will have to be paid off, consciences set at ease? Chances arise that someone can betray us to the guardie before this wretched business is done.'
Signor Mantissa drank, wiped his mustaches, smiled painfully. 'Cesare is able to make the necessary contacts,' he protested, 'he's below suspicion, no one notices him. The river barge to Pisa, the boat from there to Nice, who should have arranged these if not -'
'You, my friend,' the Gaucho said menacingly, prodding Signor Mantissa in the ribs with the corkscrew. 'You, alone. Is it necessary to bargain with the captains of barges and boats? No: it is necessary only to get on board, to stow away. From there on in, assert yourself. Be a man. If the person in authority objects -' He twisted the corkscrew savagely, furling several square inches of Signor Mantissa's white linen shirt around it. 'Capisci?'
Signor Mantissa, skewered like a butterfly, flapped his arms, grimaced, tossed his golden head.
'Certo io,' he finally managed to say, 'of course, signor commendatore, to the military mind . . . direct action, of course . . . but in such a delicate matter . . .'
'Pah!' The Gaucho disengaged the corkscrew, sat glaring at Signor Mantissa. The rain had stopped, the sun was setting. The bridge was thronged with tourists, returning to their hotels on the Lungarno. Cesare gazed benignly at them. The three sat in silence until the Gaucho began to talk, calmly but with an undercurrent of passion.
'Last year in Venezuela it was not like this. Nowhere in America was it like this, there were no twistings, no elaborate maneuverings. The conflict was simple: we wanted liberty, they didn't want us to have it. Liberty or slavery, my Jesuit friend, two words only. It needed none of your extra phrases, your tracts, none of your moralizing, no essays on political justice. We knew where we stood, and where one day we would stand. And when it came to the fighting we were equally as direct. You think you are being Machiavellian with all these artful tactics. You once heard him speak of the lion and the fox and now your devious brain can see only the fox. What has happened to the strength, the aggressiveness, the natural nobility of the lion? What sort of an age is this where a man becomes one's enemy only when his back is turned?'
Signor Mantissa had regained some of his composure. 'It is necessary to have both, of course,' he said placatingly. 'Which is why I chose you as a collaborator, commendatore. You are the lion, I -' humbly - 'a very small fox.'
'And he is the pig,' the Gaucho roared, clapping Cesare on the shoulder. 'Bravo! A fine cadre.'
'Pig,' said Cesare happily, making a grab for the wine bottle.
'No more,' the Gaucho said. 'The signor here has taken the trouble to build us all a house of cards. Much as I dislike living in it, I won't permit your totally drunken breath to blow it over in indiscreet talk.' He turned back to Signor Mantissa. 'No,' he continued, 'you are not a true Machiavellian. He was an apostle of freedom for all men. Who can read the last chapter of Il Principe and doubt his desire for a republican and united Italy? Right over there -' he gestured toward the left bank, the sunset 'he lived, suffered under the Medici. They were the foxes, and he hated them. His final exhortation is for a lion, an embodiment of power, to arise in Italy and run all foxes to earth forever. His morality was as simple and honest as my own and my comrades' in South America. And now, under his banner, you wish to perpetuate the detestable cunning of the Medici, who suppressed freedom in this very city for so long. I am dishonored irrevocably, merely having associated with you.'
'If -' again the pained smile - 'if the commendatore has perhaps some alternative plan, we should be happy . . .'
'Of course there's another plan,' the Gaucho retorted, 'the only plan. Here, you have a map?' Eagerly Signor Mantissa produced from an inside pocket a folded diagram, hand-sketched in pencil. The Gaucho peered at it distastefully. 'So that is the Uffizi,' he said. 'I've never been inside the place. I suppose I shall have to, to get the feel of the terrain. And where is the objective?'
Signor Mantissa pointed to the lower left-hand corner. 'The Sala di Lorenzo Monaco,' he said. 'Here, you see. I have already had a key made for the main entrance. Three main corridors: east, west, and a short one on the south connecting them. From the west corridor, number three, we enter a smaller one here, marked 'Ritratti diversi.' At the end, on the right, is a single entrance to the gallery. She hangs on the western wall.'
'A single entrance which is also the single exit,' the Gaucho said. 'Not good. A dead end. And to leave the building itself one must go all the way back up the eastern corridor to the steps leading to Piazza della Signoria.'
'There is a lift,' said Signor Mantissa, 'leading to a passage which lets one out in the Palazzo Vecchio.'
'A lift,' the Gaucho sneered. 'About what I'd expect from you.' He leaned forward, baring his teeth. 'You already propose to commit an act of supreme idiocy by walking all the way down one corridor, along another, halfway up a third, down one more into a cul-de-sac and then out again the same way you came in. A distance of -' he measured rapidly - 'some six hundred meters, with guards ready to jump out at you every time you pass a gallery or turn a corner. But even this isn't confining enough for you. You must take a lift.'
'Besides which,' Cesare put in, 'she's so big.'
The Gaucho clenched one fist. 'How big.'
'175 by 279 centimeters,' admitted Signor Mantissa.
'Capo di minghe!' The Gaucho sat back, shaking his head. With an obvious effort at controlling his temper, he addressed Signor Mantissa. 'I'm not a small man,' he explained patiently. 'In fact I am rather a large man. And broad. I am built like a lion. Perhaps it's a racial trait. I come from the north, and there may be some tedesco blood in these veins. The tedeschi are taller than the Latin races. Taller and broader. Perhaps someday this body will run to fat, but now it is all muscle. So, I am big, non e vero? Good. Then let me inform you -' his voice rising in violent crescendo - 'that there would be room enough under your damnable Botticelli for me and the fattest whore in Florence, with plenty left over for her elephant of a mother to act as chaperone! How in God's name do you intend to walk 300 meters with that? Will it be hidden in your pocket?'
'Calm, commendatore,' Signor Mantissa pleaded. 'Anyone might be listening. It is a detail, I assure you. Provided for. The florist Cesare visited last night -'
'Florist. Florist: you've let a florist into your confidence. Wouldn't it make you happier to publish your intentions
