The Search for the Etruscan Venus

By Adam Dumphy

        The Etruscan Venus, if she were wearing a blouse had every right to pin on it the Purple Heart or British Army equivalent. But like her compatriot the Venus de Milo she sported neither a blouse nor even BVDs.

        The most famous statue in all Northern Italy she was also one of the best preserved, lacking only the fifth finger of her left hand from being totally intact. That is except for the wound. It seems a twelfth century halberdier, unmindful of the finer things in life, had shot her in the left buttock leaving a dimple. The act was further proof of his heedlessness and that he had no respect for womankind or for the elderly, for at that time she was thought to be at least four hundred years old.

        Among her many adventures the latest was in 1943 when a German Wermacht truck backed up the door of the museum where she was residing and carted her away never to be seen again.

        Lieutenant, Captain, Major, (depending on his latest success or his latest disrespectful encounter with higher authority) Peter Lindley was assigned by Reparations Nato to find her.

        In the process he gains an education in Italian oubliettes, Italian women, Italian high and low society, and Italian counterfeit money. And he learns more about the owner of the Venus, the Marquessa Monte de Feo, than he cares to know. He finds that she is beautiful but already married and so quite out of bounds to any of his several desires.

        In truly British fashion, although he is an American expatriate, he ‘muddles through’ to a happy ending.

All characters, events, backgrounds, opinions and geography are happily fictional.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 20, 2009
• ISBN: 9781467049443

Adam Dumphy

Inflamed by a novel of and during the Spanish Civil War of 1936, titled, “The Kansas City Milkman”, Adam Dumphy searched out and contacted a clandestine enlistment center for the British Ambulance Corps operating there. Clandestine as it was at the time an illegal act to aid either side in the conflict. To Adam that fit the novel and made it all the more interesting to him and more Hemingwayesque. He ever after felt the British people generally to be biased and intolerant as he was rejected and simply for being only twelve years old. Still he found himself fascinated by that most peculiar of wars even as some men are towards our American Civil War. All the books and information he collected then he still has. His loyalty he has tried to maintain unbiased to either side although it has varied in degree from one side to another from year to year. Now from the vantage point of eighty years of age the only thing he can decide with certainty about the affair is that both sides got a very “bad press”. But then he believes that is true of most major events.

Book preview

The Search

For The

Etruscan

Venus

Adam Dumphy

US%26UK%20Logo%20B%26W_new.ai

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive, Suite 200

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2009 Adam Dumphy. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 3/16/2009

ISBN: 978-1-4389-3502-7 (sc)

ISBN: 9781467049443 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

For

Priscilla Cespedes

There are many people in this world who can crush a man down into nothing.

There are very few people, the wonderful people, who can build a man up from nothing.

THE SEARCH FOR THE ETRUSCAN VENUS

Chapter 1

The Etruscan Museum in the North Italian hill town of Vecchionne was the only thing in the village on the level. The first building in the area, it had taken up the only level land. It was approached across a steeply sloping, badly cobbled square, stood across from a forward-tilting cathedral and was partly behind the backward-tilting City Hall. Touristmo oriented, its plaster ‘Santos’ were ‘hecho en Mejico’ and its ‘Italian’ tiles marked ‘Nippon’

A long, low building of unfaced stone, the Museum sat back from the street in a level garden fenced by fieldstone and had, at one time, been composed of two peasant huts now connected.

Crossing the square the tall, young, British officer opened a wrought iron gate, ornate with bees, a hive, and a badly done representation of a honeycomb, undoubtedly purloined from some more pretentious surrounding and reused here in the less noble function of keeping out wandering livestock. Aware of the Italian intelligentsia’s partiality for late evening conversation and late morning rising, he had waited until 10:00 AM to call but still there seemed no one about. The heavy plank and wrought iron door was open, however, so he hesitantly entered.

The long room was furnished only by showcases and stands. Just before him was a large, broken block of Terrarra marble in mottled green which apparently had been put to use as a stand for something more grand, now missing. A weathered card at the side announced, ‘Venus, Estruscan, 4th Century.’ On other make-do stands were assorted statues and portions of statues all neatly labeled. Here was a hand and arm severed at the shoulder but still delicate and lovely. There was a pair of legs ending at the knee, a part of a head with the nose worn flat, and a number of other stands totally vacant. The showcases had assorted smaller pieces, mainly metallic or beaded items: a bizarre mask of copper, part of a mask of copper, horse brasses, a sword hilt badly eroded and a plaque of ceramic something or other.

