She made friends also with Signor and Signora Bagatelli, who, during her first few morning visits to their bakery, behaved in a manner so polite and courteous as to evince deep mistrust; but who, after slightly more than a week’s time and five trips’ worth of poppy seed bagels, began to ignore her completely as they shouted insults at each other and threw up their hands in the despairing gestures that were their morning routine.
She repeated some of the things Margot had already told Nina, but in more detail, and in language that painted portraits as she talked.
“I loved our farm. Still do, I suppose. My father raised sheep there. I can remember walking out in the pastures, very early in the mornings. There was always a blue mist rising up out of the valleys, and you could hear mourning doves cooing in the pine thickets.”
“Brothers and sisters?”
“No. Just me. A Daddy’s girl. I was a tomboy, always outside, always climbing trees. Sometimes in winters, the snow was pretty deep, and I would go cross country skiing. Not many real friends. Just a kind of loner.”
“College?”
“Three years at the university. Then I had a chance to study in Europe. My father cried when I left, but they knew it was the chance of a lifetime.”
“Where did you go?”
A big smile then, and slightly more animated petting of Furl, who seemed to be envisioning the life that was being recounted along with Nina.
“Arrrgghhh,” he said, meaning “Go on.”
“Vienna.”
“Aha.”
“From the most remote mountains of Georgia to the great city of Vienna. I remember arriving by train at the central train station. I went to the university and was shown my room. Then I ventured out into The Old City. It was about ten in the morning, I remember. My God, how fresh everything smelled, and how bright it all was! The shops and markets and street vendors and painting stalls and huge umbrellas springing up over little tables in the sidewalk cafés. I was just sucked into the city. One narrow little street after the other. I walked all day. But then, for that matter, I walked all semester and then all year. I took courses in German as well as painting. I picked up German quickly. Then French.”
“I loved,” said Nina, “your reading of the French poem.”
“Yes. I have a gift for languages, or so I’m told.”
“You have a great many gifts.”
And she did, Nina told herself continually during those weeks.
One of the gifts she had was opening little cracks, through which Nina began to think that she herself might escape out into the vast world, of which she’d seen so little.
One morning, in particular—it must have been no more than ten days after Carol’s arrival—the two of them were in the kitchen, washing up the breakfast dishes.
“But Nina, the thing that surprises me: you love literature so much….”
“Well, I’ve spent a great deal of my life teaching it. Literature, and history…”
“But why have you never actually gone to Europe?”
“I don’t know. I suppose Frank and I had everything we wanted here in Bay St. Lucy.”
“But—not even the thought of a summer trip?”
“No. The law is a very demanding profession. Frank was able to take no time off during those first years. He even worked Sundays. Then the firm began to prosper. He took on one partner, then another. But that didn’t mean more free time. It meant less. The cases don’t go away just because it’s summer.”
“Then why don’t you go now?”
She could remember smiling, wringing out the wash cloth, and shaking her head.
“I’m too old now.”
“Nonsense! You sound like you’re an invalid!”
“Probably I soon will be.”
“Well, if you put it like that, we all will be some day. That’s the reason to live now.”
“I would be completely lost in a city like Vienna.”
“No, you wouldn’t. You’d have a guide.”
“What guide?”
“Me!”
And from there, it had gone forward, the great plan of Carol Walker and Nina Bannister that, sometime, when the money was a little better, they would sail to Europe.
They talked of it, planned it.
Visualized it.
Carol gave Nina a book about the great Habsburg Empire.
And Nina, just as she had immersed herself in the intricacies of women’s basketball only a little more than a year before, began to travel back in time.
To 1278 when King Rudolf and the horrible Ottokar met in battle on the Field of Marchfeld, and Rudolf, victorious, became the first Holy Roman Emperor.
Then forward to 1477 when the young and fabulously handsome Maximillian journeyed to Burgundy to wed Marie, with whom he was to be head over heels in love, until her death a short year later in a fatal fall while the two were riding horseback.
She read:
“There is a story that some years later, when he had become Emperor, he begged the Abbot Trithemius of Wurzburg, a clever man known for his skill at working magic spells, to conjure up Marie’s spirit from the realm of the dead. The Abbot agreed to do so, on condition that Maximillian would on no account speak to her. But when the image of Marie appeared out of the shadows of the room, wearing, it was said, the same blue dress she wore on the day of her fatal fall, Maximilian could not restrain himself; he cried out a single endearing word and she vanished from his sight.”
What stories! she found herself thinking.
And so she continued to read.
She read about Charles the Fifth, and about his interview with a stubborn and unreasonable monk named Martin Luther; she read about the defenestration at Prague, and how it led to the horrible Thirty Years War; about 1683 and The Great Siege of Vienna, when the armies of Suleiman the Magnificent were said to be spread around the city for miles, and the people panicked, and the walls were breached, and only bare mattresses stood between the Turkish forces and the destruction of all Europe—
––and Count John Sobieski of Poland arrived with his soldiers in the nick of time, September 13, and, after a fierce battle, saved the city.
