The Dead Man's Brother (7 page)

"How long will you be in town?"

"It’s hard to say. I’m not really certain yet."

"Buying trip?"

"Sort of a combination of a vacation and just looking."

"Excellent," she said. "I have to run now. I will see you tomorrow evening then."

"Right. Take care."

"Goodbye."

Click.

I cursed as I smoked and paced. Something was just too neat and cute for other words. It had to be more than coincidence, my connection with the renegade priest through Maria and Carl, with Carl turning up dead at my place and me on the spot this way. My man in Virginia must have known more than he had indicated, and I cursed him for holding it back when it might have been of use to me.

Finished with cursing, I went downstairs and up the street for dinner.

"It is no great wonder if in the long process of time, while fortune takes her course hither and thither, numerous coincidences should spontaneously occur," the historian wrote. "If the number and variety of subjects to be wrought upon be infinite, it is all the more easy for fortune, with such an abundance of material, to effect this similarity of results."

Crap, Plutarch! Crap! You and Berwick would have gotten along fine together.

I ate the food without really tasting it. I lingered over my final drink.

*

I found Anna Zanti, the fifth name on the Monsignor’s list, seated on the steps of a building one guidebook describes as "benin funerary style," her basket of flowers at her feet and small bunches of them spread, satellite-like, about her on the stair. She was a very thin, dark woman, with incipient cataracts and snow-white hair. She wore a shabby, plaid shawl and long skirts, and the lines in her face deepened as she leaned forward, frowning, to catch at the words of a customer. Since the conversation could prove lengthy and the day was young, I passed her on the stair and entered the concrete monstrosity.

Inside the thing was the altar itself, raised by the Roman Senate for Augustus Caesar around 2,000 years ago. When pieces of it were dug up in 1568, they were believed to be the remains of an old triumphal arch. It was not realized until approximately three centuries later that it was the Ara Pacis Augustae. And it was not until 1937 that it was fully excavated and the job of piecing it together was begun. Marble, atop a pyramid of steps, the outside screen a bas relief showing the suckling of Romulus and Remus by their bitch of a stepmother, Aeneus making a sacrifice, a gala procession, all above decorations of acanthus leaves, snakes, lizards, birds, flowers and butterflies. I mounted the steps and entered, pausing to study the garlands of fruit, foliage and pinecones strung between ox skulls that decorated the interior. The altar itself was a high slab of tufa stone, guarded by mythical animals. I have always been deeply moved by the Ara Pacis. It had been packed round by sandbags during World War II, to protect it. Now the whole thing is sheltered by the concrete barn. The windows, some of them 21 by 28 feet, are half an inch thick, specially made by the Saint-Gobain’s Caserte glass factory to withstand the rocks and such thrown by demonstrators. Lost, unidentified for centuries, somehow protected, a frail, delicate thing of hope. Poor old Ara Pacis Augustae, they did not have bombs in the days of your youth. I wonder how much longer you will be around, old altar of peace?

About ten minutes later, my respects to the respectable paid, I stepped outside and waited for Anna Zanti’s current customer to move away. Then I walked down and said hello, bought a corsage.

"Thank you," she said. "It is very fresh. Your lady will be happy."

I smiled.

"I am certain," I said. "It looks to be a good day, eh?"

"Yes," she agreed. "On days like this I sell more flowers."

"That is good," I said. "Did you know Father Bretagne?"

She gave me a quick face-to-toes-to-face survey, then leaned forward and cupped her ear.

"Pardon," she said. "I do not hear so well."

"A priest. Father Bretagne," I said. "Do you know him?"

She shrugged.

"I know many priests."

"But this particular priest—Father Bretagne…I am trying to find him. You and he were friends, no?"

"Pardon," she said again, leaning forward. "You will have to speak louder."

As I repeated it, she studied my face, squinting. Then she winked and smiled.

"You buy the flowers for your mistress, yes?"

I nodded.

Then she decided, nodding several times herself, "…and you want to divorce your wife for her."

