antique furniture, made by the great Chippendale himself as an entire household set, alcoves built for every single wall piece and suchlike. I’d been fascinated, half wanting to believe his account of an aristocratic family, a heritage in a mansion . . . I’d asked him where.
‘Mind your own business,’ he’d said straight back, which was fair enough.
Came the war and all hell broke loose, belongings scattered, families in ruins. Afterwards, Arcellano’s family set about recovering the various pieces. All eighty pieces were found, except one. I quite understood his eagerness. Remember that most so-called ‘Chippendale’ pieces are conjectural, and in any case were made only by his workmen. A vast historic genuine documented set was worth a king’s ransom. A vast but incomplete set was immeasureably diminished in value.
‘My cousin,’ he explained, ‘visited the Vatican Museum last year. Recognized the missing table, the very one at which his uncle – my father – had been made a papal count.’
‘Didn’t you write and ask for it back?’
He let his wintry smile loose. ‘You mean, simply walk in and say I want your priceless antique, please, Your Holiness?’
‘Well,’ I said lamely, ‘you could explain.’
‘Would you give it up?’
Indignantly I burst out, ‘Would I hell!’ before I realized. Of course, nobody would. ‘Are you certain it’s the missing piece?’
‘Positive.’ He held up his gloved fist. ‘Like I know my own hand.’ That too was fair enough. The rent table made the difference between a mindboggling fortune and a more ordinary fortune.
I lay in my hotel room listening to Rome closing for the night. All the usual sounds: voices in the hotel corridors, cars going, somebody speaking to a friend on the pavement outside, an elevator whirring, a woman calling to a neighbour.
My trouble was I was beginning to feel lost and threatened, maybe even set up. This Marcello, for instance. Nice as pie. Trusting, even. I wondered if he had only given me an accomplice’s phone number instead. It was all wrong, so bloody unlike any carry-on I’d ever known.
Okay, I admit it. Over the years I’ve done the odd rip, though honestly every time was a deserving case and none had done anybody any harm. I mean, nobody had starved or gone broke, nothing like that. Looking up at the ceiling of my room, I cheerfully absolved myself of any blame. You see, I’m not big on motive. To me there’s simply no sense in sussing out why people do things. There’s altogether too much talk about psychology and suchlike crap. It’s all rubbish. What matters is what a person actually
does
, not what he thinks or dreams. Consequently I was happy to accept more or less everything Arcellano had told me, except it was pathetically obvious that Lovejoy Antiques, Inc – all one of me – were the entire rip. I was the whole sodding army of villains, including the man driving the getaway Jaguar and piloting the Boeing out to a Bermuda haven. Still, nothing could be easier than knocking a single piece off, and from a church at that. I’d done much, much harder things. And here all around was beautiful Rome, a place I had only read of in awe.
Ignorant nerk that I am, I went to sleep full of optimism.
Chapter 6
Rome
is
beautiful. Seen in the cool daylight of early spring it was exhilarating. Oh, the traffic and the noise were same as everywhere these days, but the place has a definite quality. From my hotel window you could see only the apartments opposite and a bit of the main road to the right with a shop or two, but new is interesting.
Breakfast proved two things: Maria’s language also worked in the mornings, and breakfast was unlimited coffee and rolls and jam, not the ponderous eggs-and-bacon slammer I’d never been able to afford. All my life I’d been making horrible coffee. Here in Rome there were real flavours in the cup you’d never dream of. Coffee will catch on.
Only a few people were down
‘Mind your own business,’ he’d said straight back, which was fair enough.
Came the war and all hell broke loose, belongings scattered, families in ruins. Afterwards, Arcellano’s family set about recovering the various pieces. All eighty pieces were found, except one. I quite understood his eagerness. Remember that most so-called ‘Chippendale’ pieces are conjectural, and in any case were made only by his workmen. A vast historic genuine documented set was worth a king’s ransom. A vast but incomplete set was immeasureably diminished in value.
‘My cousin,’ he explained, ‘visited the Vatican Museum last year. Recognized the missing table, the very one at which his uncle – my father – had been made a papal count.’
‘Didn’t you write and ask for it back?’
He let his wintry smile loose. ‘You mean, simply walk in and say I want your priceless antique, please, Your Holiness?’
‘Well,’ I said lamely, ‘you could explain.’
‘Would you give it up?’
Indignantly I burst out, ‘Would I hell!’ before I realized. Of course, nobody would. ‘Are you certain it’s the missing piece?’
‘Positive.’ He held up his gloved fist. ‘Like I know my own hand.’ That too was fair enough. The rent table made the difference between a mindboggling fortune and a more ordinary fortune.
I lay in my hotel room listening to Rome closing for the night. All the usual sounds: voices in the hotel corridors, cars going, somebody speaking to a friend on the pavement outside, an elevator whirring, a woman calling to a neighbour.
My trouble was I was beginning to feel lost and threatened, maybe even set up. This Marcello, for instance. Nice as pie. Trusting, even. I wondered if he had only given me an accomplice’s phone number instead. It was all wrong, so bloody unlike any carry-on I’d ever known.
Okay, I admit it. Over the years I’ve done the odd rip, though honestly every time was a deserving case and none had done anybody any harm. I mean, nobody had starved or gone broke, nothing like that. Looking up at the ceiling of my room, I cheerfully absolved myself of any blame. You see, I’m not big on motive. To me there’s simply no sense in sussing out why people do things. There’s altogether too much talk about psychology and suchlike crap. It’s all rubbish. What matters is what a person actually
does
, not what he thinks or dreams. Consequently I was happy to accept more or less everything Arcellano had told me, except it was pathetically obvious that Lovejoy Antiques, Inc – all one of me – were the entire rip. I was the whole sodding army of villains, including the man driving the getaway Jaguar and piloting the Boeing out to a Bermuda haven. Still, nothing could be easier than knocking a single piece off, and from a church at that. I’d done much, much harder things. And here all around was beautiful Rome, a place I had only read of in awe.
Ignorant nerk that I am, I went to sleep full of optimism.
Chapter 6
Rome
is
beautiful. Seen in the cool daylight of early spring it was exhilarating. Oh, the traffic and the noise were same as everywhere these days, but the place has a definite quality. From my hotel window you could see only the apartments opposite and a bit of the main road to the right with a shop or two, but new is interesting.
Breakfast proved two things: Maria’s language also worked in the mornings, and breakfast was unlimited coffee and rolls and jam, not the ponderous eggs-and-bacon slammer I’d never been able to afford. All my life I’d been making horrible coffee. Here in Rome there were real flavours in the cup you’d never dream of. Coffee will catch on.
Only a few people were down
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