Ernest Dempsey
The Lost Canvas
For my mom and dad.
Adriana Villa sprinted down the sidewalk along the main street. It was dark and, what had been a vibrant city earlier, had all but turned in for the night. Banners and draped flags hung loosely around the buildings and over the streets. A few random revelers strolled along, drunkenly, down a side street.
She’d noticed the man watching her as she’d exited the building several blocks back. He was medium height and build, fairly slender. His head sported a black fedora, a stark contrast to the gray leather jacket he wore. Adriana had been suspicious that she was being followed. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for her particular line of work. She gave another quick glance back and saw that the man was no longer behind her. Villa didn’t lessen her pace, though. She kept running until she saw another side street at the next intersection and veered onto it quickly.
The run had been a short one but it had been mostly uphill. The late October air in the foothills of central Germany was cold and burned as she inhaled. She pressed up against the wall at the corner and risked a peek around to see if the man was still following her. The street was empty save for a few cars that were parked along the sidewalks.
“What are you looking at?” The voice startled her and she nearly pulled one of her knives hidden within her black pea coat.
She turned and sighed at the sight of a friendly face. Martin Edert stood twenty feet away. His ruddy face had a curious smile on it. The receding hair on his head was gray with a few streaks of brown. He was short and slim except for his potbelly that came from years of drinking lots of beer and a steady diet of bratwurst.
“Someone was following me,” she answered as she walked towards him.
“My dear, in those pants, I’d be tempted to follow you too.” He pointed at her skin-tight jeans. Her brown hair dangled loosely around her ears.
“Don’t go getting any ideas,” she joked. Then she wrapped her arms around him in a big hug and gave him a kiss on the cheek. He accepted the Spanish gesture with a slight blush.
“I’m glad you’re on time,” she continued. “Let’s go somewhere warmer where we can talk.”
“My hotel is just up the street,” he replied. “Come.”
He motioned for her to follow him around the back corner of the side street that ended in an alley next to a large hillside. As they rounded the edge of the building, his car came into view. The silver Porsche Panamera revved to life as he turned on the engine with a remote start.
She raised her eyebrows. “Nice car. Turbo?”
“Turbo S,” he replied with a corrective grin.
She nodded, approvingly, and opened the door. Inside, the supple, gray leather surrounded her, filling her nostrils with an intoxicating scent.
“I like this,” she said.
“We Germans know a few things about making cars,” he stated as he shut his door and pulled out onto the quiet street.
Suspicious that she was being followed, Adriana had previously gone into a local bookstore. It was one of the few retail places that stayed open until after eight in the evening. At the moment, there was no sign of her follower. She hoped her little ploy worked. She assumed that if someone were tailing her, they would go into the store and ask what she had been looking for or purchasing.
Martin weaved his way through the tiny streets of Wernigerode. It was a difficult thing to drive quickly through such a tightly packed area but her friend always managed to find a way to drive fast. A few minutes later, they arrived at a four-story building on the high end of the city, near the outskirts.
The building appeared to be nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, it looked like many other buildings and inns she had seen in that part of Germany. A metal sign hung from wrought iron over the entrance. The wording identified the place as The Strutthassel Inn. Below the name was a shield with red and white checkers and a knight’s helmet over top of it. Beneath the shield the year 1787 was inscribed.
Martin guided the Porsche around to the back of the inn, only shutting off the engine when he found a parking space away from the other cars. “Don’t want some buffoon to scratch it,” he explained.
“Of course not,” she laughed slightly.
Upon entering the establishment, Adriana felt like she’d walked through a portal in time. Ornate, wooden beams and lattices were everywhere. The concierge desk was simple but made from hand carved oak. Off to the right, through some double doors, the inn’s tavern was rife with the revelry of travelers and locals.
Wooden tables and chairs surrounded a bar, giving the feel of what a pub must have been like in the 18th century.
Martin led the way to the tavern and found a table in a corner near the back of the room. Before they sat down, a young blonde, blue-eyed waitress made her way over to take their order. Her traditional white dress and brown apron fit her body a little tighter than was probably worn during the 18th century.
“Zwei bieren, bitte,” Martin said to the girl before she could ask.
She smiled and walked away towards the bar.
“So, what was it your friend wanted?” he asked as he got comfortable.
She looked confused. “My friend?”
He nodded with a clever smile. “Ja, your friend who was watching you back there. What did he want?”
Adriana glanced around the room, not fully trusting the tavern’s crowd. “I’m assuming that he’s tracking me until I find what I’m looking for.”
“Ah,” he replied and sat back in his chair.
The waitress returned with a few tall glasses of foamy, golden lager. “Danke,” he said to her and took a large gulp of the beer. Adriana was less aggressive and took a few sips from hers.
“So, you need my help,” he set his glass down as he spoke.
“Direct and to the point. That’s one of the reasons I love you, my friend.”
His pale face beamed. “I know,” he said and held out his hands.
“And you are correct,” she continued. “I do need your help. But not in getting away from that parasite. I am looking for something that I believe you can help me find.”
“Und what would that be, mein frauline?”
“It’s a painting.”
“Ah, artwork this time. One of the things I like about being your friend is that I never know what you are going to be chasing down next. One week it’s a painting another week it’s some kind of ancient artifact.” He took another swig from his glass. “It keeps me on my toes trying to keep up with you.”
“I do whatever interests me at that moment. Right now it’s a painting.” She smiled and raised an eyebrow then took two big gulps of beer, nearly finishing the glass.
He nodded. Martin understood her, which was rare for a man. Most men were captivated by her beauty but were threatened by her flightiness and seemingly random activities.
“And who is the architect of your latest fancy?” he asked as he leaned forward like a child sharing a secret.
“Vincent Van Gogh.”
Her answer lingered in Martin’s mind for several seconds.
A door opened at the entrance of the tavern. An elderly man in a dark green sweater walked in and found himself a seat at the bar. Martin brought his focus back to the conversation with renewed attention with a laugh. “I’m sorry. For a moment there I thought you said Van Gogh.”
He returned to his beer and had another sip. Adriana stared at Martin, her expression unchanging. After a few seconds, he realized his companion was serious.
“Really? Well, my dear, you certainly have expensive and complicated tastes.”
She pushed a frayed black and white picture over to the other side of the table. “During World War II, you are no doubt aware that the Nazis confiscated a large percentage of Europe’s art.”