The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [60]
He had sinned, almost certainly, in lying to them about Danielli. The untruth had come automatically, by force of a habit he had got into during the war. Then, when he had felt it imperative to conceal the Jewish family from all inquirers, the whole village had lied with his blessing. To tell the truth would have been sinful.
Today, when a couple of complete strangers had arrived out of the blue, and asked for Danielli by name, they had touched an old, raw nerve in the priest; and he had protected the Jews again. The inquiry was bound to be quite innocent: the Fascisti were thirty-five years in the past, and no longer worth sinning about. Still, he had not had time to think—which was the reason for most sins, and a poor excuse.
He toyed with the idea of going after them, apologizing, explaining, and telling the truth. It would expiate him a little. But there was little point: someone in the village would send them to the bar on the outskirts of Poglio where the Jews eked out their living.
His pain had gone. He went into the little house, treading on the loose flagstone at the foot of the stairs with the twinge of affection he reserved for familiar nuisances: like the rheumatism, and the unfailing sins he heard week after week from the irreformable black sheep in his little flock. He gave them a rueful paternal nod of acknowledgment, and granted absolution.
In the kitchen he took out a loaf and cut it with a blunt knife. He found the cheese and scraped off the mold; then he ate his lunch. The cheese tasted good—it was the better for the effect of the mold. There was something he would have not discovered if he had been rich.
When he had eaten the meal he wiped the plate with a towel and put it back into the wooden cupboard. The knock at the door surprised him.
People did not usually knock at his door: they opened it and called to him. A knock indicated a formal visit—but in Poglio, one always knew well in advance if someone was going to pay a formal visit. He went to the door with a pleasant sensation of curiosity.
He opened the door to a short man in his twenties, with straight fair hair growing over his ears. He was peculiarly dressed, by the priest′s standards, in a businessman′s suit and a bow tie. In poor Italian he said: ″Good morning, Father.″
A stranger, thought the priest. That explained the knock. It was most unusual to have so many strangers in the village.
The man said: ″May I talk to you for a few moments?″
″Surely.″ The priest ushered the stranger into the bare kitchen and offered him a hard wooden seat. ″Do you speak English?″
The priest shook his head regretfully.
″Ah. Well, I am an art dealer from London,″ the man continued haltingly. ʺI am looking for old paintings.″
The priest nodded wonderingly. Clearly, this man and the couple in the church were on the same mission. That two sets of people should come to Poglio on the same day looking for paintings was just too much of a coincidence to be credible.
He said: ″Well, I have none.″ He waved a hand at the bare walls of the room, as if to say that he would buy bare essentials first, if he had any money.
ʺPerhaps in the church?″
″No, the church has no paintings.″
The man thought for a moment, searching for words. ″Is there a museum in the village? Or perhaps someone with a few paintings in his house?″
The priest laughed. ″My son, this is a poor village. No one buys paintings. In good times, when they have a little extra money, they eat meat—or perhaps drink wine. There are no art collectors here.″
The stranger looked disappointed. The priest wondered whether to tell him about his rivals. But then he would be forced to mention Danielli, and he would have to give this man information he had withheld from the couple.
That seemed unfair. However, he would not lie again. He decided to tell the man about Danielli if he asked: otherwise, he would not volunteer the information.