Читать книгу The Italian Letters - Linda Lambert - Страница 15

CHAPTER 7

“Cicero smiled at us. ‘The art of life is to deal with problems as they arise, rather than destroy one’s spirit by worrying about them too far in advance. Especially tonight.”

—Robert Harris, Imperium: A novel of Ancient Rome

LATER THAT EVENING, a taxi drove the three women to the end of Via Veneto Boulevard to a stone wall surrounding the city. On the left stood Ristorante Harry’s Bar. A golden crest signifying the name hung amid a row of amber lanterns that lit a large patio of formally prepared tables. The name, Harry, was about the only consistent feature of the famous saloons found in New York, Paris, and Venice. The Roman Harry’s was Victorian in style. The interior featured delicate lights in the form of lilies, velvet curtains, and gold-embossed walls. Its waiters wore tuxedos.

“The drink of the house is the Bellini,” said Miranda, who was modestly attired in a city where women wear stilettos to pick up their children from preschool. She had changed at the hotel into a tailored salmon dress and small gold earrings for the evening, defying Justine’s expectations of royal glamour. “A blend of champagne and peach liquor. It’s yummy.”

Without waiting to hear Justine’s preference, Andrea turned to the attentive waiter and ordered three Bellinis.

“That conversation we had with Dr. Boitani was unexpected and welcome,” said Justine. “Kudos to you, Andrea. She was almost gushing about your work. And her belief that the Etruscans created literary works is exciting, even though such remains have not yet been found. Dad and Riccardo will want to talk with her.”

“I’ll be glad to arrange a meeting,” said Andrea. “I could pick up your father in Cerveteri.” She winked at Justine.

Justine stiffened at the thought of another liaison between Andrea and her father. “Aren’t you returning home soon?” she grinned, fingering the four strands of pearls at her neck that complemented her black linen dress.

Miranda looked from one woman to the other, clearly puzzled by the exchange.

“That I am,” Andrea admitted. “But just now, I want you to know that Miranda has been working with the Italian Culture Minister, Riccardo Rutelli.” Andrea slowly lifted her napkin and set it across her silk slacks. “I think she can fill us in on the Marion True story.”

“Marion True? I’ve read a couple of things in the International Herald Tribune,” said Justine, pushing the previous moment’s apprehension to the back of her mind.

Miranda shook her head, her auburn hair swinging from side to side. “Andrea overstates my importance in the ministry. I occasionally assist with translation, but my primary occupations are teaching two English classes and raising my two lovely daughters. Okay. Here’s what I know. Marion True was the Getty antiquities curator from 1986 to 2005, when she was released from her duties—fired, as you Americans would say.” She went on to explain that Marion True had represented one of the world’s most aggressive collectors, and had worked endlessly in the international markets, assessing and acquiring Italian and Greek antiquities. Italian authorities investigated her for years and charges were finally filed in court in 2005.

“So she was dismissed because she was guilty?” asked Justine, squinting at her friend. Andrea never pursues a story without a reason. So why Marion True?

“Really, no. The public reason was that she had taken a loan for a second home from a client. But I think it was because the Getty wanted an excuse to disassociate itself from her before the trial started in Rome.”

“Back up, please,” said Justine, confused but engrossed in the story. “Isn’t this case a bit extreme? After all, unprovenanced trafficking has been going on for centuries.”

“I know. I know, but things in the field of museum acquisition have changed dramatically in the last few years,” said Miranda. “At one time, asking ‘Where did you get this?’ would have been poor etiquette. And provenances were often unknown or shaky.”

The musicians started to play “La Vie en Rose.” Andrea shivered as though old memories encircled her. She held the sleeves of her beaded sweater and interjected, “As far back as ’72, I remember, there was a case of a vase involving the dealer Hecht.” The vase had been the work of the Greek ceramicist Euphronias, found in Cerveteri.

“Dad is working on a new dig in Cerveteri,” Justine explained to Miranda. “I’ve heard that the Etruscans were the largest importers of Greek vases.”

Miranda nodded. “The New York Met was charged with plundering many Etruscan sites. They focused on aesthetic qualities and didn’t ask too many questions about provenance. Today that wouldn’t do. Countries want their artifacts returned, so museums have to know where they came from.”

