The Vatican Rip

CHAPTER 12

The Vatican walls seemed more impenetrable than ever when I photographed them that afternoon. Every gateway, the enormous doors in St Peter's, the Museum entrance, every Swiss Guard in sight and the Angelica gateway, with me grinning and clicking away among droves of tourists all doing the same thing. I went about like someone demented. There wasn't a lot of time.

Adriana had objected when I asked to use the camera. All known antiques firms—

except Lovejoy Antiques, Inc, that is—have cameras of various sorts, though most dealers are too bone idle to use them much. She had finally let me borrow a cheap box camera that was hanging on hoping to become an antique, a century still to go.

'Thanks, Adriana,' I said. My last money would go on a film.

'Signora Albanese to you.'

I grovelled. 'Thank you, Signora Albanese.'

'And that's enough for a rustica.' That meant eating on the hoof.

I asked what about food this evening. 'That requirement will be met, Lovejoy,' she intoned mercilessly.

The giant purple Rolls called for her just before two. We shut shop with Piero sourly giving me the once over in case I'd nicked a valuable Isfahan carpet or two, and with Fabio taking an age doing his eyes in a French early Georgian period swivel mirror.

Signora Albanese refused to allow the car to drive off until she saw me enter the pizzeria at the street corner and emerge with two chunks of scalding pizza in my hands.

Only then did the Rolls glide away, with her businessman still doing his executive bit.

He'd hardly looked up when Adriana got in, and I'd taken particular pains to notice, because… I wondered why I'd been so sly. I hardly notice anything except antiques, except when I'm scared, and then I behave like… like I was doing now, moving casually but watching Fabio and Piero and the Rolls reflected in every possible shop window.

I decided I was merely going through a paranoid phase, brought on by Marcello's death and loneliness maybe mixed with apprehension at the thought of the rip. After all I'd done all the choosing, picked Adriana's place at random.

The final agonizing choice came about half past three. To buy a tiny booklet on the contents of the Vatican Museum, or to enter the place to suss it out? I decided on the latter course and spent my last on a ticket. I hurtled up the wonderful ancient staircase (a double helical spiral that curiously is a better model of nucleic acid even than that flashy Watson-Crick mock-up in Cambridge). Adriana had said to be back by five, and the Emporium was a good half-hour's walk from the Vatican. There were seven photographs left in my camera, and I would need to shove the film in for developing on the way. It didn't leave long.

The precious Chippendale piece was still there, sulkily supporting the weight of that horrible nature tableau. A museum guard was being bored stiff at the end of the gallery when I nipped behind a display case and clicked the view from the nearest window.

Then the other way, with a complete disregard of lighting conditions. Then the length of the gallery. A couple of times I had to pause for small crowds of visitors—still sprinting as if they got paid mileage. But by the finish of my reel (who can ever work out when a film's ended?) I guessed I had at least six good shots of the gallery. Then I crossed to feel again those lovely vibes of the true Chippendale, drawn like iron filings to a magnet.

That table really was something to see. I mean that most sincerely, and I've loved antiques all my life. Genuine ones, of course.

* * *

It was on the way out that I realized I was being observed. There is a small glass-covered cloister between two divisions of the Museum galleries. Walk along it and quite suddenly you leave that antechamber where they sell replicas of Michelangelo's Pietà, and emerge on a curved terrace. You can sit in the sunshine and look out over the Vatican grounds. They look accessible, but aren't. There's no way for the public to reach either the grounds or the lovely villa situated in them, because although the terrace looks spacious it is very, very restricted. There's no way of climbing off, either up or down. It's a swine of a design.

Look away from the greenery and the Museum buildings loom above you. I guessed the windows high above—and some distance away laterally, too, worse luck still—were those of my gallery. Near, and practically begging you to enter, was the splendid cafeteria they've recently installed. The grub even looks good enough to eat. The place is spotless and—coming as a dizzy novelty to a bloke like me, raised on a diet of enteric from Woody's Nosh Bar—the tables are laminates and tubular steel, and clean.

Mindboggling.

The people noshing there were the usual cross-section of modern tourists: denim-geared youngsters with birds and blokes indistinguishable, family clusters with infants laying the law down, intense schoolish couples scoring Items Seen in guide books.

Nobody sinister. But that prickling was still there. My shoulders felt on fire with burning unease. I had this notion Adriana might have set Piero or Fabio on to me in case I scarpered with her mouldy old camera, stingy bitch.

It was well after four when I made the exit and set off down the wide Viale Vaticano.

