Portrait of an unknown w.., p.15
Portrait of an Unknown Woman, page 15
“Thus leaving you with no legal recourse. Or moral recourse, for that matter.”
“Perhaps one or two of the don’s most terrifying men should have a word with Monsieur Toussaint on my behalf.”
“Perhaps,” countered Gabriel, “you should forget I ever said anything, and let it go.”
The wind blew without relent the following day and the day after that as well. Gabriel sheltered in place at the villa while Christopher flung himself against two more mountains—first Renoso, then d’Oro, where his pocket anemometer recorded the winds at 141 kilometers per hour. That evening they dined at Villa Orsati. Over coffee, the don acknowledged that his operatives had no leads on the identity or whereabouts of the man who had carried the bomb into Galerie Georges Fleury. He then chastised Christopher over the tenor and tone of his recent confrontations with Don Casabianca’s goat.
“He called me this morning. He’s very upset.”
“The don or the goat?”
“It’s no laughing matter, Christopher.”
“How does Don Casabianca even know that things have taken a turn for the worse?”
“The news has spread like wildfire.”
“I certainly didn’t mention it to anyone.”
“It must have been the macchia,” said Gabriel, and repeated the ancient proverb regarding the ability of the aromatic vegetation to see everything. At this, the don nodded his head solemnly in agreement. It was, he concluded, the only possible explanation.
The wind raged for the remainder of that night, but by dawn it was a memory. Gabriel spent the morning helping Christopher repair the damage to the roof and clear the debris from the terrace and the pool. Then, in late afternoon, he drove into the village. It was a cluster of sandstone-colored cottages huddled around the bell tower of a church, before which lay a dusty square. Several men in newly pressed white shirts were playing a closely fought game of pétanque. Once they might have regarded Gabriel with suspicion—or pointed at him in the Corsican way, with their first and fourth fingers, to ward off the effects of the occhju, the evil eye. Now they greeted him warmly, as he was known throughout the village as a friend of Don Orsati and the Englishman named Christopher, who, thank goodness, had returned to the island after a prolonged absence.
“Is it true he’s married?” asked one of the men.
“That’s the rumor.”
“Has he killed that goat?” asked another.
“Not yet. But it’s only a matter of time.”
“Perhaps you can talk some sense into him.”
“I’ve tried. But I’m afraid they’ve reached the point of no return.”
The men insisted that Gabriel join the game, as they were in need of another player. Declining, he repaired to the café in the far corner of the square for a glass of Corsican rosé. As the church bells tolled five o’clock, a young child, a girl of seven or eight, knocked on the door of the crooked little house next to the rectory. It opened a few inches, and a small pale hand appeared, clutching a slip of blue paper. The young girl carried it to the café and placed it on Gabriel’s table. She bore an uncanny resemblance to Irene.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Danielle.”
Of course it was, he thought. “Would you like an ice cream?”
The child sat down and pushed the blue slip of paper across the tabletop. “Aren’t you going to read it?”
“I don’t need to.”
“Why not?”
“I know what it says.”
“How?”
“I have powers, too.”
“Not like hers,” said the child.
No, agreed Gabriel. Not like hers.
32
Haute-Corse
The hand the old woman offered Gabriel in greeting was warm and weightless. He held it gently, as though it were a cage bird.
“You’ve been hiding from me,” she said.
“Not from you,” he answered. “From the maestral.”
“I’ve always liked the wind.” Confidingly she added, “It’s good for business.”
The old woman was a signadora. The Corsicans believed that she possessed the power to heal those infected by the occhju. Gabriel had once suspected that she was nothing more than a conjurer and a clever teller of fortunes, but that was no longer the case.
She placed her hand against his cheek. “You’re burning with fever.”
“You always say that.”
“That’s because you always feel as though you are on fire.” Her hand moved to his upper chest. The left side, slightly above his heart. “This is where the madwoman’s bullet entered you.”
“Did Christopher tell you that?”
“I haven’t spoken to Christopher since his return.” She lifted the front of Gabriel’s dress shirt and examined the scar. “You were dead for several minutes, were you not?”
“Two or three.”
She frowned. “Why do you bother trying to lie to me?”
“Because I prefer not to dwell on the fact that I was dead for ten minutes.” Gabriel held up the blue slip of paper. “Where did you find that child?”
“Danielle? Why do you ask?”
“She reminds me of someone.”
“Your daughter?”
“How is possible that you know what she looks like?”
“Perhaps you’re merely seeing what you want to see.”
“Don’t speak to me in riddles.”
“You named the child Irene after your mother. Every time she looks at you, you see your mother’s face and the numbers that were written on her arm in the camp named for the trees.”
“Someday you’re going to have to show me how you do that.”
“It is a gift from God.” She released the front of his shirt and contemplated him with her bottomless black eyes. The face in which they were set was as white as baker’s flour. “You are suffering from the occhju. It is as plain as day.”
