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her a cup of coffee, which she accepted but didn't really want, and soon it came down to the business at hand.
For quite a while, longer than she should have, Daisy sat there peering at the gold piece in absolute awe, her blue eyes bugging out of her head like inflated sapphires. An 1822 United States five-dollar gold piece! And it was better than the last one that had sold for almost $700,000! Wow!
“I took it to Milan, to a friend of mine,” Raphael said, “and he confirmed that it was genuine. There should be no problem.”
Daisy set the coin down carefully on the desk pad, sat back, and asked the art dealer how he had acquired the it. After all, she couldn't help but be a little skeptical; there were only three known, two of them in the Smithsonian, the other being a choice very fine. So this one, almost uncirculated, would be the fourth.
“The whole story is intriguing,” Raphel began, leaning forward. He adjusted his wire-rim glasses and looked at her unflinchingly, not blinking at all. “The half eagle, as you call them, came from the United States, from a man who lives in Kentucky. Lexington, to be exact. He is a breeder of racehorses and, I understand, one horse that he sold at a yearling sale there actually won a Grade 1 stakes race in New York. Anyway, he is very successful. He does not collect coins, I must tell you that. But he does collect art. He prefers paintings by the masters and he can easily afford to buy them too.
“He accepted this 1822 half eagle as payment for a royally bred yearling and then, when he found out through an agent that I had an unlisted Caravaggio for sale—well, that was it! He had to have it.” Daisy felt a tickle in her throat but squelched the urge to cough. “I say 'unlisted' because the painting, a lovely piece of work entitiled Cristo Nell' Orto from about 1605, was believed to have been destroyed in Berlin in 1945 with the end of the Third Reich.
“So, I took the coin in trade along with an undisclosed amount of cash for the Caravaggio....I have doubts now. I mean, I believe I could have got more for the painting at auction but I turned it over very quickly. Really, it was just good business.”
That evening, Daisy sat at an outdoor café in the Piazza San Marco with Ferdinando, the gondolier. She was gazing absentmindedly at the lovely pink sky when he called her back to reality.
“So, Raphael is going to phone you tomorrow morning?”
“He said he would, yes,” Daisy replied, reflecting now on her day. “It would have been so nice to get an answer this morning. Now my whole night is up in the air.”
“'Up in the air'? How do you mean?”
“I'll have it on my mind,” Daisy explained. “It may worry me not kowing whether Mr. Domanico will let my company sell his coin.”
“Up in the air!” Ferdinando laughed. He raised his fist to heaven. “That is a spectacular expression which I am going to remember!”
In the background, a fine young band was playing an instrumental, mostly in strings, entitled Tanto Mi Trovo. It was somewhat of a Venetian love song and its lulling sounds lilted lazily across the patio like meandering little butterflies.
“Do you come here often?” Daisy asked, leaning forward and setting her arms on the table.
“Only with someone like you,” Ferdinando told her with a smooth smile.
He was even more handsome in the evening, Daisy mused. His eyes were like gems that could see through her and maybe even cast spells! The dimples on either side of his mouth were enough to make her swoon. She wanted to believe that she could find romance in a city like Venice, that she could just come upon it and that it would happen magically. But she had her doubts. She wondered how many other women Ferdinando had brought here for a cocktail under the dreamy Venetian sky while the band played on. She carried her suspicion over to the 1822 United States half eagle she had examined that morning. It appeared to be real and she was certain it would be authenticated. Nonetheless, there was something about this whole business that was bothering her.
Just a moment after the slick waiter had set another strawberry daiquiri in front of her, Daisy was part of one of the most ebarrassing scenes she could ever imagine. A woman—a very angry one—trounced up to where they were seated, planted her hands on her hips, and glared at Ferdinando. She was quite beautiful, with lovely long curly hair, but her face was the color of a ripe tomato and her eyes were on fire. She asked Ferdinando what he thought he was doing, and with her, meaning Daisy. Daisy felt like crawling under the table. The patio was packed and she'd never felt so centered out in all her life. She wanted to get up and leave but she stayed to witness the conclusion. The Italian beauty smacked the gondolier across his brown handsome face and stomped away across the patio like a summer storm.
Ferdinando, who was speechless for a moment, quickly gathered his wits and apologized. “I am so sorry, Daisy. It is her. She...”
But Daisy wouldn't let him finish. “Please,” she said, “don't say another word. I understand, you don't have to explain. I think you ought to go home now. Hopefully, she'll still be waiting for you.”
On the plane back to the United States, Daisy sat there at 35,000 feet mulling over the deal she had made with Mr. Domanico. It was a coup to be sure. She had already called the director of sales for the auction firm and he was thrilled to say the least. He was going to begin the publicity at once. She swallowed a couple of times to relieve the bit of pressure in her ears and set her head against the back of the seat. She was tired but she couldn't sleep. With the thrum of the jet engines some of the passengers had dozed off. From the corner of her eye, she peered at the elderly woman beside her; she was snoring quietly, with her head tipped down and her glasses almost falling off her nose. As successful as the trip had been—romance aside—Daisy still felt the turn of events was too good to be true. It was that Ferdinando, she told herself with a twisted little smile; he's made me feel insecure about the sincerity of human nature.
The day before the auction company was to send Daisy with the 1822 United States half eagle to a third party to have it authenticated and graded, they got a phone call from Mr. Domanico in Venice. He wanted the coin back.
It turned out that the painting for which he'd taken the coin as part payment, Caravaggio's Cristo Nell' Orto, was a fake.