Funny what tricks your mind plays when you feel on edge. I had this odd idea I'd just glimpsed Maria. It turned out to be a woman at least as beautiful and very like her. I first caught sight of her near the ancient Roma section and had almost exclaimed aloud.

She even seemed to stand the same, one foot tilted alluringly while posing casually on the other. But when she turned and strolled away among the mediaeval paintings I could see she was very different—smaller, not so full in the figure. She seemed quieter and much, much calmer than Maria. A gentle young soul, possibly a convent novice out on parole.

The odd thing was, I felt she was as aware of me as I was of her. At the corner I looked back but the woman was not in sight. There, I told myself in satisfaction. There, see? Letting yourself get spooked for nothing. And Maria was hundreds of miles away, bollocking a new class for getting its verbs wrong.

I made the Emporium with one minute to go.

* * *

That first day was a real success. We fell into a pattern, the four of us. Piero was not much help, except as a removals man; the shop muscle. Fabio on the other hand turned out to be quite good on porcelain and ethnographical items, but useless on anything else. Because of some unmentionable disaster to do with a sale of commemorative medallions he had been demoted from doing any independent buying, and had been relegated to the accounts. Like many of his kind he had a real flare for display, and I very quickly came to trust his judgement when laying stuff out. Adriana of course was our vigilant boss. All cheques had to receive her signature. All sales were pitched round her mark (ie, price) and she had veto over every single tag. What she was trying to prove I don't know, but supposed it was merely competition with that podgy businessman of hers. Women can be very odd.

Calling the place an emporium makes it sound grander than it actually was. The main showroom was about forty feet deep and a smaller room led off to one side, which Adriana called the 'specials' room. There she put anything she considered to be of high value, or which was small enough to be easily nicked by the customers—a right load of light-fingered dippers they are, too. Don't think Adriana was being horrid. The average antique shop loses one per cent of its costed stock per fortnight from thievery by decent members of the public who stop by 'just to look'.

We did our tray trick only once that first day, but it was a bonanza when it came off and I swear Adriana almost smiled with delight. Nearly. This time it was with a painting which a German lady was admiring. I was being a casual browser, strolling and looking at furniture, and only getting drawn in when I heard Adriana doing a lyrical exposition of a sentimental mid-Victorian scene, quite a good painting with very little restoration.

'I'm sorry, signora,' I interrupted. 'But do please advise this lady about the medium.'

'The medium?' Adriana was nonplussed for a second because we had planned to use her vaunted 'solid' Cuban mahogany hybrid. 'But oil paints are the most durable—'

'Not on bitumen.'

At one time bitumen was regarded as a splendid permanent ground matrix for oil painting, and reached a high vogue during the early nineteenth century. The only trouble is that nothing cracks or disintegrates like bitumen does. So whether you buy for love or investment, check that the painting doesn't contain it. I explained this to the fascinated customer. The crowd she was with took great interest and one or two were even eager that I should accompany them back to their hotel and pronounce on some antiques they had bought earlier. The lady wrote me her name and room number.

'Come for supper,' she cooed. 'We could have a really good chat.'

Adriana's expression said over her dead body so I hastily said I might give them a ring.

I went on to pick out a good painting for the customer, a little-known Spanish artist's work in egg tempera on laid parchment showing an early scene in industrial Milan.

Adriana invented a solid price for it and the lady paid up on my say-so. It was a bargain but I wasn't too happy because I'd had my eye on it for my wages.

As soon as they'd gone Adriana yanked me into her office. Unluckily there was no innocent browser I could use for protection.

'What do you mean by that asinine display, Lovejoy?' she rasped, slamming the door.

'We made a sale—'

'Don't give me that! Do you think I'm an absolute fool?'

'That painting's solid bitumen—'

She stormed round the desk at me. 'I'm talking about you ogling that German cow out there in my shop! And I saw you collect her hotel number from her and I heard you promise you'd deliver the painting personally—'

I reeled under the salvo. 'Look. She insisted—'

'I won't have it! Do you hear? Making a brothel out of my Emporium! Any one of the crowd could have taken offence! I'm employing you to provide—'

I bleated, 'You heard her invite me to supper—'

She practically took a swing at me as I cringed towards the door. 'You were practically down her cleavage—'

'Now, Adriana—'

'And don't Adriana me!' she yelled, heaving up her porcelain ashtray.

I ducked out fast to get that expensive glass door between us and streaked into the yard to help Piero load up the painting for delivery to the German lady's hotel. He gazed at me sardonically but said nothing. Fabio came out to watch us, his arms folded and an ecstatic smile on his face.

'Lovejoy.'

