Tomorrow's Vengeance

TWENTY-SEVEN

‘Art is about family, it is about memory, and it is about history. It is about the history of paintings and drawings and sculptures, but more importantly, it is about the history of people. For many, it is the last tangible connection with a past that was destroyed and with a family that was lost.’

Gideon Taylor, Review of the Repatriation of Holocaust

Art Assets in the United States, Hearing Before the

Subcommittee on Domestic and International Monetary

Policy, Trade, and Technology of the Committee on

Financial Services, U.S. House of Representatives,

July 27, 2006.

It was supposed to be a picnic, but by noon the thermometer had climbed into the mid-nineties and barely a breath of air stirred the leaves. Seniors began to flag in the blistering heat, so when the skies darkened with the promise of rain the Labor Day festivities at Calvert Colony were moved inside.

I’d spent twenty minutes at home searching for the sandals that matched the sundress I’d bought in the Bahamas, so by the time Paul and I got to Blackwalnut Hall the party was in full swing. Uniformed servers carrying trays of wine and platters of canapés roamed the lobby, while classical jazz wafted out of the overhead speakers.

Paul snagged two glasses of Chablis from a passing server and handed one of them to me. ‘Looks like they finally installed a grill on top of the fish tank,’ he observed.

‘Looks nice,’ I said, sipping my wine and watching the kelp undulate. ‘Not that having it in place would have changed the outcome. Richard Kent would be just as dead.’

‘But less wet.’

I scowled at my husband. ‘Behave or I’ll have to take you home.’

We wandered into the dining room, looking for my friends. ‘If this is a preview of the restaurant Raniero plans to open,’ Paul said as he took in the tables, groaning with food, ‘I predict a long and successful career.’

Gourmet salads had been laid out on long, cloth-covered tables, but the platters were still covered with plastic wrap. I browsed along them anyway, rehearsing my plan of attack. Fresh-cut veggies, mushrooms vinaigrette, grilled asparagus, hearts of palm, tabbouleh – twenty hors d’oeuvres in all. ‘This is going to be good,’ I said as I checked out the figs stuffed with pistacios and ricotta.

The French doors stood open. ‘Come on,’ my husband said, and led me out into a carnivore’s paradise. Three barbeque chefs bustled about the outdoor grills tending rumps of beef, legs of lamb, loins of pork and racks of ribs as well as sausages and chicken – burgers and hot dogs, too, if you must. The aromas were intoxicating. It was all I could do to get him back inside when Izzy you-hooed at us from the open door.

‘Your brother-in-law is amazing,’ she cooed. ‘Hutch entered all my father’s paintings into the lost art registry and, voila!’ She waved a hand. ‘One of them has already turned up. A Carlo Mattioli.’

I folded Izzy into my arms and gave her a crushing hug. ‘That’s wonderful! Where?’

When I released her she took a deep breath. ‘Interpol located it at a gallery in Florida. It was part of a traveling exhibit from the Pinacoteca di Parini in Milan. The U.S. Attorneys have seized it, Hannah. It may take a while, but…’

‘But what, Izzy?’ Paul prodded.

‘The Mattioli painting is a tree of some kind, dark and boring. So, I’m thinking that my children will be able to build that swimming pool in their backyard after all.’

While Paul chatted with Izzy about her grands, I escaped to get some more wine. On my return, Raniero breezed up and seized my hand, nearly causing me to dump the wine all over my dress. He pressed my hand to his lips, thanking me profusely in a charming mixture of English and Spanish for saving his career.

I had to laugh, the boy was so earnest. ‘No, you did that all on your own, Raniero.’

A comma of blond hair had escaped from his toque and trembled charmingly over his left eyebrow. He was going to argue with me, I could tell. ‘No, it was you who saw my sister for who she really was. I could forgive her many things, but how could she tell such lies about me? Filomena was taking the kickbacks from the meat man, not me. If I had known…’ He moved so close to me that our foreheads nearly touched. ‘But there was no way I could know. The meat man was using counterfeit stamps. He told the police it was my sister’s idea.’

‘That must have been hard, Raniero. I’m so sorry. How is she doing, do you know?’

‘She has a lawyer.’

‘And?’

‘I do not talk to her, Mrs Ives.’ I could see the sadness behind his eyes. ‘Perhaps one day.’ His eyes glistened with unshed tears. ‘I must get back to work, or I will not have a job,’ he said, releasing my hand at last. I flexed it behind my back, trying to restore the circulation.

‘Tell me about the restaurant, Raniero.’

