Book of Stolen Tales (29 page)

The day had gone from bad to worse and I had little patience left. I was certainly in no mood to appease the man. Plainly he got a kick out of causing me discomfort. On the other hand, I did very much want to examine the book. “Let's hear it, then.”

When he next spoke, he addressed Dina. “I would ask that you stay here. If after a fortnight you choose to leave you'll be perfectly free to do so. Of course I would not bind you to this in any way. But if you remain, at the end of the fourteen days I will not only permit both of you to look at the book, I will give it to you.” He leaned back in his chair. “That way there will be no need for me to sign anything.”

“You want her to stay here … without me?”

“Yes, that's what I'd like.”

I looked over at Dina before addressing him. “You've been a gracious host, and we owe you a debt of gratitude but nothing more. You're a complete stranger.”

He too turned to Dina. “I'll understand if you choose to decline. I know women have remarked that they find my appearance disagreeable.”

Dina's next words set me on edge. “You've been extremely kind to us. It would be my pleasure to visit a while longer. As to how someone looks, that matters nothing to me. It's what is in the heart that counts.”

“Dina,” I said firmly, “let's discuss this for a few minutes, shall we?” I nodded toward Renard. “If you'll excuse us.”

“Indeed,” he said. “Please take all the time you wish.”

“One minute then.” I rose.

Dina scraped back her chair and swept out of the dining room. I shut the door emphatically behind us. She was furious with me, but I spoke first. “Surely you don't want to stay here alone. We know absolutely nothing about him. You just escaped years of persecution from Mancini and that's bound to have left many scars. Wouldn't it be better to find someone to help you with that instead?”

“You're equating Renard with the conte. He's nothing like that.”

“How do you know? We've barely spent any time here. And in that short time I've seen some pretty strange behavior.”

“You forget, John, I'm
accustomed
to situations that are out of the ordinary. And how long have I spent with you? I don't know you either. We won't be alone. There are servants around all the time.”

“Who will do whatever he says and see nothing if that's what he wants.”

“I agreed to help you find those books and gave you a start. Really, I didn't even want to go that far. My other plans have been destroyed. I need time to work out what my future is. I'm free now. No one will ever make decisions for me again. If I decide to stay, I will.” Her voice was glacial.

“Fine. It's your decision, of course. I'll do my best to return in two weeks.”

She flung her next words at me. “Come back to look at the book if that's what you want, but I have no need to see you again.”

Without saying another word, I walked away.

Perhaps out of regret for her unkindness, she caught up to me. “Wait, John.” She opened her evening purse, took out a piece of notepaper, and handed it to me. “This is where you can find another collector who bought one of Basile's volumes.”

The address was in Ghent. “Is there a name to go along with it?”

“The surname's Hatzfeld; that's all I know.”

Her true intention had become glaringly clear. She'd written this note before we came down to dinner. She knew exactly what Renard's proposal was going to be and how I'd react. I questioned whether she'd devised the entire plan to stay here without me. The evening had been nothing more than an elaborate charade, likely planned between the two of them in the afternoon.

Although it was verging on midnight, I wanted nothing more than to get out of there. I had no reason to care about her choice; Dina was entitled to make any decision she wished. Clearly, she saw the estate as a safe haven. And I had to admit, Renard offered her a far better prospect of escaping Mancini than I did. Still, her words cut deeply.

The merchant obliged me by supplying a carriage and driver. Had Renard's accident prompted his fear of cars? Avoiding them seemed like a peculiar throwback. Nevertheless, if I wanted to avoid hours of hiking through the forest in the dead of night, I'd have to accept his offer.

The coach set out through the gloomy wood, its lamps casting menacing shadows on the trees as we passed through the dense wall of forest. I wondered again what had become of Alessio. If he was still alive, I was certain to encounter him again.

Twenty-Nine

November 26, 2003

Ghent, Belgium

I
lost time getting to Belgium from the south of France. The trip required a transfer in Paris but I needed to see someone there anyway, an art dealer who made quiet private sales, fronting for heavy hitters in the black market. I'd done him a favor once and he owed me. He was the sort of guy that kind of thing mattered to. Since leaving Naples, I'd had no chance to take steps to protect myself. Now it was a priority.

My friend showed up with the item I wanted when we met for lunch at the bistro outside the train station. I caught the next train and didn't arrive in Ghent until late afternoon. Still, it was worth the delay.

The Hotel de Flandre was pleasantly situated in Ghent's historic district. The medieval city felt like a place where fairy tales were born. The buildings with their unique stepped rooflines, mottled stone, lead-paned windows, and facades embellished with ornate designs looked as though they'd materialized from a child's storybook. I half expected to see a girl with a long yellow braid gazing out from a turret window or a troll emerge from the watery margins of the River Leie.

Gravensteen Castle added to the mystique. Unlike fanciful palaces bordering the Rhine, it had a forbidding air. Modeled on crusaders' forts with small window slits, its thick walls, built below the water line, prevented ancient enemies from tunneling in. The torture chamber, with its early guillotine and iron necklace designed to pierce a victim's neck when he moved, testified to its dark history.

Dina had given me an address on Gewad Street with the surname Hatzfeld. The house had an immaculately maintained historic facade. Art deco sculptures flanked the main entrance in weathered bronze. I walked past, planning my strategy. Six blocks down the street I found just what I was looking for—a flower shop where the attendant spoke French, not just Flemish. A luxuriant spray of white jasmine stood out among the lilies and roses and I bought a large bouquet.