I smiled again. It seemed the right thing to do.

"For forty years I was married to that son of a dog, Antonio," she said then. "Forty years! And he left me after the first! I could not get a divorce then, the way the laws were. Then when they were changed, I wanted one. But the Church still does not approve of such things. So I talked about it with the best priest I knew. That Father Bretagne! He is a saint! So wise, so friendly…Not like the others. No! So one day when he stopped to buy flowers I asked him about it. He talked to me for a long time then. He told me how it was a law of the Church and not a law of God. He made everything so clear that I did not feel bad about going to the lawyer at all. If you talk to him, he will explain it to you as he did to me, I am sure."

"Did he buy your flowers often?" I asked.

"Every few weeks."

"For whom did he buy them?"

She flipped her palms, raised her shoulders and let them fall.

"I never asked him. He never said."

"I would like to talk to him, about my—problem," I said. "Where can I find him?"

"Vatican City," she told me. "He works there. Someone will know."

"Thank you."

She smiled and turned her attention to the flowers, pushing several farther into the shade.

Nothing, or very little, there. As I could see it. I telephoned to Monsignor at the Vatican’s Prefecture of Economic Affairs, told him I had nothing to report as yet and asked his assistance on getting into Father Bretagne’s quarters for a once-over. He told me how to get there and said that by the time I arrived the janitor would be advised to let me in and leave me alone. He added his doubt that I would find anything of value. I agreed, thanked him and hung up. I had the time, and it was best to be thorough. He was right, though. The small, neatly kept flat showed me nothing that I could use. Nothing at all. It did not seem that he had left it in a hurry.

*

There was a table full of canapés and conspicuous rows of shiny champagne buckets. The Sign of the Fish is a deep, narrow place, but there are four stories to it as well as a finished basement. The two upper floors contain offices and vaults. The floors were thickly carpeted in a dusky yellow, and I lusted after the cut-glass chandelier in the entrance hall. Someday…

I arrived at approximately 8:45, and no one asked to see my invitation. There were small chatty groups of middle to highly tailored individuals of three or four nationalities and sexes standing about, and a handful of the Bohemian sort who wandered between the food and the paintings. I did not see Maria or Bruno around, though there were two officially friendly girls wearing discreet black gowns and upswept hairdos, moving among the talkers and helping with wraps.

I was only half-surprised to see Walter Carlon, an art critic, off in one corner, sketching in the air with his cigar and moving his lips at a rapid rate before a group of students and old ladies. Short, stocky, near-bald and in his forties, Walt had come into a lot of money and abominable taste somewhere along the line, and he traveled about the world exhibiting both. Over the years, he has demonstrated an amazing ability to back losers and mock the truly talented. His articles and books arouse a sense of wonder in art history and art appreciation classes, where they are held up as models of half-assedness. He is much in demand as a lecturer, though, for despite all else the man is glib. He fascinates as he infuriates. He should have been a politician or some other sort of con man. The power of his words vanishes, though, when they are committed to paper. I do not think he is a phony, however. He seems to believe whatever stupid thing he happens to be saying at any given moment. I cannot really say whether it is despite all this or because of it that I rather like the man.

As I did not wish to get tied down at the moment, I pretended not to have noticed him and made my way to the buffet table. Later, champagne glass in hand, I wandered the gallery, looking for Maria, half-studying Paul Gladden’s paintings.

After the better part of an hour, I had grown a bit impatient. Still, she had not said that she would be there right on the dot for the opening—simply that we would meet there. I asked one of the hostesses who said she had not seen her, but perhaps she was working upstairs. At my request, the girl found me a telephone and left me with it. I tried Maria’s number three times, but there was no answer.

So, she was probably either upstairs or en route. I determined to wait a while longer before growing concerned or trying anything else. If she did not prove the information source I hoped her to be, I decided that I would write me down as a failure and see whether I could sell the idea to our man at the embassy. I was convinced, though, that they would not let me off that easily. Not after all the trouble they had gone through to recruit me.

