The Secret Price of History. Gayle Ridinger
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priest's knees buckled, and as soon as he toppled to the dirt floor, the Frenchman—DesMoulins—yelled, «Je vais prendre toi et le médaillon!»
So it was Sandor's medallion they wanted, and Caterina was dying for it. A few rapid steps backwards, then she ran up the stairs, heart racing, her empty pistol trained over her shoulder at the fat man arrogant enough to chase her, reaching the top and bolting the door just in time to ward off his pursuit.
Eleonora reached Freeman's studio an hour later, dishevelled and shouting. The painter took a moment to understand in Italian who had died and who had been killed, but when he did he looked horrified; murmuring 'shocking, utterly shocking,' he embraced her and would have her sit down but the painting room was a complete mess and there was no place to offer her. With Augusta gone and the happenings in the streets far more riveting than any 'fancy picture' in his head, James had let things literally fall where they might fall: there were drawing pencils, pads, half-stretched canvasses, paints, rags, palettes, and artwork in various states of completion strewn everywhere. He threw two sketchbooks from the sofa to the floor to make room for her. "Here, my dear, here. We must think of what to do. You mustn't go to the authorities but I can."
"But you can't, James. There's no explanation for your being in that house this morning or even knowing Caterina, let alone my family."
"I will say I heard screams from an open window. That I found the door open and went in to investigate."
"And what did you see, James? A naked old nurse who had bled to death?" Her eyes began to brim again for Caterina. "And that priest whom they will find down in the cellar? Nothing will be done, James. They will bury him in secret. And in exchange for your saying something, they will accuse you of murder."
Freeman wanted to say that they certainly weren't going to accuse an American consul of such a thing, but considering what had happened to Nicholas Brown he wasn't so sure.
"We can't do anything for Caterina," she added.
"I don't—I didn't mean to involve you at all, Eleonora," he protested. "It is vital that you leave Rome at once, in fact."
He began to hunt through his possessions—his drawing books on a side table, the papers on the piano, his hands slightly trembling with the nervousness of a man who hasn't the faintest idea where to search. "But if I saw it just the other day?" He moved across the room. She began to get the idea that the search might be related to her when he glanced her way and asked, "Could that new model of mine have moved it, do you think?" He began to look through one of the stacks of oil paintings leaning against the wall. She approached the stacks herself and did the same. She just wanted to stand near him and seem grateful. He had always showed such concern.
"You have absolutely—and at the first minute possible—got to leave, Eleonora," Freeman reiterated. He flipped the last canvas back against the wall and started on yet another stack. "Go to Margaret Fuller in Florence. Really go to her this time. I know the situation is bad, with the Austrians as repressive there as the French and the Pope are here, but Margaret's written me that she's decided to go back to America."
If Eleonora didn't exclaim at this news, it was because she had just discovered an oil painting identical to the pencil sketch James Freeman had made on her first visit. It's me again. It gave her a jolt to think that this artist had continued to think about her and had transformed the drawing into something more. On the rough wooden side of the canvass was written, 'The Princess and the Parrot." What was the reason for it?
"Margaret's taking her baby, her husband, and a nurse, and somehow, Eleonora, you've got to join her." Freeman crossed over to the highboy and started going intently thought the small drawers one by one. "I have that American passport....the one that didn't get collected....here somewhere."
So that was how he meant to help her. She recalled the rumor she'd heard recently of how he had hidden Father Gavazzi in a storage attic for five days. Gavazzi was the only priest she respected, a renegade patriot who had helped Garibaldi in battle. That was James Freeman. And for her, he had just revealed he would do even more.
"I will go, James," she said. She was the simplest person in the world when she made a decision. She would go to Margaret Fuller, and Margaret Fuller would take her to America.
"And as soon as you reach New York, my friend, I want you to write me and tell me all's well, please." He began pulling out the last drawer out as far as it would go and feeling around in the space behind.
"I promise, James."
"Ah!" He waved a small envelope at her.
She would finally see the country with the Constitution.
Rome, Italy - July 28, 2008
If on the one hand Mineo admired Dardanoni for having courage and the desire to do something other than advance to a nice insular office job like so many of their colleagues, on the other hand, he hated how his boss always seemed to come up with some way to upset his, Mineo's, best-laid plans.
Today, for instance.
Mineo's girlfriend was a Roman policewoman of Ethiopian origin, and they had signed up for patrol duty this evening at the soccer stadium. It wasn't an easy job, as he'd recently had reason to say to his boss, but, hell, it meant overtime pay and a free match with their favorite team AC Roma.
Instead of being at the stadium, however, here he was watching Dardanoni flip through his papers and computer files, while his lovely dark Hewan, ex-national female champion in 100-meter hurdles of Ethiopian origin, was dealing on her own in their assigned area with drunken skinheads, vicious neo-fascist fans, and that lurid fraction of hard-core fans accustomed to yelling insults at black players on the field.
"This is the list of cell phone calls made by the Chinese bear," Dardanoni said, tapping his index finger on the first number on the computer screen.
"You got the authorization that quickly?" Mineo asked.
Dardanoni smiled enigmatically. "In the last couple days before his death he placed twenty-some calls. I've ruled out the one made to a number in South Africa and the one made to Argentina."
"How come?"
"Because they weren't part of the Roman Empire and so don't have mithraic temples."
This reasoning sounded rather insane to Mineo, but he said to himself that he might as well let Dardanoni do his thing, since the soccer match was as good as over by now. Maybe if he kept quiet, Dardanoni would let him go in time to enjoy an after-match match with Hewan? The mere thought of the deep molasses color of her skin made his chest tight.
"Let's limit ourselves to the calls made by the American priest within the States and the Roman Empire," Dardanoni continued. "Let's forget about the taxis and hotels…and that leaves us with six calls. So…two were to an American lady—a gallery owner, who, it seems, had a privileged relationship with the priest. The American police have already questioned her, and she knows nothing. Another phone call, made here in Rome, was to a priest at San Clemente to ask him to open the mithraeum—this we've confirmed. A fourth call was to book a table at a restaurant, only he never showed up. Ever heard of 'da Giggetto' over by Ottavia's Portico?"
"Too expensive for me."
"In Milan it'd cost double...There were also two phone calls made to a certain Arjan Vittorio Gupta, an Indian with an Italian passport. The second of these calls the victim made from the hotel, as witnessed by the hour and verified by the desk attendant."
"So I need to question him? What's the address?"
"Hold on. Arjan Gupta is in Holland. That's where he received the phone call. He has an Italian cell phone but right now he's using it in the Netherlands."
Mineo continued to wait for Dardanoni to give him an order or draw a conclusion—to do something, in other words, that would allow him to salvage his evening.
Instead, Dardanoni opened another computer file; a new set of phone call listings appeared on the screen.
"Arjan isn't your normal immigrant," he said reflectively.