Page 2 of The Mad Don
I stand there holding nothing. Then someone bumps into my shoulder.
It’s a stumble, and I turn before the reflex can think about it, one hand already moving toward the pin in my hair.
“I’m so sorry!” came the voice behind me. It’s a man; he is staring at the floor with his shoulders around his ears, tremblingvisibly, wearing a suit that costs more than most people’s rent and fits him like he borrowed it from a larger, more confident man. I know the quality. But it’s oversized everywhere. He has on thick-framed glasses. His whole body is shaking with apology before he’s even opened his mouth.
“I’m so — I’m so sorry, I — please, I didn’t mean —”
“Head up.”
He flinches but doesn’t move. His eyes stay fixed on my shoes.
In this room with these people, I cannot afford uncertainty. I cannot afford to assume.
He raises his head, and I stop.
The face is young, soft at the jaw, the kind of face that probably is approachable in the right light. The glasses are slightly askew from the collision. But the eyes behind them are another thing entirely. They are still, completely, still. His body is shaking. His hands are trembling. His shoulders are practically up against his jawline. But his eyes are calm. He holds my gaze for a second. Then the trembling takes over again, his eyes drop, and he fumbles inside his jacket with shaking hands.
“I have… I have an invitation, I promise.” He produces a card, embossed with the event details printed. He holds it out with both hands. “Max — Max Barker, he — he invited me. I’m, my name is Giorgio, Giorgio Ferrante; Max knows my father —”
“Yana.”
It’s Max’s voice. I glance up, and he is walking across the room toward us with Annika a step behind, his face changes to cheerful recognition.
“There he is.” Max claps a hand on the trembling man’s shoulder, and he startles so badly that his glasses neatly fall off his face. “Finally, I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost.” He turns to me. “Meet Giorgio. His father is Gerald Ferrante, Italy’s biggest anonymous art collector. Giorgio here is taking over the family business, aren’t you, mate?”
Giorgio nods with tremendous effort. His chin keeps dipping like it’s weighted. “Y-yes. Yes, I’m — I’m still learning; I’m not as good as my father yet. I —”
“You’re doing wonderfully,” Annika says warmly. She steps forward, and Giorgio’s face loosens slightly, some of the trembling easing. “Hello, Giorgio. The pieces in the corner are new since the last time. I think you’ll love them.”
“I already do,” he says to Annika, and his voice is softer and less fractured. “The — the red series especially. They’re extraordinary.”
“Here,” Max says, steering him gently by the shoulder. “You know what? There’s a seat right there with a perfect view of the Red Series. I’ll bring you over, and we’ll talk about which ones your father would want to know about. Come on, Giorgio.”
Giorgio nods gratefully and lets himself be taken toward a chair near the center of the room. He is shuffling. He is apologetic in every movement. He passes me on the way.
And just as he comes up to my shoulder, he turns his head.
“Goodbye, Miss,” he says. And his voice, just for that one moment, is smooth. “It’s a shame we couldn’t speak alone.”
Then he’s past me, shuffling again, his head down.
I turn to check the room. Max is gesturing toward a sculpture. I look back at the chair where Giorgio Ferrante is now seated, hands folded neatly in his lap, glasses straight, posture upright.
There is no slumping or trembling. His back is a straight line against the chair, and he’s studying the sculptures with focused eyes.
I don’t know what it is yet, but something about him makes me uneasy. I clench my fist, and he slowly turns. Our eyes meet, and he smiles. There is no trace of nervousness in the smile. He turns back and continues looking at the sculpture.
I watch him walk to the car after the showcase.
His staff loads the last of the wrapped pieces into the back. He walks the way nervous men move, slightly hunched, with his head bent down and his hands in his pockets. He pauses atthe open passenger door and turns. Our eyes meet across the parking lot.
He does not smile or wave. He raises two fingers to his head in a small salute, and then he is in the car, and the door closes, and he is gone.
I stand at the entrance for a moment longer than I need to.
“There you are.”
I turn, and Annika is at the gallery door, her shawl pulled tight around her shoulders. She steps out and joins me on the top step.
