This Crumbling Pageant Read online

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Put the ball in play. Let the defense do their job.” The coach went back to the dugout, and Scott wound up and lobbed one in. Crack! A bases-clearing triple. Now it was 3—3. There was double-barrel action in the bullpen. The sign came in to walk the next batter intentionally, but of course now all of Scott’s pitches wanted to land in the strike zone. Pulling off his mask, the catcher trotted out and told him in heavily accented English to calm down, man.

  Next batter was a scrappy little switch-hitter named Otts. Scott threw yet another wild pitch, but the energetic Otts chased it and hit a hard grounder that the third baseman couldn’t field cleanly. Bases loaded again. The manager kept Scott in. It was insanity, but perhaps the manager wanted to see if Scott could work himself out of a jam. Test his mettle. Let him redeem himself. Instead, Scott gave up a walk-off walk, the greatest disgrace for a closing pitcher.

  When, the next night, the team found themselves in the exact same situation, they went to Kinjoh. With his insidious sidearm delivery, Kinjoh threw one pitch, a breaking ball. The batter grounded to short for an easy throw to first; the first baseman handed Kinjoh the ball as a souvenir; and the next day Scott was back at the Minors.

  Except now he wasn’t himself. He was shaken up and confused. He wanted to go around asking people what just happened. The whole whirlwind had done little more than lift him up, drum the confidence out of him, and then dump him right back onto the pitcher’s mound in the crummy little stadium he had said good riddance to. And now he was expected to forget about what happened and stand up there on the rubber and intimidate people. Nobody was fooled. Scott got clobbered. Each game the batters picked him apart. By the time September rolled around, he was a shell of himself, and his career as a professional athlete was in near ruination. When the season was officially over, the organization allowed his contract to run out.

  For the first couple of weeks after being released, Scott rested his hopes on the dubious machinations of one Lou Prez. Lou Prez was a soft-spoken, low-powered attorney and sports agent. Lou worked busily to find Scott a new home, but the offers were strictly indie ball, a backward-looking prospect that Scott couldn’t bear to contemplate.

  By mid-September he and Holly were already thinking of going to Europe. Holly both loved to travel and hated her job, and Scott just wanted to go someplace foreign, as foreign as possible. Usually during the off-season he would work for his uncles doing carpentry, but business at the Cape was slow. They called with work when they could, but it was always odd jobs—unskilled, one or two-day charities. Never anything steady.

  Fortunately, the couple had a little money in the bank. It was Scott’s bonus, from when he was seventeen. In the past, they would nip into this modest savings to get them through the lean months until spring training. It was a source of unmixed pride for Scott that at twenty-seven years old he had never allowed himself to feed off it completely. It was meant for when he and Holly wanted to start a family. But now their situation had changed. Now, in this funny moment in their lives, in this foreign zone with its strong coffee and even stronger currency, they were going to go whole hog and feast on their little nest egg, without scruples.

  3

  Holly told the antique dealer that the woman walked away before they could talk to her. He smoothly reassured her he would see the signora that afternoon and wouldn’t forget to mention the very gentle American couple. Holly gave him their telephone number and a thousand thanks.

  “That’s that,” she told Scott afterward. “There’s nothing we can do now but wait.” She took his hand. “Come on. I want to pick up some food before we go home.”

  She led him through the marketplace, down a dark, narrow trail through a thicket of leather goods. In a small opening sat an enormous trader surrounded by animal skins and barking orders at a slim, dark-skinned boy, who glided past Scott sideways. At the end of the aisle the air became briny. Cobblestones gleamed under their feet. On either side were crates of anchovies heaped like silver, tiers of slimy oysters on crushed ice, and buckets slithering with eel. Out of nowhere an old fishwife seized Scott’s arm and shoved a living squid in his face.

  “Jesus!” he said. He shied away from the twisted creature, simultaneously floating and pasting itself around the old lady’s hand, and then laughed. “No, grazie.”

