The Beautiful Brombo a “custom” tale by Paul Carter

by Paul Carter

We hung the Brombo the other day. It is a lovely piece, exactly what we were hoping for as a memento of our trip to Venice, and it looks great in the hallway. I had briefly flirted with the idea of acquiring a piece of renaissance artwork, but the idea was rejected on the grounds that the price tag was several times more than has ever been in the family coffers, and we had resigned ourselves to going home empty-handed.

We saw the painting on a stall in a crowded market on the very last day of our holiday, and it immediately caught our eye.  The man we needed to speak to was eventually located on the other side of the square, chatting with his girlfriend, but he was all ears the moment we told him we might be about to line his pockets with silver. The picture was stood in pride of place at the front of the stall, all the better for us to see it, and a lively and animated discussion ensued as to how much we should pay for it, eagerly watched over by the surprisingly large crowd which had formed out of seemingly nowhere.

I tried my best to beat him down, but Francesco wasn’t to be moved, the mob was on his side, and it wasn’t long before a deal was done at the original price and everyone was slapping one another’s backs and shaking hands

‘Itsa Brombo,’ Francesco said in explanation as to why he had stuck to his guns, and the crowd all nodded in agreement. I suggested that I hadn’t heard of Brombo before, but everyone expressed their complete surprise at my ignorance.

‘Da Vinci,’ they said. ‘Rembrandt, Picasso, Dali, Brombo. Ofa course you’ve aheard of him,’ they laughed.

I sighed in defeat, but as I was pulling my cheque book out of my pocket, Francesco put a hand on my arm.

‘Contanti,’ he smiled at me.

It had never occurred to me that a cheque wouldn’t cut the mustard and that we had been negotiating for folding stuff. I battled my way out of the assembled throng, found my way to the nearest ATM and dialled in the required amount. To my dismay, the computer said ‘No’, and then reminded me that, just in case I lost my card or had it pinched, I had put a very modest limit on withdrawals before setting out on our voyage of exploration across the world.

Most people come away from Venice knowing where all the churches, museums and art galleries are. I came away knowing where all the ATMs are, and I crisscrossed the city of canals back and forth to find them all and collect from each of them the modest amount that they were prepared to hand over.