From the rear he heard activity so he proceeded down the hall to look into an anteroom cum office. It was furnished with only a desk, desk chair and plank table. At the table, a small, wizened, gnome of a man, an old, old man, with white hair, withered neck and knobby hands was puttering ineffectually about a brass samovar. Aware of another person in the room the old man turned to reveal wrinkled, weather-beaten skin, blue, blue eyes and the sweet kindly smile of a docile child.

Oh there you are, good. His voice was soft and child-like as well. His accent was not of the hills but of Rome.

How very nice. he continued. Do you know I was just wishing… I say, do you know anything about these perdition contraptions? He pointed to the samovar. It doesn’t seem to be doing anything.

Peter approached and observed. It was a copper affair with ornate brass fittings much curlicued and bedecked with nymphs. It had a remarkable top, a spigot, and engraving all down the side. Extending a forefinger he found it to be cold.

You see what I mean. The little man wailed. It should be putting out coffee by now, if one could call such a thing coffee, and at what a price, but it just won’t produce.

Hmm. Turning it about Peter found it had two prongs at the rear for attatching an electric cord and beside it a paraffin hot plate.

I just hate all these modern things. the old man confided.

Modern? Peter thought. This samovar was a product of the 20’s probably outmoded when first produced and now twenty five years old, but he smiled agreement with the little man. Encouraged the old man continued.

And I just hate it when Signora Monte de Feo is late and comes in expecting the coffee to be ready. She has told me so often how to do it and I do listen but, well… he broke his thought. I just dread those overly efficient women, don’t you? He stopped. Especially tall ones. He looked up from all of his 5 feet and ½ inch and he smiled his sweet little smile.

Peter agreed emphatically at that and said so. Tall, short, fat, skinny, he agreed. On a wall behind the table hung an electric cord. He affixed it to the appliance and looked about for an electrical outlet.

Oh yes, up there, of course. The old man pointed to the ceiling. A single, unshielded light bulb hung from the ceiling on an electric cord with a double outlet. It sported a connection for another plug besides that for the bulb. Reaching up the tall, young man plugged in the cord, wondering about the arrangement as the little man couldn’t possibly reach that high and imagining the Signora as a towering witch in black with cape and broom.

The two watched the copper monstrosity with interest. Extending a hand both felt the immediate heat and smiled at one another in a manner of men who have outfoxed a mere woman.

That’s better. The little man sat back in his desk chair and crossed one knee over the other. Noticing a shoelace untied, he bent to tie it. Lovely morning isn’t it? I always say there is no place in the world quite like the Urbana hills in spring.

Peter looked out the window at the shoulder high clouds and gloom outside. He thought he had never seen these hills in a less lovely mood. The little man crossed his hands across his abdomen and continued, Just lovely. Has been for generations you know. Why you may find it hard to believe but when Rome was just a mud and wattle village on only one of its seven hills, these valleys were the scene of an enlightened, intelligent, advanced civilization basking in the sun. They had indoor plumbing, representative government, and a series of enlightened laws. The arts flourished, artisans were respected, and taxes administered with honesty and dignity. Why… He crossed his legs and noting another untied shoelace he stopped, leaned forward to tie it. Now then, he said, you stay tied this time. pointing an admonitive finger at the shoe.

They were interrupted by the sudden opening of a door at one side. A tall woman, all in black, entered, stopped uncertainly and then exclaimed, Something is burning.

She rushed forward and unplugged the samovar with an irritated tug. Turning to the little man she glared down at him.

I have told you repeatedly, Professor, that cord has a weak spot. You are going to start a fire here if you persist.

At her words the little man wilted, looked about for some avenue of escape and became again aware of his visitor. He stiffened and responded with some return of pride.

Yes Roseanna, you have told me that. he smiled ingeniously. This very charming young man was making the coffee this morning, however, and he couldn’t be expected to know about that, could he? He sat back preening himself at this wily subversion.