Then knelt at the feet of Emperor Leopold and said: “I am glad to have rendered you this small service.”
And day and night she read.
She read while having coffee, while puttering at Elementals, while waiting to doze off to sleep at night.
About the grand eighteenth century and Empress Maria Theresa and the prodigy child who sat on her lap and then astonished the people in the grand music salon of the Hoffsburgs who had no idea they were witnessing the phenomenon that was Mozart.
She read about Archduke Johann, and how beloved he was.
And, of course, she read about Sarajevo.
And how that signaled the end of it all.
So, more and more, she could talk with some degree of expertise about their trip.
These talks occupied more and more of their time, as they walked along the shore at tide’s end, as they wandered through the innumerable shops and stores that were the heart of Bay St. Lucy—as they met various of Nina’s acquaintances for lunch or brunch or early dinner or late breakfast or whatever—and as they puttered about in Elementals, hanging a painting here and moving a huge clay pot there.
So that the reverie of actually going to England with Carol did take shape more and more firmly in Nina’s mind.
As did another reverie.
A melancholy one, to be sure.
But a reverie nonetheless.
This little girl with the mousy bangs and the horned-rimmed glasses, and the quiet, easy demeanor…
…if Nina had ever had a daughter…
…that was one of the gentle sadness’s of her and Frank’s otherwise fine life together.
They had planned during the first years, of what life with children would be like.
It had not happened, of course.
And now, here was this younger copy of her
self, sharing her thoughts, moving in and out of her mind as though a part of it.
A gentle reverie.
Then it would pass.
But she allowed herself to play within it while it persisted.
And there was, of course, another aspect of Nina’s new existence: the world of painting. For, with only a little encouragement from Carol—she had resumed her lessons, only this time augmenting them with advice from her new roommate. Color, perspective—these were things that Emily Peterson had, of course, talked about, but not at great length... But, at any rate, there were now four easels standing around the deck, and on them: Seascape #1, Little Red Lighthouse #3 (she had thrown away the first two, since they each contained a dog that, given the probable scale of the lighthouse, would have been approximately seven feet high), Old Fishing Boat #2 (Bad coloring on number one), and Field of Flowing Wheat #1 (her personal favorite).
This idyllic existence ended on a Tuesday afternoon.
It was a day that Nina was to remember for a long time to come.
She had spent the morning at Elementals. Carol had stayed home to finish the dishes and do a load of laundry.
Nina returned to find her sitting not out on the deck in the glorious Mississippi sunshine but in the living room, on the couch, Furl in her lap.
She had clearly been crying.
“What’s the matter, Carol?”
A shake of the head.
“I’ve just gotten word; a call on my cell phone.”
“Word of what?”
“It’s––home. Father is very ill.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“We’ve been expecting this for some time. But there are other problems. We may lose the farm.”
“My God.”
“I’ve got to come up with some money.”
“Carol, if there’s anything I can do––I or Margot…also, Jackson Bennett is a superb attorney. I’d be happy to introduce you to him.”
“No. It’s going to take a lot of money. A lot more than I could possibly borrow, or wish to borrow.”
“Do you have…”
“I have one possibility. I was offered a job some time ago by…well, it doesn’t matter.”
“What kind of a job is it?”
“Not a particularly pleasant one, but one that I’ll probably have to take on now.”
“Where is it?”
“I’ll need to go back to Chicago. Then there will be some travel involved.”
“When will you be back?”
“Probably soon, if everything goes the way I expect it to.”
Then the smile that Nina had come to appreciate so much:
“Keep the paint fresh. And don’t forget to keep working on your paintings.”
And that had been that.
Michael’s full name was Michael Gellert. He’d been born some thirty-five years earlier in a village not far from Osnabruck, in Germany. He’d been an average student in the Gymnasium, then an average student at the Technische Hochschule in Munster, then a far below average painter. He had not, in actuality, succeeded at anything in life until he became an international art smuggler. And at this occupation he was quite good.
It was ten forty-five at night, and wind had turned cold across Lake Michigan. The fact that it was not yet October meant nothing. He had approached the Museum of Natural History from the south, coming over from Lawrence Street, the Mercado, now deserted, and the freeway overpass, watching the vast building itself grow ever larger, but ever darker. It was the darkest night he’d ever seen. There were no stars, of course; but there seemed to be no clouds either, nothing moving, out in what must have been the lake, or above it in what should have been an early autumn sky. Everything, though…the wide, silent sidewalk, the great slab of angled granite that must have been steps, the museum itself…everything had been ink-drenched, and the world was completely black, save for the greenblueyellow Ferris wheel on Navy Pier, far in front of him, and the lights of the skyline itself, frozen white and motionless, looking down on him as he slowly approached downtown.