  He and Holly pressed on until they reached the fruit and vegetable stands. Here they actually saw someone they knew. It was Luca San Michele, the person renting them their apartment. Luca was a youngish man somewhere in his early thirties, an exuberant, handsome—nay, dashing—“hail fellow well met” type.

  This day they caught him with a bad cold.

  “I apologize for not shaking hands,” he said, in his textbook English. “I’ve been a little under the weather lately.” He hefted a sack of blood oranges in one arm and took a tissue out of his jacket pocket. He was wearing a very fine, yet casual suit. He explained, “I had to deliver a lecture this morning. It was all nuns in the audience.” He added, significantly, “Augustinians. Very scholarly. I could not miss it.”

  “What was the lecture about?” Scott asked.

  Luca blew his nose one-handed. “Are you familiar with the works of James Collinson?”

  Holly became excitable. “The Pre-Raphaelite? You didn’t mention you were an art historian!”

  “Oh, no, no, no. It’s more a passion than a profession. At university, I studied computers, not art.”

  He commended them on braving the marketplace. They were turning into true Italians already.

  Holly was flattered. “We’re still trying to learn how to bargain for things.”

  Luca thought this was priceless. “Still trying to learn how to bargain,” he repeated to himself whimsically. “That’s beautiful. And how do you like Bologna thus far, Scott?”

  “Oh, it’s a wonderful city!” Holly answered for him.

  They talked about the city’s special charms: the well-preserved center; the university, where Dante Alighieri studied; the famous cuisine, in a country famous for its cuisine; and of course the relative lack of tourists, which was the reason Holly chose this city and which, she believed, was giving them a more “authentic” Italian experience. Scott’s thoughts went to the Kensett painting.

  It was, he thought, going to be pure, uncut hell waiting to see if the merchant would contact them. And he was pretty confident they were being fools leaving their fortunes up to chance like this—up to the backdoor negotiations of a churlish antique dealer and a shrew from the Jersey shore.

  “Oh!” Holly cried out to Luca. “So you own the whole building! I thought it was just the apartment.”

  Another thing worrying Scott was that Holly would, any moment now, blab about their discovery to Luca San Michele, the art history buff. They would have to keep it a strict secret. Soon as they were alone, he’d make her promise not to breathe a word about it to anyone.

  While Scott was lost in these thoughts, Luca had changed the subject to truffle hunting, an activity he enjoyed in the company of his beloved sow, Emma.

  In disbelief, Holly said, “I didn’t think people still used pigs to find truffles.”

  “Are we talking about chocolate?” Scott asked himself out loud.

  “It’s a type of mushroom,” Luca explained. “But very precious. They grow underground, along the roots of old oak and hazel trees. I like to hunt for them in the forests of Umbria, which we call the ‘green heart of Italy.’ I keep Emma there in a small farm outside the woods. She’s an exquisite pig, black and pink, with a great memory.”

  Here a small, bespectacled man whispered something into Luca’s ear while passing by.

  “Hi, Giorgo!” Luca called out in English to the little man, who was looking back with a lascivious grin. “How are you? What do you think of all this rain we’re having? Eh? Uffa, when will it end!” He reached for his Kleenex and turned back to Scott and Holly. “Forgive me. You know, Holly, truffles wan
t to be caught by pigs. They emit an odor that mimics the sex hormone of the male pig and drives the female crazy. That is why I don’t use dogs. Dogs get bored after an hour or so, but a sow on the hunt is not to be trifled with. The only disadvantage is having to wrestle with a three-hundred pound hog once she’s uncovered un tartufo.” He gave a wan laugh and confessed, “But I must tell you. I am very attached to my Emma. That old pig is the love of my life.”

  He said it with such disarming sincerity that Holly broke out laughing. Then she placed a hand on his sleeve and told him that it all sounded so beautiful, so romantico.

