Cold Tuscan Stone, David Wagner [i read book txt] 📗

illegal, though the way the government was moving these days, it soon could be. Landi behaved as expected of a businessman in this situation: ingratiating, with frequent glances to check Rick’s reactions. The man wanted the sale, and this could be a big one for him. One would conclude that the shop was his main business and only business, not a front for an illegal operation which brought in the big money. After about twenty minutes Rick said that he had really taken too much of Signor Landi’s precious time, perhaps he could return another day. Better not to appear too eager.

“But of course, Signor Montoya, you may return whenever you wish. I think it would also be of interest to you if—ah, Orlando, you have arrived at the perfect time.”

Rick turned to see a small man peeling off his leather gloves as he entered the store. He wore a camel hair overcoat that extended below his knees and his neck was protected by a long red scarf. Stuffing his gloves in his pockets, he pulled off a wool cap to reveal a mostly bald head. Did the man fear losing most of his body’s heat through the top of the head? One thing for sure: this man disliked cold weather. Landi introduced him to Rick as Orlando Canopo, his assistant and the manager of the workshop that produced much of the store’s stock. Beaming, he told Canopo of Rick’s reason for the trip to Volterra, then turned back to his visitor.

“He is quite an artisan himself, Signor Montoya, but Canopo was meant for better things than just carving alabaster.”

Canopo glanced at his boss with a pleased look on his face.

“I was just about to suggest to our visitor, Orlando, that he visit our workshop. If he sees the excellent craftsmen working there he will appreciate the quality of our products even more.” Landi turned to Rick. “If you have time now, I’m sure Orlando would be glad to accompany you.”

Rick glanced at a clock on the wall as the two men waited for his reply. Like almost everything else in the store, it was made of alabaster, but with bronze numbers and hands.

“I have an appointment at six, at…nearby. Would there be time?”

“I think there would,” answered Canopo in a deeper voice than Rick expected, even given the man’s somewhat diminutive size, “but if you run late, you can return when it would be convenient. It’s only a few blocks from here.” There was a slight accent that was not Tuscan. Somewhere in the south.

The store owner grinned, shifted his eyes between the two men and rubbed his hands together as if he were about to sit down to a steaming bowl of pasta. “Excellent, now you won’t have to take off your coat, Orlando.” There was a private joke here that would not be shared. Landi shook hands with Rick. “I look forward to seeing you again, Signor Montoya. Tomorrow?”

“It has been my pleasure, Signor Landi.” He wondered how much nicotine smell had passed to his fingers. “Yes, tomorrow. A domani.”

Landi watched the two men leave the store and then pulled Rick’s card from his jacket pocket, studying it carefully. He ran his fingers over the paper, as if testing its fiber content, before placing it in a small drawer next to the cash register. The girl, who had been standing silently in a corner of the shop, watched her boss with an expressionless face. He glanced at her, walked to the back of the shop, and disappeared through the door. She stood for a few moments before returning to her place among the jewelry.

Outside, Rick and Canopo walked down the street, now filled with afternoon shoppers. A light wind brushed their faces.

“Perhaps something to warm us up, Signor Montoya? The workshop can get quite drafty.”

“That sounds like an excellent idea. It is getting chilly.”

“I won’t have to put my gloves back on just yet.”

As they entered the bar, conversation stayed on the weather. Canopo was born in Sicily, and though he’d been living in Volterra for fifteen years, he still was not used to the cold winters of Tuscany. He asked Rick if he had spent any time in Sicily, and looked at the American in sadness when the reply was negative. Their espressos arrived with a pair of clinks as they were set onto saucers, and the barman splashed a shot of grappa into Canopo’s cup without asking. Rick declined the liquor and stirred a spoonful of sugar into his coffee. Canopo drained his in one gulp before patting a paper napkin to his lips.

“So, Signor Montoya, you are interested in the art of the land of the Etruscans.”

Rick sipped his espresso and thought that it was almost as if Canopo knew of his real mission in Volterra. Perhaps this would be the man to field his hints when the time came, when he had established some trust and his credentials as a real buyer were accepted. Or with both Canopo and Landi.

“The pieces I saw in the shop were very beautiful. Americans are always impressed by Italian design and workmanship, but the Etruscan angle adds an additional fascination to the work.”

“And an additional profit to be made?” The cognac seemed to have warmed up Canopo in more ways than one.

“I suppose you could say that,” Rick answered.

“You have been to Volterra before, I trust? From your fluent Italian I assume you have been to most parts of the country. Except Sicily, of course.” The last sentence was said with either regret or reproach, Rick was not sure which.

“No, this is my first visit.”

“Ah,” was Canopo’s simple reaction. “In many ways it is not very different from my native island. There are good people and bad people. The Tuscans claim to be above all the rest of us, but in truth they have the same vices as everyone else in Italy, those vices are simply dressed in more elegant attire.” He had been staring at his