I shut up and stuffed the card away thinking, ah well, I might be able to do a deal with the waiter.
During the rest of the time until we closed at eight there was only one notable moment—notable for me, I mean. There was a small object, solid bronze, of a kind I'd never seen before. It stood only a couple or so inches high and, apart from a small flattening of its upper and lower surfaces, was almost completely ellipsoidal. It emitted strong secret chimes, so it had lived for generations in that fond symbiosis which makes genuine antiques the most wonderful things on earth. I gaped. I don't often feel an ignoramus among antiques.
She asked me, 'Well, Lovejoy? Is it genuine?'
'It feels so. But what the hell?' I was puzzled and turned the bronze solid over and over in my hands. A simple bronze solid.
She glanced oddly at me and took it, twisting its ends and pulling. 'Two pieces,' she said. 'There?'
She set down on the display case a beautiful tiny anvil. I'd heard of these rare Continental jewellers' anvils but had never seen a collapsible one in my life. There it sat, solid bronze, even engraved with vine leaves and small florets on its side. One simple twist and it had become a functional, highly specialized instrument, a positive godsend to any aspiring Benvenuto Cellini. I stared and stared until my eyes misted over.
'Lovejoy?' her voice said from far away. 'Are you all right?'
I looked at her. Ratty as hell, but staggeringly beautiful. 'I'm indebted.' My voice was a croak.
'I beg your pardon?'
'For showing me an antique I've never seen before.'
She gave me one of those eloquent shrugs. 'Don't make too much of it, Lovejoy.'
'Impossible,' I said. 'Thank you, signora.'
She moved on. For just a moment her cheeks coloured. Maybe I'd revealed too much intensity all of a sudden. I know people don't understand, and I'd seen enough to realize that Adriana was an out-and-out pragmatist. I followed meekly.
For teaching me that antique I was in love with her for life.
***
That evening was memorable for two things. First, I planned the rip—suddenly knew exactly how it could be done, starting right in Adriana's Emporium. Second, I dined lonelier than Shackleton on his ice floe.
I was given a small table by a casual waiter. Not the slightest chance of any deal with him either, because at the other end of the restaurant in grander circumstances dined Signor and Signora Albanese. Not a word passed between them except pass the salt and suchlike. And no friendly wave across the tables to lonely old Lovejoy.
The grub was great. I wasn't told what I could have or what wine the bill ran to. I just kept a wary eye on the waiter's expression and pointed interrogatively. He swiftly got the idea.
'Fritto misto alla romana,' he decided, sizing me up. It was a cracking fry-up, and I waded merrily in. We'd decided on Zuppa inglese for pud, because I'd remembered the name from one of Maria's test runs back home, and anyway who can resist trifle in hooch?
Every so often I checked that Adriana and her wealthy businessman weren't hoofing off leaving an unpaid bill and me to lifelong dishwashing, but they stayed. He was preoccupied. As far as I could tell she hardly ate enough to last the night.
Even when I got up to make my way out into the dark Roman night I kept my cool.
Partly sloshed and replete with my lovely grub, I plodded solemnly past their table and said nothing. But what was driving me demented was the bird from the Museum, the one I thought had a look of Maria. During my meal she had sat at a table near the door, dined sparsely in quiet solitude and never once appeared to notice me.
Now, Rome's not the biggest city in the world. That's a fact. Plenty of cities are far more crowded. But it isn't so small that you bump into the same person in every nook and cranny. I already knew that Arcellano had plenty of minions. And if one of Marcello's killers was a delectable female, it was tough luck on her because tomorrow I was due to start preparing to rip off His Holiness the Pope. I was in no mood to muck about.
I'd never mugged a bird before, but I went out into the darkness prepared for business.
CHAPTER 13
Befuddled but determined, I waited in the gloom of the church doorway. The petite woman emerged, looking from side to side and obviously puzzled. The minute the restaurant door had swung to I dived to the left and raced across the street. The great facade of the Sant' Andrea della Valle gave only little cover and the main street was well lit but I trusted the sudden switch from a cosy interior to a place of pedestrians and cars would momentarily disconcert her. I pressed back in the doorway, trying to seem casual because a cluster of people opposite were waiting for the 64 bus.
She dithered for a second, half-heartedly made to start one way, then hesitated and finally gave up. She wasn't daft, though. She pretended to stroll one way, then suddenly turned down the Corso del Rinascimento, walking at a hell of a lick. All this was in case somebody was following, which of course I was. Some instinct made me dart across the road and into the zigzag alley which leads off the main street. I ran into the dark and emerged a few seconds later in the Navona. By lounging against the corner shop and looking as though I'd been there for days I could see into the Corso with little chance of her seeing me.
Sure enough, she turned into the square within minutes, starting down it past the first of the two splendid fountains. This was a problem, because apart from the great central obelisk and the fountains there was no shelter for me if she suddenly looked back, and I already knew she was suspicious-minded. The square is racetrack-shaped. Popes and suchlike used to flood it in the old days for water pageants, and indeed it used to be a racetrack, but now it has a couple of good cafés and a load of artists and drifters.
Indeed, some were still drifting. She was halfway down when I finally made up my mind and streaked off left into the parallel street to wait, breathless now and still woozy from the grub and the wine, by the alley corner.
I was almost level with the second fountain, Bernini's great and spectacular Nile figure with its hand to its eyes. As I waited; listening to her footsteps approaching down the square, I had to smile. Bernini's friends used to joke that the statue was hiding its gaze from the sight of Borromini's church across the square. Gianlorenzo Bernini was Borromini's boss, and probably the greatest religious architect of all time. He was everybody's darling—except Borromini's, who was a sullen, withdrawn, paranoiac genius and who hated his witty, eloquent, talented gaffer. Borromini's supporters retorted that in any case Borromini's beautiful church was designed to support Bernini's obelisk should its base crack, like that ghastly fiasco at St Peter's when Bernini's proposed south tower cracked its wonderful Maderno base. There was no love lost between these two geniuses, such opposites of temperament. I always wonder if Bernini actually cracked the base deliberately—Maderno being Borromini's close relative and all that. Anyhow, their hatred died only when Francesco Borromini, that great sour and brooding genius, committed suicide during a fit of despair in 1667 leaving the field clear for Bernini. I'm actually on Borromini's side, though I'm completely unbiased—
'Lovejoy?'
I nearly leapt a mile. The woman was standing a couple of yards behind me. I cursed myself for a fool. The vicinity of such lovely statuary had distracted me. Daft to lurk so near antiques of such quality.
'Yes. Erm…' My heart was thumping. She'd scared me out of my wits.
'Why are you following me?'
'Erm, no, miss. Erm…' I was thinking, God Almighty. What if she screamed for the police? 'I thought you were following me.' It sounded lame. 'How do you know my name?'
'I have a message for you.'
I was getting a headache. It was all too complicated. I realized I was dog tired. 'From whom?'