"What isn't?" This was the most baffling exchange, and I needed to get him off the subject, whatever it was, and back to the sale of the Bellerophon.
"The name. It's not hereditary or anything. Someone has to die before you can get in. The numbers in the Societa are limited, as I'm sure you know, to twelve plus one. But there's bound to be a spot now that Velathri's gone."
"Velathri?" I said.
"You know," he said. "Velathri. Volterra. I'm surprised you don't recognize the Etruscan name for it."
Volterra I knew. It was a town in the northwest part of Tuscany. Etruscan city, too, if I remembered correctly. As far as I could recall, though, it was still there. "Oh, right," I said. "Of course. Sorry."
"Gianpiero Ponte," Godard said, as if I was being really dense. "Surely you read about it. It was in all the papers."
"You mean the businessman who went over the edge of a cliff somewhere or other?"
"Volterra!" he said. "That's my point. Velathri is now vacant, and you might get it."
"Oh," was all I could muster.
"I could consult the liver to see if you stand a chance. I've studied the sheep's liver for four years now, ever since this happened," he said, pointing to his legs again. "I think I'm ready to use a real one now."
I thought of the sheep and the adorable little lambs outside and cringed. There was now no question in my mind that Godard was what Clive would call a few sandwiches short of a picnic. Not in terms of his intelligence, perhaps. If he'd read only a few books in his library, he was smart enough. But his grasp on reality seemed a little tenuous. I could see now that I looked at him more carefully that his pupils were dilated. Drugs, I thought, either for severe pain, quite possible, given his circumstances, or others of the more recreational kind.
"Have you ever tried using a medium, by the way? I tried reaching my parents and grandfather that way, but it didn't work. I have a good feeling about this, though. As far as I'm concerned, that is," he went on. "All the signs are positive. Maybe that's why you're here. Yes, that is almost certainly it. The signs told me someone would come to help me get to Velzna, you know, Volsinii. I suppose you use the Roman names. They told me you were coming. Of course it would be somebody who reads Etruscan. I wouldn't sell to anyone else. It must be you. I'm building my tomb. Would you like to see it?"
"Sure," I said. Good grief, I thought.
"Come along," he said, leading me back to his study.
"I'm interested in the horse," I said, determined to stay the course no matter how bizarre it got.
"Bellerophon, you mean?"
"Yes. Bellerophon." There seemed no reason to be coy on that subject anymore. "Did you sell it to Leclerc already?"
"Who's he?"
"Pierre Leclerc. He was here earlier this afternoon. Fancy suit. Cufflinks, that sort of thing."
"The cufflinks!" he said. "Yes. Fantastic! I wonder where he got those. That name's not right, though, is it? Leclerc? Close though. Le-something. Le Conte, isn't it? The horse, though. Did he ask about it? I can't remember. I didn't sell him anything. I don't like him. I'm quite sure he isn't the one. Here we are." He leaned over and pulled aside a carpet to reveal a trapdoor. "Get ready to be amazed, shocked, dazzled, whatever."
I looked down into pitch darkness below. "I don't think I want—"
"Of course you do," he said. "Give me a minute. I'll go first." He wheeled his chair back and grabbed a rope attached to a pulley on the wall behind him, pulled the rope and himself over near the edge, then slipped out of his wheelchair and, after lowering the chair down, pulled himself into a makeshift harness and eased himself down as well. "Come on," he said. "Take the ladder. We'll talk about Bellerophon down here. And you'd better bring that flashlight of yours. The light seems to have blown out."
What I do, I thought, to serve a customer. Reluctantly, I climbed down the ladder. When I reached the bottom, I panned the flashlight around the space and gasped as the face of a man, one who looked exactly like Godard, stared back at me.
"Fabulous, isn't it?" he said.
"Fabulous," I agreed, catching my breath. And it was, in a way. I was in a room about twenty feet long and ten wide. There were two stone benches to either side of me, and an archway straight ahead. The ceiling was decorated in red and green and cream squares. Beyond the arch, the walls had been painted with scenes of a party, at least that was what I thought it was. A man, the one who looked like Godard draped in a dark red toga, lay stretched out on a couch of some kind, while various women, bearing platters of fruit and jugs of wine, lined up to serve him. Other men—I counted twelve in addition to Godard—also reclined on couches, some with women beside them. To one side of them, a door had been painted on the wall.
In the background was the chateau—I recognized it immediately—surrounded by fields where little lambs gamboled. Beyond that stretched a forest. Other men dressed in tunics were hunting with bows and arrows. Another was playing a stringed instrument of some kind. The predominant color was red, but there were swirls and leafy vines that snaked their way around the picture, birds, painted in blue and white and green, flew through the trees and around the people, caught in the sweep of my flashlight. Above the archway, two leopards faced each other, fangs bared.
Over to the right in the outer room where I was standing, three people were shown sitting in three chairs, staring straight ahead. The perspective wasn't perfect, but the faces were very lifelike.
"My mother and father," he said, following my glance. "And my grandfather. Do you like it?" he said.
"It's . . . extraordinary," I said.
"It is, isn't it?" he said. "It's modeled on Etruscan hypogeum tombs like the ones at Tarquinia," he said. "The frescoes are contemporary, of course, although I tried to give them an authentic feel."
"You painted this?"
"I did," he said. "It's my project."
"But a tomb!" I said.
"Well, why not?" he said. "I'm not going to last long anyway. It helps me while away my final hours. I started it while I could still stand, but as you can see," he said gesturing to one wall where the top was bare, "I need help to finish it. Can you paint, by the way?"
"I have absolutely no talent that way at all," I said. It may have been the first truly honest statement I'd made since I got there.
"Too bad," he said. "I'll go up first, and if you don't mind, you could attach the wheelchair to the rope when I send it back down."
"About Bellerophon," I said, as I climbed out of the basement.
"I can't sell it to you," he said. "I know I should, but I just can't do it. Not to you. Not to the one who's going to get me to Velzna and the Fanum Voltumnae."
"How much would it take to make you change your mind?" I asked.
"I won't change my mind, but I need a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That's all. I could get a van for that and cover the cost of finishing my tomb and putting me in it. Do you see anything else you'd like here that you'd be prepared to pay that much for?"
"The chimera hydria," I said.
"No, no!" he exclaimed. "Anything but the hydria, please. It's the last thing I would part with. What about the temple frieze? It's pretty spectacular, don't you think? Would you pay one fifty for that? It's worth it, you know. A good price."
"Yes, it is. I'd have to consult my client, though."
"Okay, but do it soon. I need it to get to Velzna. Do you think he'll want it?"
The telephone ringing in his office saved me from having to answer.
"I'd better get that," he said. "It may be about the arrangements. You can use my name as a reference, by the way, if you want to replace Velathri. Hold on a second," he said, grabbing the telephone.