Retracing my steps with one of my business cards in hand, I pressed the buzzer and hoped for the best. A distinguished-looking man opened the door. He wore navy pants, a white shirt with a waistcoat, and a bow tie.

I introduced myself.

He said in perfect English, “How may I help you, sir?”

His dress and demeanor suggested a butler so I took a chance. “I understand Mr. Hatzfeld is a rare book collector and I'd like to consult him about a book I've been searching for, similar to one he may own. These flowers are a gift for the lady of the house.”

The man turned momentarily and called out to someone. I detected the barest twitch of amusement at the corner of his lips when he faced me again.

“Mr. Hatzfeld, as you refer to him, is not at home. I'm afraid you've made your visit in vain.”

“I see. Can you suggest a better time?”

The twitch materialized again and faded just as quickly. “That is uncertain at this point. Perhaps you have a card? I'll advise him of your interest.”

I held the bouquet in the crook of my arm and getting out a pen, scribbled the details about the volume I wanted on the back of my business card. As I handed it to him, a maid in full uniform appeared behind the butler. He motioned for her to take the flowers.

“Good day to you then, sir. I do hope you'll find the information you're seeking.” He shut the door firmly.

Dispirited, I headed back down the street, stymied as to how to reach Hatzfeld. About half a block away I heard my name. The butler, in a much less composed fashion this time, was perched at the top of the steps, waving frantically at me.

“Mr. Hatzfeld is home after all,” I said when I returned, unable to resist a little jab.

“Not at present,” he replied, “but the lady of the house, as you so politely referenced, would be pleased to speak with you.”

He led me through a small vestibule and down a hallway. A quick glance of the surroundings echoed the image the house presented to the street. It kept so faithfully to the original art deco designs that it felt like a journey back in time. Yet for all its lovely accoutrements, it had the stale air of a forgotten room.

I'd formed an expectation of who the wife might be. Someone verging on middle age, elegant and imperious, regulation Gucci scarf and Chanel suit. The vision greeting me as the butler swept me into the room was a far cry from that. I barely registered the introductions.

She stood resting one hand on the window ledge, framed by a terrace with a stone balustrade, the back garden greenery, and the glassy surface of the Leie in the distance. Sultry late afternoon light cast an aura around her hair and figure and for a moment I had the impression I was looking at a portrait of a queen. Were it not for her contemporary dress, she'd have fit right into the Renaissance court at Gravensteen Castle.

Such translucent skin required no makeup, although she did wear a touch to accentuate her high cheekbones and long lashes. She was small boned; the simple jersey and slim skirt she wore showed undeniable curves. If she was any older than me, it wasn't by much.

The jasmine had been arranged in a vase, its lush scent expanding through the room. The butler excused himself. The portrait came to life and held out her hand.

“I wouldn't have agreed to meet you, Mr. Madison, except jasmine is my favorite flower. Were you forewarned or was that just impeccable taste on your part?”

“Somehow, I knew you'd like it.” A shiver of anticipation ran through me when I took her small, delicate hand in mine.

She released my hand and moved away from the window languidly, the slightest hint of sensuality in her walk. I had the impression of a passionate woman but one long used to holding her emotions in check. She indicated an armchair and sat opposite me in its mate. The rich sea-green walls set off her honey-colored hair and slightly tawny skin. I imagined her in one of those thirties satin evening dresses, instantly glamorous.

“I understand you're seeking a book,” she said. “Can you describe it?”

“It's actually a seventeenth-century anthology that includes several well-known fairy tales. Five volumes written in Neapolitan dialect by Giambattista Basile. I was given to understand your husband is an avid rare book collector and may have bought one of the volumes.” She had a way of fixing her hazel eyes on me that was very distracting. I glanced away for a moment and said, “It was kind of you to see me, Mme Hatzfeld, on such short notice.”

“Please call me Katharina,” she said graciously. “I have no need for formalities. I'm not sure where your presumption about my husband came from. I purchased the volume you speak of. May I ask what is your interest in the book?”

“Pardon my mistake then. I'm an antiquities dealer and bought one of the other volumes on behalf of a client. It was subsequently taken from me. I discovered later it had been stolen before it hit the auction block—a kind of double theft, I suppose.”

I detected a faint flush on her cheeks at my mention of theft. She paused, assessing how much she wanted to reveal. “And you think it may have ended up here?”

I sensed a hint of annoyance in her tone. “Please don't think I'm implying that. No doubt yours is a different edition or a different volume entirely.”

“Whether or not it ever had an illicit history, I assure you mine is now in its rightful place. Are you aware not all of the original volumes even had the same publisher? Which one did you buy?”

“The Beltrano edition, from 1634.”

“Then your client acquired the first volume, day one, in the anthology.” She got up. “Come. To settle your mind about this, I'm willing to show it to you.”

We walked across the hall and entered a study, this one smaller. She unlocked an antique roll-top desk and lifted out the book, setting it down carefully on a pristine white cloth.

The book's title page confirmed what she told me. Mine had a pictograph of a banner superimposed on a tree; hers was different, the third volume, day three, published by Scorrigio. I decided to push my luck and asked if she'd let me take photographs.

“I ordered several copies made for insurance purposes,” she said. “I don't see why you couldn't have one of those.” She asked me to wait, shutting the door quietly behind her on her way out. In a few minutes she returned with a sheaf of papers in a black file folder.

Before she could show me the copy, a bustle at the front entrance announced a stodgy woman in a print dress holding the hands of two children, a boy and a girl, both toddlers, red cheeked and chattering away in high spirits. The woman bent down and shushed the girl she called Luna and then said to Katharina,
“Scusat' signurì, mo' me ne vacocoè criature.”