Two of the tables were already taken. The waiter recognized Moretti and showed them to a table in the far corner. He handed them menus and disappeared through a pair of swinging doors.
“I hope you don’t mind eating in a simple place,” he said.
“I’d rather,” she said. “My parents keep telling me how hard it’s become to find a place where the food’s good and you don’t have to take out a mortgage to pay the bill.”
“That’s not the case here,” he said, then laughed and said, “I mean, the food’s good, not that it’s cheap.” And, hearing that, he added, “That’s the reason I come, that is, because the food’s good.” Hearing what a pass he had talked himself into, he shrugged and opened his menu.
Conversation was generaclass="underline" families, school, travel, reading, music. Much of his life was completely at one with the persona he presented: father a lawyer, mother a housewife; two brothers, the surgeon he had already mentioned and the other a notary; school, university, first job, partnership. But then came the odd bits: a case of encephalitis seven years ago that had left him in bed for six months, during which he had read the Fathers of the Church, in Latin. When these facts were painted into the picture she was attempting to form of the man, everything went out of focus for a moment. A brush with death; she knew little about encephalitis save that it was bad, quite often fatal, and just as often left people gaga. Perhaps that last explained six months reading the Fathers of the Church, her cynical self remarked, but her better self limited her to asking, “Encephalitis?”
He bit into a shrimp and said, “I went for a hike in the mountains above Belluno. Two days later I found a tick on the back of my knee, and a week later I was in the hospital with a temperature of forty.”
“Near Belluno?” It was only two hours from Venice, a beautiful city where nothing happened.
“It’s common. There are more and more cases every year,” he said, then smiled and added, “More evidence of the wisdom of living in cities.”
She decided not to ask about the Fathers of the Church. The evening continued, and conversation remained general and friendly. The absence of reference to Steffani or Königsmarck came as a great relief to Caterina. How pleasant to spend a few hours in this century, in this city, and, she added to herself, in this company.
They shared a branzino baked in salt, drank most of a bottle of Ribolla Gialla, and both turned down dessert. When the coffee came, Andrea grew suddenly serious and said, with no preparation at all, “I’m afraid I have to confess I haven’t told you the complete truth.”
There being nothing she could think of to say, Caterina remained silent.
“About the cousins.”
Better than about himself, she thought, but she said nothing to him, certainly not this. If he was confessing he lied, she had no obligation to make it easy for him, so she remained silent; in order to appear to be doing something, she poured sugar into her coffee and stirred it round.
“The story of how the trunks got here,” he said, then drew one hand into a fist and placed it on the table.
“Ah,” she permitted herself to say.
“They didn’t track them down. The trunks turned up during an inventory, and the researcher did find Steffani’s name on them, and he did do the research and locate the descendants.”
He paused and gave her a quizzical glance, but Caterina kept her face impassive. “Descendants,” he had said. Not “heirs.”
She stifled her curiosity and drank her coffee. He must have realized she was not going to be cooperatively inquisitive, so he said, his voice a mixture of the pedantic and the apologetic, “They have no claim to ownership. You studied law, so you probably know that it reverts to the State.”
Caterina kept her eyes on her coffee cup, even lifted the spoon and ran it around the empty bottom a few times. Then she carefully spooned up the mixture of melted sugar and froth from the bottom and licked the spoon before replacing it on the saucer.
She raised her eyes and looked across the table at him, with his lovely, expensive jacket and his moderate tie. He met her eyes with his own steady glance and said, “I apologize.”
“Why did you tell me a different story?” she asked, consciously avoiding the use of the word lie.
“They asked me to.”
“Why?”
He looked down at his own empty coffee cup but did not busy himself with his spoon. Eyes still lowered, he said, “They said they didn’t want to have to explain how the trunks got here. The real way, I mean. Or I presume.” Even in his explanation, she noticed, he still strove for clarity.
Making herself sound the very voice of moderation, she asked, “Why wouldn’t they want anyone to know?”
He tried to shrug but abandoned the gesture halfway, with one shoulder higher than the other. “My guess is that they bribed someone to have the trunks sent here.” When her gaze remained level on his, he actually blushed and said, “In fact, it’s the only way it could have happened.”
“The researcher?” she asked, knowing this was impossible. He would have no power over where the trunks went.
Andrea smiled at her question and said, “Not likely.”
“Then who?” she asked, doing her best to look very confused.
“It would have to be someone at the Propaganda Fide, I’d guess. Or someone at the warehouse.”
“Then why me?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why me? Why spend money on a researcher when they could just get the trunks here, open them up, and have a look themselves?”
“They needed a researcher,” he said, holding up his thumb to count the first reason. “He was a cleric and worked in Germany, so they needed someone who could read different languages.” He held up a second finger. “And that person would also have to be able to have some understanding of the historical, perhaps even the musical, background.” His third finger shot up.
“That’s absurd,” she snapped, finally out of patience with the role she had decided to play. “I just told you, all they had to do was open them, take out any musical scores that might be inside, do a minimum of research on what Steffani’s autograph scores are worth, and sell them. Split the money and hire someone at the university to read through the other papers. Sooner or later, they’d know whether there was a treasure hidden somewhere or not.”
Andrea tried to smile, reached a hand halfway across the table, as if to place it on her arm, but then pulled it back when he saw her expression.
He picked up his coffee cup, but it was still empty, so he set it back in the saucer. “There was a . . . a falling out, I suppose you could say.”
“Of thieves?”
Her directness obviously distressed him. He had to think about a response before he said, “Yes, you might describe it that way. Once they had the trunks here, they both realized how little they trusted the other one.”
“And I suppose they began to add up the sums,” she said angrily.
“I don’t understand,” though she thought perhaps he did.
“They’d have to pay by the page or by the hour if they hired a freelance translator, and they didn’t know what was in the trunks or what the papers—if there were papers—would say. Or what they would be worth.” As she spoke, Caterina remembered an old folk tale about three thieves who discover some sort of treasure. One went off to town to get enough food and drink to keep them going while the three of them decided what it was worth and how to divide it up. While he was gone, the two who remained behind planned his murder, and when he came back, they killed him. They ate and drank to celebrate their victory, but the dead man had poisoned the wine he brought back, so they, too, paid the price of the Jewels of Paradise.