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

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