Botticelli Blue Skies: An American in Florence

39. Picasso in the Dustbin, Windmills on the Wall

On Saturday morning Joe calls me to the window. I have been writing e-mail letters home to my children and sister and have just called the Compuserve phone number in Rome. I am counting the scatti as they click by in rapid fire while I am waiting for the “connected” signal to appear on my computer screen. “Come right now,” says Joe, and I jump up, thinking the Mafia bus must be passing at this unlikely hour or that a monster has risen straight out of the Arno. As I approach the living room window, Joe says, “ A woman just dropped a painting in the dumpster out there, a big framed painting, and then she jumped in her car and drove away.” “And?” “Well, I know you don’t like the decorations in this apartment very much. . . . “ “And?” “I thought you might want to go down and look.” “You want me to go hunting in the garbage? I thought you don’t approve of me doing that sort of thing.” “Well, I thought you might want to see what she put in there.” “What if someone sees me?” 195 39 Picasso in the Dustbin, Windmills on the Wall I don’t even want my husband watching. I still remember, all too clearly, the magazines-in-the-trash episode and how Joe responded to it. I prefer to be alone when I pick up discards. Still, I get my key and tell him I’ll be right back. The tiny elevator carries me down. On the first floor landing I smell the aroma of vegetable soup coming from Signora Carezza’s apartment. The garbage dumpster is just across the road from our outer gate; at least I should have remembered to take down our own kitchen trash. Even when I tie it up in a plastic bag and leave it directly in front of the door, I tend to forget to take it down when I go out. The dumpster (what Cornelia calls a “dustbin”) is a large blue metal container on wheels; it has the distinct advantage of being able to be opened by a foot pedal. I put my weight on the pedal, and the lid flies up. I peer over the edge. Sure enough, there’s a large framed painting inside, sitting on top of the bags of trash. I haul it out. It’s heavy, I have to use two hands (and still keep my foot on the pedal). For a moment I fear my keys will slip out of my right hand and fall to the bottom of the garbage heap. But I manage to hang onto my keys and keep my grip on the painting , too. It’s a Picasso, of course. If you’re going to find a painting in the trash, it might as well be a Picasso. This one is a charcoal drawing of Don Quixote (with his sword and shield) and Sancho Panza, both slumped on their nags, on their way down the hill to where the windmills sit. It’s a portrait of two adventuresome souls, like Joe and me these days. And, like us, they go on, exploring the world, looking a little dopey, a little bedraggled. Providence must have sent me this picture. I hoist the painting in my arms and glance up toward our apartment . Joe is out on our kitchen terrace watching me. Why doesn’t he come down and carry this! Now I begin to worry about why it was left here. Why would anyone throw away a beautifully framed-behind-glass print? Unless, maybe it isn’t a print. Maybe it’s a stolen original. Maybe this is a drop-off point for hot merchandise and in one minute the pickup guy will be coming along to get it. He’ll find me here with it, stealing it, and he’ll mow me down with a machine gun! No wonder Joe sent me down and Merrill Joan Gerber 196 197 Picasso in the dustbin stayed safely upstairs. No wonder he’s watching from up there, in case he has to wave his final good-bye to me. I had better make my getaway while I can. If I’m murdered, Joe will never find our plane tickets in the cereal box and will never get home to our daughters. He won’t have any money left, either, since whatever traveler’s...