Surprisingly, his face brightened. ‘It will take longer, but it will come. Our investors are solid.’ He drove a fist into his palm to emphasize the point. ‘Now, I must go check on the asado.’

After another twenty-five minutes of schmoozing, Tyson Bennett made the rounds, inviting his special guests to fix their plates and join him in the private dining room. Once we were all assembled, he stood at the head of the table and banged on the side of his water glass with his spoon to get our attention. ‘Calvert Colony has had a rocky start,’ he said when we’d settled down, ‘but thanks to all your efforts, I believe we are over the hump. ‘I’d like especially to thank Hannah Ives, who I’m hereby nominating for the volunteer of the year award.’ He raised his glass and said, ‘Here, here!’

‘Here, here,’ everyone echoed, and I felt my face flush.

‘What nonsense! You haven’t even been open for a year yet, Tyson.’ I raised my glass. ‘But I thank you, anyway.’

Tyson grinned. ‘At Calvert Colony we plan ahead.’

After all the speeches we settled down to enjoy our dinners. As I sliced my grilled sausage into coins, I asked Tyson, ‘Is Safa Abaza coming back?’

He stabbed a bit of sirloin and looked up. ‘Probably not. Their place is on the market. Are you interested?’

‘Not yet,’ I laughed.

I was chasing the last of the tabbouleh around my plate with a roll and actively resisting the urge not to pick up my plate and lick it clean when Raniero came into the dining room carrying a package about the size of a laptop computer wrapped up in brown paper. He stood politely by the door, waiting to be recognized.

I waggled my fingers at Tyson and, when I’d got his attention, I bobbed my head in Raniero’s direction.

‘Raniero?’ Tyson said.

‘I have something for Mrs Milanesi.’ He crossed the room to where Izzy was sitting and thrust the package into her hands, shifting nervously from foot to foot like a schoolboy, waiting for her to open it.

Izzy’s puzzled face turned to delight as she stripped off the wrapping. ‘Oh, Dio mio!’

‘What?’ I asked from across the table.

She aimed it my direction. It was an exquisite painting of a Madonna and child. I recognized it as one of the paintings in the scrapbook Izzy’s mother had put together.

A single tear rolled down Izzy’s cheek and splashed onto her pink blouse. ‘I cannot believe this. Raniero. Where did this come from? Your sister told me that your grandfather bought only three of my father’s paintings at that sale.’

Raniero considered her sideways through pale eyelashes. ‘She was not telling you the truth.’ He touched her shoulder. ‘But this one, it is the last, I am sure of that. Filomena had a safety deposit box. I found the key. When I opened the box, there it was.’

Izzy covered his hand where it rested. ‘How can I ever thank you for this?’

Raniero stood tall, straightened his jacket and said, ‘Come eat at my restaurant, of course. Free. On the house.’

‘What are you going to name your restaurant, Raniero?’ Naddie wanted to know.

‘I think I will name it after my mother: Graziella. It sounds good, no?’

Naddie favored her favorite chef with a grin. ‘It sounds good, yes.’

‘Why did Filomena steal Izzy’s scrapbook?’ Paul asked after Raniero had excused himself and returned to the chaos in the kitchen.

I shrugged. ‘Filomena didn’t know about Piccio’s inventory, did she? Perhaps she thought that without the scrapbook Izzy’s claim to the paintings could not be proven. Without photographic evidence the gallery might have dismissed her claims as simply the figment of an old woman’s imagination and rejected them out of hand.’ I took a sip of wine, trying to work it out. ‘If the gallery didn’t dig deeper into the provenance then the Buccho family’s connection to the stolen paintings might never have been uncovered. Especially since we now know that she was holding back at least one painting.’

‘How do we know there aren’t any more?’ Paul wondered.

‘We don’t.’

Paul polished off his chicken kabob. ‘And I can think of another reason she wanted the scrapbook.’

‘What’s that?’

‘To see if the painting she was holding back was pictured in it. Once the painting was connected with looted Holocaust art it would become completely worthless from a financial standpoint.’

‘Bye bye, imported koa wood paneling.’

Paul saluted with the empty skewer. ‘Exactly.’

After dinner was over, we were invited back to the main dining room for an evening of entertainment. Paul and I joined a cast of nearly one hundred at one of several small tables arranged, cabaret-style, around the room.

On a raised platform at the end of the room nearest the bar sat a pianist, a bass player and a drummer, all three looking snappy in navy sports jackets and chinos. At the far right stood a gentleman wearing striped suspenders and a remarkable Three Stooges tie that Charlie Robinson, the regular Calvert Colony piano player, would have been proud to own. He held a trombone to his lips and was warming up, working the slide.

