The Modigliani Scandal Part 15

No. And there is certainly no Danielli family in Poglio. However, others in the village have longer memories than mine. And no one can hide in such a small place. He looked at them hesitantly for a moment, as if making up his mind about something. Who told you he came here?

Another rabbi-in Livorno." Dee realized the priest was desperately curious to know why they were interested in the man.

He hesitated again, then asked: Are you related to him?

No. Dee looked at Mike, who gave a quick nod. "We're actually trying to trace a picture which we think he had.

Ah. The priest was satisfied. Well, Poglio is an unlikely place to find a masterpiece; but I wish you well. He shook their hands, then turned back into his church.

The couple walked back toward the village. A nice man, Dee said lazily.

"And a nice church. Dee, shall we get married in a church?

She stopped and turned to look at him. Married?

"Don't you want to marry me?

You only just invited me-but I think you made a very good choice.

He laughed, and shrugged his shoulders in embarra.s.sment. It just kind of slipped out, he said.

Dee kissed him affectionately. There was a certain boyish charm about it, she said.

Well, since I seem to have asked you ...

"Mike, if its anyone, its you. But I dont know whether I want to marry anyone at all.

Theres a certain girlish charm about that, he said. One all.

She took his hand and they walked on. Why dont you ask for something a bit less ambitious?

Such as?"

Ask me to live with you for a couple of years to see how it works out.

So you can have your evil way with me, then leave me without any visible means of support?

"Yes."

This time he stopped her. Dee, we always turn everything into a joke. Its our way of keeping our relationship in an emotionally low key. Thats why we suddenly start talking about our future together at a crazy time like this. But I love you, and I want you to live with me.

"It's all because of my picture, isnt it? She smiled.

Cmon.

Her face became very serious. She said quietly: Yes, Mike, Id like to live with you.

He wound his long arms around her and kissed her mouth, slowly this time. A village woman walked by and averted her face from the scandal. Eventually Dee whispered: We could get arrested for this.

They walked even more slowly, his arm around her shoulders and hers about his waist. Dee said: Where shall we live?

Mike looked startled. Whats wrong with South Street?

Its a scruffy bachelor pad, thats what."

Nuts. It's big, its right in the center of Mayfair.

She smiled. I knew you hadnt thought much about it. Mike, I want to set up home with you, not just move into your place.

Mmm. He looked thoughtful.

"The apartment is knee-deep in rubbish, it needs decorating, and the kitchen is pokey. The furniture is all odds and sods-"

So what would you like? A three-bedroom semi in Fulham? A town house in Ealing? A mansion in Surrey?

Somewhere light and s.p.a.cious, with a view of a park, but near the center.

I have a feeling youve got somewhere in mind.

"Regent's Park.

Mike laughed. h.e.l.l, how long have you been planning this?

"Didn't you know I was a gold-digger?" She smiled up into his eyes, and he bent his head to kiss her again.

You shall have it," he said. "A new place-you can get it decorated and furnished when we get back to town-"

"Slow down! We dont know if therell be a flat vacant there.

"We'll get one.

They stopped beside the car, and leaned against the hot paintwork. Dee turned her face up to the sun. How long ago did you decide ... about this?

I dont think I decided at all. It just gradually grew in my mind-the idea of spending my life with you. By the time I noticed, I was already too far gone to alter it.

"Funny."

"Why?"

It was just the reverse with me.

When did you decide?

When I saw your car outside the hotel at Livorno.

Funny that you should ask me so soon afterward. She opened her eyes and lowered her head. "I'm glad you did.

They looked at each other silently for a minute. Mike said: "This is crazy. Were supposed to be hot on the trail of an art find, and here we are looking cow-eyed at each other.

Dee giggled. All right. Lets ask the old man.

The man with the straw hat and the walking-stick moved with the shade, from the steps of the bar to a doorway around the corner. But he looked so completely still that Dee found herself imagining that he had been levitated from the one place to the other without actually moving a muscle. As they got close to him, they realized that his eyes belied his lifelessness: they were small and darting, and a peculiar shade of green.

Dee said: Good morning, sir. Can you tell me whether there is a family named Danielli in Poglio?

The old man shook his head. Dee was not sure if he meant there was no such family, or simply that he did not know. Mike touched her elbow, then walked quickly around the comer in the direction of the bar.

Dee crouched beside the old man in the doorway and flashed a smile. You must have a long memory, she said.

He mellowed slightly, and nodded his head.

Were you here in 1920?

He gave a short laugh. Before then-well before.

Mike came hurrying back with a gla.s.s in his hand. "The barman says he drinks absinthe, he explained in English. He handed the gla.s.s to the old man, who took it and drained it in one swallow.

Dee also spoke in English. Its a pretty crude form of persuasion, she said distastefully.

Nuts. The barman says hes been waiting here all morning for some of the tourists to buy him a drink. Thats the only reason hes sitting there.

Dee switched to Italian. Do you remember back to about 1920?

Yes, the old man said slowly.

