Page 12 of The Collector
“I wouldn’t go that far. It’s safe to say your presence in Venice is no longer a secret.”
“I couldn’t hide forever, Cesare.”
“How does it feel to be a normal person again after all these years?”
“Let’s not get carried away. I’m not exactly normal.”
“You certainly have interesting friends. I’m only sorry I wasn’t able to attend Signora Rolfe’s performance.”
“Don’t worry, the minister of culture was good enough to put in an appearance.”
“You behaved yourself, I hope.”
“We got on famously. In fact, she invited me to next week’s Leni Riefenstahl film festival.”
General Ferrari’s smile was courtly and brief. As usual, it had no influence upon his prosthetic right eye. “I’m afraid that our politics are no laughing matter. One hundred years after the rise of Mussolini, the Italian people have once again handed power to the fascists.”
“The Fratelli d’Italia consider themselves to be neo-fascists.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Better uniforms.”
“And no castor oil,” added General Ferrari, then shook his head slowly. “How in God’s name did we come to this?”
“‘Things fall apart,’” recited Gabriel. “‘The center cannot hold.’”
“Did Virgil write that, or was it Ovid?”
“I believe it was David Bowie,” quipped Gabriel.
The barman delivered two coffees to the table and, for Gabriel, a small glass of white wine. General Ferrari pondered his wristwatch. “You Venetians really do know how to live.”
“Too much coffee makes my hands shake. A few drops ofvinobiancocounteract the effects of the caffeine.”
“You never struck me as the sort to have shaky hands.”
“It happens from time to time. Especially when I have the nagging sensation that an old friend is about to impose on me for a favor.”
“And if he were?”
“I would tell him that an altarpiece awaits.”
“Il Pordenone? He’s beneath you.”
“But he pays the bills.”
“And what if I were to offer you something more interesting?” The general adopted the meditative countenance of Bellini’sDoge LeonardoLoredan. “There was a spectacular wave of art heists here in Europe a few years ago. The newspapers referred to it as the summer of theft. The first took place in Vienna. The thieves recruited a disgruntled security guard at the Kunsthistorisches and made off withDavid with the Head of Goliathby your old friend Caravaggio. I’m sure you recall it.”
“It rings a distant bell,” replied Gabriel.
“The very next month,” General Ferrari continued, “they stolePortrait ofSeñoraCanalsfrom the Museu Picasso in Barcelona. A week laterLesMaisons(Fenouillet)vanished from the Musée Matisse. And then, of course, there was the textbook smash-and-grab job they pulled at the Courtauld Gallery. Once again, they helped themselves to but a single painting.”
“Self-Portrait with Bandaged Earby Vincent van Gogh.”
Ferrari nodded. “As you might imagine, my European colleagueshave been searching high and low for these irreplaceable works of art, without success. Now, quite unexpectedly, it appears that one of them has resurfaced.”
“Where?”
