Treachery in Tuscany, page 7
I made it an early night, myself. After texting with my children—only Michael and Catherine taking the time to text back, but then they were college students who were most likely always on their phones—I put on my jammies. The night air had turned cool. As I shut my windows, I saw Sophie in the garden, lighting a cigarette. Ivonna joined her and lit up, as well. Maybe Sophie had found a friend. I had the feeling she really needed one.
Chapter 12
Paul arrived in a hired car, not a taxi. Seeing him for the first time in months, I was struck by the thought that was exciting and comforting, all at once: He was always as I imagined he would be. His salt-and-pepper hair, always a little long on his collar, never seemed to get more silver in it. His usual attire was a crisp shirt, blindingly white against his dark jacket, and that was how I always thought of him. His strong jawline. His blue eyes that always seemed to be looking straight through me. He never changed.
I would not have expected anything more than a welcoming greeting from Paul—for both Alex and me—but once we were in the car, with me between Alex and Paul, I loved it that he took my hand and kissed it, and whispered, “I am so glad to see you.”
Then he was all about business.
Every visitor to the Uffizi should have a Paul Broussard clone as a guide.
Not only did Paul move us smoothly through each checkpoint and take us into “Private” areas to see works that were not on display, but his boundless knowledge of the paintings, the artists, and the periods made for a seamless tour. Beginning in the room full of Medieval Madonna-and-child paintings—represented on heavenly thrones with floating angels—Paul explained how the art was evolving from flat, crude, ethereal representations to more realistic images. I’d studied art history, but Paul made it all come alive.
So many masterpieces were housed in the Uffizi. More than a few times, I had to catch my breath as we viewed familiar works. Paul paused a long time at Botticelli’s Allegory of Spring. “The Renaissance was blossoming, and, as you can see, the two-dimensional, medieval religious paintings have given way to the art that glorifies the beauty and grace of the human body,” he noted. Botticelli prints and reproductions in books were nothing like the original painting, the curves of the bodies visible through gauzy nightclothes.
On to the works of Leonardo da Vinci, and Paul was ready with one of the many stories that seemed to come as easily as I could tell anecdotes about my children. “Legend has it,” he said, “that when Leonardo was just a boy, he painted an angel for his teacher, who then gave up painting forever, knowing his own talent would never match his student’s.”
And then the classical sculpture room, which gave Paul further opportunity to be “professorial.” He explained why sculpture was so important as artists of the Renaissance studied the human body, and I was pleased that Alex seemed so engaged, since he usually liked being the professor. We spent a long time viewing works of the High Renaissance. “If you compare Venus with Titian’s nudes,” Paul said, “obviously we see the difference in the way the Renaissance played out in Florence—the pure innocence—and in Venice—the hedonism, the pagan spirit. I do love the rich color that Titian used for the hair of his subjects. The same color as yours, Jordan.” Alex cleared his throat and pretended to be interested in another painting.
The final leg of our tour allowed us to view Raphael, Rembrandt, and Caravaggio. Alex said, “I thought Caravaggio’s David with the Head of Goliath was here.” Paul said no, the painting was housed at the Galleria Borghese in Rome. I thought of Sophie, our conversation about David and Goliath, and wondered if she had used the ticket to the Uffizi I’d given her at breakfast. She’d thanked me and said she would go. But with Sophie, you never knew.
After our marvelous three-hour tour, we had lunch at a trattoria that was tucked away so far from the main street that it would seem hard to find. But it was packed, and when my codfish with pappardelle pasta was served, I understood why patrons managed to locate it.
We shared a bottle of wine, laughed, and recalled some of our adventures in Provence. Conversation was easy, until Alex said, “I was surprised Isabella didn’t join us at the Uffizi.” I felt a scowl come on, and I was immediately ashamed. Why did the thought of Paul’s daughter always bring such negativity to my mood? Was I jealous? The very idea was disgusting.
“I invited her, but she said, as we checked into the hotel last night, that she might go out later and she would most likely sleep in this morning.” He turned up his palms and said, with an indulgent smile, “You know how the young people are.”
