Paul Christopher - The Lucifer Gospel

“What if it’s an old guy?”

“Even better,” she said and grinned. “Something to prove.”

“What if he’s gay?”

“He’d still want to pinch me, just to keep up the national honor.”

“Doesn’t say much for the feminist cause.”

She laughed. “There’s the feminist cause and then there’s Italy.”

Finn climbed out of the car and crossed the claustrophobic little square. She entered the local Municipio, or City Hall, a square, crumbling stone building with an entrance like a missing tooth and no distinguishing architectural features of any kind. Hilts settled back in his seat and picked up the guidebook they’d bought twelve miles back at a gas station in Rapolla.

According to the book the town had been called Venusia a couple of thousand years ago, named after the Roman goddess of beauty. These days the most important thing in town was the tomb of the wife of Robert Guiscard, the man who conquered Sicily, the reason the Mafia was invented in the first place and the origin of the word “wise-acre.” As far as Hilts could tell there was nothing here to connect with Lucio Pedrazzi and a cave full of late-model mummies in the Libyan Desert. On the other hand, it was the only clue they had.

Five minutes later Finn reappeared and got back into the car.

“So?” asked Hilts.

“Believe it or not, his name was Alberto Pacino and he insisted on doing bad imitations from Scarface in an Italian accent.”

“So other than saying hello to his little friend, did you find out anything?”

“I didn’t say hello to his little friend, but I found out who the resident history guy is in the town. His name is Signore Abramo Vergadora. He’s a retired professor and he lives in a place called Villa Embreo Errante, a few miles north.

“Embreo Errante?”

“The Wandering Jew,” translated Finn.

Signore Vergadora’s villa was located in a pleasant shaded valley between two of the seemingly endless number of rocky hills that rose throughout the area like overgrown piles of discarded dirt thrown up by some gigantic dog searching for an old buried bone. Unlike most of the valleys they’d driven through, this one actually seemed capable of growing something. The villa was located in an olive grove, and off to one side a brook meandered pleasantly through the trees. The villa itself was reasonably modest and very old, yellowed stucco peeling away from ancient stone, the deep windows covered with wrought-iron gratings, the roof dusty red with terra-cotta tiles, a central tower in front standing guard above the rest of the sprawling building.

Finn parked in front of the main door, and she and Hilts climbed out of the car and into the bright, warm sunlight. Finn could hear the brook now, babbling quietly to itself, and the afternoon breeze rustling through the poplars that stood around the house like sentries, much taller than the gnarled grove of olives that might have been here as long as the house, perhaps centuries.

They stood in front of the heavy planked front door and Finn pulled the bell chain. From somewhere deep inside the villa there was a faint tinkling sound and then the shuffle of approaching feet. A moment later the door creaked open and a face appeared: an Italian J.R.R. Tolkien wearing a yarmulke pinned to unruly silver hair, drooping bags beneath twinkling eyes, and rosy cheeks forced down by time and gravity on either side of an almost feminine mouth that looked as though it rarely frowned. The man had bright red reading glasses perched on his forehead and wore a brown corduroy suit much too warm for the summer, complete with vest, white shirt and tie, the vest decorated with a fob and chain that spanned a moderate belly. He wore purple velvet bedroom slippers.

“Ah,” he said happily, “you are the American couple.”

“How’d you know that?” Hilts asked.

“Alberto called me from the Municipio,” the old man answered, still smiling. “That one thinks every American is a Hollywood producer looking for new stars.” He stepped aside and gestured them forward. “Come in, please. My name is Abramo Vergadora.”

Vergadora took them through several high-ceilinged underfurnished rooms, finally ushering them into what was obviously his sanctum sanctorum, a library, the walls lined with overflowing bookshelves, the stone floor covered with overlapping Persian carpets. The room was laid out with a dozen chairs and couches, with more tables and chairs piled high with books and more stacks on the floor. The whole room smelled of paper, leather, cigar smoke and ash from the gigantic fireplace that stood in the corner. Finn stopped. Carved into the mantel of the fireplace was the same coat of arms she’d seen on Pedrazzi’s ring and on the corner of the ancient handkerchief that had been wrapped around the gold medallion.

“That’s the arms of the Pedrazzi family,” she said.

Vergadora looked at her curiously.

“No, it’s not,” he said. “But it is extraordinary that you should know it at all.”

“It is the coat of arms Lucio Pedrazzi used,” she insisted.

“True, but not one that the Pedrazzi family had any right to,” Vergadora replied quietly. “But before we get into any further discussions, perhaps I can offer you coffee, or tea? Lemonade? A soft drink? I only drink Dr Pepper, I’m afraid.” The old man’s smile widened even more. “Or perhaps something stronger. A martini? Brandy Alexander? They are the only two American drinks I know how to make, and sadly I am without domestic help with the exception of the old woman who does my laundry on Thursdays.”

“Coffee would be nice,” said Finn.

“Sure,” said Hilts with a nod.

“Wonderful.” Vergadora beamed. He turned and scuttled away, his bedroom slippers whispering into the distance.

“He’s a nut bar,” said Hilts. “A nice nut bar, but a nut bar nevertheless.”

“I prefer the word ‘eccentric,’ ” Finn said and smiled. She began wandering along the rows of books.

“He’s got everything here from Dante’s Inferno to The Stand by Stephen King.”

“Not such a leap when you think about it,” Hilts said, dropping down into one of the comfortable leather armchairs. He watched Finn continue her inspection of the bookshelves. “What do you think about the Pedrazzi thing?”

“I can’t wait to hear his explanation,” said Finn.

“He’s Jewish,” mused Hilts. “That’s a bit strange.”

“The villa’s called the Wandering Jew. Historically there’ve been Jews in Italy for thousands of years.”

“Not something you hear about much.”

“Fiorello La Guardia was an Italian Jew. Modigliani, the sculptor, was a Jew. I think the guy who invented the Olivetti typewriter was Jewish.”

“He was. His name was Camilo Olivetti.” Vergadora came back into the room carrying a tray. In addition to the coffee there was a single budding rose in a slim, porcelain vase. He set the tray down on a table.

“I knew his son, Adriano, quite well,” the old man continued. “We spent the war in Lausanne together pretending to be exiles. If he hadn’t been so wealthy he would have been a communist, I’m positive.”

He paused, his smile wistful. “Did you know they are the only company that still manufactures manual typewriters? I find that a comfort in a world where people have things called BlackBerries instead of address books and computers are named after fruit.” He smiled at Finn. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Black,” she said.

“Both,” said Hilts.

Vergadora poured, then handed the cups around as Finn took a seat across the table from him.

“Tell me about Pedrazzi and the coat of arms,” said Finn.

“Tell me why you wish to know,” Vergadora replied.