A Thousand Tombs (9 page)

The Fine Arts Museum opened at ten o’clock on weekday mornings. On Friday, Gen was outside when the guard unlocked the huge double doors. “I have an appointment with Dr. Grayson,” she said.

“The Curator’s office is down the main hall.” He pointed. “Left side. Her name is on a plaque on the wall.”

“Thank you.”

Her heels clicked out the kind of hollow echo only polished marble floors and cavernous rooms could create. She found the office easily enough and was about to knock when someone hailed her.

“Miss Delacourt?”

Her name echoed off the walls as she turned.

The museum’s Curator of Antiquities was a petite woman wearing a polka-dot dress and a bowl-like haircut. She waved a greeting from farther down the hall.

“I’m Ellen Grayson,” she continued. “And as usual, I’m in a rush and I need to multi-task while I pull something from the archives. Would you like to come with me? We can talk there.”

“Sure.” Gen’s shoes clacked a staccato beat as she hurried to catch up. Ellen Grayson opened a door marked
employees only
and reached out to give Gen’s palm a shake with her free hand.

“When I was in high school,” Gen said, “I thought I wanted to be an archaeologist.”

“Did you? So did I. But I ultimately chose academia over working in the field. Did you pursue it?”

“No, but when I was a senior I landed an internship at a Los Angeles museum. When I got up close and personal with how the process worked, I came to my senses and realized I didn’t have the temperament for it.”

“What tasks were you assigned during your internship?”

“Nothing glamorous,” Gen replied. “No doubt the technology has changed a lot. Back then I helped hand-record the coming and going of artifacts. And I dusted the shelves.”

“We could use you now.” Dr. Grayson’s eyes twinkled. “Was it boring?”

“A little, but I liked it. When there was nothing to do, the curator would turn me loose in the archives. There were drawers and drawers of amazing old things that almost nobody got to see. There was an Egyptian mummy of a baby, and beaded moccasins from the Plains Indian tribes that were so beautiful it was hard to believe they were made for everyday wear. I loved looking at it all.”

“What made you decide it wasn’t for you?”

“Once I understood the process of unearthing some of these things, it didn’t take long to realize I wasn’t cut out to be the kind of person who could sit on a dig with a tiny brush and sweep away dirt, grain by grain, to reveal a wall or a skeleton. I didn’t have that kind of patience. My family probably knew the truth long before I did, but I was still discovering who I was. Some things don’t change.”

Ellen laughed. “It can be deadly dull, that’s for sure. What did you do instead?”

“I became a lawyer. That was a lot of tedium, too, so I moved on to private investigations.”

Ellen’s brows went up and she glanced aside at Gen. “That must be more exciting, certainly.”

“It has its moments.”

“Is that how you got the eye?”

Gen’s hand went to her face. “A moment I’d rather not repeat.”

“What are you investigating today?”

“I wanted to ask you about Italian cultural properties and the illicit trading of same.”

“That’s a touchy subject for museums right now.”

“Why is that?”

They’d reached another door. Ellen Grayson pushed through, and they entered a room that was set up like a library. But instead of open shelves, it had rows and rows of wooden cabinets that were at least eight feet tall. Each side held a series of wide, shallow drawers.

“Because many institutions have not been aboveboard about the artifacts they purchase.”

“You mean they buy illegal stuff?”

“Not always on purpose. Come into our lunch room and we’ll chat. Would you like coffee?” Dr. Grayson moved to a counter and pulled a mug from the overhead cupboard.

Gen shook her head. “No thanks.” She took a seat while Dr. Grayson poured for herself, then sat down across from Gen.

“Have you ever been to Italy?” Grayson asked.

“Not yet. It’s on my bucket list, though.”

“You’d love it. Italy is like one enormous museum. It contains half the locations designated by the United Nations as important world heritage sites. The countryside is dotted with hundreds of thousands of concealed tombs and entire villas that have been buried, and they’re filled with antiquities that provide a time capsule to the past. And not just the Romans. The Etruscans preceded them in central Italy. The Phoenicians had communities in Italy, and the Greeks were well-established in the south.