'Mmmmh?' I was preoccupied knocking up a plywood crate for the tempera. Always remember that tempera painting antedated oils by several centuries, and that to use egg tempera properly you need a relatively inflexible support—hence it is done on copper sheeting or board. You can do it on semi-rigid supports such as parchment paging but the technique is very special. Piero, a right neanderthal, was all for trying to roll the bloody thing up. I ask you.

'You really bother our dear signora,' Fabio was saying.

'It isn't my fault she hadn't priced it,' I grumbled defensively. 'I haven't stopped since I came this morning.'

'She wants you. Now.'

He didn't move out of the way to let me pass, just raised his eyebrows and winked as I hurried in. Adriana had a small card ready. She held it out without looking up from her desk. I took it gingerly.

'This is the name of a restaurant, Lovejoy. You will dine there at eight-thirty this evening. The bill will be taken care of.'

'I could eat somewhere cheaper and keep the difference—'

Her voice went low and murderous. 'Lovejoy!'

I shut up and stuffed the card away thinking, ah well, I might be able to do a deal with the waiter.

During the rest of the time until we closed at eight there was only one notable moment—notable for me, I mean. There was a small object, solid bronze, of a kind I'd never seen before. It stood only a couple or so inches high and, apart from a small flattening of its upper and lower surfaces, was almost completely ellipsoidal. It emitted strong secret chimes, so it had lived for generations in that fond symbiosis which makes genuine antiques the most wonderful things on earth. I gaped. I don't often feel an ignoramus among antiques.

She asked me, 'Well, Lovejoy? Is it genuine?'

'It feels so. But what the hell?' I was puzzled and turned the bronze solid over and over in my hands. A simple bronze solid.

She glanced oddly at me and took it, twisting its ends and pulling. 'Two pieces,' she said. 'There?'

She set down on the display case a beautiful tiny anvil. I'd heard of these rare Continental jewellers' anvils but had never seen a collapsible one in my life. There it sat, solid bronze, even engraved with vine leaves and small florets on its side. One simple twist and it had become a functional, highly specialized instrument, a positive godsend to any aspiring Benvenuto Cellini. I stared and stared until my eyes misted over.

'Lovejoy?' her voice said from far away. 'Are you all right?'

I looked at her. Ratty as hell, but staggeringly beautiful. 'I'm indebted.' My voice was a croak.

'I beg your pardon?'

'For showing me an antique I've never seen before.'

She gave me one of those eloquent shrugs. 'Don't make too much of it, Lovejoy.'

'Impossible,' I said. 'Thank you, signora.'

She moved on. For just a moment her cheeks coloured. Maybe I'd revealed too much intensity all of a sudden. I know people don't understand, and I'd seen enough to realize that Adriana was an out-and-out pragmatist. I followed meekly.

For teaching me that antique I was in love with her for life.

***

That evening was memorable for two things. First, I planned the rip—suddenly knew exactly how it could be done, starting right in Adriana's Emporium. Second, I dined lonelier than Shackleton on his ice floe.

I was given a small table by a casual waiter. Not the slightest chance of any deal with him either, because at the other end of the restaurant in grander circumstances dined Signor and Signora Albanese. Not a word passed between them except pass the salt and suchlike. And no friendly wave across the tables to lonely old Lovejoy.

The grub was great. I wasn't told what I could have or what wine the bill ran to. I just kept a wary eye on the waiter's expression and pointed interrogatively. He swiftly got the idea.

'Fritto misto alla romana,' he decided, sizing me up. It was a cracking fry-up, and I waded merrily in. We'd decided on Zuppa inglese for pud, because I'd remembered the name from one of Maria's test runs back home, and anyway who can resist trifle in hooch?

Every so often I checked that Adriana and her wealthy businessman weren't hoofing off leaving an unpaid bill and me to lifelong dishwashing, but they stayed. He was preoccupied. As far as I could tell she hardly ate enough to last the night.

Even when I got up to make my way out into the dark Roman night I kept my cool.

Partly sloshed and replete with my lovely grub, I plodded solemnly past their table and said nothing. But what was driving me demented was the bird from the Museum, the one I thought had a look of Maria. During my meal she had sat at a table near the door, dined sparsely in quiet solitude and never once appeared to notice me.

Now, Rome's not the biggest city in the world. That's a fact. Plenty of cities are far more crowded. But it isn't so small that you bump into the same person in every nook and cranny. I already knew that Arcellano had plenty of minions. And if one of Marcello's killers was a delectable female, it was tough luck on her because tomorrow I was due to start preparing to rip off His Holiness the Pope. I was in no mood to muck about.

I'd never mugged a bird before, but I went out into the darkness prepared for business.