Cold Tuscan Stone Read online

  “But what do I have to do with it?”

  Beppo shifted away from the desk, his jacket opening to show the brightly colored silk tie and tailored shirt. A foulard which matched the tie was casually but carefully tucked into the jacket pocket. His elegant wardrobe indicated that working for the ministry hadn’t cut Beppo off from the profits of the family business.

  “The other day I remembered your connections.”

  Rick was puzzled. Connections? His Italian uncle, the policeman? But how would Beppo have remembered that from high school?

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, your connection with New Mexico.”

  Rick blinked.

  “Let me explain.” Beppo opened a drawer and pulled out a small card which he passed across the desk. After reading it, Rick became even more confused.

  “A commercial art gallery in Santa Fe? I’ve been there, but now I’m completely lost.” He handed the card back.

  “Rick, stolen antiquities appear in the Santa Fe art market, mostly from South America, but there is the occasional piece from Italy. We have worked with this dealer in the past, and they have always been very cooperative. I called them yesterday and they agreed to help us again for this case.”

  “Still not with you, Beppo.”

  “Simply put, Rick, we’d like you go to Volterra and pose as a buyer for the gallery.”

  “Me?” Not what Rick had imagined. Not even close. A few documents translated, some interpreting for a visiting English speaker, but not undercover work.

  “It would be like this: You are a friend of the American gallery owner, and since he knows you are now living in Rome, he’s asked you to go up to Tuscany to look into some possible purchases to export back to New Mexico. The gallery’s interested in alabaster pieces, as well as a few fine works of art, especially sculpture in the classical and Etruscan style. All legitimate, of course. You would also carefully leak the news that you might be in the market for some genuine artifacts. Volterra being a relatively small town, the word would get out and you would be approached by the men who have found the tomb with these urns. At least that’s what I think will happen.” Beppo settled back in the chair and watched his friend’s reaction.

  Rick immediately thought of his Uncle Piero. Wouldn’t he love this? As the favorite nephew, Rick was the only one in the family Piero ever talked to about his work. Rick ate it up, but his mother didn’t, worried her brother was trying to steer her only son into a police career. Much too dangerous a profession for an Italian mother to accept without a fight. When Rick dined with his uncle after moving to Rome, always at the same restaurant, the subject was inevitably the crime of the moment. Overhearing snippets of conversation, the waiters at first assumed Rick was a younger police colleague. But when the true relationship became known, they noticed how similar the two men at the corner table were. It went beyond physical traits—lanky frames, kind eyes—to their gestures, the serious way they always studied the menu, and the even more serious way they both studied any attractive woman who entered the room. When Rick wrote his weekly email to his mother he never failed to mention seeing his uncle, though without the details. She may have gotten the idea that the two met at Mass.

  “I don’t know, Beppo. I’d have to think about it. Do you really believe it could work?”

  “I sure as hell hope so, since it was my idea and I managed to sell it to my boss.” His smile was forced. “Not that my reputation within the ministero is anything you should consider before making your decision. But we must move as quickly as possible, and naturally you’ll have to get some detailed briefings here at the ministry before you drive up to Volterra. So do think about it, though please, not forever.”

  Rick was thinking, all right. What first came into his head was finally visiting Volterra. In all the years he had spent in Italy as a kid he had never been to this famous hill town in western Tuscany. Rick’s father, the New Mexican, loved to explore new places in Italy but his job at the embassy didn’t allow that much time off. And Rick’s mother, the Italian, usually insisted that those precious vacation days be used to visit her family around the peninsula. There was an aunt in Tuscany, but she lived in the south east part of the region. Volterra, in the west, was always on the “to visit” list for the Montoya family. Going undercover for the Italian government would certainly make him an unorthodox tourist. How would it work? As if reading Rick’s mind, Beppo spoke.

  “We, of course, would pick up all your expenses, and would also be in contact with the police in Volterra to keep an eye on you.” Rick’s eyes widened slightly and Beppo added quickly, “We don’t expect any trouble. It is our experience that these traffickers avoid violence at all costs. It would just be a precaution.”

  Beppo stood and straightened his jacket.

  “How about some lunch? I have a favorite place a few blocks away, and their specialty is Roman artichokes. It’s on me, by the way.” He reached into another drawer and pulled out a book, passing it to Rick. “This is an excellent volume on the Etruscans. Pallottino is still considered the best, and I’d like you to have it even if you decide not to take up this offer.”

  “Thanks, Beppo.” He flipped through the pages and came to a photograph of a funerary urn like the one on the table behind him. He turned more pages and found the she wolf is the prized piece in Rome’s Capitoline Museum. Even he knew that the two figures of the infants Romulus and Remus were added in the middle ages, but that did not detract from the artistry of the Etruscan wolf.

  “Something else, Rick, that hardly needs mentioning, but I must.” Rick looked up from the pages and saw that Beppo’s serious look had returned. It was becoming standard. “What I have told you here should not be shared. Except with your uncle, of course.”

