Book of Stolen Tales (16 page)

“Yes. It's a great city.”

“You'll hear no argument from me. Many visitors just jump off the cruise ships and head for Herculaneum or Pompei and miss the fascinations of Naples itself. People here are very accepting. They'd have to be after three thousand years of rule by so many different cultures. We're mutts and proud of it. Much the hardier breed. But don't try driving here!” As he shook with laughter I noticed a curious object swinging from the broad leather belt around his stomach: a wide loop of soft yellowed chamois decorated with sparkling gemstones secured to the belt with a kind of topknot.

Fraser saw me glance at it and patted it. “My girdle book,” he said. “Belonged to a sixteenth-century noblewoman from Naples. Her book of hours. In those days, wearing a book was a fashion statement and a mark of wealth.” He touched the topknot. “This Turk's head knot keeps the book secure. The leather used for the covers is lengthened to form a kind of purse that holds the book. Before printing became widespread, books were rare and valuable so they had to be protected. Monks chained medieval manuscripts to library shelves for the same reason.”

“Interesting.” I didn't know what else to say. Even though “Turk's head” was a derogatory reference to turbans Turkish men wore, he didn't seem embarrassed to use the epithet.

“And this,” he continued, pointing to a silver horn he wore about his neck, “is a charm Neapolitans wear to protect against
il malocchio
—the evil eye. But enough about our local lore. Were you looking for anything particular in our collection?”

“I've just been photographing Basile's
The Tale of Tales
. The staff was very helpful.”

After the camaraderie, mention of the book brought him up short. He blanched momentarily then quickly resumed his informative chattiness. “One of Naples' most beloved authors,” he said expansively. “He was revered in this city. In tribute, his tombstone was lodged beneath the pulpit at Santa Sofia di Giugliano until it was destroyed. The original palace on this site is long gone. The author no doubt spent much time in it.”

“Do you have any idea where I can find a complete first edition of
The Tale of Tales
? The library has part of the handsome second edition, but I'm interested in the first.”

“The only one I know of is in private hands.” He glanced out the window, a move that seemed designed to avoid my eyes. “If books and art are your interest, there's enough fascinating material here to occupy a lifetime. I doubt you could do justice to all our possessions, even taking that long. We have drawings by Leonardo da Vinci, and rare maps and papyrus scrolls from Herculaneum. After Italy's last king was deposed in 1946, the Royal Palace became a museum. Fitting, isn't it?” He waved his hand toward the rows of book-laden shelves. “What with the digital age upon us, all these will become curiosities, their value as repositories of history limited by the new scrolls we'll be reading on a screen.”

“I wish I had the time to spend here,” I said appreciatively. “I've just flown in from London hoping to talk to you about an edition of
The Tale of Tales
I purchased for my client at an auction. Apparently it was consigned to Sherrods auction house by you—is that correct?”

At my mention of Sherrods his expression grew less affable. “I was told the sale went smoothly. Is there a problem?”

“You might say so.” Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed three students sitting at the table beside us listening to our conversation. “Is there any chance we might go to your office? It's probably best to discuss this privately.”

“Very well.” He motioned for me to follow him.

The “office” was no more than a cubbyhole with a desk and chair. Beside a computer, file folders and stacks of books littered the desktop. Fraser offered me the seat while he balanced his large bulk against the edge of the desk.

“Thanks for sparing the time,” I said. “First, can you confirm Sherrods received the complete anthology from you—all five volumes?”

“Yes. There's obviously some problem. What is it?”

I got ready for his reaction upon hearing the bad news. “Well, there was only one volume, not five, in the wooden box bearing the Savoy coat of arms.” Fraser started sputtering and I held up my hand to let him know I had more to say. “And the book was reported stolen shortly before the auction was held.”

Fraser's face reddened to the roots of his beard. “That's impossible! Who reported this? Where did you hear it from?”

“Interpol's got an alert out. Unfortunately, I'd already won the auction and taken possession of the book before I heard about the theft.”

I came prepared with the Interpol file already selected on my phone. I clicked it on and held it out for him. He took one look at the screen and faltered, as if on the verge of losing his balance. I quickly got up and slid the chair over for him to sit down.

He flopped into it without speaking while he digested my news.

“You've given me quite a scare, sir. I can assure you that the book came from a source that is … beyond reproach. There must be some mistake. We'll get it cleared up.” He took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow, stuffing the cloth back in his pocket. “What's become of the book then? Have you turned it in to the authorities?”

“I never got the chance. Someone robbed me before I could. It's gone. And I never had more than the first volume.” I didn't tell him I hadn't any proof of that.

“What? This is so strange. I don't know what to make of it all.” He rubbed his fingers over his eyes.

“All the same,” I said delicately, “the auction house and my client are out a lot of money. I hope you'll be good enough to issue a refund while you're sorting this out.”

Fraser threw up his plump pink hands in frustration. “This is a legal matter now. I'll have to confer with the person who entrusted it to me. I have no direct responsibility for any monies exchanged, but I assure you that I do feel a moral obligation. Let me see what I can do.” He swiveled around in the chair, picked up the receiver from a handset on the desk, and dialed a number. He spoke rapidly in a dialect I was unfamiliar with.

Dropping the receiver back into its cradle, Fraser scribbled on a piece of notepaper and stood up. “The owner has agreed to speak with you through an intermediary tonight.” He handed me the paper. “At this address. Under the circumstances, it's the best I can do.”

This seemed an unusual way to conduct business, but then the entire affair had been odd from the start. “And what's his name—the owner?”

