The Last Mona Lisa Read online

  Back at the long table, I read how they had made it to the hospital in time where an emergency-room doctor slit open Simone’s belly and saved her baby, Vincent conveying the scene in vivid detail over several pages. I was reading so intently that when someone tapped my arm, I practically jumped and closed the journal fast.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Alexandra said, looking down at me, asking if I was okay.

  “Sure,” I said. “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look it.”

  Chiara shushed us.

  “She hates me,” Alexandra whispered.

  “Really? I think she likes me.”

  “That’s why she hates me.”

  I managed a smile, stopped myself from saying how much I had thought about her, how much I’d missed her. “How long have you been here?”

  “An hour or so. You were so wrapped up in your reading, you didn’t see me come in.” She asked again if I was okay, and I told her I had a bit of a headache from too much reading, and she suggested I quit, it was almost seven, the library about to close. And when she proposed dinner, I gave her a cool “Sure, why not?” while my inner voice shouted YES!

  The librarian in the front office waved Alexandra through the scanner but stopped me and called Riccardo. I raised my arms and spread my legs while he patted me down, red-faced and clearly more embarrassed than I was. While he did the pat-down, Mussolini went through my backpack, her face balled into a determined knot, though all she came up with were my pencils and notepads and candy, all of which she jammed back in with a huff. Why did she have it in for me? Could she read my thoughts? Like right now when I was looking at her, thinking cow. I went through the body scanner, turned back, and said “Grazie,” with the biggest, phoniest smile I could manufacture.

  The sun was starting to set, San Lorenzo’s facade catching late-day shards of light that made it look threatening.

  “What was that all about?” Alexandra asked. “Does Griselda think you’re going to steal something?”

  “Is that her name? Wasn’t Griselda one of Cinderella’s evil stepsisters?”

  “Drizella,” Alex said.

  “Close enough,” I said. “So why would I steal something?” I said, doing my best innocent-boy impersonation. “I think Riccardo is tipping her so he can feel me up.”

  “Oh, you’re awful,” she said.

  I told her she was not the first person to tell me that, fished the bag of Jolly Ranchers out of my pocket, popped one in my mouth, and offered them up.

  “Seriously? What are you, like ten?”

  “Sweet tooth,” I said, and she made a face that made me feel exactly that: ten years old.

  “You must be freezing in that jacket. Do you wear it to look cool?”

  I told her I hadn’t expected it to be so cold here, and she led me across the square to peruse the kiosks, but there were only handbags and belts. She suggested the trendy men’s shop we’d passed the other day, so we headed down the same narrow street off the square.

  The men’s store window was all mannequins in skinny striped pants and matching vests, billowy shirts that looked out of Lawrence of Arabia, and definitely not my style, though Alexandra thought one of the vests would look good on her, and I agreed.

  I asked where she’d been the last two days, and she said, “Why? Did you miss me?”

  “A little,” I said.

  “Liar,” she said.

  “Really,” I said. “I did.”

  “I meant the part about little,” she said and grinned.

  Pretty sure of herself, I thought, but she was right.

  She asked how my work was going, and I told her I didn’t know, which was true. I still wasn’t sure what I would learn from the journal or what I would do with it. She gave me a look like she didn’t believe me, then asked what I’d been reading that had me looking so upset.

  “A journal,” I said, willing to tell her that much, “from a long time ago, a sad story.”

  “Whose?”

  “If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” I said and laughed. “I’ll tell you about it when I know more. I promise.” I made the sign of the cross.

  “That’s the second time I’ve seen you do that. Were you an altar boy?”

  “No, much to my mother’s disappointment. Among other things.”

  “You gave her trouble?”

  “Like you can’t imagine.”

  She tilted her head, appraising me. “Oh, I can imagine.”

  “And she didn’t deserve it.” Which was true. She’d always tried her best, and she loved me, I knew that. “I was afraid I wouldn’t see you again,” I said, a thought that I hadn’t meant to say out loud.

  “I didn’t mean to disappear, I just—” She stopped, then shrugged off whatever she was going to say. “There were a few things I needed to take care of…at home.”

  “Home here, or home in New York?”

  “Both. Nothing serious,” she said, but her brow was knit.

  I wasn’t sure I believed her, but when she looped her arm through mine, I no longer cared. Then she steered us toward a restaurant she knew, a place she said was popular with locals.

  Inside, the restaurant was dimly lit, candles on the tables, no actual light fixtures that I could see.

  “Are they being cool or saving on electricity?” I whispered as a waiter led us to a small table by the window. The restaurant was almost full, boisterous but in a good way, people enjoying themselves.

  Alexandra slipped off her jacket. She was wearing a white blouse with pleats down the front like a man’s formal shirt, half the buttons open, a lacy camisole underneath, the gold locket peeking out, a combination of proper and sexy.

  “Nice locket.”

  “It’s my mother’s,” she said, wrapping her fingers around it.

  “Does it have one of your baby curls in it?”

  “Please,” she said and smiled, but her lips were tightly compressed.

  “Something wrong? I’m sorry if I pried.”