Oh… The lady had lit the paraffin hot plate and now turned to look at the officer. She was, he saw, not as old as he had first thought, his own age, fib or fake a year. Extremely slender she looked odd in this setting because of her costume. She wore all black as every married woman in these hills did, but not heavy, black woolens. This gown was of rayon or crepe with short sleeves and a stylishly short skirt extending only to the knees. In addition, it had a stylized bird, a peacock possibly, in red and green sequins over the left shoulder, across the bodice onto the skirt. It was no longer elegant, being both worn and patched and with many of the sequins missing. And she was wearing matching high-heeled pumps, now battered, but once black, patent leather. He had not seen a woman in high heels since leaving Rome and she looked, he thought, like a bedraggled courtesan. On closer inspection her hair was blue-black, luxurious, and if it had not been drawn so tightly back into a bun, with a tendency to curl. Her complexion was delicate olive, features regular except for a flinty look in the grey eyes and a vertical wrinkle line between the naturally delicate brows. She looked, he thought, the ‘beginnings of a shrew’.

The silence reminded the old man of his duties as host. Oh of course, Roseanna this nice young man is… he stopped again suddenly aware that he did not have the slightest idea who the man was or why he was here, or even his name. This very charming young man, he repeated, is here. He sat back satisfied his social duties completed. The officer came to his aid.

Lt. Peter Lindley, Ma’am, at your service.

The lady extended a slender but well muscled hand and shook hands like a man. Her manner did not lighten.

By your uniform, you are British 8th Army and you are wearing a Captain’s bars, Lieutenant. She spoke quite formally and with distaste.

Oh, ah, well yes. Actually, it is Major but you see… He found himself bumbling and mumbling in the face of this female disapproval, just as the old man had. It’s just that these things change so quickly. It’s hard to keep up with, isn’t it?

The lady observed him more critically still. She seemed to be trying to decide if he was entirely rational or perhaps just a friend of the Professor. Some of the waves of disapproval must have percolated to the professor’s consciousness for he intervened.

We were just having a most pleasant discussion on the Etruscans, Roseanna. Lovely summer day brought it to mind. He turned to the young man, You may not believe this, young man, but when Rome was merely a mud and wattle village on only one of its seven hills… He recrossed one leg over another and looking noticed the other shoelace again untied. Bending forward, he tied and retied it. Now then, he said to the shoelace, you can’t say I didn’t warn you.

The tall woman flashed a look skyward and proceeding to the door spoke over her shoulder, I will be in my office if you need me, either of you.

The old gentleman relaxed noticeably as the very stiff back turned to exit.

Yes it is quite true. Now young man you may not believe this but when Rome was merely a mud and wattle…

Peter was interested in Etruscan history but within limits. Both paused however as the high heels clicked to a stop. The woman turned and viewing each in turn with disgust mixed with amusement she left.

Peter got to his feet quickly. I am most grateful Professor for the so very complete filling in of the background of the area but I see I have taken too much of your time already. Perhaps I can continue this most valuable discussion at another time when you are at leisure?

What? What? Oh, oh yes. Fine. The little man was carefully rebuttoning his vest in an attempt to make the top and bottom buttons match its mate.

At the door Peter almost ran into the tall woman waiting for him and wearing an amused smile.

Turning away he closed the door quietly and stood a moment, half facing the closed door, his mind on the other room.

Well… Lieutenant, Captain, Major?

Oh, excuse me, Ma’am, er… I was just thinking what a very nice little man he is.

The Professor? Well I… I…

Yes I think I would rather like to be like him when I grow up…er…that is when I am old.

The Professor?

Well yes. Don’t you know how so many older people are bitter or resentful or angry at the world? Deriding the younger generation and everything about this world for every little fault and throwing up their hands at the big things.

Yes. I believe I…

The Professor seems so at peace, so happy in his own world. Not bitter but quite childlike. I like him immensely.

He is my temporal master and a very difficult man to look after. she responded stiffly. He still writes, it is true, lovely, logical theses on the Etruscans and their culture but unless I bring him back to his last sentence and threaten him with mayhem he would as likely as not wander down to the irrigation ditch to sail toy boats with the children.

Really! Oh isn’t that rather nice.

Quite literally. And if you like toy boats, I see how you might want to emulate him. She raised an expressive eyebrow.

It produced, Peter noticed, a marked deepening of that vertical crease between her brows. He decided suddenly that he really didn’t like her deriding the little man and felt guilty, as he didn’t know quite why he felt so.

Now Lieutenant, Major, whatever it is, what is it you came here for?

Again the tone irritated him and he replied not entirely seriously.

Yes quite. What am I here for? Surely there must be some reason. Some reason that I drove all the way from Rome to be here. I did drive here didn’t I? he inquired blandly.