“I must have contracted it from Don Casabianca’s goat.”
“He is a demon.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I’m not joking. The animal is possessed. Stay away from it.”
The signadora drew him into the parlor of her tiny home. On the small circular table was a candle, a shallow plate of water, and a vessel of olive oil. They were the tools of her trade. She lit the candle and sat down in her usual place. Gabriel, after a moment’s hesitation, joined her.
“There’s no such thing as the evil eye, you know. It’s just a superstition that was prevalent among the ancient people of the Mediterranean.”
“You are an ancient person of the Mediterranean as well.”
“As ancient as it gets,” he agreed.
“You were born in the Galilee, not far from the town where Jesus lived. Most of your ancestors were killed by the Romans during the siege of Jerusalem, but a few survived and made their way to Europe.” She nudged the vessel of olive oil across the tabletop. “Proceed.”
Gabriel returned the vessel to the woman’s side of the table. “You first.”
“You want me to prove that it’s not a trick?”
“Yes.”
The old woman dipped her forefinger into the oil. Then she held it over the plate and allowed three drops to fall into the water. They coalesced into a single gobbet.
“Now you.”
Gabriel performed the same ritual. This time the oil shattered into a thousand droplets, and soon there was no trace of it.
“Occhju,” whispered the old woman.
“Magic and misdirection,” said Gabriel in reply.
Smiling, she asked, “How’s your hand?”
“Which one?”
“The one you injured when you attacked the man who works for the one-eyed creature.”
“He shouldn’t have followed me.”
“Make your peace with him,” said the signadora. “He will help you find the woman.”
“What woman?”
“The Spanish woman.”
“I’m looking for a man.”
“The one who tried to kill you in the art gallery?”
“Yes.”
“Don Orsati hasn’t been able to find him. But don’t worry, the Spanish woman will lead you to the one you seek. Don Orsati knows of her.”
“How?”
“It is not in my power to tell you that.”
Without another word, the signadora took hold of Gabriel’s hand and engaged in the familiar ritual. She recited the words of an ancient Corsican prayer. She wept as the evil passed from his body into hers. She closed her eyes and fell into a deep sleep. When at last she awoke, she instructed Gabriel to repeat the trial of the oil and the water. This time the oil coalesced into a single drop.
“Now you,” he said.
The old woman sighed and did as he asked. The oil shattered.
“Just like the door of the art gallery,” she said. “Don’t worry, the occhju won’t stay within me for long.”
Gabriel laid several banknotes on the table. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“Paint four pictures,” said the old woman. “And she will come for you.”
“Is that all?”
“No,” she said. “You didn’t contract the occhju from Don Casabianca’s goat.”
Upon his return to the villa, Gabriel informed Christopher that Don Orsati’s inquiries would bear no fruit and that Don Casabianca’s goat was the devil incarnate. Christopher questioned the accuracy of neither assertion, as both had come from the mouth of the signadora. He nevertheless advised against telling the don to preemptively break off his search. It was far better, he said, to allow the wheel to spin until the ball had dropped.
“Unless the wheel continues to spin for another week or two.”
“Trust me, it won’t.”
“There’s more, I’m afraid.”
Gabriel explained the old woman’s prophecy regarding the Spanish woman.
“Did she say how the don knows her?”
“She said it wasn’t in her power to tell me.”
“Or so she claimed. It’s her version of ‘no comment.’”
“Did you ever run across a Spanish woman when you were working for the don?”
“One or two,” said Christopher beneath his breath.
“How should we raise it with him?”
“With the utmost care. His Holiness doesn’t like anyone rummaging through his past. Especially the signadora.”
And so it was that two nights later, while seated beneath a cloud-draped moon in the garden of Villa Orsati, Gabriel feigned incredulity when told that the don’s operatives had failed to locate the man who had delivered the expertly constructed bomb to Galerie Fleury. Then, after a moment or two of companionable silence, he cautiously asked Don Orsati whether he had ever encountered a Spanish woman who might have ties to the criminal art world.
The don’s brown-streaked eyes narrowed with suspicion. “When did you speak to her?”
“The Spanish woman?”
“The signadora.”
“I thought the macchia sees all.”
“Do you want to know about the Spanish woman or not?”
“It was two days ago,” admitted Gabriel.
“I suppose she also knew that I wouldn’t be able to find the man you’re looking for.”
“I wanted to tell you, but Christopher said it would be a mistake.”
“Did he?” Don Orsati glared at Christopher before turning once more to Gabriel. “Several years ago, perhaps five or six, a woman came to see me. She was from Roussillon, up in the Lubéron. Late thirties, quite composed. One had the impression she was comfortable in the presence of criminals.”
“Name?”
“Françoise Vionnet.”
“Real?”
Don Orsati nodded.
“What was her story?”
