out when the telephone rang."
"Oh. How about tomorrow then?" I asked.
"Tomorrow is the opening," she said. "We are exhibiting over forty paintings by Paul Gladden, an American who has been living in Italy for the past five years. He is quite good. I work for Bruno Jurgen now, at the Sign of the Fish. You must remember the place."
"Yes. He was a very good fence. Probably still is. Has branches all over Europe and in both Americas. I like to see a man make good."
"If he had known you were in town I am certain he would have sent you an invitation. There will be dealers and art critics from several countries present. Why don’t you stop by around eight this evening? There will be champagne, and I am certain Bruno would be happy to see you again. Who knows? You might even see something you want to buy. We can talk then—or afterwards—depending on how busy things get."
"That sounds like a good idea," I said. "All right."
"How long will you be in town?"
"It’s hard to say. I’m not really certain yet."
"Buying trip?"
"Sort of a combination of a vacation and just looking."
"Excellent," she said. "I have to run now. I will see you tomorrow evening then."
"Right. Take care."
"Goodbye."
Click.
I cursed as I smoked and paced. Something was just too neat and cute for other words. It had to be more than coincidence, my connection with the renegade priest through Maria and Carl, with Carl turning up dead at my place and me on the spot this way. My man in Virginia must have known more than he had indicated, and I cursed him for holding it back when it might have been of use to me.
Finished with cursing, I went downstairs and up the street for dinner.
"It is no great wonder if in the long process of time, while fortune takes her course hither and thither, numerous coincidences should spontaneously occur," the historian wrote. "If the number and variety of subjects to be wrought upon be infinite, it is all the more easy for fortune, with such an abundance of material, to effect this similarity of results."
Crap, Plutarch! Crap! You and Berwick would have gotten along fine together.
I ate the food without really tasting it. I lingered over my final drink.
*
I found Anna Zanti, the fifth name on the Monsignor’s list, seated on the steps of a building one guidebook describes as "benin funerary style," her basket of flowers at her feet and small bunches of them spread, satellite-like, about her on the stair. She was a very thin, dark woman, with incipient cataracts and snow-white hair. She wore a shabby, plaid shawl and long skirts, and the lines in her face deepened as she leaned forward, frowning, to catch at the words of a customer. Since the conversation could prove lengthy and the day was young, I passed her on the stair and entered the concrete monstrosity.
Inside the thing was the altar itself, raised by the Roman Senate for Augustus Caesar around 2,000 years ago. When pieces of it were dug up in 1568, they were believed to be the remains of an old triumphal arch. It was not realized until approximately three centuries later that it was the Ara Pacis Augustae. And it was not until 1937 that it was fully excavated and the job of piecing it together was begun. Marble, atop a pyramid of steps, the outside screen a bas relief showing the suckling of Romulus and Remus by their bitch of a stepmother, Aeneus making a sacrifice, a gala procession, all above decorations of acanthus leaves, snakes, lizards, birds, flowers and butterflies. I mounted the steps and entered, pausing to study the garlands of fruit, foliage and pinecones strung between ox skulls that decorated the interior. The altar itself was a high slab of tufa stone, guarded by mythical animals. I have always been deeply moved by the Ara Pacis. It had been packed round by sandbags during World War II, to protect it. Now the whole thing is sheltered by the concrete barn. The windows, some of them 21 by 28 feet, are half an inch thick, specially made
"Oh. How about tomorrow then?" I asked.
"Tomorrow is the opening," she said. "We are exhibiting over forty paintings by Paul Gladden, an American who has been living in Italy for the past five years. He is quite good. I work for Bruno Jurgen now, at the Sign of the Fish. You must remember the place."
"Yes. He was a very good fence. Probably still is. Has branches all over Europe and in both Americas. I like to see a man make good."
"If he had known you were in town I am certain he would have sent you an invitation. There will be dealers and art critics from several countries present. Why don’t you stop by around eight this evening? There will be champagne, and I am certain Bruno would be happy to see you again. Who knows? You might even see something you want to buy. We can talk then—or afterwards—depending on how busy things get."
"That sounds like a good idea," I said. "All right."
"How long will you be in town?"
"It’s hard to say. I’m not really certain yet."
"Buying trip?"
"Sort of a combination of a vacation and just looking."
"Excellent," she said. "I have to run now. I will see you tomorrow evening then."
"Right. Take care."
"Goodbye."
Click.
I cursed as I smoked and paced. Something was just too neat and cute for other words. It had to be more than coincidence, my connection with the renegade priest through Maria and Carl, with Carl turning up dead at my place and me on the spot this way. My man in Virginia must have known more than he had indicated, and I cursed him for holding it back when it might have been of use to me.
Finished with cursing, I went downstairs and up the street for dinner.
"It is no great wonder if in the long process of time, while fortune takes her course hither and thither, numerous coincidences should spontaneously occur," the historian wrote. "If the number and variety of subjects to be wrought upon be infinite, it is all the more easy for fortune, with such an abundance of material, to effect this similarity of results."
Crap, Plutarch! Crap! You and Berwick would have gotten along fine together.
I ate the food without really tasting it. I lingered over my final drink.
*
I found Anna Zanti, the fifth name on the Monsignor’s list, seated on the steps of a building one guidebook describes as "benin funerary style," her basket of flowers at her feet and small bunches of them spread, satellite-like, about her on the stair. She was a very thin, dark woman, with incipient cataracts and snow-white hair. She wore a shabby, plaid shawl and long skirts, and the lines in her face deepened as she leaned forward, frowning, to catch at the words of a customer. Since the conversation could prove lengthy and the day was young, I passed her on the stair and entered the concrete monstrosity.
Inside the thing was the altar itself, raised by the Roman Senate for Augustus Caesar around 2,000 years ago. When pieces of it were dug up in 1568, they were believed to be the remains of an old triumphal arch. It was not realized until approximately three centuries later that it was the Ara Pacis Augustae. And it was not until 1937 that it was fully excavated and the job of piecing it together was begun. Marble, atop a pyramid of steps, the outside screen a bas relief showing the suckling of Romulus and Remus by their bitch of a stepmother, Aeneus making a sacrifice, a gala procession, all above decorations of acanthus leaves, snakes, lizards, birds, flowers and butterflies. I mounted the steps and entered, pausing to study the garlands of fruit, foliage and pinecones strung between ox skulls that decorated the interior. The altar itself was a high slab of tufa stone, guarded by mythical animals. I have always been deeply moved by the Ara Pacis. It had been packed round by sandbags during World War II, to protect it. Now the whole thing is sheltered by the concrete barn. The windows, some of them 21 by 28 feet, are half an inch thick, specially made
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