Ken Follett - The Modigliani Scandal (1976)

Dee murmured: ″I wonder if you can help us, Father.″

When he got close, they realized he was not as young as his boyishly short haircut made him seem from a distance. ″I hope so,″ he said. He spoke at normal volume, but his voice boomed in the still emptiness of the church. ″I suspect it is secular help you want, much as I might wish it otherwise. Am I right?″

Dee nodded.

ʺThen let us step outside.″ He took their elbows, one in each hand, and pushed them gently through the door. Outside, he glanced up into the sky. ʺThank God for wonderful sunshine,″ he said. ″Although you should be careful, my dear, with your complexion. What can I do for you?″

″We′re trying to trace a man,″ Dee began. ″His name was Danielli. He was a rabbi, from Livorno, and we think he moved to Poglio in about 1920. He was ill, and not young, so he probably died soon after.″

The priest frowned and shook his head. ″I have never heard the name. It was certainly before my time—I wasn′t born in 1920. And if he was Jewish, I don′t suppose the Church buried him, so we will have no records.″

″You have never even heard him talked about?″

″No. And there is certainly no Danielli family in Poglio. However, others in the village have longer memories than mine. And no one can hide in such a small place.″ He looked at them hesitantly for a moment, as if making up his mind about something. ″Who told you he came here?″

″Another rabbi—in Livorno.ʺ Dee realized the priest was desperately curious to know why they were interested in the man.

He hesitated again, then asked: ″Are you related to him?″

″No.″ Dee looked at Mike, who gave a quick nod. ʺWeʹre actually trying to trace a picture which we think he had.″

″Ah.″ The priest was satisfied. ″Well, Poglio is an unlikely place to find a masterpiece; but I wish you well.″ He shook their hands, then turned back into his church.

The couple walked back toward the village. ″A nice man,″ Dee said lazily.

ʺAnd a nice church. Dee, shall we get married in a church?″

She stopped and turned to look at him. ″Married?″

ʺDonʹt you want to marry me?″

″You only just invited me—but I think you made a very good choice.″

He laughed, and shrugged his shoulders in embarrassment. ″It just kind of slipped out,″ he said.

Dee kissed him affectionately. ″There was a certain boyish charm about it,″ she said.

″Well, since I seem to have asked you ...″

ʺMike, if it′s anyone, it′s you. But I don′t know whether I want to marry anyone at all.″

″There′s a certain girlish charm about that,″ he said. ″One all.″

She took his hand and they walked on. ″Why don′t you ask for something a bit less ambitious?″

″Such as?ʺ

″Ask me to live with you for a couple of years to see how it works out.″

″So you can have your evil way with me, then leave me without any visible means of support?″

ʺYes.ʺ

This time he stopped her. ″Dee, we always turn everything into a joke. It′s our way of keeping our relationship in an emotionally low key. That′s why we suddenly start talking about our future together at a crazy time like this. But I love you, and I want you to live with me.″

ʺItʹs all because of my picture, isn′t it?″ She smiled.

″C′mon.″

Her face became very serious. She said quietly: ″Yes, Mike, I′d like to live with you.″

He wound his long arms around her and kissed her mouth, slowly this time. A village woman walked by and averted her face from the scandal. Eventually Dee whispered: ″We could get arrested for this.″

They walked even more slowly, his arm around her shoulders and hers about his waist. Dee said: ″Where shall we live?″

Mike looked startled. ″What′s wrong with South Street?″

″It′s a scruffy bachelor pad, that′s what.ʺ

″Nuts. Itʹs big, it′s right in the center of Mayfair.″

She smiled. ″I knew you hadn′t thought much about it. Mike, I want to set up home with you, not just move into your place.″

″Mmm.″ He looked thoughtful.

ʺThe apartment is knee-deep in rubbish, it needs decorating, and the kitchen is pokey. The furniture is all odds and sods—ʺ

″So what would you like? A three-bedroom semi in Fulham? A town house in Ealing? A mansion in Surrey?″

″Somewhere light and spacious, with a view of a park, but near the center.″

″I have a feeling you′ve got somewhere in mind.″

ʺRegentʹs Park.″

Mike laughed. ″Hell, how long have you been planning this?″

ʺDidnʹt you know I was a gold-digger?ʺ She smiled up into his eyes, and he bent his head to kiss her again.

″You shall have it,ʺ he said. ʺA new place—you can get it decorated and furnished when we get back to town—ʺ

ʺSlow down! We don′t know if there′ll be a flat vacant there.″

ʺWeʹll get one.″

They stopped beside the car, and leaned against the hot paintwork. Dee turned her face up to the sun. ″How long ago did you decide ... about this?″

″I don′t think I decided at all. It just gradually grew in my mind—the idea of spending my life with you. By the time I noticed, I was already too far gone to alter it.″

ʺFunny.ʺ

ʺWhy?ʺ

″It was just the reverse with me.″

″When did you decide?″

″When I saw your car outside the hotel at Livorno.

Funny that you should ask me so soon afterward.″ She opened her eyes and lowered her head. ʺIʹm glad you did.″

They looked at each other silently for a minute. Mike said: ʺThis is crazy. We′re supposed to be hot on the trail of an art find, and here we are looking cow-eyed at each other.″

Dee giggled. ″All right. Let′s ask the old man.″

The man with the straw hat and the walking-stick moved with the shade, from the steps of the bar to a doorway around the corner. But he looked so completely still that Dee found herself imagining that he had been levitated from the one place to the other without actually moving a muscle. As they got close to him, they realized that his eyes belied his lifelessness: they were small and darting, and a peculiar shade of green.

Dee said: ″Good morning, sir. Can you tell me whether there is a family named Danielli in Poglio?″

The old man shook his head. Dee was not sure if he meant there was no such family, or simply that he did not know. Mike touched her elbow, then walked quickly around the comer in the direction of the bar.

Dee crouched beside the old man in the doorway and flashed a smile. ″You must have a long memory,″ she said.

He mellowed slightly, and nodded his head.

″Were you here in 1920?″

He gave a short laugh. ″Before then—well before.″

Mike came hurrying back with a glass in his hand. ʺThe barman says he drinks absinthe,″ he explained in English. He handed the glass to the old man, who took it and drained it in one swallow.

Dee also spoke in English. ″It′s a pretty crude form of persuasion,″ she said distastefully.

″Nuts. The barman says he′s been waiting here all morning for some of the tourists to buy him a drink. That′s the only reason he′s sitting there.″

Dee switched to Italian. ″Do you remember back to about 1920?″

″Yes,″ the old man said slowly.

″Was there a Danielli family here then?″ Mike asked impatiently.

ʺNo.ʺ

ʺDo you remember any strangers moving to the village around that time?″

″Quite a few. There was a war, you know.″

Mike looked at Dee in exasperation. He said: ″Are there any Jewish people in the village?″ His skimpy Italian was running out.

″Yes. They keep the bar on the west road out of the village. That′s where Danielli lived when he was alive.″