Cries of the Lost (23 page)

I secured her email address and had Jonathan Fortnoy, who used an IP address in London, send her an email:

Signorina Zambelli:

My wife and I would like to purchase a villa on Lake Como and fear being taken advantage of, or causing offense, due to our rather poor Italian and cultural naïveté. While no doubt your real-estate professionals are beyond ethical reproach, we would feel much better having a member of the legal community representing us.

Your website indicates you are fluent in English. If so, may we arrange for an appointment? I would prefer to meet in your offices. I will be in Italy starting tomorrow.

Sincerely,

Jonathan Fortnoy

Things must have been pretty slow around the Zambelli practice, because the reply came very soon after.

Mr. Fortnoy:

Buon giorno.

I would be pleased to meet with you at your convenience. My English, I can assure you, would not be approved by Cambridge or Oxford, but I have never heard complaints from my British clients.

My offices are located at the address at the bottom of this email. Please provide desired times and I am sure one will suit my schedule.

Grazie,

Laudomia Zambelli

I sent her a few dates and times, and she quickly picked one—two days away, four o’clock in the afternoon.

I used the intervening time studying the property at the coordinates in Cardano. Google maps showed it to be a two-story villa with several large outbuildings, surrounded by rolling fields covered with grapevines, so it was likely the main house of a vineyard, though not yet possible to verify. Real-estate comparables put the value at around €3.5 million, assuming I’d guessed the right acreage.

I also pondered the situation with Eloise. The fact was I desperately wanted to know whatever they knew, not just for gauging our immediate danger, but to help clear up all the questions I had about Florencia’s gambits, the safe houses, the VG, this guy Rodrigo. I was tired of feeling so resentful of people who could know things simply by walking down the hall and asking, things it could take me months to find out.

But eventually I shook it off and forced myself to wait patiently for the meeting with Laudomia, which came sooner than all that frustration warranted.

O
NE
OF
the ways I burned up the time was to drive with Natsumi down to the city of Como to buy some clothes. It was evident the culture in this part of the world put a very high premium on style and good grooming. Two things I knew less about than I did professional ice hockey, though I had once pretended to be a wealthy American businessman with some success. My strategy then was to throw myself on the mercy of a knowledgeable haberdasher, and I could see no reason to change that approach now.

Natsumi picked the place, even though her knowledge of men’s fashion was even less than mine. But I trusted her instincts. We stuck with the decision when the principal outfitter showed his facility with the English language, which he used to succinctly sum up the situation.

“You have important meeting with beautiful Lombardian woman. You need to earn respect. I understand. She think you’re English, no difficulty there. I know what to do.”

I walked out of there with a dark blue pin-striped suit, with the pinstripes about a quarter inch apart, a white pima cotton shirt with French cuffs and a collar that caressed a yellow tie. Add the contrasting handkerchief stuffed in the jacket pocket and kid glove-soft black boots, and for all my theatrical deceptions, I’d never felt more in disguise.

“You actually looked sort of handsome,” said Natsumi. “In a crude, haunted and emaciated sort of way. Very sexy, though.”

“I’ll need to know which part of that was a compliment.”

“The sexy part.”

“Do you think I can pass as a citizen of the UK?” I said, in what I hoped was a decent imitation of an Oxbridge accent. “It’s been a while since I’ve lived in England.”

“You sound fine to me, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“Quite.”

“She won’t know any better than I do. You’ll be fine.”

“Brilliant.”

“Just don’t overdo it.”

“Right, then.”

A
s
A
mild precaution, I parked a few blocks away from Laudomia’s office near the promenade that paralleled the lake, which would later be filled with lovers, friends and families joining in the
passeggiata,
Italy’s beloved pre-dinner stroll.

Laudomia buzzed me in the main door and I walked up the stairs to the top, where she waited for me.

“Mr. Fortnoy,” she said, offering her hand, a significant gesture in proper Italy where handshakes between men and women are at the woman’s discretion. Her grip was firm, but her palm very soft. An inside girl with housekeepers and gardeners, was my immediate thought. Big expense.

In her high heels she was nearly my height. She wore a white silk blouse with fewer buttons than professionally required, somewhat compensated for by the big, chunky stones of her necklace. Her grey skirt was a bit more modest than what I’d seen her wear before. It was made of a material that could have been the lightest possible wool, though only divined through touch.

“Avvocato Zambelli, it is my pleasure to meet you,” I said in Italian.

“Si parla Italiano
?”

I smiled. “Very poorly, I’m sorry to say. I can ask what something costs, inquire about the check and ask for the WC, but that’s about it.”

“Well, that’s better than many. Please come into my office.”