  “No. It’s…okay.” She leaned forward toward the candle and opened the locket. Inside was a small photograph of a woman, undoubtedly her mother, the resemblance striking.

  “She’s pretty,” I said. “You two close?”

  “Yes” she said on a breath. “She’s always been in my court, on my side.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  “Yes,” she said again, the locket trembling slightly in her hand. Then she closed it with a snap, signaled the waiter, and ordered a glass of red wine. When I ordered Pellegrino, she asked why.

  “Don’t drink,” I said.

  “Never?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “When did you stop?”

  “I’m about to celebrate my tenth anniversary sober. Ta-da!” I twirled my finger in the air and faked a smile. I watched for signs of judgment or disapproval, but her face remained still and unreadable.

  “Good for you,” she said. “What made you finally give it up?”

  “Let’s see…” I tapped my chin theatrically. “I’d have to say it was waking up in a dumpster.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes. And I do not recommend it. Particularly as I had no idea how I got there.”

  “Blackouts?”

  “Uh-huh. But that’s all in the past, and I’m not ashamed of it. Well, actually, I am, a little.”

  “You shouldn’t be. It’s a disease, like measles or chicken pox. I have two friends in AA.”

  “Oh, I see. Some of my best friends are drunks, that it?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” she said.

  I apologized, said I’d tell her the whole sordid story when I got to know her better, then decided to tell her now, to get it over with and see if she’d run—just the highlights or lowlights—bo
th my parents drinkers, how I’d started when I was twelve, the DWI at sixteen. “I’ve already scoped out an AA room, in a church, here in Florence. They’re always in a church or school or community center basement, very glamorous.”

  “Have you gone?”

  “No,” I said, explaining it was purely backup, that I wouldn’t go unless I had the urge to drink, and I hadn’t wanted to in years. I felt better now that I’d told her, and she seemed totally unperturbed, already talking about her Florence sublet and how much she loved the city. She was either a good actress or really didn’t care. I nibbled an olive and watched her speak, the natural curve of her lips, the way she swiped her hair behind her ears, ordinary things, but on her, nothing was ordinary. I tried to understand what it was about her that was special: her beauty, her poise, how easily we talked, how she hadn’t seemed to judge me. There was something else too, an elusive quality, like a butterfly that only temporarily alighted, then flew away. I didn’t say much, happy to listen to her, could feel myself becoming more and more entranced by this woman I hardly knew. Was it that she felt unattainable, a challenge, the way I’d too often felt about women in the past—as conquests? Or was it that she had already conquered me?

  I ordered dinner for us, speaking to the waiter in my best Italian, and Alexandra seemed impressed. When the food came, I was starving, though Alexandra only picked at hers. She asked again about my research, and I said I didn’t know.

  “You mean you won’t tell me.”

  “No, I would. I just haven’t put it together yet.” And it was true. I wasn’t sure what mysteries the journal would reveal and what they might mean.

  The conversation was interrupted by a commotion at a table across the room, one hidden in the shadows, the candle on the table creating an eerie underlight on the waiter’s face, and he was speaking loudly.

  “He’s saying something about not smoking,” I said, “and something about a cigar. It’s odd.”

  “What is?”

  “The guy is wearing a hat. Indoors. Oh, he’s put it out.”

  “The hat?”

  “No, the cigar.” I could no longer see the red glow of its tip, and the waiter was clearing the table. Someone hurried past our table, a blur, then the front door opened and slammed shut with a blast of cold air.

  Alexandra exaggerated a shiver and leaned across the table as if to warm herself on the candle. I got a whiff of her perfume, the scent familiar.

  “Joy, right?”

  “Wow,” she said. “Is your research on women’s scents?”

  Now I was sorry I’d said it, because it demanded an explanation, and I didn’t feel like saying that an ex had worn it, a woman I thought I’d loved who’d left me because she wanted to settle down and have babies and how I had let her go because no way I was giving up my fast-lane art career for some bourgeois white picket fence and kids. Though now, when my career had veered into the slow lane and I was dependent on my full-time teaching job, I had to wonder who had the more bourgeois life.

  “I never wore perfume before,” she said. “A friend gave it to me for my birthday, just a few weeks ago.”

  I wished her a happy birthday and asked which one.

  “Twenty-nine,” she said. “And you?”

  “Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight in two months.”

  “Ever married?”

  When I told her no, she narrowed her gaze. “You’re not one of those toxic bachelors, are you?”

  “No,” I said, thinking of Kathy and Amanda and Terri. It was not the first time I’d had the phrase leveled at me. “I’ve had relationships.” I tried not to sound defensive. “Just haven’t met the right person—yet.”

  She gave me one of her evaluating looks but smiled. I asked for her number and handed her my cell phone to punch it in. She ignored it, wrote her number on a cocktail napkin, held it back, and dangled it like a matador. “I’ll let you have it if you tell me how you knew my perfume.”

  “I’m an expert, world-renowned for my nose,” I said and displayed my profile.

  She laughed, then said, “A girlfriend wore it, am I right?”

  “Guilty,” I said, then quickly asked her a question—if she’d ever been married—and was surprised when she said yes.

