A Glancing Light

promising just what we were looking for: traditional food and old-fashioned cooking.

The promise was delivered on. We ordered smoked herring and hutspot, a beef- and-vegetable stew that gave robust new meaning to 'plain and hearty.' And while we ate, I told her the long, tangled story of my last few weeks, from Blusher's Rubens through Ugo's dubious Uytewael. As you can imagine, this took a while. By the time I finished, we were done with our stew and had moved on to a nearby pannekoekhuis for crepes and coffee at a sidewalk table under the plane trees.

'Somebody's tried to kill you twice?' she said, stirring sugar into her coffee. 'My God.'

'Only once. They weren't trying to kill me on Via dell'Independenza.'

'They ran you down with a car but they weren't trying to kill you?'

'I mean it was Max they were after. I was just incidental. If I hadn't run back to help, nothing would have happened to me.'

'All right, once, if it makes you feel better—'

''It does.'

'—but why even once?'

I shook my head. 'It's got to have something to do with the thefts. That's all I can think of.'

'But what? Were they trying to keep you from finding out something?'

'I don't think so. Once I left for Sicily I wasn't planning on coming back to Bologna, except to catch a plane to the States, and everybody knew it. So there wasn't any risk that I'd uncover anything new.'

'What then?'

'All I can guess is that it's something I already know. Or that they think I know.'

'Like what?'

'Maybe they're afraid Max told me the names of the people on his list; the people who knew his security systems.'

She shook her head. 'No, if that was it, why would they wait until you were leaving? If you were going to tell the police at all, you'd already have told Antuono.'

'Yes, you're right.'

'Chris, could it have something to do with the Uytewael? Could someone have been trying to keep you from finding out it's a fake?'

'Who? Ugo's the only one who's likely to suffer over it.' 'Well, Ugo then. I know he's your friend and you like him—'

I laughed. 'You and the police; you both keep trying to pin it on Ugo. Look, if he didn't want me to find out the picture was a fake, he didn't have to blow me up. All he had to do was not show it to me. I didn't even know it existed.'

She took a halfhearted stab at her jelly-filled crepe. 'Colonel Antuono must have a theory about all this. What does he think?'

'I'm not sure he does have a theory—about why someone would want to kill me, I mean. What he's interested in is the paintings, period. Any corpses that happen to get produced along the way are incidental nuisances.'

'All right, what's his theory about the paintings? Who has them?'

'According to him, the whole thing was organized by the evil masterminds of the Sicilian Mafia.'

'But you don't think so.'

'No. When I was in Sicily I had a conversation—more like an audience—with the Mafia padroni and unless I got led down the garden path, they don't know anything about it.'

She sat back and eyed me quizzically. 'An audience with the Mafia padroni.' She sighed. 'Tell me, Chris, is this what life is like for other art curators, too, or is it just you?'

'It's just me. Anyway, the only time these guys showed any interest was when they thought I might know Sylvester Stallone.'

'Maybe you were talking to the wrong padroni.'

'Maybe. Antuono claims the ones involved are in Bologna now. Apparently, he's close to some kind of deal with them to get the pictures back.'

'Chris . . . should you really be going back to Bologna, even for a night? Somebody tried to kill you there.'

'No problem. They think I'm dead.'

'They—?'

'Oh, did I forget that part? Yes, Antuono 'disappeared' me. He put out a story to the press that I'd been successfully blown up. So I'll be safe. In any case, I have to go back. I wound up coming straight here from Sicily; most of my things are still in Bologna.'

'Oh.' A perceptible hollowness had come into our conversation. Anne was looking down at her empty cup, turning it slowly on its saucer. 'What time do you have to go?'

'I'd better head over to the train station at four,' I said. 'It takes about an hour to get to the airport.'

She looked at her watch. 'Fifty minutes, ' she murmured. I cleared my throat. 'What about you? When do you leave?'

'I've got a military flight at a little after eight.' She suddenly looked up at me. That delicate, oddly affecting tic below her eyes was back. 'Chris, couldn't you—'

'Anne, couldn't we—' I said at the same time, and we both laughed.

We could and we did. Anne had some time off due her, and there wasn't any pressing reason I couldn't take a few days' vacation, too. The post office across the street had a rank of international telephone booths from one of which Anne convinced the United States Air Force that they could get by without her until the following Monday. I wasn't able to get through to Seattle, but I'd try again later. We came out of the post office hand in hand, delighted with ourselves, but as yet undecided as to where we would spend the time.

'We could stay here, Anne suggested. 'Maybe in one of the beach hotels.'

'Except that my things are still in Bologna.'

'What about going back then? All that good eating—'

I made a face. 'Maybe we can do that another time. For the moment, Bologna seems to have lost its charm for me.'

Besides, although I saw little danger in returning for a single night, I wasn't keen on being seen around the city by anyone who was under the happy impression he'd killed me. Especially not with Anne at my side.

'Well, how about going back long enough to get your things?' she asked. 'I can try and get a seat on your flight. Then tomorrow we can go someplace else. Have you ever been to Lake Maggiore?'

I shook my head.

'It's wonderful. I know a hotel in Stresa that's straight out of the eighteenth century. You'd love it—stuffy and old- fashioned—'

'Thanks a lot.'

'—and romantic as they come.'

'That's better. Uh, you've been there?'

'Yes; by bus, as part of an R and R group tour, not that it's any of your business. It can't be much more than three hours from Bologna by train. The water is this incredible turquoise-green, and there are lemon trees and pomegranates and coconut palms, and the Borromean Islands are like a set from Sigmund Romberg. We could just laze around and take it all in. What do you say?'

What would anybody say? We went directly to the KLM terminal in the central railroad station to get her a seat on the plane. Then we picked up the bags we'd both left in the luggage room and boarded the train for the airport. I couldn't seem to stop grinning.

And no longer, even in my heart of hearts, did I carry a shred of resentment toward Calvin for his long weekend on the Riviera. Poor Calvin, with his dreary, eternal flitting from woman to woman. My heart went out to him.