Was there a Danielli family here then? Mike asked impatiently.

"No."

"Do you remember any strangers moving to the village around that time?

Quite a few. There was a war, you know.

Mike looked at Dee in exasperation. He said: Are there any Jewish people in the village? His skimpy Italian was running out.

Yes. They keep the bar on the west road out of the village. Thats where Danielli lived when he was alive.

They looked at the old man in astonishment. Mike turned to Dee and said in English: Why in h.e.l.l didnt he tell us that at the start?

Because you didnt ask me, you young c.u.n.t, the man said in English. He cackled merrily, pleased with his joke. He struggled to his feet and hobbled off down the road, still cackling, stopping now and then to bang his stick on the sidewalk and laugh even louder.

Mikes face was comical, and Dee too burst out laughing. It was infectious, and Mike laughed at himself. "Talk about a sucker, he said.

I suppose wed better find the bar on the west road out of town, Dee suggested.

Its hot. Lets have a drink first.

Twist my arm.

They walked into the cool of the bar again. The young barman was waiting behind the bar. When he saw them his face split in a wide grin.

You knew! Dee accused him.

I confess it, he said. He wasnt really waiting to be bought drinks. He was waiting to play that trick. We have tourists here only about once a year, and its the high spot of the year for him. Tonight he will be in here, telling the story to anyone wholl listen.

"Two Camparis, please, Mike said.

III.

THE PRIEST STOOPED ON the cobbled churchyard path to pick up a piece of litter: a stray candy bar wrapper. He crumpled it in his hand, and stood up slowly to placate the nagging rheumatism in his knee. The pain came from sleeping alone in an old house through many damp Italian winters, he knew: but priests ought to be poor. For how could a man be a priest if there was one man in the village who was poorer? The thought was a liturgy of his own invention, and by the time he had run through it in his mind, the pain had eased.

He left the yard to walk across the road to his house. In the middle of the street the rheumatism stabbed him again: a vicious, angry shaft of pain which made him stumble. He made it to the house and leaned on the wall, resting his weight on his good leg.

Looking down the road toward the center of the village he saw the youngsters whom he had spoken to earlier. They walked very slowly, their arms around each other; looking and smiling at each other. They seemed very much in love-more so than they had half an hour earlier. The understanding which the priest had gained through many years of listening to confessions told him that a change had been wrought in the relationship within the last few minutes. Perhaps it had something to do with their visit to the house of G.o.d: maybe he had given them spiritual help, after all.

He had sinned, almost certainly, in lying to them about Danielli. The untruth had come automatically, by force of a habit he had got into during the war. Then, when he had felt it imperative to conceal the Jewish family from all inquirers, the whole village had lied with his blessing. To tell the truth would have been sinful.

Today, when a couple of complete strangers had arrived out of the blue, and asked for Danielli by name, they had touched an old, raw nerve in the priest; and he had protected the Jews again. The inquiry was bound to be quite innocent: the Fascisti were thirty-five years in the past, and no longer worth sinning about. Still, he had not had time to think-which was the reason for most sins, and a poor excuse.

He toyed with the idea of going after them, apologizing, explaining, and telling the truth. It would expiate him a little. But there was little point: someone in the village would send them to the bar on the outskirts of Poglio where the Jews eked out their living.

His pain had gone. He went into the little house, treading on the loose flagstone at the foot of the stairs with the twinge of affection he reserved for familiar nuisances: like the rheumatism, and the unfailing sins he heard week after week from the irreformable black sheep in his little flock. He gave them a rueful paternal nod of acknowledgment, and granted absolution.

In the kitchen he took out a loaf and cut it with a blunt knife. He found the cheese and sc.r.a.ped off the mold; then he ate his lunch. The cheese tasted good-it was the better for the effect of the mold. There was something he would have not discovered if he had been rich.

When he had eaten the meal he wiped the plate with a towel and put it back into the wooden cupboard. The knock at the door surprised him.

People did not usually knock at his door: they opened it and called to him. A knock indicated a formal visit-but in Poglio, one always knew well in advance if someone was going to pay a formal visit. He went to the door with a pleasant sensation of curiosity.

He opened the door to a short man in his twenties, with straight fair hair growing over his ears. He was peculiarly dressed, by the priests standards, in a businessmans suit and a bow tie. In poor Italian he said: Good morning, Father.

A stranger, thought the priest. That explained the knock. It was most unusual to have so many strangers in the village.

The man said: May I talk to you for a few moments?

Surely. The priest ushered the stranger into the bare kitchen and offered him a hard wooden seat. Do you speak English?

The priest shook his head regretfully.

Ah. Well, I am an art dealer from London, the man continued haltingly. "I am looking for old paintings.

The priest nodded wonderingly. Clearly, this man and the couple in the church were on the same mission. That two sets of people should come to Poglio on the same day looking for paintings was just too much of a coincidence to be credible.

He said: Well, I have none. He waved a hand at the bare walls of the room, as if to say that he would buy bare essentials first, if he had any money.

"Perhaps in the church?