I have no idea, Lieutenant, Major.

Of course I did. I must have. I am here am I not? All the way across northern Italy in this lovely spring weather. It may seem difficult to believe, Madame, but when the Romans were still mud daubing barbarians living in huts on only one of their seven hills, the Etruscans were… The lady’s eyebrows drew closer together than ever before.

Lieutenant, my time is not unlimited.

Oh, of course not. Now why did I come?

She sighed a sigh and speaking slowly as if to a child, I hope I am not to be disappointed again but I pray that you have come in regard the Etruscan Venus.

By George that’s it! Good on you. I have been recently assigned to the British Headquarters at Brussels, actually the Artifact Recovery Group, responsible for locating items appropriated by the German military forces in occupied countries.

At last. the lady responded. I had about given up hope.

I wonder if I might have a list of items looted from the Museum? Peter became official.

The eyebrows drew together again. A list? I have sent out no less than eight lists already… to Rome, London, West Berlin, Paris. And you have no list? Where have all my hard earned lists gone?

I don’t know, Ma’am. Shangri-La perhaps or the Mugombo Basin.

The lady leaned forward, eyes incredible. Those eyes were, he noticed, very large eyes and in certain light might have been most handsome.

Mugombo Basin?

Well some such place. I see you have never read Edgar Rice Burroughs.

When she did not respond he continued, Tarzan. You know, the caves where the old elephants go to die. The Mugambo Basin.

Elephants?

Yes. It seems appropriate doesn’t it? Some distant, untraveled place where all those notes, memos, orders, day sheets, night orders, proposals, records, all in quadruplicate could be carefully preserved by staff officers of the British Military Establishment. Where they could be allowed to molder into oblivion with dignity.

The lady was looking a little groggy. She returned to the subject at hand.

You need a list of the items removed?

Yes, please.

She went to a battered file at the side of the room, withdrew a typewritten sheet and consulted it.

Here.

She extended the list then changed her mind after another look at Peter and drew the typewritten sheets back to herself.

That is… I’ll read the list off and perhaps you can make notes. It was obvious she was not going to let her last precious list out of her hands.

First, the Venus of Perugia.

Venus… Peter jotted in a pocket notebook. Right.

Second…

Wait, wait. What does she look like?

Look like? Why she is the most famous statue in all of Italy. Have you never seen pictures of the Venus, of our Venus?

Well, perhaps, but well…don’t they all look much alike?

Not entirely serious still, at her look he continued now more subdued. I’ll need to be able to recognize her if by some chance I came across her. Could you describe her?

Well, she is marble, palish white, full length figure, almost perfect still with only the small finger of the left hand missing. The lieutenant scribbled the details and waited.

Her head is turned slightly to the right, a lovely and shapely head, with hair in ringlets and a crown of ivy and flowers about her forehead. Her features are classical, almost Greek in appearance, her neck is slender and… she hesitated.

Yes?

Well, the rest of her is appropriately uh…

Oh? Appropriately what? He was starting to enjoy this again.

Well, uh, appropriately feminine. She is a nude of course and quite ah…

Nude? You mean completely nude? No towel or step-ins or fig leafs or anything?

Well, yes, I mean no.

Not seated, or hidden, or behind a bush even?

Of course not. She is a solitary figure.

Everything exposed, nothing hidden? She ought to be ashamed of herself.

I beg your pardon?

And that’s another thing. Why do artists always have to do nudes with all the details so obvious? Details exaggerated even, too perfect to be real, not realistic at all, too much of everything. Why can’t they do them in their BVD’s?

The Etruscans did not wear underclothing, Lieutenant.

Shame on them too. Particularly in this weather. The artist, if he was being realistic should have them all broken out in goose bumps.

Oh you don’t understand at all. You don’t seem to appreciate that nudity is an art form in itself. The Venus is presumably at her bath. She has probably just dropped her cloak and was stepping forward to enter her tub.

And do those hoards of old, Italian men who stand around those museums in droves understand that? Aren’t they seeing something most have never seen before, something that never has been, never will be, the kind of adult Italian lady who will never need a girdle?

Oh you don’t understand at all.

Well, does she have any blemishes, moles, warts, wens or anything?

Of course not. Oh, there is a defect in her, well…her left buttock.

Is that true to the original model? He was sincerely interested in this.

"Certainly not. It was caused