  “It’s a sad, sad story—a starter marriage. It only lasted a year. I knew it was a mistake at the altar.”

  “Why’d you go through with it?”

  “I was…running away,” she said dramatically, as if making a joke, though I sensed something real underneath it. She forced a laugh, then asked how long I was staying in Florence. I told I wasn’t sure, that I was on intersession.

  “That means you could be here for what, a month?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know yet.”

  “You like playing the man of mystery, don’t you?”

  “Me? I’m an open book.”

  “In Braille!”

  “Give me a break, Alexandra.”

  “Call me Alex,” she said.

  “Ah, so you do like me.”

  “Let’s just say I don’t dislike you.”

  When the check came, she made a move. I grabbed it though I couldn’t really afford it. She offered to leave the tip, but I said I’d settle for her number, and she dangled the napkin for a second time. I reached for it and got hold of her hand, and we stared at each other. Then I leaned in for a kiss. She let go of the napkin and my hand, sat back, and started to put on her coat as if she had to get away fast. I said I was sorry, but she waved a hand. A minute later, she was gone, the smell of Joy perfume loitering like a cloud of confusion.

  Had I said something wrong? There was so much to choose from—my family, my drinking, my exes.

  I watched her pass by the window, a blur, and just behind her, a shadow and the red glow of a cigarette tip. Or was it a cigar?

  30

  Back in my hotel room, I tried to replay it: what I’d said, what she’d said, what had gone wrong. Was it because I’d been about to kiss her? But she’d already kissed me. I was usually the one to play it cool, but not this time. I unfolded the napkin with her number, stared at it a moment, then called. After one ring, I hung up.

  Seconds later, my cell phone rang.

  “Did you just call me?”

  “Sorry. I decided it was too late, so—”

  “No, it’s not. Is anything wrong?”

  “That’s what I was calling to ask you.”

  Silence.

  Then: “I’m sorry I ran off.”

  “Did I say something to upset you?”

  “No. I just…needed to get back.”

  I didn’t believe her but didn’t push. “Will I see you at the library tomorrow?”

  “It depends.”

  On what? What sort of game was she playing? Whatever it was, it was working to keep me off-balance—and making me want her more.

  “I’ll try,” she said, then “Good night.”

  I stared at my cell phone. Why had she bothered to call me back? Then I threw it down on the bed. Fine. If that was how she was going to play it, forget it, forget her. I didn’t need this. I crumpled the napkin with her number and tossed it into the trash can. A second later, I dug it out. Damn it. I didn’t want to think about her, didn’t want to think about anything except why I’d come to Florence. Eyes on the prize, I told myself.

  It was after eleven, but I was wide awake now. I opened my laptop and started typing. Another list of what I knew, what I’d read, the various things that led up to the theft.

  1. Peruggia meets with Valfiero.

  2. Valfiero promises money but Peruggia turns him down.

  3. Peruggia gets fired from the Louvre.

  4. Simone dies.

  5. Peruggia steals the painting.

  But why steal the painting after Simone died? I didn’t know.

&n
bsp; 6. What happened to the baby?

  I couldn’t answer that either, but it suddenly came to me that the baby was my grandfather. At least I thought so, unless Vincent had fathered another child.

  7. How much money did Peruggia get from Valfiero?

  From my years of research, I knew that Peruggia had been released from jail with nothing. Had he stashed the money he’d made from Valfiero and reclaimed it after prison? If so, where?

  I got up and started to pace, the idea of waiting until tomorrow to read the journal almost unendurable. I wanted to read it now, to hold it in my hands, to take as long as I needed. And why shouldn’t I have it? Why shouldn’t I steal it?

  One more time, I considered the question.

  Because I liked going to the library. Because I liked being a scholar on a mission. Noble enough reasons, but in fact there was the practical one: how to get it past the commandant at the door, the inevitable body search, the scanner. Still, I was not ready to give up the idea. I’d gotten away with a lot more and done a lot worse, me and my buddies adept at getting in and out of a house with several pawnable items, and I’d only been caught once.

  But I was thirty-seven now, not fifteen, a solid citizen with a master’s degree and a full-time job at a prestigious university. Could I really do anything like that now? More importantly, could I get away with it?

  31

  I was early, nursing an espresso, had circled the cloister of San Lorenzo twice when the young monk came out to greet me. “Signore Perrone, come va?”

  As always, Brother Francesco was smiling.

  “Bene, e lei?” I said.

  He lifted his hands toward the sky. “Bello giornata. Niente da dire.”

  “Sì, bellissimo,” I said. “A very beautiful day.” I had been too impatient to notice before.

  “You are an artist?” he asked.

  I couldn’t remember ever telling him and gave him a half-hearted nod, though I didn’t feel like one these days.

  “You have seen the Annunciation by Fra Filippo Lippi in the north chapel?” He gestured toward the church on the other side of the cloister wall. I had never even gone in, always so intent on getting to the library. The opposite of the typical tourist who had to see everything, I had seen practically nothing. “It is very beautiful,” he said, “but maybe I say this because it was painted by a monk.”