Two hours later, still mulling over recent history and projecting into the future, I finally reached the bridge spanning the Torrente Polcevera and, crossing over, saw the industrial flatlands of the port city down below. Above, climbing the hills to the north and east were the dense neighborhoods of Genoa. My destination lay outside the city to the east. I let my phone navigate and ended up circling around north of the city before coming back down toward the sea. I left the freeway there and piloted through residential streets where the homes grew larger and the lots more generous until finally, at a dead end, the pleasant robot voice announced we had arrived. A guard house crouched at the bottom of a long driveway that wound away up a wooded hillside. I stopped and lowered the window. The guard wore a blue blazer that bulged in conspicuous places. He nodded to me.
“Justin Vincent,” I said. “Sono qui per visitare il Signor Ortoli.” My Italian was not great but it was getting better. The guard nodded again and spoke quietly into his lapel.
“Continua,” he said, gesturing toward a grove of trees, his face as blank and unreadable as an Easter Island Moai. I followed his taciturn advice and continued up the driveway, passing through the trees, dappled sunlight on the windshield, then emerging into a circular drive at the front of a typical, two-story roman villa of the luxurious sort. The lower part was stone, the upper part red brick. Green shutters stood at the ready to close off the arched windows. A fountain surrounded by a low stone wall that looked like it could be as old as the hillside itself stood in the center of the drive, water dancing in the sunlight. I parked the car, stepped out into the warm air, and surveyed the grounds for a moment. When I turned back to the house I was surprised to see a man standing just outside the main entrance. White haired and small, dressed in linen trousers rolled at the ankle and an untucked shirt, he seemed to have materialized out of thin air.
“Mr. Vincent,” he called, “please come in.”
“Signor Ortoli.” I strode up to the entry, holding out my hand. “Pleased to meet you.” He took my hand in a strong grip and gestured me into the entry hall.
“Tè freddo?” he asked. “Limonata?”
“Thanks,” I replied. “Iced tea would be fine.” We passed through a barrel vaulted entry hall with a floor of exquisite tile—a mosaic with a white ground and black arabesques and garlands arrayed in an almost mandala-like pattern. Signor Ortoli gestured to a uniformed woman standing nearby, speaking to her in rapid Corsican. She hurried off at once. A light hand on my arm, he continued leading me through a reception room and out to the central courtyard of the house.
“Thank you for coming,” he said as he led me onto the covered porch that wrapped around the courtyard. “Please sit.”
Doric columns supported the porch roof. Between the columns, arched openings revealed geometric arrays of plantings, white gravel paths, pools and fountains. Groupings of elegantly curved wicker furniture were spaced along a gallery floored in blue and white tile. I seated myself in an aerodynamic lounge chair and he sat across from me.
“You have a beautiful home, Signor Ortoli,” I said.
He waved a hand in the air as if to dismiss the compliment. “It’s fine,” he answered. “My ancestral home is where my heart is, Mr. Vincent. But sometimes I must come to the mainland for business. I have several real estate ventures near Genova that require oversight.” He stopped, staring blankly into the bright courtyard. “My ancestral home,” he continued with a sigh, “is not so pleasant now though, not so restful. Something is missing.” He turned to me with a steady gaze. “I don’t like small talk and you don’t strike me as a man who does either. Signor Cartini recommended you. He says you are capable of recovering missing things with discretion.”
“Maybe,” I answered, sizing him up. He reminded me of Gabrielle’s father—not a large or physically powerful man but a man used to power, a man fully engaged in the moment, not missing anything that could be useful, his brain cataloging and interpreting with intense focus. “I would need to know the details,” I continued, letting the statement hang between us as an invitation. The woman we had seen earlier arrived with a tray and set out glasses of iced tea, lemon, sugar. She smiled at me as she handed me the glass and I smiled back, thanking her.
“The details,” Signor Ortoli said with a deep breath after the woman departed. “I have a brother, Carlu, two years younger than me. When our father passed away he left my brother a sizable sum but he left me the family business. Partly, he showed this by leaving me the family home and everything in it, including a painting. A very old painting of our great grandfather. It is small,” he held out his hands, indicating a painting maybe fourteen inches by ten. “It was painted by Filippo Agricola. My brother has coveted that painting for many years. He always felt he was the better businessman, that our father should have left the family business to him. We had a falling out over this and we have barely spoken for twenty