“Each site represents a priceless opportunity for archaeologists to document the past. But for looters, these burial chambers are a way to earn an income. Their efforts are supported by an international smuggling industry that generates billions of dollars. In Lazio, the county that includes Rome, hundreds of Etruscan tombs have been defiled. In one small area alone, experts believe the looters have desecrated over a thousand tombs.”

“And the grave robbers are called
tombaroli
.”

“That’s right. Come with me and I’ll show you the type of priceless artifacts they find every day.” Dr. Grayson led the way into the cabinet aisles, then stopped and opened a waist-high drawer. Inside were metal implements and crockery and a small statue of a young male preparing to throw a ball.

Dr. Grayson pointed. “This is a Greek ceremonial bowl. And that is a Roman drinking cup. All of these were purchased from state-owned Italian collections. We are very careful about that.”

“If everybody knows this is going on, how is it allowed to continue?” Gen asked.

“Italy has an unfortunate history of graft,” Dr. Grayson replied. “People all along the chain are paid to turn a blind eye. And until recently, foreign governments have ignored the issue. For instance, the Swiss grant legal title to artifacts that have been in their country for five years. Once something has legal status, anything can be shipped on. High-profile museums and auction houses have bought and sold untold numbers of looted pieces just like these.”

“Are they prosecuted?”

“No. They plead innocence. These smuggling operations have become experts at creating plausible documentation, and museum directors and auctioneers simply rattle the paperwork and claim they were duped.”

“Do they know the truth?”

“I believe they often suspect. But when they’re presented with an irresistible piece, they may choose to push suspicion aside. It’s a highly profitable business, Miss Delacourt. There is much money to be made.”

“And that’s why the trading continues.”

Dr. Grayson’s smile was tinged with sorrow. “The truth is, the custom of robbing a civilization’s assets dates back to the very cultures being plundered. Tomb robbers tried to defile the pharaohs’ burial chambers as soon as they were laid to rest. What’s different now is the ease with which modern looters can ply their trade.

“Nowadays, crooks conduct business worldwide without concern for the importance of the pieces they traffic in. They can get away with their crimes, so they do it. It’s a global problem driven by greed and disrespect and disloyalty. Bottom line, if people did not have such an appetite for beautiful, illegal things, the world’s treasures wouldn’t be in jeopardy the way they are.”

Saturday afternoon, Gen drove across the Oakland Bridge and found The Crucible on Seventh Street. It was a large building, housing classrooms and studios that taught artsy fartsy stuff. This was where Mack was teaching basic welding methods, and he’d invited her to come and watch. And learn, if she was so inclined.

The size of the parking area was impressive. Almost a block square, and peppered with cars but with lots of open spaces. City dwellers are all too familiar with the scramble for a piece of curb, but out here in suburbia, Gen pulled right into a bay in the asphalt lot, locked up the car, and went in. A directory in the foyer guided students to the class:
Introduction to welded sculpture
.

When she found the room, nearly two dozen men and women were clustered around Mack with their backs to her. He smiled and waved the instant he saw her, and a handful of those in the crowd turned. One of the faces belonged to Luca, and she felt a stab of disappointment when she saw him.

Get over it, she told herself. You don’t own Mack.

The smile she returned was sincere enough, but she warned herself to ditch the high school reactions she’d started to ooze this past week. She’d told Mack herself they had plenty of time. Had she been mouthing empty platitudes, or was she going to lose the jealousy and let this thing play out and end up with Mack all to herself at the end, just as he’d been before it began?

Damn straight. Buck up.

“Okay, let’s get started.” Mack walked over to a metal cylinder that looked similar to the one she’d seen in his garage. He patted the tank as he addressed the group. “This is a welding rig. You’re going to get real familiar with it today.

