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In Search of Machiavelli
(And in Niccolo's memory, born 551 years ago today)
News reaches Van Stein and me about a region of Tuscany called
Valley of the Lunigiana (translation: Moon
Valley), where ancient folk—the Luni—worshipped
the moon.
So of course we hurl across the Atlantic, in January as usual, but
with a new twist: No full moon; in fact, no moon at all (the new moon phase) when angels and devils come out to play in the darkness.
A bounce into esoteric
realism.
We'd traded clear skies, sunshine and warmth for full gloom: a London that bursts with people from everywhere, its population
swelling each hour despite congestion charges, standing-room-only subway
trains, leeching prices and edginess.
First stop: The
Providores, a kiwi hole-in-the-wall on Marylebone High Street, best cappuccino in town.
A woman
goes postal when a young man tries to walk out with her purse, over which he
has draped his jacket, but it falls to the floor when he loses his grip.
“You’re trying to steal my purse!” she shrills.
“You’re trying to steal my purse!” she shrills.
He snarls, beats a hasty exit.
The first devil.
London darkens about four
o’clock.
Van Stein, as always, is the
decoy, a suspicious-looking character scouting angles while I utilize darkness
and shadow to maze my way to Home-House, a private club, for surreptitious
meetings, followed by another covert rendezvous in the old Churchill Hotel’s
cigar bar, where an attractive female pianist croons Carole King and James
Taylor.
Come morning, Starbucks on Baker Street, an outdoor
table in dank drizzle to evoke a sense of place; watching, like Sherlock
Holmes, commuters on foot; engaged by a torpid American traveling salesman who
claims to be waiting for a luggage shop to open up so he can buy what he needs
to lug his wares around on wheels.
“Another spy,” whispers Van Stein. “I’ve seen him before.”
We dry-clean our tracks before wheeling to Luton
Airport, quiet and deserted this time of year.
EasyJet plunks us hard onto the tarmac at
Nice-Cote-d’Azur, where the Det Collector
stands by to motion us into the Principality of Monaco. 
Enter JL, a new recruit to our surreal bouncing. He has requisitioned a Mercedes with 007 plates for our imminent road trip to Moon Valley.
JL could not understand our need for a violin, but found one anyway, so that Anjelika could pose with it for the artist.
Anjelika?
A
charismatic Russian “half-and-half”—part Chinese extraction—who answered a
classified ad I cannot recall placing.
The first
angel. Or second devil posing as an angel?
A spy, perhaps; if no one else’s—I rationalize—mine to
recruit.
Onto Le Beefbar, where Van Stein meets Anjelika and
approves my choice for violin model.
We
also agree she should join us for whatever lunacy awaits in the Valley of the
Lunigiana.
