“Something else, Rick, that hardly needs mentioning, but I must.” Rick looked up from the pages and saw that Beppo’s serious look had returned. It was becoming standard. “What I have told you here should not be shared. Except with your uncle, of course.”
So Beppo did remember that Uncle Piero was a policeman. Or had he done a background check and found out? Probably better not to ask. Something else came to mind. “Beppo, did you ever meet a girl at the university here named Erica Pedana? Art history, specializing in the Mannerists? She’s a professor now at La Sapienza.”
Beppo squinted in thought. “A relative, Rick?”
“No, a friend. She’s from Rome.”
The big smile that Rick remembered from high school returned to Beppo’s face. “I got my laurea at Padova, Rick, not here in Rome, so I don’t know her. But if you’re asking if you can let her in on this business, I would rather you did not.” He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, seeming to realize how serious he’d sounded, and forced a laugh that was not convincing. “And the ministry will not pay to have her accompany you to Volterra.”
Rick looked at his friend and tried to understand why, whenever the old Beppo tried to emerge, he was pushed back inside by the ministry bureaucrat.
“Speaking of the university,” said Beppo, “that reminds me.” He took one of his cards from a small stand on the desk, wrote something on it, and passed it to Rick. “I had some classes with this guy in Padova. We were not close friends, and I have to admit that he was a bit strange, but it might be useful for you to meet him when you get to Volterra. He’s the curator of the Etruscan museum there.”
Rick studied the card.
“You mean if I go to Volterra.”
“Of course that’s what I meant.” He moved from behind the desk and gestured toward the office door, like a good host. “I haven’t seen Zerbino since we left the university, but he’ll remember me. You can tell him I work in the ministry, but please don’t get into specifics.” He buttoned his jacket. “Andiamo a mangiare. By the way, Rick, do you remember that game our senior year, when we played the team from the base in Aviano?” The old Beppo was trying hard. “Do you remember how tall those guys were?”
“Beppo, I am amazed you took this long to bring the subject up.”
“And do you remember how the game ended?” He was grinning as he opened the office door.
When they got to the elevator Rick was wondering how he would keep this from Erica. How could he just pop off to Volterra without explaining why? Beppo’s words, if Rick remembered correctly, were that he’d rather Rick did not tell her. “Rather not.” The door was clearly ajar. And when it was all over, whose bad side would he rather be on, Beppo’s or Erica’s? Not much of a decision there.
He was also thinking about Beppo’s mention that the Volterra police would be keeping an eye on him. Not that any problems were expected. It would be just as a precaution. Don’t even give it another thought.
***
“Aren’t you going to drink your Campari?” asked Rick.
Erica pondered the question as if it dealt with something deeper than the red liquid in her glass. Rick watched and waited. Once again—the curse of the professional translator—he remembered the meaning of her name in English. Heather. How appropriate was that? Beautiful at first look, as well as second and third looks, but a bit prickly when you get past the blossoms. That description could be used with quite a few Roman women he’d met since moving here, women who weren’t named Erica. Must be something in the water.
Erica’s long wool coat was draped over the extra chair at their table. A leather attaché case rested on the seat, next to a large shopping bag with the name Fratelli Rosetti, a shoe store a few blocks away. While Rick was talking, she had leaned forward on her elbows, her chin resting on clasped hands, the sleeves of her silk sweater pushed up to show a gold bracelet on one wrist, contrasting with a dark blue Swatch on the other. She brushed back her dark brown hair, perhaps the better to hear Rick’s story, revealing large gold hoops swinging from her ears. Her knees, covered by a plaid skirt, touched his under the small table.
When they had first met in the late summer a few months earlier, her outfit was just as fashionable. They found themselves looking into the windows of a shoe store, and since the men’s and women’s shoes were on opposite sides of the entrance, they unconsciously backed into each other. Awkward scusis were exchanged, a conversation started, and two hours later they were still chatting over empty coffee cups. She talked of growing up in Rome, studying art at the university, and a gallery internship in the exciting city of New York. He told her of his bi-cultural family, living in various parts of the world, and now trying to start the translation business in Rome. He also used diplomatic skills learned from his father to point out that New York was not considered by the people of New Mexico to be the real America.
Now they sat in the same bar as that first day, a place that had become their regular meeting spot. It was about halfway between their two apartments, though Erica once pointed out that it was a few minutes closer to hers. It wasn’t, but why start another argument? The atmosphere at