“Welding is a fabrication process that joins two pieces of material, creating a strong bond between them. Almost any metal can be welded, including cast iron, bronze, aluminum, and steel. The process has been used for thousands of years. Forge-welded implements have been found that date back to the Bronze Age. Many of these early welded pieces were functional works of art. Bowls and goblets and things like that.

“Today we’re going to learn the basics, and you won’t have any difficulty picking them up. I can promise you one thing, though. Welding is easy to learn and a challenge to master. Mastery is up to you.”

A smattering of laughter circulated among the students.

“Trust me,” he said. “I mean it. You can all do this, but you have to keep at it if you want to be good. While you’re welding, the rule is safety first, people. You will wear a mask at all times.” He put on a heavy, riveted welder’s mask, then opened and closed the face plate to demonstrate.

“In a minute you’ll see that the process creates an incredibly bright beam of light. Staring at a weld site without proper eye protection can create a painful condition called arc eye. Believe me when I say that you’ll regret it if you get it. It feels like an ocean full of sand under your eyelids.”

Again the laughter.

“I bet some of you are wishing right now you’d chosen the beach over this class.”

A universal
no
rose from the crowd.

“All right then,” Mack replied. “But I’ll warn you, we’re going to begin with a torch today, and it’s about to get as hot as a summer day in India in here.

“One last thing. Welding is permanent when you learn to bond correctly. It’s like a love affair you want to commit to. Take your time, do it right, give it everything you’ve got, and you won’t have any regrets.”

Gen’s cheeks flushed, and she ducked her head to hide it.

“Okay, I’m going to demonstrate how to safely turn on, manipulate, and apply the flame. Everybody put on your masks and gather round.”

He dropped his face mask in place. The head of the torch glowed yellow, and he slowly lowered it to the square of metal on the table before him.

* * *

It was dinnertime when they got back to Piedmont. Gen pulled the BMW into the drive behind Mack’s pickup, grabbed her purse, and followed them inside. The dog wagged her way out to greet them all, then followed Luca into the guest room.

Gen and Mack continued on back to the kitchen.

“Want a beer?’ he asked.

“Please. All that hot metal parched my throat.”

“You did good today.” He handed her an open Corona, got one for himself, and sat in the seat beside her at the table. Gen took a long pull on the bottle, then rested her head on his shoulder and glanced around his kitchen.

The brothers had refinished the lower cabinetry and topped every run with hand-poured concrete counters. The upper cabinets had been yanked out and open shelving installed, supported by heavy, decorative metal brackets that Jimmy hand-made. He’d learned to weld back in Tennessee. Mack had learned from him, and then he’d taken it one step farther. The more she discovered about the man she was dating, the less capable she felt. Seemed all she could manage to do was walk and talk at the same time.

Gen heard the sound of the shower running in the front bath. “He’s a clean kid, I have to say that much,” she said.

Mack gave a short laugh and ran two fingers down her cheek. “Is that sarcasm I hear again? You got tired of having a chaperone pretty quick.”

“And you’re not?”

“Nah. I’m noble.”

“You must be.”

Mack moved his lips close to her ear. “I’m gonna get out of these clothes. You want to come with me while I change?”

Gen smiled in spite of herself. “No thanks. I’ll wait until we’re alone for the great unveiling.”

“Suit yourself.”

He was gone and back in five minutes, wearing fresh jeans and t-shirt and carrying the clothes he’d just shucked. He drank some beer, then headed for the washing machine, which was situated in an alcove on the opposite side of the room. He opened the lid and started to toss in a load.

“Hey, do me a favor?” he called.

“What?”

“Grab the jeans Luca was wearing out of his room so I can throw them in with this load? I wouldn’t want his clean image to get tarnished.”

“Yikes,” Gen replied. “What’s he going to wear?”

“I bought him a couple new pairs of pants the other day, so he’s good.”

Gen started for the guest room but hesitated when she reached the door. She could hear the shower running and figured he had the clothes in the bathroom with him. She was turning back to the kitchen when she heard the muffled ring of a cell phone.

