The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [31]
She walked back to her hotel, feeling depressed. The sun was high and hot now, and the baking streets were almost deserted. Mad dogs and art historians, Dee thought. The private joke failed to cheer her up. She had played her last card. The only possible way to carry on now was to quarter the city and try every church.
She went up to her room and washed her hands and face to get rid of the dust of the crypt. A siesta was the only sensible way to spend this part of the day. She took off her clothes and lay on the narrow single bed.
When she closed her eyes the nagging feeling of having forgotten something came back. She tried to remember everything she had learned about Modigliani; but it was not a lot. She drifted into a doze.
As she slept the sun moved past the zenith and shone powerfully in through the open window, making the naked body perspire. She moved restlessly, her long face frowning slightly from time to time. The blonde hair became disarrayed and stuck to her cheeks.
She woke with a start and sat up straight. Her head throbbed from the heat of the sun, but she ignored it. She stared straight ahead of her like someone who has just had a revelation.
″I′m an idiot!″ she exclaimed. ″He was a Jew!″
Dee liked the rabbi. He was a refreshing change from the holy men who had only been able to react to her as forbidden fruit. He had friendly brown eyes and gray streaks in his black beard. He was interested in her search, and she found herself telling him the whole story.
″The old man in Paris said a priest, and so I assumed it was a Catholic priest,″ she was explaining. ″I had forgotten that the Modigliani family were Sephardic Jews, and quite orthodox.″
The rabbi smiled. ″Well, I know who the painting was given to! My predecessor here was very eccentric, as rabbis go. He was interested in all sorts of things—scientific experiments, psychoanalysis, Communism. He′s dead now, of course.″
″I don′t suppose there were any paintings among his effects?″
″I don′t know. He became ill toward the end, and left the town. He went to live in a village called Poglio, which is on the Adriatic coast. Of course, I was very young then—I don′t remember him at all clearly. But I believe he lived with a sister in Poglio for a couple of years before he died. If the painting still exists, she may have it.″
″She′ll be dead.″
He laughed. ″Of course. Oh dear—you′ve set yourself quite a task, young lady. Still, there may be descendants.″
Dee shook the man′s hand. ″You′ve been very kind,″ she said.
″My pleasure,″ he said. He seemed to mean it.
Dee ignored her aching feet as she walked back to the hotel again. She made plans: she would have to hire a car and drive to this village. She decided she would leave in the morning.
She wanted to tell somebody, to spread the good news. She remembered what she had done last time she felt this way. She stopped at a shop and bought a postcard. She wrote:
Dear Sammy,
This is the kind of holiday I always wanted! A real treasure hunt! ! I′m off to Poglio to find a lost Modigliani! ! !
Love,
D.
She found some change in her pocket, bought a stamp, and posted the card. Then she realized that she did not have enough money to hire a car and drive right across the country.
It was crazy: here she was on the track of a painting which was worth anything from £50,000 to E100,000, and she couldn′t afford to hire a car. It was painfully frustrating.
Could she ask Mike for money? Hell, no, she could not lower herself. Maybe she could drop a hint when he phoned. If he phoned: his trips abroad did not follow tight schedules.
She ought to be able to raise money some other way. Her mother? She was well off, but Dee had not invested any time with her for years. She had no right to ask the old woman for money. Uncle Charles?
But it would all take time. Dee was itching to get on the trail again.
As she walked up the narrow street to the hotel she saw a steel-blue Mercedes coupe parked at the curb. The man leaning against it had a familiar head of black curls.