End
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For quite a while, longer than she should have, Daisy sat there peering at the gold piece in absolute awe, her blue eyes bugging out of her head like inflated sapphires. An 1822 United States five-dollar gold piece! And it was better than the last one that had sold for almost $700,000! Wow!
“I took it to Milan, to a friend of mine,” Raphael said, “and he confirmed that it was genuine. There should be no problem.”
Daisy set the coin down carefully on the desk pad, sat back, and asked the art dealer how he had acquired the it. After all, she couldn't help but be a little skeptical; there were only three known, two of them in the Smithsonian, the other being a choice very fine. So this one, almost uncirculated, would be the fourth.
“The whole story is intriguing,” Raphel began, leaning forward. He adjusted his wire-rim glasses and looked at her unflinchingly, not blinking at all. “The half eagle, as you call them, came from the United States, from a man who lives in Kentucky. Lexington, to be exact. He is a breeder of racehorses and, I understand, one horse that he sold at a yearling sale there actually won a Grade 1 stakes race in New York. Anyway, he is very successful. He does not collect coins, I must tell you that. But he does collect art. He prefers paintings by the masters and he can easily afford to buy them too.
“He accepted this 1822 half eagle as payment for a royally bred yearling and then, when he found out through an agent that I had an unlisted Caravaggio for sale—well, that was it! He had to have it.” Daisy felt a tickle in her throat but squelched the urge to cough. “I say 'unlisted' because the painting, a lovely piece of work entitiled Cristo Nell' Orto from about 1605, was believed to have been destroyed in Berlin in 1945 with the end of the Third Reich.
“So, I took the coin in trade along with an undisclosed amount of cash for the Caravaggio....I have doubts now. I mean, I believe I could have got more for the painting at auction but I turned it over very quickly. Really, it was just good business.”
That evening, Daisy sat at an outdoor café in the Piazza San Marco with Ferdinando, the gondolier. She was gazing absentmindedly at the lovely pink sky when he called her back to reality.
“So, Raphael is going to phone you tomorrow morning?”
“He said he would, yes,” Daisy replied, reflecting now on her day. “It would have been so nice to get an answer this morning. Now my whole night is up in the air.”
“'Up in the air'? How do you mean?”
“I'll have it on my mind,” Daisy explained. “It may worry me not kowing whether Mr. Domanico will let my company sell his coin.”
“Up in the air!” Ferdinando laughed. He raised his fist to heaven. “That is a spectacular expression which I am going to remember!”
In the background, a fine young band was playing an instrumental, mostly in strings, entitled Tanto Mi Trovo. It was somewhat of a Venetian love song and its lulling sounds lilted lazily across the patio like meandering little butterflies.
“Do you come here often?” Daisy asked, leaning forward and setting her arms on the table.
“Only with someone like you,” Ferdinando told her with a smooth smile.
He was even more handsome in the evening, Daisy mused. His eyes were like gems that could see through her and maybe even cast spells! The dimples on either side of his mouth were enough to make her swoon. She wanted to believe that she could find romance in a city like Venice, that she could just come upon it and that it would happen magically. But she had her doubts. She wondered how many other women Ferdinando had brought here for a cocktail under the dreamy Venetian sky while the band played on. She carried her suspicion over to the 1822 United States half eagle she had examined that morning. It appeared to be real and she was certain it would be authenticated. Nonetheless, there was something about this whole business that was bothering her.
Just a moment after the slick waiter had set another strawberry daiquiri in front of her, Daisy was part of one of the most ebarrassing scenes she could ever imagine. A woman—a very angry one—trounced up to where they were seated, planted her hands on her hips, and glared at Ferdinando. She was quite beautiful, with lovely long curly hair, but her face was the color of a ripe tomato and her eyes were on fire. She asked Ferdinando what he thought he was doing, and with her, meaning Daisy. Daisy felt like crawling under the table. The patio was packed and she'd never felt so centered out in all her life. She wanted to get up and leave but she stayed to witness the conclusion. The Italian beauty smacked the gondolier across his brown handsome face and stomped away across the patio like a summer storm.
Ferdinando, who was speechless for a moment, quickly gathered his wits and apologized. “I am so sorry, Daisy. It is her. She...”
But Daisy wouldn't let him finish. “Please,” she said, “don't say another word. I understand, you don't have to explain. I think you ought to go home now. Hopefully, she'll still be waiting for you.”
On the plane back to the United States, Daisy sat there at 35,000 feet mulling over the deal she had made with Mr. Domanico. It was a coup to be sure. She had already called the director of sales for the auction firm and he was thrilled to say the least. He was going to begin the publicity at once. She swallowed a couple of times to relieve the bit of pressure in her ears and set her head against the back of the seat. She was tired but she couldn't sleep. With the thrum of the jet engines some of the passengers had dozed off. From the corner of her eye, she peered at the elderly woman beside her; she was snoring quietly, with her head tipped down and her glasses almost falling off her nose. As successful as the trip had been—romance aside—Daisy still felt the turn of events was too good to be true. It was that Ferdinando, she told herself with a twisted little smile; he's made me feel insecure about the sincerity of human nature.
The day before the auction company was to send Daisy with the 1822 United States half eagle to a third party to have it authenticated and graded, they got a phone call from Mr. Domanico in Venice. He wanted the coin back.
It turned out that the painting for which he'd taken the coin as part payment, Caravaggio's Cristo Nell' Orto, was a fake.
End
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Miss Daisy