Tyson stepped onto the stage and leaned into the mike. ‘We’ve got a special treat for you tonight, ladies and gentlemen. Here, all the way from Jamestown, New York, is Barbara Jean and her band. Let’s put our hands together for the coolest girl crooner this side of the Mississippi River, Bar-bra Jean!’

Smiling brightly, Barbara Jean dashed out of the bar area and took the stage. She wore a neon-blue, off-the-shoulder dress. Her hair, cut in a stylish, shoulder-length shag, shone like burnished copper in the spotlights.

The singer eased the microphone out of the stand and placed it close to her lips. ‘Funny you should say that, Tyson, because the first song I’m going to sing for you tonight is, “I’m not cool yet, but I’m getting warm.”’ A wave of laughter arose from the audience, the piano played a riff and she began singing – low, slow and seductive.

After the first verse, Paul leaned into me. ‘I think I’m in love.’

I took immediate corrective action with a sharp elbow to his ribs.

Our server kept the wine coming while Barbara Jean performed classic songs by George Gershwin, Cole Porter and Irving Berlin. Who doesn’t swoon to ‘Summertime,’ could resist clapping your hands to ‘Anything Goes,’ or singing along with ‘Puttin’ on the Ritz?’

Heather, butt first, eased through the swinging door from the Tidewater Bar pulling Lillian in her wheelchair.

‘“Super duper!”’ Lillian sang along with the chanteuse.

Paul shot to his feet and pulled his chair aside, clearing a path for Lillian who was ensconced in her wheelchair like the queen of England, surrounded by her loyal entourage, a menagerie of pint-sized stuffed animals. More than a dozen were sprawled across her lap and tucked into the spaces between her hips and the arms of the chair.

‘We’ve come to join the party,’ Lillian beamed as Heather slotted the chair into the space next to me.

‘We?’

Lillian held up a gray-striped cat and smoothed its acrylic fur. ‘Me and my babies. They’ve been very good – no fighting and no biting – so I told them they could come to the party, too.’

Beanie Babies! Of course. The bull dog she held up next, and the psychedelic bear still had the original heart-shaped Ty swing tags clipped to their ears.

Lillian beamed. ‘I told you I have lots of babies.’

‘You certainly do, Lillian,’ I said, giving myself a mental one-handed slap to the forehead and wishing that all mysteries were so easily solved.

The tables had been cleared of everything but our drink glasses and bowls of Chex Party Mix. Halo, Lillian’s gold-winged white angel bear was reclining in my lap when Barbara Jean announced, ‘And now for my final number…’

To quiet the groans of protest she paused, grinned and held up a hand. ‘Sorry we have to leave, but we have a plane to catch in the morning. You’ve been a great audience, and to show my appreciation, here’s a little ballad I’ve written especially for you. It’s called “Tell Me Your Name.”’ She snapped her fingers, gave the downbeat, ‘Hit it, boys!’ and sang: ‘Tell me your name if you love me, don’t make me try to guess. I know I parked my car, somewhere not too far. I think I’ll make it home if I walk west.’

As the song continued, Barbara Jean strolled through the audience, carrying the mic. ‘Our shelves are always jammed. We buy in bulk at Sam’s, because we can’t remember what we’ve got,’ she sang as she paused in front of me before moving on.

Paul nudged me with his elbow. ‘She’s got you pegged, Hannah.’

‘Shhhh,’ I hissed, elbowing him back.

As Barbara Jean continued, ‘Though your name escapes me now, I love you anyhow,’ I sought out Paul’s hand and held on tight, trying hard but failing to suppress my laughter.

‘Do you think this song’s a bit insensitive?’ I whispered to my husband in one of the instrumental solos between verses.

‘Are you kidding?’ he whispered back. ‘Look.’

I followed his gaze. Nursing staff clustered in the doorway, hugging themselves, rocking with laughter.

Nancy and Jerry sat side by side at a table for two, holding hands and giggling, whether at the song or each other it was impossible to tell.

Colonel Greene snaked his arm around Christie McSpadden’s shoulders on Day Five of his campaign to help Christie ‘get over her heartbreak.’

Chuck, wearing a checked, short-sleeved button-down shirt and long-sleeved cardigan, totally channeling Ritchie Cunningham from Happy Days, was chatting up one of the bartenders.

A couple of old dears parked near the stage in adjacent wheelchairs sang a song of their own composition, slightly off key.

