell, which was safely lodged under her red talon.
‘Thank heavens for that!’ she said out loud, running her tongue over the filling. ‘Safe and sound,’ she muttered, extending her other hand to take another Carezze. Remembering that the box was now out of reach, Maria sighed heavily and picked up the large cappuccino cup instead. The little cairn of silver wrappers fell off the saucer as she did so. The cup was empty.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ she said, ramming the cup back down onto the saucer, in the process flattening those wrappers that had not managed to escape. ‘Dalila it will be!’ she announced suddenly in a fit of pique, as she closed the score and threw it, together with Il Trovatore, back onto the chair next to her.
She seemed to have momentarily forgotten that Dalila’s aria – that famous example of operatic seduction – usually had a somewhat maudlin effect on her, which could linger on for days after a concert. The depression would worsen with her eventual realisation that, unlike Dalila, she had never managed to entrap or, for that matter, even seduce anyone. This stark fact, which usually overrode the beauty of the vocal line, would depress her for days. That was the time when she would turn once again to her addictions to find solace. In extreme occurrences of this phenomenon, she would also relive that dreadful night with the oranges and, when that happened, the others at COGOL had learned to leave her well alone. Then, it would be only the Contessa – the caring, concerned Contessa – who would know how to get through to her and calm her down quite literally with tea and sympathy.
Errant Angels Page 12