“Keep walking.”
This, he knew, was his employer, Beckmeier, but he had no idea how the man had approached him. He’d seen no one, did see no one until the figure was simply there, striding along with him.
For a time they walked silently. Immediately to their left, the museum continued to loom. It was too big; they could never get around it––and the lake, to their right, was only the rumor, the myth, of a lake. There was no water to be seen, no boats, no wavelets lapping against what must have been a concrete quay; they were simply there, utterly alone and soundless, walking down the vast edges, drear and naked shingles of the world.
“I have learned,” the figure said, finally, “the location of a particular painting. I’ve also made arrangements to acquire it. I need you, or one of your people, to transport it for me.”
The wind had begun to howl. It bit into both of them like a razor,
“Where is the painting now?”
He turned his head and was aware of a slight upward movement in the collection of clothing moving beside him. It could have been a shrug.
“In California. It will arrive here tomorrow.”
The museum, finally, was behind them now. But they were still completely alone. He could discern, turning his head back over his shoulder, the pillars of the museum’s entrance. Was someone there, moving from behind one to another? No. His imagination.
He was getting jumpy as he approached middle age.
He would have to guard against that.
A figure approached them, wildly, improbably, on a skateboard. It seemed a cross between a scarecrow and the masthead of a ship, leaning away from the wind that tore into them, and being rushed along before it, passing soundlessly between them and the lake.
“What painting are we talking about?”
“A Durer.”
For a moment, he could not speak. He did not know whether to blame this unseasonable cold on pure shock; but he simply waited; let his steps carry him along, the great sidewalk looming on either side of him, until his mind throat and mouth coordinated themselves into words.
“My God.”
This, he admonished himself, was the best he could come up with.
“Yes,” came the reply.
“You have a Durer?”
“Yes.”
“The Chicago Art Museum doesn’t even have a Durer.”
“They have two sketches; I will have a painting.”
“What painting?”
“Hase.”
“We’re talking about one of Durer’s Hasen? His rabbits?”
“Yes.”
He paused for time, as the same process of speech coordination in the midst of impossible conversation repeated itself.
“How much is it worth?”
“It’s priceless. But I will pay you one hundred thousand dollars to transport it to me, from Chicago to Graz.”
“All right.”
The two were silent for a time.
So…do you want to move this painting for me?”
“I’m not sure. I may have to think about the matter.”
“There’s no time. The painting needs to get to Austria. And damned quick.”
His warning antennae picked up something in the air.
Something was wrong.
“Why this sudden urgency?”
“You know the former owners want these paintings back.”
“Yes.”
“Have you come, given the nature of the business you have chosen…”
“Import/export.”
“Ha. Yes. Well, if you wish to call it that. At any rate, have you come to hear of ‘The Red Claw’?”
“No. And what do red claws have anything to do with recovering stolen art?”
“Because of the man who is reputed to be their leader. No one has seen him. No one even knows what he looks like. But he’s reputed to be a particularly nasty fellow. He does not treat couriers well,
when he finds them transporting the paintings of his people. These couriers simply disappear.”
“Still, the name…”
“Lorca Reklaw.”
“Ah. I see.”
“Yes. The Red Claw. Reklaw was apparently the name of one of the largest of the families. Do research on the thing, if you wish. With your contacts…”
“Yes, yes. You can depend on it. If I do this, I shall come to know with whom I am dealing.”
He breathed deeply, then said:
“This will take a special operative. Someone completely unknown.”
That part of the matter is entirely up to you.”
“All right. Let me think about it. Give me until tomorrow morning. I make some contacts; talk with some of my people.”
“Fine. If you decide that you want the job, be in front of Union Station tomorrow morning, eight o’clock. Someone will be there to give you the details. Also, of course, to give your half of your fee. As has always been our arrangement.”
“All right.”
“Very well then.”
And the figure was gone.
The end-of-the world loneliness of the back side of Field Museum gradually gave way, as he made his way through the park. By the time he reached the Art Institute, the city was somewhat itself again, with people either going too fast or nowhere at all. The cabs were lined up in their usual place, directly opposite the Russian Tea Room, pointing north on Michigan, awaiting the end of the concert at Symphony Hall. He caused some consternation among the drivers by selecting the third taxi, and not the first (there was a good deal of pointing and recriminating in, he guessed, Pakistani or an offshoot of it)...but finally he solved the problem by giving ten dollars to both drivers.
Then he got in the third cab.
“I want you to take me to Damen and Montrose. There’s a possibility we may be followed. Take a circuitous route. Don’t go the most direct way. Keep looking behind you. Stop every now and then, as though you’re studying a map, or trying to figure out where you’re going. If you think we’re being followed, stop at the nearest bar or tavern, and let me out. Can you do that?”
Frame Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 5) Page 6