I touched my forehead but couldn’t make the furrows go away. So he had invited Isabella. What could I say? I’d brought my uncle along. But when I thought of young people, carefree, high-spirited, flitty young people, I thought of college students or twenty-somethings. Isabella was thirty-four. I was an architect and mother of five when I was thirty-four.
Paul called for the hired car, and we returned to the convent. Alex and Paul said their goodbyes, shook hands, and Alex went to the double wooden doors to push the buzzer. Paul and I stood beside the car, the first time we had been alone. For a long moment, we were silent.
I wondered what he was thinking, but then it didn’t matter. He touched my face, tilted my chin and kissed me. It was a brief, sweet kiss, a promise. He walked to the double doors with me. I pushed the buzzer. “I am very glad that we are here, together,” he said, and then he was gone, leaving me a little dazzled, as so often was the case with Paul Broussard.
* * * * *
Isabella Broussard was late.
Broussard, yes. She had legally changed her name when it was settled that Paul was her father. He told us this—Alex and me—as we waited for her at the restaurant. Paul had come to the convent in the hired car, but Isabella was not with him. She had returned late to the Westin that afternoon, after a shopping excursion, he explained. “Perhaps I should not have mentioned the fashion center of Florence,” he said, laughing. “But I think Bella would have found it anyway.”
He selected a wine from an extensive wine list and ordered a plate of cheeses and meats, fruit, olives, and bread—enough for a meal, as was usually the case with the antipasti. Checking his phone, he said with confidence that I didn’t quite buy, “I am sure it will not be long.”
We spent another pleasant half hour, seated at the outdoor table, overlooking the Arno, with its soft river breezes, before Paul checked his phone yet again, and said, “Pardon, s’il vous plait. I should try to reach Bella, to see if there has been a problem.”
I didn’t think he actually believed there was a problem. Isabella, in my mind, was like a lot of people who don’t respect other people’s schedules. The purpose of this occasion was her birthday, and she had not made the effort to be even close to on time. But I was trying hard not to be judgmental. I kept making assumptions about Isabella, and I really didn’t know her at all.
Paul left the table and walked to the edge of the terrace, punching on his phone. I wondered if it was an act of courtesy—as restaurants frown on patrons using cell phones at the table—or if he had words for his daughter that he didn’t want us to hear. I was betting on courtesy, knowing Paul. When Isabella appeared, before his call ever went through, he met her with a smile and a quick embrace that seemed to say all was forgiven.
She must have inherited her mother’s looks because she had none of Paul’s strong, striking facial features, but she was tall, as he was. A leggy blonde in a short black dress that emphasized her curves and cleavage, Isabella was not just beautiful; she was movie-star beautiful. Straight hair, with stunning highlights. Wide green eyes with long dark lashes. Full, glossy lips. Red lustrous nails, not too long or too short. The thought struck me that her reason for being late could’ve been that she’d spent a long session with a make-up artist and hairdresser.
Paul did the introductions and we all did the requisite nice-to-meet you greetings. I expected a Sorry I’m so late, but there was none of that. Bella looked around. “What a quaint place you picked for my birthday! Thank you, Paul,” she said, leaning a bit toward him, bobbing her head a little, a gesture that made me think of a doll. Quaint? I wouldn’t have chosen that word. I might have said elegant. It was not trendy. Maybe that was what she meant.
She and I sat across from each other, as did the men. “Happy birthday, Isabella,” I said.
“It’s Bella. This is thirty-five, and I don’t intend to have any more birthdays. So I’m going to enjoy this one!” she said.
Paul had poured her wine, finishing the bottle, and he made a motion to the waiter to bring another. Bella raised her glass. “To good times!”
“To you, Bella, on this happy day,” Paul added. I wondered if he’d had another toast in mind, but Bella had taken the wind out of his sails.
We clinked glasses and sipped the excellent wine.