It wasn’t a big office, but it felt like I was stepping into an interior decorator’s photo shoot. The walls were roughed up and painted the color of dried blood. The desk was ancient, finished in clear high-gloss varnish. On top was a leather desk pad and fountain pen holder. Not a piece of paper in sight. A giant, blue vase sprouted long, green fronds. Fragrant, fresh cut flowers sprang from smaller vessels and competed agreeably with Laudomia’s perfume. Original paintings and lithographs covered nearly every square inch of wall space.

At her invitation, I sank into one of the two upholstered chairs, she sank into the other, challenging the marginal modesty of her grey skirt. She raked back some errant brown hair with the tips of her long polished nails and shook her head, herding her coiffure back into loose order.

“So, you have some nervousness about Lake Como real estate,” she said.

“Frankly, we’re a bit at sea.”

She seemed to like this idea. “Of course. You can easily put into the wrong port. Why not hold a steady bearing for the whole journey?”

“Very nautical,” I said.

“Every summer my family toured the Adriatic. Even during the wars. My father was a crazy romantic. Do you sail?”

“The British Virgins,” I said, grabbing the memory of a brochure at the airport on Tortola that proclaimed the islands the “charter sailing capital of the world.”

“Ah.”

“We’re thinking of a country place, but with a view of the lake,” I said. I went on to describe the coordinates of the safe-house villa as closely as I could.

“These are available, though a price range would help me advise you.”

“I suppose that matters,” I said, as if weary of the subject. “Two to three million euros?”

Her measured response contrasted with the bright spark that suddenly lit in her eyes.

“We might be able to manage a few options,” she said, “realizing the market is very competitive.”

Yeah, I thought, lots of people like you competing over a shrinking number of people like me.

“We have another place in Southampton, New York, not to mention the London flat, so we’ll need a caretaker. I’m sure you have sources along those lines.”

She looked ever so pleased to assure me she did. “Mr. Fortnoy, property management is very much a part of our services here. If you wish other referrals, that too can be arranged. Entirely your decision.”

“Perhaps you could show me villas under your management similar to what we’re looking for. Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.”

She wasn’t fazed by the idea. Actually seemed to like it. “That is most possible, Mr. Fortnoy. I simply need to examine the options.”

“Please call me Jonathan. I detest formality.”

This was a bit risky, since all the Italians I knew revered formality. Though for some reason, she softened around the edges.

“Certainly. You may call me Laudomia, though it’s good my parents aren’t alive to hear such informality. ‘You are such a revolutionary,’ they would say. First university educated person in the family and all I heard were lectures on proper behavior,” she said, though with a gentle smile and not a trace of rancor.

I almost told her my parents turned my upbringing over to a nanny, but it caught in my throat, as associations with my real parents flooded my brain. So instead, I reached over and gave her hand a little squeeze, then sat back again in my chair.

The air in the elegant office suddenly warmed up a few degrees.

“What would be the best way to contact you?” she asked, her voice a muted rasp.

“Email seems to work. Is that acceptable to you?”

“Of course. And next time you will bring your wife.” She wagged her index finger at me. “Most of my deals fall through because the Signore does not properly involve the Signora.”

“I never make that mistake, Laudomia. It’s the secret to happiness.”

“No, Jonathan, avoiding envy and greed is the real secret. If you pardon my presumption.”

“Both are true,” I said. “So, shall I wait for your email?”

“You shall,” she said.

I slapped the armrests of the comfortable chair, then stood up. She escorted me to the door, where we again shook hands. She added her other hand and lingered there a few beats past either Italian or American custom.

“I am certain we will find you and Madame Fortnoy the perfect villa,” she said.

“I am certain you will be a fine partner in this worthy pursuit.”

“As fine as you want me to be,” she said, waiting until I climbed down the stairs to the street before closing the door, pleased with the outcome of the meeting, confused by the collateral implications.

“D
O
YOU
think I’m an attractive man?” I asked Natsumi when we were back on our lovely balcony.

“The most attractive man in the world to me.”

“But on an objective basis, how do I compare to other men?”

“Very favorably,” she said.

“I have a bald head with two big scars.”

“You’re usually wearing a wig or a hat. But even if you weren’t, there’s something intriguing about a man with scars. Suggests an adventurous past.”

“Really. I have a big nose and wear glasses.”

“So does Woody Allen. The nose suggests virility and the glasses intelligence.”

“You learned a lot getting that psychology degree.”

“No need for that. Any woman will tell you the same thing.”

“I’m forty-four years old. I’ve never had women pay any attention to me.”

“I’ve seen pictures of you before the shooting. No offense, but I could see why. You were fat and balding, which is worse than bald. Bald is hip. Whatever you had left for hair stuck out in every direction. And you dressed like you were still living in your parents’ basement. Worse than all that, you were flagrantly happy.”