Cold Tuscan Stone David Wagner (acx book reading .txt) 📖

tourism. The map on the seat next to Rick showed mostly open land with few towns. Here the local economy was almost exclusively tied to agriculture, though at this time of year the earth was starting its long, rejuvenating sleep. The only movement he noticed in the brown fields was a lone pheasant hunter carrying a shotgun, following his dog through the dried stalks of corn, their ears long since harvested.

The road he took after leaving the city was the main route to Pisa, but now Rick slowed the car to make a left turn and head west. The directions Donatella had given him were clear, there was no need for the map nor the trusty GPS which was still in the pocket of his overcoat in the back seat. A few minutes later he turned onto a dirt road, passing a sign which announced that he was entering private property. No mention of welcome. Ahead he could see the outline of a high stone wall which came in off the hill at the left and disappeared in the distance on the right. When he got closer he could see that the wall’s even line was broken by a heavy steel gate topped on one side by a small camera trained on the road. Another sign appeared whose very large letters warned of even larger dogs on the property, with an appropriately vicious canine portrait, no doubt for the benefit of the illiterate. Good security.

Rick stopped at a small metal box on a pole, opened his window and pressed a red button. A voice crackled something from the box, and the gate slowly opened to allow the car to enter. It was another minute before the villa appeared through the trees. There was no sign of any dogs, big or small; perhaps the signs lied.

Outside the wall, several hundred meters down the dirt road from the gate, the driver of a dark blue car stopped and turned off his engine.

The lightly rust-colored stucco of the villa walls reminded Rick of buildings in the Southwest, but the similarity ended with its color. If most Americans tried to picture the typical Tuscan villa, it would be something close to Villa Gloria. Its two-storey main structure was topped by a slightly-pitched-terra cotta roof shading the narrow balcony above the entrance door. The villa’s rectangular upper windows had green wooden shutters; not the fake ones found in colonial-style houses in America, but shutters which actually swung open and shut on iron hinges. Framing the wide front door was a stone arch which looked like it had been recycled from an even older structure. Atop the main building was a small windowed cube like on a caboose, built to provide a panoramic view of the countryside. Had someone been up there watching his approach? No need, with the security camera. A wing that’s architecture mirrored the main building was built out to the right, forming a protective wall to the front patio along with some well-trimmed hedges. Rick parked the car in a gravel area at the end of the driveway and started up a stone path which led to the patio. All the parts of the villa came together perfectly, making the building warm and inviting. The same could not be said of the person who answered the door.

Rick was not used to looking up at people, especially with his boots on, but this man had him beat by several inches. Not just tall, but large. His black clothing added to the bulk, nearly filling the narrow doorway and making Rick glad that his arrival was expected. The servant’s head, topped by hair the color of shoe polish, sat on a thick neck which, thankfully, did not have bolts protruding from its sides.

“Signor Montoya.” The words were said as a statement of fact, as if the man was confirming Rick’s presence to himself rather than welcoming a guest to the villa. The voice was like the sound Rick’s car tires had made on the gravel driveway. “This way, please.”

After a small atrium they entered the living room, its walls a deep red and covered with paintings, each one lit by a small lamp, as in a museum. Rick’s first thought was that they were for sale; the woman is an art dealer, after all. If not, it would seem a bit pretentious. The only other time he’d seen the little lights was on some of the paintings in the American ambassador’s residence in Rome, and even that seemed a bit too much. He checked out the low ceiling which was supported by wooden beams, probably the originals, but you never know. Italian building restoration was an art, but on the other hand, even the newest of building could be made to look ancient. He was about to give closer attention to the paintings, almost all of them brightly colored outdoor scenes, when the man spoke.

“Signora Minotti will see you in a moment. May I get you something to drink?”

When Rick declined the man disappeared without a word, making the room feel larger. He stood in the center and studied the furnishings, which were not different from those in many apartments he’d seen in Rome, except for the number of paintings. A large Persian carpet in the center of the tile floor held a low rustic table spread with art magazines in English and Italian. Facing the table, a leather sofa flanked one side, three modern chairs made of chrome and leather the other. Rick tried unsuccessfully to remember the chairs’ designer, someone Scandinavian, then walked to the wall to examine one of the larger paintings. The scene showed a man and a woman in peasant clothing walking along a river bank holding hands. It was not the figures which dominated the painting, but rather the strong colors of the trees framing them. Rick leaned forward to study the thick brushwork of the leaves.

“I am a great lover of the Italian impressionists. Unfortunately they do