I couldn’t help staring at Bella, trying to get a read on her. Something wouldn’t quite come into focus. She didn’t ask anything that indicated she wanted to know about Alex and me, but she wasn’t eager to answer my questions, either. When I mentioned Cortona, giving her the opportunity to elaborate on her plans, she simply said, “It seemed like something fun to do.”
Paul did an admirable job directing the conversation, but Bella showed no interest in the travel guide Alex was writing. She showed no interest in me. “You may remember that I told you Jordan discovered how the art was being removed from the Museum de Chateau in Provence,” Paul said. She responded with a nod that seemed to say, I vaguely remember. The waiter’s appearance from time to time gave us a reprieve from the awkwardness. The menu was in Italian, of course, and although Alex and I had managed with most menus, picking out recognizable names or ingredients, this time ordering was a big production. Paul, fluent in Italian as he was, read the menu, followed by the waiter’s elaborate descriptions of each dish we considered.
Alex took out his pen and little notebook and began to write, copying from the menu.
“What are you doing?” Bella asked, with amusement that edged toward sarcasm.
Alex explained that he kept notes about restaurants and dishes that he might mention in his book. “I have a feeling I’ll be making a recommendation,” he said.
Bella pursed her lips and nodded, as if she thought Alex was a most eccentric character.
The arrival of the first course—the pasta course, as I’d come to think of it—was a welcome diversion. Each of us had a different pasta. Mine was a scrumptious linguini with peppers, eggplant, tomatoes, and mozzarella. As Alex finished the last of his gnocci with spinach, he said, “I should not have ordered a second course.” Generally, he did not, nor did I—or if we ordered a main course, we skipped the first. But Paul had insisted, and I reminded myself that my mother’s order to clean my plate did not have to apply tonight. The servings were not huge—usually the case in fine restaurants—and the sea bass I had ordered, apparently a dish for which the restaurant was well known, was something I should not miss.
Bella seemed more interested in the drinks than in her food. By the end of the first course, she had finished her second glass of wine and had ordered a martini. It was a while before the main course arrived. I tried once again to engage Bella in conversation. “Paul says you have an apartment in Paris now, so you spend part of your time there,” I ventured.
“Paul is so generous,” she said, with another of those odd little gestures, leaning toward him. I didn’t want to think the word flirty applied. I wasn’t going to go there. But I saw no discomfort in Paul’s expression, no recognition that Bella’s behavior didn’t align with the way young women typically behaved toward their fathers—and that bothered me. For the first time, Bella became talkative, telling about her flat that overlooked the Seine, and how much fun she’d had picking out the furnishings and art. “Paul and I didn’t always agree about the art, but we compromised. I’m more contemporary. More—out there in my tastes!” She gave an elaborate shrug. “That’s just how I am.”
“You’re fortunate to have Paul advising you,” Alex said.
He gave a modest smile. “Some Parisian artists are doing interesting things with found art,” he said. “It is not a new movement, but some young artists have taken a new twist on it. We worked with an extremely talented young man who used birdcages for one of his pieces and candy wrappers for another. And his best—don’t you think, Bella?—is the one with parts of computers and other electronic devices. It’s quite stark. Quite imaginative.”
I tried to be interested. I really tried. But I was getting a headache. I excused myself and visited the ladies’ room, taking my time. When I returned, a stranger had joined our table. A chair had been added between Bella and Alex. Paul stood, pulled back my chair, and said, “Jordan, please meet Eli Schubert, a friend I have not seen for some years—and here we are, incredibly, both in Florence. He is a fine journalist. Eli, this lovely woman is Jordan Mayfair.”
“My pleasure, Jordan.” Eli Schubert said, and I knew from his three words that he was an American. He stood, reaching across the table to shake my hand. Round-faced, with round, wire-rimmed spectacles, he had an engaging smile and a firm grip as he pumped my hand twice. He looked me in the eye. I had the feeling that he was scrutinizing me and that I had passed the first-impression test. I was glad he had happened along. Our evening might take a different direction.
Chapter 13
And it did take a fascinating turn, as Eli and Paul rehashed old times.
“We met in Paris,” Paul said. “Eli was doing a story for the New York Times.”
