Snowfall in Venice

Mark

DOCTOR MARK GUNDERSON

With a heavy heart, I packed my bag and checked out of the hotel. I had given the whole situation some serious thought. I'll give myself forty-eight hours to try and recover the hermit's stolen treasure. If I don't find it, I'll book the first available flight back to New York and try and patch things up with Gayle.

I booked a first-class seat on the early afternoon express to Venice. I sat back on the soft leather seat, ordered a glass of red wine from the attendant, and started to plan my strategy. First, I decided I would head for Murano and try and reach the glassworks where the hermit had worked, hopefully before they closed for the day.

Assuming the Flawed Madonna was still at the glassworks with the safety deposit box key embedded in the base, I would have to find some way to purchase it without arousing suspicion. I knew that once I set foot on the island of Murano, I would be entering dangerous territory, closely controlled by Don Benedetti. I couldn't take a chance on being searched or caught with the half euro note, the diamond, the hermit's confession, or the gold chain in my possession.

As a safeguard, I put the items in my suitcase and buried them deep under clothing. As soon as I departed the train, I checked the suitcase into the secure luggage storage area and, after paying the fee, I received a purple claim ticket. I stuffed the claim ticket down into my sock. A cab took me to the wharf where the water taxi to Murano was getting ready to depart.

As I crossed the open waterway, I marveled at the sights of Venice and her sister islands, perched precariously on an endless sea. The impatient body of water always seemed to be trying to reclaim the wonders of Venice to her depths. Even this late in the afternoon, gondolas, water taxis, freighters, and cruise ships crisscrossed the canals in a never-ending stream. The water taxi finally bumped against the Murano dock, and the passengers flooded out. I quickly hailed a local taxi.

"Ciao," I said to the elderly driver as I entered the decrepit automobile. "Do you speak English, signore?"

The driver held up his fingers a few inches apart to indicate that he spoke a little.

"I want to go to the glassworks as quickly as possible."

The old man laughed. "There are many, many glassworks. Which one you wish?"

I hadn't realized that blowing glass was such a big industry on Murano. I was about to give up and head back to the boat when I remembered a name from the hermit's confession.

"The glassworks I want to find has a manager known as, The Maestro."

The driver nodded and started down the narrow road. He thought to himself as he drove, This rich tourist's wallet will be much lighter after the Maestro sells him one of his lower quality pieces at prices to the sky.

The taxi pulled up in front of an impressive glass-fronted showroom. Spotlights shone down on spectacular multi-colored pieces on display in the windows. I gave the driver a large tip and asked him to wait. I assured the old man that I wouldn't be too long, and I would require a ride back to the wharf and the water taxi to Venice.

As soon as I entered the premises, a smiling, middle-aged man approached me, hand outstretched. The man was wearing a starched, old-fashioned white shirt, adorned by a gigantic black bow tie. Although the man's black striped suit showed the shiny surface of age, his thinning silver hair and glossy black shoes combined to give him an air of gentile elegance. I correctly assumed that he was the Maestro.

"Is there something special signore wishes to see?" The Maestro asked.

"Perhaps I will browse for a few minutes first. There are so many pieces to see."

"Of course, signore, perhaps I could offer you an aperitif as you shop?"

I replied that I would enjoy a glass of red wine if it were available.

I examined a dozen or so assorted works of art before he returned with the wine. He hovered over me.

"Have you discovered anything to your liking, signore?"

I decided to go with the story I had concocted on the train. "To tell you the truth, these are all beautiful pieces. They would be a significant gift for any loved one. However, my wife and I are in the middle of a nasty divorce. I was hoping I could find something ugly to remind me of what a warped woman she is."

The Maestro's internal antenna went up. He had earlier received a call from the villa of Don Benedetti, advising him to watch for a tourist looking for anything unusual.

"Signore, on a rare occasion, one of our artisans has a failure. We keep the ruined pieces in a special place known as the Shelf of Shame. Normally, these ruined pieces are not for sale, but perhaps I could make an exception in your case."

The Maestro beckoned for me to follow him into the back room. From the hermit's confession, I immediately spotted the Flawed Madonna, but I took some time examining all the samples, so The Maestro would not be suspicious.

I pretended to show interest in one ugly piece but backed off when he suggested an outrageous price. Finally, I picked up the Madonna. I ran my finger under the base and could feel the outline of the key. Good, it was still there, just where the hermit left it.

Other than the ruined face, it truly was a beautiful work of art. After some serious haggling, we agreed on a price, but I didn't have enough cash to cover the purchase price.

"Do you take credit cards?"

The Maestro indicated that he took Visa, but the price would have to be increased by ten percent to cover the handling fee. I knew I was being ripped off, but, under the circumstances, I had no choice. I handed my card over, and he carefully examined the name on the card and the signature on the back.

"Grazie, Doctor Gunderson. I do not have the Visa machine, so I will have to make out a slip by hand. I am sure you understand. I will also have to call the Visa office for authorization of the amount. Please to have another glass of vino and look at the rest of the showroom. I will only be a few moments."

I accepted the second glass of red wine and walked casually through the showroom. I could hear The Maestro faintly from his office talking rapidly in Italian on the telephone. I wish Gayle were here so that she could translate the conversation for me, I thought to myself.

Finally, he returned and began the meticulous packing of the Flawed Madonna. He tried several cartons before finally selecting the right one. I tried to hurry him up because I knew the last water taxi to Venice was due to leave shortly. The Maestro finally shook my hand before handing over the carefully wrapped package.

He gave me a sly smile. "Arrivederci, Doctor Gunderson."

I stepped outside into the night to find my taxi gone. A long black limo waited in its place. Two large and menacing men motioned for me to get into the backseat. I didn't have much choice, so I went along, hoping for the best.