  So Beppo did remember that Uncle Piero was a policeman. Or had he done a background check and found out? Probably better not to ask. Something else came to mind. “Beppo, did you ever meet a girl at the university here named Erica Pedana? Art history, specializing in the Mannerists? She’s a professor now at La Sapienza.”

  Beppo squinted in thought. “A relative, Rick?”

  “No, a friend. She’s from Rome.”

  The big smile that Rick remembered from high school returned to Beppo’s face. “I got my laurea at Padova, Rick, not here in Rome, so I don’t know her. But if you’re asking if you can let her in on this business, I would rather you did not.” He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, seeming to realize how serious he’d sounded, and forced a laugh that was not convincing. “And the ministry will not pay to have her accompany you to Volterra.”

  Rick looked at his friend and tried to understand why, whenever the old Beppo tried to emerge, he was pushed back inside by the ministry bureaucrat.

  “Speaking of the university,” said Beppo, “that reminds me.” He took one of his cards from a small stand on the desk, wrote something on it, and passed it to Rick. “I had some classes with this guy in Padova. We were not close friends, and I have to admit that he was a bit strange, but it might be useful for you to meet him when you get to Volterra. He’s the curator of the Etruscan museum there.”

  Rick studied the card.

  “You mean if I go to Volterra.”

  “Of course that’s what I meant.” He moved from behind the desk and gestured toward the office door, like a good host. “I haven’t seen Zerbino since we left the university, but he’ll remember me. You can tell him I work in the ministry, but please don’t get into specifics.” He buttoned his jacket. “Andiamo a mangiare. By the way, Rick, do you remember that game our senior year, when we played the team from the base in Aviano?” The old Beppo was trying hard. “Do you remember how tall those guys were?”

  “Beppo, I am amazed you took this long to bring the subject up.”

  “And do you remember how the game ended?” He was grinning as he opened the office door.
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br />   When they got to the elevator Rick was wondering how he would keep this from Erica. How could he just pop off to Volterra without explaining why? Beppo’s words, if Rick remembered correctly, were that he’d rather Rick did not tell her. “Rather not.” The door was clearly ajar. And when it was all over, whose bad side would he rather be on, Beppo’s or Erica’s? Not much of a decision there.

  He was also thinking about Beppo’s mention that the Volterra police would be keeping an eye on him. Not that any problems were expected. It would be just as a precaution. Don’t even give it another thought.

  ***

  “Aren’t you going to drink your Campari?” asked Rick.

  Erica pondered the question as if it dealt with something deeper than the red liquid in her glass. Rick watched and waited. Once again—the curse of the professional translator—he remembered the meaning of her name in English. Heather. How appropriate was that? Beautiful at first look, as well as second and third looks, but a bit prickly when you get past the blossoms. That description could be used with quite a few Roman women he’d met since moving here, women who weren’t named Erica. Must be something in the water.

  Erica’s long wool coat was draped over the extra chair at their table. A leather attaché case rested on the seat, next to a large shopping bag with the name Fratelli Rosetti, a shoe store a few blocks away. While Rick was talking, she had leaned forward on her elbows, her chin resting on clasped hands, the sleeves of her silk sweater pushed up to show a gold bracelet on one wrist, contrasting with a dark blue Swatch on the other. She brushed back her dark brown hair, perhaps the better to hear Rick’s story, revealing large gold hoops swinging from her ears. Her knees, covered by a plaid skirt, touched his under the small table.

  When they had first met in the late summer a few months earlier, her outfit was just as fashionable. They found themselves looking into the windows of a shoe store, and since the men’s and women’s shoes were on opposite sides of the entrance, they unconsciously backed into each other. Awkward scusis were exchanged, a conversation started, and two hours later they were still chatting over empty coffee cups. She talked of growing up in Rome, studying art at the university, and a gallery internship in the exciting city of New York. He told her of his bi-cultural family, living in various parts of the world, and now trying to start the translation business in Rome. He also used diplomatic skills learned from his father to point out that New York was not considered by the people of New Mexico to be the real America.

  Now they sat in the same bar as that first day, a place that had become their regular meeting spot. It was about halfway between their two apartments, though Erica once pointed out that it was a few minutes closer to hers. It wasn’t, but why start another argument? The atmosphere at Mimmo’s was that of dozens of coffee bars in downtown Rome, the same neon glare bouncing off the stainless steel machines, the sweet brown smell of espresso, and the thud of metal against wood as wet coffee grounds were loudly discarded to make room for the next order. They always sat at the same table near the window, but their eyes seldom glanced out at the piazza.

  Erica listened to the highly edited account of Beppo’s proposal without comment and barely touched the aperitivo in the glass in front of her. The bar was beginning to thin out now, its other clients drifting off to their homes after a quick drink and a bit of gossip with co-workers following a day at the office. Many of them were staffers from the nearby Parliament offices, their passes dangling from tri-color ribbons around their necks. She finally picked up the small glass and took a sip of the Campari as he drained the last drop of espresso from his small cup.

  “Are you going to do it, Ricky?”

  “What do you think?”