“It was Lyon, at an INTERPOL conference, where we met, but we may have done some carousing in Paris,” Eli corrected, with an easy laugh. He recalled for our benefit that he’d gone to Lyon to cover a meeting INTERPOL had convened to deal with stolen art and antiquities from Iraqi museums. Paul was present at the meeting as a member of the International Council of Museums, and he had provided Eli with a useful source, a specialist in illegal export of art.
Paul directed a wry smile my way, and I knew he was remembering that once I’d thought he was involved in art theft. Hard to believe now, that there was ever a time I had not trusted him. I smiled back and felt a surge of warmth, having our private moment.
“I wound up following INTERPOL’s incident team to Iraq for two months. Turned out to be a helluva story,” Eli said.
“And since then, have you continued to chase stories around the globe?” Alex asked.
The waiter set down a tall glass in front of Eli. It looked like a soft drink, Coke or Pepsi.
“Yeah, for a while I did.” Eli rubbed his hand through thinning hair. “I spent over a year on a series about human trafficking. Talk about chasing stories. I was in Romania, Singapore, West Africa—every story led to another that was more gruesome.” He picked up the glass and took a long drink. “I hit a rough patch, professionally and personally. Took some time off.”
“You’re back at it now?” Paul asked. “Or are you here on holiday?”
“Oh, I’m back at it.”
“Can you say what you’re working on?” I asked.
“Sure. It’s no secret.”
I was captivated as he told about an investigation by INTERPOL into a ring of jewel thieves working in Italy. “Petty criminals, all connected to the Camorra,” Eli said.
“Camorra,” Paul echoed, and he explained to the rest of us that the organization was a mafia-type crime syndicate, one that had operated in Italy for many years.
“These thieves work all over Italy. They move the jewels through the ports of Naples, to Sardinia, and then on to Nice,” Eli said.
A shadow crossed Paul’s face. “I wonder if you have come across the name of Antonio DeMarco. He is a collector in Nice. A ruthless, immoral man, the kind who would be connected with the Camorra.”
Another memory—Paul telling me that his brother had gone to prison because of Antonio DeMarco.
“Not a name I recognize, but I’ll bet INTERPOL has him on their radar,” Eli said.
“Tell me about these petty criminals,” I said.
He described how the jewel thieves worked, pulling off small capers, moving through several towns or cities until it seemed the authorities were closing in on their trail, and then they simply disappeared. When he’d finished, I mentioned the robberies in the Oltrarno district.
“The Italian police are not very forthcoming, so I don’t know what they have, so far,” Eli said, “but, yeah, I’ve been following those.”
Bella’s voice suddenly rang out. “Can we please stop talking about crime?”
Paul looked as confounded as I’d ever seen him. Eli stood up and said, “Hey, I apologize for crashing your party. I couldn’t resist saying hello to my old friend. Forgive me.”
“Eli, please, there is nothing to forgive.” Paul stood, as well. “Don’t go, please.”
Eli pulled some bills from his wallet, and in spite of Paul’s protests, he tossed a few beside his glass.
Paul walked around the table. The men shook hands, embraced in a loose, manly sort of way, Eli a good six inches shorter than Paul. He pressed a business card into Paul’s hand. “That’s my number. Call me,” he said, and Paul agreed that he would.
Eli bid us all good evening. When he had gone, Bella said, “A nice enough man, but honestly, I did not want to spend my birthday listening to his tales of criminals.”
“It is your birthday, of course,” Paul said, with a smile that was forced, if I was any judge. He motioned to the waiter. “It is time for the cake and champagne.”
* * * * *
Bella seemed to genuinely appreciate the simple silver bracelet from Alex and me. But our gift paled miserably in comparison to the gift from Paul, which happened to be another bracelet. Rich blue sapphires in an exquisite setting, the bracelet had to cost ten times what ours had cost—or more than that! What did I know of precious gems? Bella slipped it on her small wrist and held it out admiring it, saying it was just too much before giving Paul an enthusiastic hug.