“The man she lived with disappeared one afternoon while walking in the countryside outside Aix-en-Provence. The police found his body a few weeks later near Mont Ventoux. He’d been shot twice in the back of the head.”
“Vengeance was required?”
The don nodded.
“I assume you agreed to provide it.”
“Money doesn’t come from singing, my friend.” It was one of the don’s most cherished Corsican proverbs and the unofficial slogan of the Orsati Olive Oil Company. “Money is earned by accepting and then fulfilling contracts.”
“What was the name on this one?”
“Miranda Álvarez. The Vionnet woman was confident it was an alias. She was able to give us a physical description and a profession, but little else.”
“Why don’t we start with her appearance.”
“Tall, dark hair, very beautiful.”
“Age?”
“At the time, she was in her mid-thirties.”
“And her profession?”
“She was an art dealer.”
“Based where?”
“Maybe Barcelona.” The don shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Maybe Madrid.”
“That isn’t much to go on.”
“I’ve accepted contracts based on less, provided the client agrees to confirm the target’s identity once the target is located.”
“Thus avoiding needless bloodshed.”
“In a business like mine,” said Don Orsati, “mistakes are permanent.”
“I take it you were never able to find her.”
The don shook his head. “Françoise Vionnet begged me to continue looking, but I told her there was no point. I refunded her money, excluding the deposit and the expenses for the search, and we went our separate ways.”
“Did she ever tell you why her partner was murdered?”
“Apparently, it was a business dispute.”
“He was an art dealer as well?”
“A painter, actually. Not a successful one, mind you. But she spoke highly of his work.”
“Do you happen to remember his name?”
“Lucien Marchand.”
“And where might Christopher and I find Françoise Vionnet?”
“The Chemin de Joucas in Roussillon. If you like, I can get you the address.”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Not at all.”
It was upstairs in his office, said Don Orsati. In his leather-bound ledger of death.
33
Le Lubéron
The next mainland-bound car ferry departed Ajaccio at half past eight the following evening and arrived in Marseilles shortly after dawn. Gabriel and Christopher, having passed the night in adjoining cabins, rolled into the port in a rented Peugeot and made their way to the A7 Autoroute. They headed north through Salon-de-Provence to Cavaillon, then followed a caravan of tour buses into the Lubéron. The honey-colored houses of Gordes, perched on a limestone hilltop overlooking the valley, sparkled in the crystalline morning light.
“That’s where Marc Chagall used to live,” said Christopher.
“In an old girls’ school on the rue de la Fontaine Basse. He and his wife, Bella, were reluctant to leave after the German invasion. They finally fled to the United States in 1941 with the help of the journalist and academic Varian Fry and the Emergency Rescue Committee.”
“I was just trying to make conversation.”
“Perhaps we should enjoy the scenery instead.”
Christopher lit a Marlboro. “Have you given any thought to how you’re going to make your approach?”
“To Françoise Vionnet? I thought I’d start with bonjour and hope for the best.”
“How cunning.”
“Maybe I’ll tell her I was sent by a mystical Corsican woman who cured me of the occhju. Or better yet, I’ll say that I’m a friend of the Corsican organized crime figure she hired to kill a Spanish art dealer.”
“That should win her over.”
“How much do you suppose the don charged her?” asked Gabriel.
“For a job like that? Not much.”
“What does that mean?”
“Maybe a hundred thousand.”
“How much was the contract on my life?”
“Seven figures.”
“I’m flattered. And Anna?”
“You two were part of a package deal.”
“Is there a discount for that sort of thing?”
“The don is unfamiliar with that word as well. But it warms my heart that you two have rekindled your relationship after all these years.”
“There was no kindling involved. And we don’t have a relationship.”
“Did you or did you not borrow a million euros from her to buy that fake Cuyp riverscape?”
“The money was repaid three days later.”
“By my wife,” said Christopher. “As for your approach to the aforementioned Françoise, I suggest you fly a false flag. In my experience, respectable residents of the Lubéron don’t hand over briefcases filled with cash to someone like His Holiness Don Anton Orsati.”
“Are you suggesting that Françoise Vionnet and Lucien Marchand, an unknown painter with no established sales record, might have been involved in a criminal enterprise of some sort?”
“I’d bet my Cézanne on it, too.”
“You don’t own a Cézanne.”
They rounded a bend in the road, and the Lubéron Valley revealed itself as a patchwork quilt of vineyards and orchards and fields ablaze with wildflowers. The brick-colored buildings of Roussillon’s ancient center occupied a ridge of ocher-rich clay on the southern rim. Christopher approached the village along the narrow Chemin de Joucas and eased onto the grassy verge at the point where the slope of the hill met the valley floor. On one side of the road was newly plowed cropland. On the other, partially hidden from view behind an unkempt wall of vegetation, was a small single-level villa. From somewhere came the muted baritone bark of a large dog.
“But of course,” murmured Gabriel.