  She covered his hand with hers and her head moved closer. “I would never presume to influence your decision.” She paused. “But knowing you, I’m sure it would be difficult to keep you away from Volterra.”

  She does know me, he thought. “You didn’t answer the question.”

  “Ricky, of course you should go. It’s your civic duty.” He was about to smile when he realized she was serious. Her next comment confirmed it. “Italy is unique in the world for our historical and artistic patrimony. If you can help in some small way to preserve it, you must take the opportunity to do so. Did I ever tell you about my grandmother?”

  He shook his head in reply, not understanding what her grandmother would have to do with all this.

  “Just before she died—I was a little girl—she and I were in the church our family has gone to for generations. As we were walking out that day, Nonna stopped and pointed to an empty space above the altar of one of the side chapels. The wall, she said, once held a small painting of the Madonna in a gilt frame. The painting had the most beautiful face she had ever seen, and she often prayed before it. One day during the war, just hours before you Americans liberated the city, she was kneeling in that chapel praying for the safety of her family, when a German soldier burst into the church, brushed past her, and ripped the painting off the wall. She was still frozen on her knees when she heard the door to the church slam and a truck grind into gear outside. The painting has never been recovered.” She paused, stuck in the memory. “I sometimes wonder if Nonna’s story helped push me toward art history.”

  He rarely saw this side of her. More often than not their conversations about her work got stuck on faculty intrigues, apathetic students, or the lack of outside consulting opportunities. But a few times, and only a few, her passion broke through, showing why she had picked art history as her life work. He savored the moment as she took another drink of the Campari. Her serious look brightened.

  “You’ve been to Volterra, haven’t you, Ricky?”

  Did she know the answer? “I’m ashamed to say that I have not.”

  “Well, that settles it. Fascinating town. Etruscan artifacts, Roman ruins, medieval buildings. It has everything.” She tilted her head and looked at Rick’s face. “You’ve already accepted, haven’t you?” Rick shrugged, caught, and she squeezed his hand, still underneath hers. “I wish I could go with you, Ricky.”

  He felt a pang which hinted that their relationship could be more serious than he wanted to acknowledge. “I do, too.”

  “Maybe I can adjust a few things on my class schedule and get away for a couple days.” Her hand remained over his. “They have some wonderful Mannerist paintings in the museum there that I haven’t seen in years. Does your friend Beppo really want you to leave so soon?”

  “Yes. He thinks that every day increases the chance of losing more of these priceless funerary urns. I suppose he’s right. But could you get away? What are you looking for?”

  Erica had begun rooting through her case, and now she pulled out her agenda and began to flip through it pages. Almost every professional in Italy used a leather-bound notebook which held everything from a calendar to telephone numbers, and included paper and pen for writing notes. The electronic devices were catching on, but agendas were still holding their own.

  “I just remembered, there was a compagna of mine at the university who is an art dealer in Volterra. Donatella Minotti. Call and give her my best regards.” She found the name and phone number and wrote them on a paper torn from the book. “We had various classes together the first few years at the university. When we chose our specialties, she went for Etruscan art and I opted for Mannerism.” Still holding the paper, she lifted her brows. “Perhaps I shouldn’t give you her name. She’s extremely attractive.”

  First Beppo and now Erica. Everyone knows someone in Volterra. He pulled the paper from her fingers, folded it, and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

  “She couldn’t be more attractive than you, cara. And she’s probably married with ten kids by now.”

  “Not Donatella.” She looked at him with a curious smile. “You know, Ricky, I’ll try to rearrange my schedule. I would hate to think of you spending those nights up
in a strange city all by yourself.”

  The desire to change her schedule said more about this Donatella woman than Erica realized, thought Rick. He dropped some coins on the table and helped her with her coat, taking in the fragrance of her perfume. It was Jicky, as he had discovered recently at her apartment, a scent that was new to him. Curiously, he had never focused on such things back in Albuquerque. It must be part of the acculturation process, starting to notice a woman’s perfume.

  “New shoes?” Rick picked up the paper bag and held it out.

  “They didn’t have the pair I wanted so I had to settle for these. Why do they put shoes in the window if they don’t have them in all sizes?”

  “It’s a hard life here in Rome.” As soon as the words came out he knew he’d made a mistake. Her glare confirmed it.

  “Are you going to start on that again?” Erica shook her head slowly. She pulled the shopping bag from his hand and slipped her leather case over her shoulder. “I get it, Ricky. We Romans just don’t appreciate what we have. Didn’t your girlfriends in America ever complain about anything?”

  She had a point. A girl he was dating before leaving for Italy came to mind, eerily enough also a professor of art history, Latin American art, not Italian Mannerism. She had railed against all manner of injustice, mostly what she considered the major issues facing society like hunger and climate change. How could two women have the same interests and yet be so different? And how could Erica one minute wax passionately about the Italian cultural heritage and in the next complain that a shoe store didn’t have her size? One thing, though, she wasn’t boring.

  Fortunately the storm passed quickly, as it usually did. She took his hand as they walked to the door and out into the street.