Angelica Lost and Found

Chapter 47. Cometh the Hour

The painting stayed on the easel. We hadn’t framed it and we mostly kept it covered. People came and went; for some, but not many, we uncovered it but it stayed unsold. One day the Volatore smell walked in, bearing on its waves a small man with a beautiful hairpiece that concealed his baldness so realistically that it was like the acting of a method actor whose realism emphasises the artfulness of his art. This man was wearing Armani, Rolex and a confident smile. He had a red-carpet kind of walk; in his small way he was grandiose.

Olivia and I uncovered the tiny, tinies and stood on either side of his avenue of approach. He looked at the painting, sighed, closed his eyes, opened them and turned to us, at the same time taking out a large chequebook.

‘How much?’ he said.

It was a moment or two before I was able to take in the reality of his words.

‘You want to buy it?’ I said.

He nodded, and speaking slowly, as to a foreigner, said, ‘It is for this reason that I flourish my large chequebook.’

‘This one speaks to you, does it?’ said Olivia.

He closed his eyes again.

‘In a dream have I been there with the tiny, tiny dancing giants in the dim red caverns of sleep.’

‘Have you had this dream recently?’ I asked him.

‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

‘This is the first time I’ve heard of anyone seeing the subject of a painting in a dream before seeing the actual painting. You don’t happen to know Lenore Goldfarb, do you?’

‘This pleasure,’ he said, ‘I have not yet had. Again I flourish my chequebook and express my wish to know the price of this painting.’

‘This one is a rarity,’ I said. ‘In fact it’s unique, the only work of a man who gave up painting after producing it.’

‘As one would,’ said the odoriferous gentleman, uncapping his Mont Blanc. ‘I am ready if you are.’

‘Very well then.’ I drew a deep breath. ‘The price is one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.’

Unperturbed, he found a table to lean on, wrote the cheque in a large round hand, waved it in the air once or twice to dry the ink, and presented it to me. I looked at the signature: ‘Volatore’.

‘Volatore!’ I exclaimed.

‘Ah,’ he said preenfully, ‘this name makes a bell to ring, yes?’

‘Yes. Tell me why.’

‘Do you go to the movies?’

‘Sometimes. Are you an actor?’

‘Actors! Pfft!’ (With a snap of the fingers.) Have you seen A Midnight too Far?’

‘I’ve seen it,’ said Olivia. ‘Lola Trotter and Rodney Stark.’

‘And the credits?’ said Volatore. ‘Did you read the credits?’

‘No.’

He passed his hand over his wig and gave us a sidelong glance.

‘Hairstylist!’ said Olivia.

‘Hairstylist!’ he said, drawing himself up to his full shortness. ‘I, Volatore, made of Miss Trotter a thing of beauty, Ah! che bellezza! Without my art she would receive from no one a second glance.’

‘You’ve done a great job on her,’ said Olivia.

‘Thank you,’ said Volatore, bowing modestly. ‘I am also known for Volatore’s TurboScalp System (patent pending) which has stimulated Mr Stark’s performance to a level well beyond the limits of his talent.’

‘Can a TurboScalp System really do that?’

‘He thinks it does, so it does. This is known as the placebo effect.’

‘Interesting!’

‘Yes, and profitable as well. High-powered executives, athletes, opera singers and many other professionals who must work to the highest standards swear by my TurboScalp System. It is because of this that my chequebook is so virile.’

‘Forgive me if I’m being too personal,’ I said, ‘but your smell …’

‘Ah, the smell of me!’

‘Yes, as you have to get close to your clients, doesn’t it present a problem?’

‘No. Only when I am receiving a transmission does the smell manifest itself. In my salon it happens not.’

‘So you’re receiving a transmission now?’

‘As your nose tells you.’

‘From whom?’ said Olivia.

Volatore shrugged and with both hands made a ‘It’s a mystery to me’ gesture.

‘It’s a mystery to me,’ he said.

‘If you don’t mind my asking,’ I said, ‘is your name always Volatore?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, is it Volatore every day or only on special days?’

‘My name is what you call a twenty-four-seven thing, every day of the year.’

‘Please don’t be offended by these personal questions,’ I I said, ‘but has it always been Volatore?’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Only since 1958. In that year there was a popular song that was a big hit: “Nel blu dipinto di blu” was the title but it became known as “Volare” which is the infinitive “to fly”.’ He sang a few bars of the song. ‘My father liked the sound of that word, and he went on to the word for “flyer” which he liked even better, and he had the family name legally changed from Garzanti to Volatore.’

‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘what do you think is the special attribute that made you a receiver of these mysterious transmissions?’

‘This to me is also a mystery,’ said the hairstylist with the appropriate gesture.

‘Do you know why Orlando is furious?’ asked Olivia whose knowledge of Ariosto was limited to the title.

‘This I think must be known to everyone,’ said Volatore Three. ‘It began when he and Angelica drank from the two fountains, he from the one that made him love her and she from the one that made her despise him.’

‘This is not common knowledge,’ I said. ‘Have you a particular interest in Ariosto?’

Volatore Three smiled deprecatingly.

‘It is my hobby to render his Italian into English,’ he said humbly. ‘Mine may not be as good as what is already published but it gives me pleasure and harms no one. Ariosto’s elegance and wit can be approached in more than one way in a rhyming translation.’

‘Ah!’ said Olivia and I together.

‘Please telephone me when my cheque has cleared,’ he said, ‘and I shall have the painting picked up.’ He handed me his card which bore a Nob Hill address, bowed ceremoniously, and left.

‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ said Olivia. ‘I wonder who Volatore Four will be.’

‘Me too,’ I said, and the two of us took the cheque to the bank.