Cold Tuscan Stone by David Wagner (best books to read in your 20s txt) 📕

Polpetto’s act? Talk about the Augean stables. Rick managed to keep a serious look on his face.

“We all have our own work styles,” Rick shrugged, trying to be as diplomatic as his father, though his father would have had little patience with the disorder of this office. “Thank you for seeing me this morning. I am already impressed by your, uh, collection. Is this the kind of thing you import and export?”

Polpetto’s face lit up, if further lighting was possible. “Yes. Or I should say much of it is. No, perhaps most of it isn’t. I like to collect things. But I haven’t offered you coffee, let me—”

Rick quickly raised his hands. “No, thank you, I just had one. What things do you collect?” Rick again turned his gaze to the rows of shelves. “I see a bit of alabaster.”

“Yes indeed.” Polpetto’s eyes darted to the door and back, as if worried that Claretta could come bursting in any moment. “Those shelves on the right hold mostly alabaster, much of it Etruscan, small pieces of minor value, of course, not museum quality, but I enjoy looking at them. The bronze figures are also Etruscan. Though there may be a copy or two among them; it doesn’t matter. The animals are my little menagerie, like a circus. That’s why the warriors are on either side; we surely don’t want the animals to escape.”

Several bronze soldiers bearing shields and spears flanked the various small animals. They will certainly keep the animals in line, Rick thought. Time to change the subject. “That shelf there, Signor Polpetto, the stone fragments?”

Polpetto pulled himself from the chair with some difficulty. “I’m glad you noticed, it is one of my favorite collections within the collection.” He beamed as he walked to a shelf of fragments from marble tablets, like the ones he frequently saw cemented into the walls of churches in Rome. Their flat surfaces had letters and decorations, some more worn than others, some more elaborate. Polpetto’s large hands picked one up as if it were a bird’s nest and held it up for Rick to see. Letters cut into the stone next to a fragment of garland.

“Do you read Latin, Signor Montoya?”

“Only the numerals, I’m afraid.”

Polpetto gazed at the piece of stone as if seeing it for the first time. “This comes from the burial urn of a likely middle class Roman citizen. Only the last five letters of his name—ULIUS—are found on this fragment, which doesn’t narrow it down very much. To think that I can hold in my hands a bit of the life, or rather the death, of someone who lived so long ago is fascinating, is it not?” Polpetto didn’t wait for an answer. “All we can do is conjecture about who he was, what he did in his life. Was he a good man? Was he loved, or hated? Did his family have this memorial made to him out of obligation or true affection and grief? We will never know, but the lack of information does not alter the beauty of this stone and its untold story.” He carefully returned the slab to the shelf and gave Rick a playfully reproachful look. “But you have not noticed the pieces which may be the most familiar to you.” Polpetto pointed over Rick’s shoulder with his chin, still beaming. Beaming, Rick decided, was a large part of Polpetto’s persona.

Now what? The only collection Rick had as a kid was Matchbox toy cars. Could this guy have a first edition Topolino? But the shelf held a bigger surprise: handwoven baskets of various sizes, which Rick knew had come from the American Southwest. He nodded in appreciation, and his host grinned.

“I saw from your card that you live in Santa Fe, and I have noticed your boots. You must know where these are from.” He took one of the baskets from the shelf and passed it to Rick. The weaving was tight, with a faint brown W-shaped design wrapped around it, the only decoration on the otherwise light brown surface.

“I lived in Albuquerque, not Santa Fe.”

“Oh, but I thought…Well, this basket is from Zuni Pueblo.”

“Of course, I should have recognized it. The design is clearly Zuni, very different from, say, Sandia or Santa Ana.” Rick didn’t know one basket from another, but he had spent time playing the tables at the Sandia and Santa Ana tribal casinos north of Albuquerque. Polpetto was impressed: first the cowboy boots, and now expertise in indigenous basketry.

“But we are not here to discus basket weaving, are we, Signor Montoya?” The fun was over for poor Polpetto, and his smile drooped with disappointment. “Let me ask Claretta to join us.” He opened the door and nodded toward his secretary. Or was she his assistant? Or was she…? The rolling desk chair appeared in the doorway followed by Signorina Angelini, who pushed with one hand and held a pad in the other. She had to provide her own seating. Polpetto returned to the desk and settled into the chair which groaned weakly in protest. He blinked at Rick in anticipation.

“Allow me to explain what interests my gallery.” Rick hoped this would be the last time he had to present the speech.

As he listened, Polpetto offered the appropriately serious facial expression and nodded occasionally, while his secretary took careful notes. At one point he rooted through the piles on his desk to unearth a pen and paper himself, scribbled something, and returned the paper to the pile. Would the man ever find it again? That was Polpetto’s and Claretta’s problem. Rick ended his presentation and relaxed into the sofa, feeling a small object under his right hip. He reached down without being seen and felt what he knew was a round piece of hard candy, fortunately still in its paper wrapper, which he left where it was.

“Perhaps we can be of some help, Signor Montoya,” Polpetto was saying. “I do have my contacts in the business, and our company would be