Rick walked to the ticket booth and asked to see Dr. Arnolfo Zerbino. The woman looked over her half glasses at him and hesitated for a moment before inquiring as to whether or not he was expected. Rick made a mental note that if he ever had a secretary, he would tell her never, ever, to ask a visitor if he was expected. He said he was not, but passed his own translation service business card under the glass and asked if she would tell Zerbino that he was a friend of Dr. Giuseppe Rinaldi. Better not to use Beppo’s nickname. Who knows how friendly the two had really been? The woman looked at the card, picked up the phone, and after a short conversation hung up and asked him to wait. As he was turning away, she said something to her colleague that Rick could not hear. The two women laughed and returned to their computer screens. Rick took a seat on a bench. He was becoming an authority on wooden seating—could there be a market for a tourist guide to Volterra’s benches?
Five minutes later a large man emerged from the elevator. He was dressed in a three-piece tweed suit that had a definite English cut. A large girth under the vest, half glasses at the end of his nose, and a shiny bald head framed by tufts of hair on either side gave the impression that he had just stepped out of a London club. All that was lacking was a walrus moustache. Even his shoes, oxblood wing tips, supported the image. His face showed a mixture of annoyance and curiosity, and Rick again wondered if the man was that close with Beppo at the university. The image of the two of them downing ale together at some pub in Padova was difficult to conjure up, despite the man’s British demeanor and Beppo’s high school persona. Zerbino pushed through the low exit gate, and Rick rose from the bench for the confrontation.
“Signor Montoya?”
Rick stepped forward and shook his hand. “My pleasure, Dr. Zerbino.” The curator seemed increasingly perplexed, waiting for some explanation. His eyes fixed for an instant on Rick’s cowboy boots, then bounced back up to his face. “I am an American living in Rome. Dr. Rinaldi, Beppo, is a very good friend, and when I told him I was going to visit Volterra he insisted that I come by to bring you his regards. But I know you are busy, so I’ll let you get back to your work.”
This seemed to bring the Italian out of his puzzled state, and his face changed to almost a smile. “Absolutely not, I remember Beppo well and it is a pleasure to meet you. The last I heard of Beppo was that he’s at the Cultural Ministry.”
“That’s correct. I’m not sure what part he works in.” Not a complete lie, Rick told himself, I don’t know the real name of the office.
“If you have time, I would be glad to give you a tour of the museum.”
“That’s very kind of you, dottore, but I’m sure you—”
“Nonsense, it will be my pleasure.” His eye was caught by some movement inside the booth, and both men saw one of the women holding her hand to her ear. “Ah, that’s right. I’m afraid you’ll have to turn off your cell phone and leave it here. We are having some issues with our remote security system.” He took Rick’s phone and slid it under the glass, taking a plastic number in return which he passed to Rick. “So tell me, what brings you to the city? Pure tourism, I trust.” He glanced at the woman behind the glass who immediately clicked open the turnstile so that the two could enter the museum proper. A freebie, thought Rick. Another of the perks of knowing someone from the culture ministry.
“Well, some tourism of course, but I’m mainly here to scout out possible business opportunities.” He explained the connection with a Santa Fe art gallery and its request that Rick look into buying some art for them while in Italy. He added that art sales was not his profession and briefly described the translation and interpreting business. Rick assumed that the curator would warm up somewhat, but instead the man’s disposition did not change. He sensed that Zerbino had made the decision to carry out an obligation to a former university colleague who just happened to be working at the ministry. One never knew when an extra contact in the government cultural bureaucracy could come in handy. “One hand washes the other” was a classic Italian phrase. So he would be polite, but not much more than necessary.
The curator took Rick into the first room of the museum’s ground floor and launched into what seemed almost like a canned discourse: a short explanation of the Etruscans, helped by various maps and panels on the walls, after which they moved toward the middle of the floor where the space was divided into numerous smaller rooms. He could have been speaking to anyone, his eyes barely met those of his guest, darting instead from one ancient object to the next as he rattled on. Zerbino knew his Etruscans, that would be expected from the museum curator; what seemed out of place was the disinterested tone. Perhaps that’s the way the guy
