Luckily, I was in the enviable position of forging a table whose major surface would be covered by a Presidential cage of synthetic sprawling birds.
But the pedestal base would be in clear view the entire length of that gallery. It had to look genuine, solid and old.
Tip: polyurethane varnishes are superb and polyurethane hardglazes look superb, but only true beeswaxes feel absolutely correct. Antique dealers dress a falsely veneered surface by varnish, then by beeswax which is given a microscopic craquelure by rapid drying.
This is done effectively only in two ways: in front of a fan or by a chemical desiccant such as sodium hydroxide in a sealed container. I'd applied both, placing the workshop's fan heater on 'cold' during the day and stuffing the folding veneered plywood into a plastic bag with the crystals overnight. There's always plenty of these crystals in an antique shop—even honest dealers (should there be any left) use it for putting that golden gleam on oak. Like I say, it's getting so you can't trust anybody these days.
With my heart in my mouth on that day I checked Piero was fully occupied, and extracted the veneered plywood. It was beautiful, its gleaming surface now dulled by drying. Microscopic examination would reveal minute cracks in the waxed surface, such as are normally associated with ageing. The corners and intersections were more obviously peeling than the rest, but I helped this artefact along with a little crushed carbon from a piece of drawing charcoal (use Winsor and Newton if you can get it) blown on to a piece of chamois leather and rubbed gently along the edges.
I still had the thin top sections and hinged edges to slot under the cafeteria table, but when Adriana sent to tell me I was to stop for coffee the collapsible pedestal was folded out of the way under the work bench. I was well into machining the metal support rods which would give it strength. Two hours to go.
I was on time. My heart was banging.
Dead at one o'clock Patrizio came for the cafeteria table in his wheezy World War II van. He arrived with the characteristic boredom of the vannie, smoking laconically and humping the steel and formica job on his shoulder without a word. Piero came to see I wasn't flogging a Regency piece.
'Get a receipt, Lovejoy,' he orderd.
'You,' I shot back, getting on with my job.
Patrizio gave Piero a don't-interrupt-me look and drove off leaving Piero looking foolish, to my delight. That was my last smile for a long, long time.
We closed at quarter to two, me strolling unbelievably casual into St Peter's Square exactly at two.
Valerio was a chip off Patrizio's block all right. He was a square thickset young bloke. I'd told his dad no drinks, no smokes. Valerio was obediently sitting picking his teeth and reading the Osservatore Romano on the end of the lines of chairs set out between the fountains.
'You want a seat?' He made to rise. Daft, really. There were four hundred empty places.
'No,' I said, mouth dry and voice no more than a croak. 'I have an urgent appointment.'
He eyed me curiously. I eyed him. It was the first time we'd met. Anna had suggested this ludicrous interchange because security forces everywhere had these directional microphones. He nodded imperceptibly. My words meant the rip was on.
'Then go well,' Valerio said.
'Ta.' I walked past him on legs suddenly made of uncontrollable rubber and headed for the loo to the left of St Peter's facade. The Vatican post office was doing a roaring trade. Old Anna was being bothersome among a crowd of amused Americans near the great basilica steps. From the corner of my eye I glimpsed her sudden querulous departure. Judging by the burst of laughter she had made some crack. Her job now was to find Carlo and hurtle him in to the loos after me.
The two usual women attendants were sitting at a little white table by the door. They ignored me. As long as I remembered to throw a hundred-lire coin into their plate as I left I'd remain an invisible passing tourist. Once in a cubicle I frantically started stripping off my clothes, hands shaking. I was sweating like a pig. My shirt and jacket were drenched, the sleeves clinging to me from damp. I cursed and wrestled in the confined space, a couple of times blundering against the door so noisily I forced myself to slow down. Hurry slowly. Good advice for anyone, as long as they're not frightened out of their skulls.
I dressed in my new sober gear. Make sure the handkerchief's showing from your top pocket, Lovejoy, Anna had said. It's a man's equivalent of white gloves in a woman, she'd said, trying to smile brightly, and I'd promised. Shoes cleaned, and in a plastic bag so as not to soil the clothes. Money—what there was—shifted into the new navy suit. Shirt. Sober tie, monogrammed imaginatively but with careful ambiguity. Cuff-links. Surprisingly, as I flopped on the lavatory pan to lace my shoes, a note on a stolen card. It read, 'Good luck, darling cretino,' and was signed with three cross-kisses. The card was for a silver wedding. I had to smile, even the shaky state I was in. Obviously she'd had difficulty finding a card with an appropriate good-luck-nicking-the-Pontiff's-antique motto.
I stood with the customary stiffness of a man in a strange new suit, and checked over the discards. Items into the briefcase, one by one. A moment's stillness. A quick listen.
Deep breaths for control. Hundred-lire coin in my right jacket pocket for the women attendants, a tug on the handle to flush the loo—I'd tried to squeeze out a drop but every sphincter I possessed was on the gripe—and out, walking with purpose.
One old man leaving, tapping his stick. Two German youths combing hair and talking loudly, about to depart. And Carlo, nodding and winking and chewing gum and rolling a cowboy's cigarette one-handed, doing it all wrong. Sweating worse than ever, I ignored him and went to wash my hands.
From the handbasins the women attendants were talking just out of sight. I ran the water, peering through the mirror towards the entrance. The German lads left, still talking. The old geezer was gone. All the cubicle doors were open. Nobody.
I pulled a third-bottle out of my pocket and swiftly unscrewed the cap. 'Carlo.'
'Yeah, boss?' He slid over, gum-chewing and shoulder-hunching. His hand was thrust deep into his jacket pocket. He now sported a white trilby pulled down over one eye just to prove to the world's armies of Swiss Guards that he really was a genuine hundred-per-cent gangster on the prod. With virtually uncontrollable hands I poured him a capful of the dark rum. No good doing things by halves. His eyes widened delightedly. No acting this time, I noticed wryly.
I whispered, 'Cheers, Carlo,' and tilted the bottle, my tongue in its neck to stop any leaking into my mouth.