The sound was coming from Luca’s room.

She pushed open the door and stood in the threshold, listening., then walked over and raised the pillow. The phone was there, lit up like a night light.

She was about to pick it up and see who the incoming call was from when she heard the bathroom hinges squeak. The ringing stopped and she dropped the pillow, then smoothed the spread and hit the open door in time to meet Luca.

“Mack asked me to grab your clothes so he can throw them in the wash.” Gen reached for the jeans and t-shirt Luca clutched to his chest, and he handed them over. As Gen brushed past heading for the kitchen, he stopped her with two words.

“Thank you.”

Surprised, she pivoted and contemplated him, standing there in brand new Levis and a t-shirt just out of the package. “For what?”

“For this.” His arm swept out. “For believing me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What’s not to believe?”

His mouth curved, and it disarmed her. It was the first time she’d actually seen him smile since the night they’d picked him up.

“I just mean thank you, that’s all.” He plucked at his t-shirt. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”

She jerked her head toward the kitchen. “You should thank Mack, it’s him.” She started to leave and he stopped her again.

“I’m not blind.”

When she turned to reply, he was already in his room with the door closing behind him. She wondered what he meant by that, but pushed her thoughts aside and headed for the laundry. Mack was still there, sorting towels and humming a tune that sounded like Coltrane.

“Mack.”

“Yeah, babe.”

“Has it–” She stopped and asked herself if she really needed to broach the subject, then decided the answer was
yes
and dove in again. “Has it occurred to you that Luca might be playing you?”

He stopped what he was doing and gave her his full attention. “What makes you say that?”

“He has a cell phone. I heard it ring when I was in his room. He’d hid the thing under his pillow. How does a homeless kid with no money and no clothes afford a phone, and why would he hide it?”

Mack’s eyebrows went up, and Gen felt a surge of satisfaction. Finally, he agreed with her.

But she was wrong.

“Did you look through his stuff?” Mack’s voice contained an element she’d never heard before, and she didn’t like it aimed at her.

She took a step back. “I lifted up the pillow, that’s all. He hid it under his pillow.”

“Don’t do it again.” The hard note made her take another step back. He saw her discomfort, and gentled his tone. “Please. He needs to feel like he’s safe here.”

“What if he did steal the coin? What if Vitelli is covering for him for some reason?”

“The kid’s all right, Genny.” Mack was back to patient. “He’s okay. We’re okay too, you and me.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I was that kid once,” he replied.

“How do you mean?”

“I was Luca. Somebody ran interference for me. I want to pay it forward.”

So that was it. Mack saw a reflection of himself in the boy. Gen hoped it wasn’t clouding his vision. She went back into the kitchen and took a seat, and Mack followed her.

“Who did that for you?” she asked.

“My brother. Jimmy was five years older than me. He had a different father, and he and my dad didn’t get along. Of course, my dad was a jerk and a mean sonofabitch, and he didn’t get along with anyone.

“He didn’t have to, but Jimmy protected me from the time I was little, took the brunt of my dad’s belittling and the punishment until my old man kicked him out when he was sixteen. He lied about his age and enlisted in the Army, and after a while he made the Air Corps and was stationed at Crissy. I told you that part.

“After he left, I spent half my time living in my friends’ basements, just trying to stay away from my dad and finish high school. Jimmy flew me out to spend every summer with him, right up until I graduated from Annapolis. He helped me when I needed help, Genny. I wouldn’t have made it if he didn’t believe in me.”

Gen stood and walked to the window. She took a drag on her beer and watched the cat, outside stalking a gopher hole. “Roly’s about to catch his dinner.”

Mack’s chair scraped back across the floor as he stood. “We’d best do the same,” he said. “Will you stay tonight?”

“No.” Gen remained where she was, focused on the scene outside Mack’s kitchen. “It’s been a really long day. I need to head home.”