"Can you stay a moment?" he asked. "Dr. Luca asked to see you. I think he would simply like to hear that everything is going well. You know where his office is?"
"Somewhere in this building. I forget just where."
"It's downstairs. You have to go around the temporary exhibit area ... Come, it's simpler to take you."
Benedetto Luca's office was behind a door the frosted glass segment of which was almost completely taken up with his title: "Soprintendente per i beni artistici historici per la provincia di Bologna-Ferrara-Forlì-Ravenna, Repubblica Italiana." Inside the decor befitted this august appellation: green-shaded brass lamps, roomy chairs of deeply polished wood and copper-studded burgundy leather, a massive nineteenth-century desk. Luca got up from behind the desk to murmur a mellow, dignified welcome, and lead us to an informal grouping of soft chairs—with arms, I was glad to see—against one of the handsome paneled walls, under a softly backlit Etruscan funerary head mounted in a shadow box.
"Well, Christopher," he said, "you're all right? Your injuries aren't serious?"
"No, sir, I'm fine."
"Good. Poor Massimiliano. Terrible thing, terrible. And the arrangements for the exhibition?"
"No problems there. I saw signora Gozzi about her loan yesterday, and Amedeo and I just finished discussing the state collection. And your deputy, signora Nervi, took care of all the details with the shipper."
"Fine, fine," Luca said, his deep, marvelous voice resonant and, as always, a little vacant. "And the four paintings to be borrowed from Ugo Scoccimarro? What of them? You need to take special care there. Signor Scoccimarro is .. . well, shall we say, not experienced in these matters."
"I'll be seeing him tomorrow. I'm catching a noon flight to Sicily."
" Ah, good. I see there's no reason for me to be concerned. You have everything under control." He stood up and shook hands with me. "Perhaps we can have lunch when you return? Monday?"
"I'm sorry, I can't. I'm coming back to Bologna just to pick up my things late Sunday night. Then I fly back to Seattle early Monday. But I'll take you up when I come back."
"Fine." His creased, aristocratic features arranged themselves into an expression of concerned gravity. "Tell me, Christopher: You saw our friend Colonel Antuono in action today. Were you impressed? Do you have hopes he'll recover our paintings?"
It took me a second to answer. "I have hopes, yes."
A derisive bark of laughter came from Di Vecchio. "Hopes," he said.
Chapter 13
From the Pinacoteca I took a taxi to the Ospedale Maggiore to visit Max and work another installment of my cheer-up magic on him. I had meant to see him the day before, but somehow with the trip to Ferrara to talk with Clara, and with Calvin's arrival, I'd never gotten around to it. To be honest, I'd shrunk from it. I just hadn't wanted to face looking at him in that hospital gown, with that pale, bare upper lip, and his swollen tongue poking at the hole where his front teeth had been, and his naked legs skewered on the ferocious machine.
But by now, deservedly, I was feeling guilty. Tomorrow I was leaving Bologna for Sicily, then I was going home, and it would be months before I'd be able to see him again. I'd be going merrily about my business in Seattle and Max would slowly, grimly, be learning to "adjust." I was worried about how well he'd succeed at it. He was energetic, impatient. I didn't think he'd bear up well under a physical handicap. And being crippled over here wasn't the same thing as it was in the States. You don't see many people using aluminum walkers in the streets of Europe's old cities, or blind people, or extremely elderly people. It's just too hard to get around. Traffic is too fast and too frightening, and there are all kinds of obstacles on the sidewalks: old stone posts from the days of horses and coaches, bicycle racks in oddball places, wildly uneven paving, unexpected stone steps to connect modern and ancient street levels.
Assuming he stayed in Italy, it was going to be tough on Max. Not so easy if he came back to America, either.
They say that when patients start complaining it means they're getting better. If so, Max was well along. He started the minute I walked in. Not about the pain, or the difficulties to come, but about the little things hospital inmates like to gripe about: the rotten food, the forcible awakenings at 10:00 P.M. to proffer sleeping pills, the nurses who twittered instead of speaking, the many offenses against one's modesty.
"You ought to see the production when I need to take a crap," he said. "First, two guys have to come in with—You probably don't want to hear this, do you?"
"Not really," I said. Then, nobly; "But I'll listen if you want to talk about it.
Max laughed. "Not really."
He lay back against his cranked-up bed with a sigh. He really did seem better. His face was no longer corpse-gray, and the bruised flesh of his legs wasn't quite so lurid; a dull yellowish-brown now, instead of raw purples and reds. Black scabs had begun to form along the edges of the punctures and incisions. And I had the impression the grumpiness was pro forma; a way of showing me he was on the mend.
"Are you still on pain pills?" I asked.
"Yeah, but they've cut way down. It really isn't that bad, Chris." He glanced down at his bear-trapped legs. "Disgusting, yes; agonizing, no. Now they're telling me I'll be up and out of this by the end of this month."
"That's terrific, Max." It sounded a lot more realistic than the end of the week. "Hey, did you hear that Blusher's donating his reward to the Seattle Art Museum?"
You don't often see somebody's jaw literally drop, but Max's did. "Blusher is? How much?"
"A hundred and fifty thousand."
"A hundred .....He tipped back his head and laughed. "Well, what's his angle?"
"What makes you think he's got an angle?" I said, as if I hadn't been wondering the same thing since the minute I'd walked into Blusher's office.
"Come on, I've met the guy. So have you."
I smiled. "He claims the publicity he's getting from it is worth it."
"Worth a hundred and fifty thousand bucks? Wouldn't you love to handle his PR account?" He shrugged. "What do I know. Maybe it is worth it to him. I'm glad it worked out for the museum." Suddenly he was tired, subdued. The muscles around his mouth had flattened. The pain was back, I thought.
I searched for something to make conversation about. "There was some excitement on the art-theft front today," I told him, feeling like the aged Cyrano reciting the news to Roxanne. "I got to see Colonel Antuono in action."
"Is that right?" he asked dully.
"Max, do you want a nurse? Do you need some pills or something?"
He shook his head. "I'm not due until seven o'clock, and I'm not about to let them make a junkie out of me. So go ahead. What did Antuono do?"
"He recovered a couple of stolen pictures from Cosenza. Pittura Metafisica, nothing big, but he thinks it might turn out to be related to the Bologna thefts. He told me—"
"Chris—" He started to sit up, grimaced, and sank back. "Look, I don't want to know anything about this."
"Well, he didn't mean there was a direct connection. But he thinks the dealer that tipped him off, Filippo Croce—"
"Chris, please!" He seemed really agitated. "Don't tell me any names. The less I know, the better, that's all. The less you know, the better. Why the hell don't you go home? What are you doing talking to Antuono? You don't know anything. Why take a chance on making them think you do? Jesus, you want to wind up like me?"
I tried to settle him down. "It's okay, Max, don't worry. All I was going to tell you—"