Free Rococo by Adriana Trigiani Page B

hangout near Bloomingdale’s, for one of their Manhattans, heavy on the sweet vermouth, just the way I like them. I feel a twinge in my left calf, similar to the tug one feels after riding a horse. I slip onto a bar stool and place my order, propping my foot on the brass rail to relax my leg. I open Pevsner’s book, falling into the glorious illustrations of baroque architecture.
    “Somebody has a charley horse,” a voice says from behind me.
    “Too much walking,” I lie.
    “If you say so.”
    I turn to this nosy yet perceptive stranger. How exotic she is, and how familiar she looks! Her jet-black hair reaches to her waist like the lushest silk fringe. She wears a midnight-blue sari wrapped close to her trim waist, bound by intersecting streamers (!) of gold lamé. Her shoes are flat gold sandals, the same color as her enormous hoop earrings and bangle bracelets, which take up most of her forearms. While she is formidably bold in her fashion choices, she has a charm to her that is completely accessible.
    “Do I know you?” she asks.
    “I’m Bartolomeo di Crespi.”
    “Don’t know the name. Are you ASID?”
    “Yep. How could you tell?”
    “Eydie Von Gunne.” The beautiful woman extends her hand. I take it, admiring her firm grip. Then she does a delightful thing. She shakes her wrist so the many gold bangles fall over her hand like gold lassos. Her arms are long and thin and remind me of one of those fertility goddesses with many arms you see in Tibetan art. “Your suit is a dead giveaway. Charcoal-gray with magenta pinstripe. Only a decorator would go for such a daring choice. What are you working on?”
    “A church.” Why am I telling her this? I don’t even have the job yet; why am I trying to impress her?
    Eydie smiles. “Europe or America?”
    “New Jersey.”
    “Gothic, Romanesque, or modern?”
    “Gothic.”
    “My specialty is churches. I know them like the back of my hand.”
    “You don’t look like a cloistered nun.”
    “Nope, I never took the veil. Unless it was in a harem, of course.” She snaps open her evening bag, a velvet clutch covered in peacock feathers, and hands me her card:

    E YDIE V ON G UNNE —A RCHITECT & H ISTORIAN
    17 Park Avenue
    555-1127

    “If you ever want to talk church, give me a call.”
    “I’ll do it,” I promise her.
    “Any guy who reads Pevsner at a bar is my kind of guy.” She smiles.
    “You know what I love the most about New York City?”
    “Let me guess. The lake at Central Park, the grand staircase at the Met, or the Milbank Mansion on West Tenth Street?”
    I stop her. “No, although that’s a fantastic list.”
    “What, then?” She seems truly interested in my answer.
    “I love that I’m sitting here alone reading a book and you said hello.”
    She shrugs. “I like that suit.”
    A tall, chiseled Cary Grant type with white hair comes up to the bar and puts his arm around her. “Ready, hon?” he says in her ear.
    “Uh-huh.” She tilts her head and nuzzles his cheek. The maître d’ pulls Mr. Chiseled away for a moment, so I am not formally introduced.
    “That fellow is Hollywood handsome,” I tell her.
    “Oh, he knows it.” She smiles and turns her head in profile to look at him.
    Now I realize why Eydie looks so familiar. Against the forest-green walls, her head and neck are outlined like a tintype. That’s it! She has my old nose! Except on her, with her height, long face, and heavy-lidded Egyptian eyes, it works. “Nice to meet you, Bartolomeo.”
    “Good night, Eydie.”
    As her companion holds the door open for her, Eydie steps out into the night like a blue bird sailing up into a dark sky. For a second, I want to follow her. She took one look at me and seemed to know who I was. How ridiculous! I just met the woman! What is it with me? Whenever I’m with a woman, I want to escape, and once she’s gone, I miss the trap.

CHAPTER THREE
    The Ottoman Empire
     

    I take the steps two at a time as I climb to the choir loft