But Rome did indeed seem to be a dead end. I was afraid that they would feel, as I did, that Father Bretagne’s brother in Brazil would be the next logical person to check out. If they had not already done so, that is. Certainly they had people in Brazil…

Still, the thought came back to me, they have people in Rome, too, and they sent you.

Since I did not know the why about Rome, it was fruitless to speculate as to the
if
concerning Brazil.

So the hell with them both. I would run down any local leads Maria could give me, prepare a long report signifying nothing and get ready to go home. What else was there to do?

My subconscious chuckled at this, and forced a list of Portuguese verbs into my head. I threw them back and went after another glass of champagne.

*

After an hour or so I had grown so tired of Gladden’s Wyeth & Water countryscapes that I found myself welcoming a familiar slap on the shoulder and the odor of exhaled cigar smoke.

"Ovid! I thought I saw you skulking about earlier," Walter said. "How the hell have you been?"

"Pretty well," I told him. "Yourself?"

"Fine, fine. When did you get in?"

"A few days ago."

"Business, I take it?"

I shrugged.

"Some business, some pleasure. I like to mix them."

"What do you think of Paul’s stuff?" he asked, gesturing.

"Some of it is pretty good."

"Good? He’s great!"

He indicated a morningset scene: a farmhouse and some outbuildings, an old tower and yellow hills in the background.

"You can feel the breezes and smell the fields the way he did that morning when he stood there painting it."

"He painted it from a photo," I said, "not that that takes anything away from his field and his breezes—"

"What do you mean? How can you tell?"

"I can tell by the way the perspective is off. Give me a piece of string and I’ll show you."

He glared at the painting and was beginning to turn red when he was saved from the string business by the arrival of Bruno Jurgen.

I had seen him coming, passing through the crowd like a dark, white-capped breaker, extending liquid hands in gesture, handshake, salute; smiling, nodding, very neat in his dark dinner jacket, his sandpaper complexion just beginning to crinkle beneath the tan, he flowed, leaving echoes and eddies in his wake.

"Ovid," he said, shaking my hand, "are you here to buy everything in sight?"

I protested that the people would cost a lot to feed, and he added a small gesture to his grin and clasped Walt’s hand with an equal professional fervor.

"I was detained in the office," he explained. "Some stupid phone calls. Otherwise, I would have been down here earlier to welcome you. Ovid, I did not know you were in town or you would have received an invitation. There was no difficulty…?"

"None," I told him.

"We have several mailing lists," he went on. "You should receive invitations for all the shows at our New York outlet, and all the ones of international importance from our other branches. I apologize for not knowing of your special interest in Mister Gladden. Are you here on your own or as a representative?"

"Actually," I said, "I’m not here for this specific exhibit," and I tried to let it go at that.

"Oh, a general buying trip," he replied. "Where else have you been?"

"Just here. That’s all."

"And where next?"

"Possibly Brazil," I said, with some bitterness.

"You like the climate perhaps?"

"I detest it, but that is of no importance."

He regarded me more closely, then decided, "If you are interested in the work of a particular artist or pieces in a specific style or medium, I can cable our branches in Rio and São Paulo and make arrangements."

"That’s quite good of you, thank you, but not necessary. I may not even have to make the trip. Much depends on how things go here."

"Oh? Well, whatever…You must give me your local address, so that I can take you to lunch or dinner while you are in town. Who knows? I may even be able to help you with your local business. You’re not up to your old tricks again, are you?"

I shook my head and told him where I was staying.

"I’ll phone you tomorrow then, after I have checked my appointments."

"Fine."

"In the meantime, can I sell you some of Mister Gladden’s things?" he asked, turning his head in that direction.

"Not just now, thanks."

He shook his head in smiling disbelief.

"That boy will be big one day," he said. "Now is the time to notice that. Not later. Right, Walter?"

"My spirit of the romantic has been sadly crushed," he said. "I have just determined that the man paints from photographs. The perspective, you know. I even begin to wonder whether he snaps his own. Perhaps he is a boon to the postcard industry."