“A noblewoman. Her name is Zelladina Margareta Marie.”

“That's quite a mouthful.”

“Yes. To the few who know her intimately, she's just Dina. She's very jealous of her privacy and will likely refuse to see you directly, hence the intermediary. She lives in the Sanità district. Frankly, I don't recommend you go there.” He frowned as if to emphasize the point. “The household Dina lives in has a … I guess you could say, unusual history.” Fraser cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Apparently, she suffered some traumatic personal event in the past. It's rumored she has a dire aversion to men.”

Fifteen

D
istaste for men or no, I intended to seek the woman out. Ewan Fraser gave me her address and warned me again to wait until the evening meeting. He could see I was anxious to get the matter sorted. He was right, but his advice fell on deaf ears. The taxi I flagged refused to take me into Sanità. The driver claimed the street I wanted was too narrow for a car. He dropped me off near the archaeological museum and I proceeded the rest of the way on foot.

It was no surprise a noblewoman had been the owner of the book I sought. I'd met members of European aristocratic families before, a pretty common experience in my line of work. More princesses, duchesses, lords, and counts from old European states exist in this world than anyone can imagine. To stay afloat financially, many sell treasures once sewn into garment linings or otherwise spirited out of countries where war or revolution put an end to noblesse oblige. Emblems of the prestige they'd once taken for granted ended up on the auction block, while they retreated into the ever-diminishing circle of the gentry, unwilling to face the disintegration of their station in life. Some still insisted on using their titles, even though the money and territory they once possessed vanished long ago.

Once, I'd assessed the belongings of a Polish baron whose grandchildren had no interest in the trappings of an archaic social order. He kept up appearances by occupying an Upper East Side apartment. The building was cushy enough, but the apartment's interior looked as though it hadn't been updated since the 1930s, and that included the appliances. He sold off art objects piecemeal to cover his property taxes and living expenses.

I entered Sanità through a street lined with tall buildings so narrow there was barely room for a car to pass through. Perhaps the taxi driver had been truthful after all. As to the danger, no one approached me save for an unshaven man pushing a baby stroller full of umbrellas. It was odd, since there were no clouds in the sky. I suspected some pretty interesting contraband lurked underneath the umbrellas.

He flicked a quick glance up and down the street and gave me an ingratiating smile. “
Americano
?”

I nodded.

He gestured toward his stack of umbrellas. “Snowballs—if you want.” He'd figured the only reason a tourist would venture into this area alone would be for a hit. Snowballs were a mix of coke and heroin and heroin had never been on my shopping list. I shook my head and crossed the street.

In this district, only the upper balconies got the benefit of sun; the road's cobblestone surface swam in shadow. At various points, overhead archways bridged the buildings. Off to my right a short strip of lane opened into a courtyard, abruptly dead-ended by a small but imposing palazzo.

In contrast to its closest neighbors the palazzo was in immaculate condition, made of large blocks of stone painted a warm ivory. Bowl-shaped balustrades sat under every window. Grecian nymph statuettes on a ledge near the roofline held up a wide, decorative cornice. Entrance stairs a full story high led to dark-green double doors, a small viewing window in each one. All the ground-level windows were barred and shuttered. It seemed incongruous for such a stunning building to be hiding away in this rough part of town.

A pale face gazed out from one of the fourth-floor windows, a young woman with braided hair. As she watched me, her eyes seemed to burn straight through my bones. The noblewoman appeared to have earned her daunting reputation. That wasn't the most startling thing about her. I'd seen her before. The intriguing woman in Renwick's photograph.

I mounted the stairs and pressed the doorbell, waiting while the chimes echoed. No one answered. I pressed it again. A few minutes passed by. Still nothing. A third attempt was also unsuccessful. I stepped back into the courtyard and looked up at the window again. The woman was gone. I walked away, perplexed about what her connection with Renwick could possibly be.

The better part of the afternoon lay ahead of me and I decided the best use of it would be to learn about the curious round stone artifact stolen from Renwick's shop. It took me over an hour to find a printing shop where I could copy the photo Norris gave me and fax it to an archaeologist colleague of Samuel's in Chicago.

I also sent out an alert to a network of art and antiquity dealers I belonged to, asking them to get back to me if they heard of any discreet offers of seventeenth-century fairy tales. A thriving black market for antiquarian books existed, just as it did for art objects. If one of Basile's volumes had been offered for private sale, there was a slim possibility my colleagues might hear of it.

I grabbed a bite to eat at a bistro. It only took a few hours in Naples to realize the city earned its reputation for fabulous food honestly. It seemed this was also true in Basile's time. I smiled when

I resumed reading the English translation and came across his endearing and somewhat sorrowful description of his beloved city, written as he set off to become a soldier of fortune for the Venetians.

This passage was typical of his writing. Full of rich description and metaphors. It reminded me of Gabriel García Márquez's
One Hundred Years of Solitude
, a favorite book of mine. Basile had the same remarkable talent to marry the fantastic with everyday life.

Turning later to other fairy-tale authors, I found a site on Andrew Lang, a nineteenth-century English anthropologist and folklore scholar. He'd assembled over four hundred tales in twelve separate volumes known as the Fairy Books. I found myself drawn in by Henry Justice Ford's haunting, evocative illustrations, just as I had with José de Ribera's earlier ones. Lang even retold one of Basile's stories, “The Snake.” Lang's story, “The Enchanted Snake,” was little more than a synopsis of Basile's tale and lacked the Neapolitan author's gorgeous descriptions and rich language.