  “You must come along with me the next time I make the trip to Umbria,” he said. He repeated the invitation, as if he liked the way it sounded. “Yes,” he said, more to himself. “I must take the Americans truffle hunting. I promise you will fall in love with it. The two of you will be certified Italians afterward!”

  Scott and Holly accepted the invitation heartily, and Scott looked at his new friend, Luca San Michele. He was such a well-rounded, well-spoken personage. And such a strong current of geniality came from him that it was hard to resist his charm.

  He was, Scott thought, awfully young to be the owner of anything in Italy, let alone an entire palazzo as rental property.

  &

  As soon as Luca departed, Scott pulled Holly aside and said, “Thank God you didn’t say anything to him about the painting!”

  “Of course not,” she replied coolly. “That painting is ours. We’re the ones who discovered it. We deserve it.” She gave him a little kiss on the cheek. “Don’t worry, honey. I really believe the dealer is going to pull through for us. I have faith.”

  Scott felt relieved, but it was difficult to isolate what, exactly, was so consoling about her words. His chest throbbed with anticipation whenever he thought about the painting. It was his eagle eye that spotted it, and it was Holly, with that lovely, encyclopedic brain of hers, who identified it. They were a real husband-and-wife team, and Scott couldn’t suppress a feeling, since first discovering the hidden masterpiece, that he and Holly were embarking on a kind of cozy adventure together, in this perfectly foggy and misterioso setting. Just the two of them. No Luca San Michele.

  Holly picked out some ingredients for their dinner, making one laughable stab at haggling, and they started off for the car. Before leaving the square, they came upon an unshaven, seedy-looking man leaning against a spiked fence outside a small monastery. Gathered around the man were three sophisticated ladies in furs and a little girl, all cooing over a cardboard box open at his feet. It was squirming with terrier pups.

  “Oh my God...” Holly said slowly. “Look how cute they are!”

  The man smiled to himself and crossed his feet.

  Scott said, “Of course. What’s cuter than a boxful of puppies?”

  Holly laughed. “I know. It’s enough to make you sick.” Then she squealed as the owner suddenly produced one wriggling specimen and draped it over her shoulder. It squinted at her and then sneezed in her face. Holly looked almost pained by how adorable it was. She closed her eyes and hugged it tight.

  “Questo è muto,” the owner informed her. “This dog no speak.”

  Holly threw her head back and laughed.

  Uncertainly, he said, “Is good, no? Is more good that dog no speak.”

  “Yes,” she hastened to reassure him. Then to the puppy: “Oh you poor thing!”

  Scott said, “I don’t understand. His other dogs are talking dogs?”

  “He’s saying it’s mute.”

  The owner chimed in, “Yes! Mute! Muto, muto.” He swiped his hand under his chin. “No say nothing, this one.”

  Scott gazed long at the puppy and thought more about what Holly had said. He didn’t have as much faith in the antique dealer, not at all. Maybe I can try cutting a deal with the guy myself, he thought. You never know with these Old World characters. They probably give a man more respect than a woman.

  And in his mind Scott was already spending the five million. It was either that, or go back to work cleaning gutters for his uncles.

  &

  When they returned to the apartment, Holly began putting away the groceries and ordered Scott to leave the kitchen. She had a special meal planned and needed some time to cook in peace.

  “That’s fine,” he said. “Maybe I’ll take a walk.”

  “Good. But be back by one o’ clock.”

  Outside, Scott rushed back in the direction of the car. They’d had to park it three blocks away. He crossed the street and skipped up the wooden steps of a portico, one of the many covered passageways that lined the streets of Bologna. They’d accrued over the centuries, and so each had a different style. Some—Holly’s favorites—were frescoed and very opulent. Others, like the one now, had a more medieval feeling, framed with great, dark oak beams. Scott liked those the best. Invariably, though, the ceilings were high and vaulted. Even the lowest of them had been built to accommodate a man on horseback. These porticoes were especially convenient when it rained, as it was doing now. One block short of the car, Scott dodged into a tobacconist’s shop and purchased a lighter and a pack of Marlboro Reds from the nine-year-old boy working the register. Scott stuffed the items in his pocket and continued down the street at top speed.

