The Collector

Tales Of The Ragamuffin War

1836

Don Roberto Pablo Carlos Dalecazi was a collector.

He had precisely fifty-seven pieces of China that were painstakingly crafted with little red roses. He should have had fifty-eight pieces, but the blasted maid dropped a dessert dish. He could have replaced the dish, but replacing the maid was far easier. There were precisely Seventy-five pieces of gold cutlery. He knew this because he trusted his wife, another jewel in his small empire, to count them.

Within his home, there were twenty-five paintings. Each one from an artist that he was sure would become the next Botticelli.

There were 235 books, all first editions, because, in Don Dalecazi’s opinion, why read a book unless you are among the first to read it, even if it was a classic? Except for the copy of The Divine Comedy that was once owned by Lorenzo the Magnificent or so the old shopkeeper told him. But then again Don Dalecazi never questioned how many Medici relics came into the possession of the little old man who had no noble standing. Still, Don Dalecazi, considered the book to be his prized possession and would sooner have left his wife in Italy than to abandon it when they fled. That was why his most prized possession was encased in glass, perched atop an ornate table in between two brass candle holders that dripped with crystal tears (of which he owned eight).

But what Don Roberto Pablo Carlos Dalecazi liked to collect most of all was people. He loved people. Though they could be a bit unpredictable, they were ever so useful. And it was this collection of friends that Don Dalecazi could call upon whenever he needed them.

There was Signor Vega, the customs official who always looked the other way when certain ships of interest came into port. It was Don Dalecazi’s honor to have introduced Signor Vega to his beautiful wife after all. The least he could do was let a few import taxes slide.

There were at least three Brazilian noblemen in his debt. Who, at the snap of the fingers would come running to his aid. Don Dalecazi learned a long time ago that it pays to be discreet, and it was that discretion that allowed him to take care of the noblemen when they needed it the most.  

He could never forget about General Benito Gonclaves, the general from the south who was all too happy to provide Dalecazi with whatever treats he wanted from the south. Only, the general was getting a bit too noisy. Don Dalecazi did not like noise unless it came from the harpsichord in his parlor. Of which he only owned one, it was a one-of-a-kind piece after all.

The crowning jewel of his collection though, was the entirety of the Young Italians. The young men from the fatherland that found themselves in exile. They looked to him as if he were their father and that was worth more than any collection, even his rare buttons, of which he owned fifty-six. He counted all the young men in his employ. All, except one, Luigi Rossetti.

Though Signor Rossetti was fond of Don Dalecazi, he alluded to being collected by the Don. Rosetti never needed anything, he was furiously self-sufficient. He had no desire for the finer things in life and everything that he owned, he worked for. Sure, Rossetti always accepted his dinner invitations, but the young man