Even Edith, the lady with the Bible, seemed to be laughing.

Clearly, Barbara Jean was among friends.

After the last notes of the song died away, two of the wait staff scurried about, helping to break down the set so Barbara Jean and her band could stow it away in their van. That done, they began tugging urgently on cables and wires, working them into new configurations. A custodian, hunched over and pushing with both arms, rolled the enormous flat-screen Wii into the room and positioned it near the stage. Additional cables and wires appeared, connecting the screen to an array of tall, black box speakers. One of the waiters, dressed in black jeans and a black turtleneck, sat down behind a control board and began fiddling with the dials.

Karaoke Night at Calvert Colony was about to begin.

Elaine Broering got the ball rolling. Her boots were made for walking, and we’d better watch out.

Tyson Bennett, like Frank Sinatra, stood tall, faced it all, and did it his way.

I smiled to myself. So true.

Tyson handed the mike off to the receptionist who stumbled her way through ‘I’m a Believer,’ which was popular at least two decades before the poor young woman had been born.

The party was in full swing when Paul brushed his lips against my cheek and whispered in my ear, ‘I think it’s time to go.’

But something had caught my eye. ‘Wait, Paul! Look over there!’

Halfway across the room, Jerry had gotten to his feet, taken Nancy’s hand and was tugging on it, urging her to join him up on the stage. She shook her head but he tugged harder, and she shrugged and finally got up, too. There was no telling what would happen next.

While Nancy stood with her back to the audience, nervously wringing her hands, Jerry had a brief consultation with the DJ, which seemed to satisfy him. Then he grasped Nancy by the upper arms and slowly turned her around until she was facing into the spotlight.

He leaned into the microphone. ‘Ready?’

She giggled. ‘Ready whenever you are.’

‘I’m ready.’

‘You go first.’

‘No, you.’

I was beginning to worry that this exchange would go on forever when the DJ flipped a switch, the music started and the words to the song, in white letters so large they could be seen from outer space, began scrolling up the screen. The song was a long-ago classic by Sonny and Cher.

‘Babe,’ Jerry sang, ‘I’ve got you babe.’

‘I’ve got you babe,’ Nancy sang in reply. The two sang the familiar refrain together, twice, three times. When they got to the part about kissing goodnight and holding tight and not letting go, well, I have to admit that I completely lost it.

Paul handed me his napkin and I buried my face in it, sobbing.

‘I guess we’ll stick around a little longer, then,’ he said, signaling the server that his wine glass required attention.

‘We need to make an appointment with Hutch,’ I said as I drove Paul home.

Paul laid a hand on my knee. ‘Why? Thinking of divorce?’

‘After your performance tonight, I should.’ One of the residents – an impeccably dressed woman who was well past her ninetieth birthday – had taken a shine to my husband, handed off the karaoke microphone to him and he’d spent several unsteady minutes wasting away in Margaritaville looking for a lost shaker of salt.

‘What was I to do?’ Paul drawled. ‘As the song says, there’s always a woman to blame.’

‘That’s why I relieved you of the car keys, stud muffin.’

‘Why do we need to consult Hutch, then?’ Paul wondered. ‘Now that the museum is going to return the paintings to Izzy and her family, what else is there to talk about?’

‘This has nothing to do with paintings, Paul. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about those advance directives we signed, gosh, over ten years ago now, back when we both thought I was going to croak.’

Paul squeezed my knee. ‘Hush, Hannah. I never thought that breast cancer was going to get the better of you. I’ve never known such a fighter.’

‘I have excellent doctors.’ I turned right at the intersection of Bay Ridge and Forest Drive and headed into Eastport.

‘I’m sure Emily can’t even imagine that her aged parental units are still having sex,’ I continued as we sailed through the green light at the Eastport Shopping Center. ‘But, I’d like to add a clause to our advance directives that makes sure that if we end up in a nursing home, nobody will make us stay in separate rooms or get in our way when we decide to have sex. Because…’ I paused. ‘I’m quite sure that I’m going to want to have sex with you even if I have no idea who you are.’ I reached over and patted his cheek. ‘You’re a handsome son of a gun, you know.’

‘You’re not so bad looking yourself,’ he said, nuzzling my neck.

I swatted him away and adopted a more serious tone. ‘And, should I shuffle off this mortal coil before you, I want you to know that it’s OK if you want to have a girlfriend. I’ll hate her, of course, but it’s OK.’

‘No thank you,’ Paul drawled. ‘You’d come back to haunt me.’

I beamed a smile at him. ‘You can count on that, sweetheart.’