“True got caught in the crosshairs of history with some questionable characters, dealers such as Hecht, a collector named Symes, and Giacomo Medici, who was convicted in ’04, sentenced to ten years in prison, and fined a lot of euros,” said Miranda, now in her element. “There were letters, purchases, ample circumstantial evidence, plenty of prova di contorno, information to adorn the edges. Enough to suggest that Marion True knew what was going on. Or should have known.”

“Do you think she was guilty?” asked Justine. “Will she be convicted?”

“I think she was careless. Perhaps she couldn’t imagine what can happen with authorities in Italy once the competition starts. It’s my hunch that they’ll drop all charges, now that they’ve got what they wanted,” said Miranda. Her nose wrinkled involuntarily when she knew she was particularly clever. “Conforti has retired.”

“Who’s Conforti?” asked Justine and Andrea simultaneously.

“I’m hungry,” said Miranda, noticing surprise on the other women’s faces. “I’m very active!” she added defensively.

Justine laughed, amused that such a willowy woman could have such a voracious appetite. “Please go on . . .”

Miranda pursed her lips, then continued while she studied the menu. “General Conforti became personally obsessed with this case, so he and the Carabinieri started investigating True in the late ’90s. There was tremendous rivalry among the ministries, each trying to make la bella figura, to look good. When such competition gets going in Italy, the evidence can get lost in the shuffle. You see, Conforti was particularly obsessed with the return of the Aphrodite, the most disputed piece at the Getty. And he and the Carabinieri were unimpressed by the museum’s pretense at diligence in returning other items. They became determined to pursue this case to its conclusion. To create an intimidating example.”

“What do you mean by lost in the shuffle?” asked Andrea, fingering an engraved silver cigarette case that she never opened in Justine’s presence.

“The process is more important than the outcome,” explained Miranda. “Looking good, getting promoted, playing the game, outdoing your rivals. As long as the evidence is enough to bring a passable case to court. After all, it might all be dropped anyway. Usually for political reasons.”

Andrea laughed in recognition. “Men are more alike than different.”

“Did you ever meet her?” asked Justine, indifferent to the menu.

“Once, at a party,” said Miranda. “A woman in her mid-fifties, gracious, confident. Well-dressed, an Armani suit and furs. Blond hair, probably not natural. She told me, quite casually, that you’re not really important in Italy unless someone is investigating you. Actually, I liked her.”

“Sounds like a sophisticated woman,” observed Justine.

“I’d say so,” said Miranda, “Ironically, many of the reforms that Marion talked about are now in place. Many in the field have argued that if museums hadn’t picked up on and collected unprovenanced finds, they would have ended up in private collections. But things have changed. Museums have stopped buying these antiquities for the most part. Many items have been returned, and museums are engaging in loans. Ownership isn’t that important anymore, as long as loans can be liberally arranged.”

For nearly a half hour, Justine had been trying to piece together Andrea’s motive in pursuing the Marion True story. Andrea did few things without reason. “What does this story have to do with the codex, Andrea?” Justine finally asked, almost sharply. “There’s always a purpose behind your curiosities, n’est-ce pas?”

“You know me too well, cherie. I wanted the inside story so we’ll know what to expect from the Italian authorities regarding the codex.”

Protecting me—or herself?

Miranda placed both her hands firmly on the table, palms down, and demanded to know what the codex was.

Andrea and Justine stared at each other. After a short silence, Andrea said, “Let us order first. A true Roman dish, baccalà, cod with raisins and pine nuts.”

“And puntarelle, a salad of chicory and garlic-anchovy sauce,” added Justine.

Andrea touched her forefinger to her nose and called the waiter. “I’ll have the nudi gnocchi. And another Bellini,” added Miranda. For several minutes, the women listened to the music, watching people come from and go into the underground station situated between the restaurant and the stone city wall. Street lamps gave the remains of their Bellinis a pearly luminescence.

“I’ll start,” Justine said finally. “A year ago—I can’t believe it was only a year ago—I visited St. Sergius Church in old Cairo. The cave, now a crypt, under the church, was supposed to have been the resting place, for some years, of the Holy Family.” Justine heard Miranda inhale sharply. “I entered the cave just before a major earthquake hit. I was trapped. But with help, I managed to get out, carrying with me a little book that wasn’t mine . . . that had apparently fallen into my bag in the chaos.”

“An ancient codex,” interjected Andrea, coolly. “The diary of the Virgin Mary.”

Miranda opened her mouth but was unable to form a word. Then she managed, “Where is it?”

“It was stolen,” whispered Justine, just as dinner arrived.