The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [28]
She realized belatedly that the English name for Livorno was Leghorn—a major Mediterranean port and holiday resort. Vague history-book memories floated back: Mussolini had spent millions modernizing the harbor, only to have it all destroyed by Allied bombers; the town had something to do with the Medici; there had been an earthquake in the eighteenth century.
She found an inexpensive hotel: a high, whitewashed building in a terrace, with long, arched windows and no front garden. Her room was bare, clean and cool. She unpacked her suitcase, hanging the two summer dresses in a louvered cupboard. She washed, put on jeans and sneakers, and went out into the town.
The mist had gone and the early evening was mild. The cloud layer was moving on, and the sinking sun was visible behind its trailing edge out across the sea. Old women in aprons, their straight gray hair pulled back and fastened at the nape of the neck, stood or sat in doorways, watching the world go by.
Nearer the town center, handsome Italian boys paraded the sidewalks in their tight-hipped, bell-bottomed jeans and close-fitting shirts, their thick dark hair carefully combed. One or two raised a speculative eyebrow at Dee, but none made a determined pass. The boys were display items, she realized: to be seen rather than touched.
Dee strolled through the town aimlessly, killing time before dinner and wondering how to go about searching for the picture in this vast place. Clearly, anyone who knew of the picture′s existence could not know it was a Modigliani; and conversely, if anyone knew there was such a Modigliani they would not know where it was or how to find it.
She passed through a series of fine, open squares, dotted with statues of former kings done in the good local marble. She found herself in the Piazza Vittorio, a wide avenue with central islands of trees and grass. She sat down on a low wall to admire the Renaissance arcades.
It would take years to visit every house in the town and look at every old picture in attics and junk shops. The field had to be narrowed down, even though that meant reducing the chances of success.
Ideas began to come at last. Dee got up and briskly walked back to the little hotel. She was beginning to feel hungry.
The proprietor and his family occupied the ground floor of the building. There was no one in the entrance hall when Dee got back, so she knocked tentatively on the door of the family′s quarters. Music and the sound of children filtered through, but there was no reply to her knock.
She pushed the door open and stepped into the room. It was a living room, with newish furniture of appallingly bad taste. A 1960s splayed-leg radio/ record player hummed in a comer. On the television a man′s head soundlessly mouthed the news. In the center, on top of an orange nylon rug, a vaguely Swedish coffee table bore ashtrays, piled newspapers, and a paperback book.
A small child playing with a toy car at her feet ignored her. She stepped over him. The proprietor came through the far door. His stomach sagged hugely over the narrow plastic belt of his blue trousers, and a cigarette bearing a precarious finger of ash hung from the comer of his mouth. He looked at Dee inquiringly.
She spoke in fast, liquid Italian. ″I knocked, but there was no reply.″
The man′s lips hardly moved as he said: ″What is it?″
″I′d like to book a call to Paris.″
He moved to a bowlegged kidney-table near the door and picked up the telephone. ″Tell me the number. I′ll get it.″
Dee fished in her shirt pocket and took out the scrap of paper on which she had written the number at Mike′s flat.
″Is there a particular person you want to speak to?″ the proprietor asked. Dee shook her head. Mike was not likely to be back yet, but there was a chance that his char would be in the flat—when they were away she dropped in whenever she felt like it.
The man took the cigarette out of his mouth and spoke a few sentences into the receiver. He put the phone down and said: ″It will only be a few minutes. Would you like to sit down?″
Dee′s calves ached