  &

  After Scott left the apartment, Holly struck a long matchstick and lit the gas stove. She put a pot of water on the burner and threw in some sea salt. She was thinking about the woman at the marketplace. An Ugly American, in the flesh. People like that made Holly wish she had the power to revoke passports and appoint ambassadors.

  With a few minutes to spare, she went on the Internet and looked up information on Kensett. She searched for a catalogue raisonné of his work, but there was nothing online. She refreshed her memory on his biography. He was born in Cheshire, Connecticut, in 1816. He did in fact spend some time in Italy, but it was too early for him to have executed the painting she saw at the market that day. No, that was certainly a mature piece of work, an exceptional example of the period in his career in 1872, called the “Last Summer.”

  It was indeed his last summer. Holly had forgotten the circumstances of Kensett’s death. He had died of pneumonia after saving a woman from drowning. The eulogies of his contemporaries focused on two chief attributes: his genius, and his sweet nature. But what made his death a particularly crying shame was that he was just then, in his middle years, creating his greatest works, the luminescent oils for which he was now noted, all of them dating to that famous last summer.

  Holly got up from the computer in contemplation. She went back to the kitchen to rinse the lettuce.

  &

  Scott fought the traffic in his mid-size Volkswagen. He and Holly hadn’t planned on having a car, but their landlord had put them in contact with an expat named Claus who was away in his native Austria and who’d agreed to rent them his for only 150 euros a month. Another indulgence, another future regret. The marketplace was closing down as Scott parked outside and ran in. He couldn’t remember where to go. It was only when a truck backed out beeping that he zeroed in on his man.

  “Buon giorno!” Scott called out. He bounded forward and then ventured some Italian. The man looked doubtful at first. But slowly, slowly, by some miracle of grunts and sign language, Scott was able to communicate his offer and strike a deal. He hustled back to the car with his new possession. If this were the US, he would have rocketed down the street. But in the crazed circuitry of Bologna’s roads, he became like one of those old swamp Yankees from back home, sticking to the speed limit like scripture, and generally paying no nevermind to the honking of popular opinion. Wherever he drove, Scott seemed unable to shake the traffic. He wore it like a cloud of gnats. It was well nigh 1:30 when he made it back to the apartment.

  “Hey, Holly,” he boomed, kicking the door open. “Look who followed us home!”

  He placed the puppy on the kitchen floor.

  “Scott!” Holl
y cried. “You sneak!”

  While Holly went on like this, Scott closed the door behind him and the dog quickly established himself in the corner of the apartment, behind the sofa.

  4

  There was a young art student in Bologna, also named Luca. Luca Gallo had gas blue eyes, Byronic hair, and was built like a false god. His least movement caused muscles to shift under his clothing like plate tectonics. His shoulders alone were like the massive, twitching rump of a bull. It was a body that belonged on the glinting battlefield, the ringing plains, which was lucky for him. Though he didn’t know it yet, Luca was at war.

  Every day he bicycled from the depressed outskirts of Bologna to the historic center to attend classes or to paint in the private studio space he alone was awarded by the university. He rode past the little Bangladeshi drug dealers of Via Zamboni. He rode past the arcade columns, shaggy with ads. He rode through the gates that led to the Palazzo Malvezzi, the Renaissance palace that housed the Department of Art. He carried his bicycle inside and up the stairs and went to unlock the door to his studio, only to find, on this particular day, that it was busted open. And when he peered inside, he did not recognize the place.

  Someone had broken in and destroyed—conscientiously destroyed—every single piece of work inside.

  Vandals, he thought. And what a perfect word for these barbarians who come in and ruin works of art. Luca could picture them: a gang of bored anarchists, sporting faux-hawks and Mussolini or Che Guevara T-shirts. He crouched down and picked through the ruins.