same subject. It is next to useless to send art dealers and museums a "reported stolen" list describing the missing-in-action item as depicting a vase of flowers, a bowl of fruit or a gang of peasants sitting about a table eating, and expect an immediate identification. Italy is a perfect place to dispose of such things. They operate under Roman law which makes it just about impossible to recover something purchased in good faith; hence, the buyer has something like a guarantee in those matters.
The paintings positioned, I poured the wine. Carl stopped stroking Maria’s hair long enough to raise his glass in a toast.
"To the arts," he said, then smiled.
"…and a good present for the past," I added.
"A prosperous future to their handlers," she said, then drained her glass in a single gulp and giggled.
As I went about the refilling, I could not help but notice the tanned smoothness of her legs, her eyes upon me as I did so. Speculative? Flirting? I do not really know. There is some honor among some thieves, advance publicity to the contrary.
She had had a hardy peasant way about her and a slightly slutty appearance, strangely surrounding a mind of which some steel traps might be envious. She had learned and retained an awful lot about art in the erratic up-and-down years of her off-and-on association with Carl Bernini. She even seemed to like some of it. I wondered what things about her were for show, what was for Carl and what was for real.
One morning, she had joined me for my wake-up coffee while Carl was still asleep, and she asked me what I felt like at having been the only survivor of the 747 which had crashed in Athens several months earlier.
"Lucky," I said, sipping.
"Yes," she agreed, after a moment. "Nobody will play cards with you anymore, though it does not seem that you cheat. Carl has had many setbacks in his life, but since he has been working with you it is all different. You never get caught. There are few complications. You always get the best prices. Even Carl, who says he does not believe in such things, says that you have been his lucky charm, this past year."
Here, she fingered a holy medal she wore about her neck, smiled when she realized what she was doing and let it fall into the valley of her breasts.
When she leaned forward to pour more coffee, the valley deepened and she did not adjust her robe, a green thing with orange flowers. Matisse would have used a single, curved line. I personally preferred the shading that was there.
When she continued, she spoke more slowly and her face assumed an inquisitive expression. Her voice actually changed, as well as the grammar and precision with which her words were delivered. The sophisticated effect it produced was like an extra cup of coffee in my veins.
"…and one day, perhaps soon, you shall return to your own country, a reasonably affluent man," she said. "Doubtless, you will purchase respectability; and doubtless, too, you will retain some connection with the arts, for you love them."
At that point, she covered my left hand lightly with her right, and I wondered at her having guessed my intentions so correctly. While I had mentioned it to no one, I had begun to feel that luck of which she had spoken might be wearing somewhat thin. I had made up my mind that this job was to be my last. It would garnish my nest sufficiently for me to stop taking chances.
I shrugged.
"I might wind up an art dealer one day," I said.
"Soon," she replied, perceptive girl. "I feel that it will be soon. And when you go, the bad times will return. Carl can make money, but he cannot keep it. Sometimes, too, he gets into trouble. A painting is recognized or a dealer cheats him, and he cannot go to the police. Generally, he must hide. I always thought that one day he would make a large commission and be able to keep it. Then he would buy a home and live as other people do. This was my hope for several years. When you and he joined together, I thought that the time
The paintings positioned, I poured the wine. Carl stopped stroking Maria’s hair long enough to raise his glass in a toast.
"To the arts," he said, then smiled.
"…and a good present for the past," I added.
"A prosperous future to their handlers," she said, then drained her glass in a single gulp and giggled.
As I went about the refilling, I could not help but notice the tanned smoothness of her legs, her eyes upon me as I did so. Speculative? Flirting? I do not really know. There is some honor among some thieves, advance publicity to the contrary.
She had had a hardy peasant way about her and a slightly slutty appearance, strangely surrounding a mind of which some steel traps might be envious. She had learned and retained an awful lot about art in the erratic up-and-down years of her off-and-on association with Carl Bernini. She even seemed to like some of it. I wondered what things about her were for show, what was for Carl and what was for real.
One morning, she had joined me for my wake-up coffee while Carl was still asleep, and she asked me what I felt like at having been the only survivor of the 747 which had crashed in Athens several months earlier.
"Lucky," I said, sipping.
"Yes," she agreed, after a moment. "Nobody will play cards with you anymore, though it does not seem that you cheat. Carl has had many setbacks in his life, but since he has been working with you it is all different. You never get caught. There are few complications. You always get the best prices. Even Carl, who says he does not believe in such things, says that you have been his lucky charm, this past year."
Here, she fingered a holy medal she wore about her neck, smiled when she realized what she was doing and let it fall into the valley of her breasts.
When she leaned forward to pour more coffee, the valley deepened and she did not adjust her robe, a green thing with orange flowers. Matisse would have used a single, curved line. I personally preferred the shading that was there.
When she continued, she spoke more slowly and her face assumed an inquisitive expression. Her voice actually changed, as well as the grammar and precision with which her words were delivered. The sophisticated effect it produced was like an extra cup of coffee in my veins.
"…and one day, perhaps soon, you shall return to your own country, a reasonably affluent man," she said. "Doubtless, you will purchase respectability; and doubtless, too, you will retain some connection with the arts, for you love them."
At that point, she covered my left hand lightly with her right, and I wondered at her having guessed my intentions so correctly. While I had mentioned it to no one, I had begun to feel that luck of which she had spoken might be wearing somewhat thin. I had made up my mind that this job was to be my last. It would garnish my nest sufficiently for me to stop taking chances.
I shrugged.
"I might wind up an art dealer one day," I said.
"Soon," she replied, perceptive girl. "I feel that it will be soon. And when you go, the bad times will return. Carl can make money, but he cannot keep it. Sometimes, too, he gets into trouble. A painting is recognized or a dealer cheats him, and he cannot go to the police. Generally, he must hide. I always thought that one day he would make a large commission and be able to keep it. Then he would buy a home and live as other people do. This was my hope for several years. When you and he joined together, I thought that the time
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