The small engraving on the brass plaque said, Winter Landscape with Bird Trap and Skaters. Pieter Brueghel the Younger, 1605. N.27. – MDCV.
Elena looked at the painting for a few minutes, struck by its beauty and even more by the vague sense of disquiet that emanated from it on a second glance, after the initial feeling of serenity and cheer shared by the oblivious skaters had passed.
She went downstairs to the kitchens. The light was on.
Ada was making herself a hot drink.
‘Looks like we both had the same idea.’
‘It’s herbal tea. Would you like some?’
They smiled at each other in the dim glow of the light over the sage green table.
‘Roberto told me you live here.’
Her eyes replied yes, as she brought the cup to her thin lips.
‘And that your daughter comes to see you.’
Ada swallowed imperceptibly.
‘Three times a week. My ex-husband has custody.’
She nodded slowly as something in her thoughts clouded over her eyes. Elena intercepted the emotion, a kind of wave coming through the air, and changed the subject.
‘One thing I really haven’t understood is your duties. Sorry to ask, but since I arrived this morning, I’ve lost track…’
Ada stared at the table as she collected her thoughts.
‘I started out taking care of the villa. As you can imagine, it’s not an easy task.’
‘How long have you been living here?’
‘Four years.’
‘That’s ages.’
‘My little girl has grown up.’
‘And what else did you take care of?’
‘I helped Carlo with all the things he didn’t want to do himself. Towards the end he was very tired and demoralised.’
‘In part because of the publishing house.’
Ada nodded without making eye contact.
‘So, Carlo…did he ever talk to you about Roberto?’
‘Hardly ever. The subject was off-limits.’
‘And about his wife?’
‘Very little. I only know she wasn’t an easy woman.’
They fell silent. Then, as Elena got up to leave, Ada said, ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Has Roberto ever talked to you about something that happened in the summer of ’81? Some kind of significant episode?’
Elena reflected.
‘Not that I can think of. Why do you ask?’
‘It’s a silly thought. Upstairs, in the archive, I noticed that was the summer Carlo stopped filming their family holidays.’
‘He used to film Roberto?’
‘Him, the family…with an 8 mm. The last ones are of a family holiday in the mountains in the summer of ’81. There aren’t even any photos from later years. As though he suddenly no longer felt like it. But Anna didn’t die until February 1982…Never mind. It’s probably insignificant.’
8
The blue sedan that the lawyer Ciprini had sent for them did not come into the yard. It stopped in front of the main gate, where it would not block the footpath. Even though it had begun to rain. This practice had been established long before: the driver employed by Beltrami Publishing, Signor Germani, had been instructed by Carlo in person to stop out the front, and since nobody had told him otherwise he continued to do so. Roberto, Elena and, behind them, Ada were waiting for him. The driver did not have time to get out and open doors for them: they bustled themselves in without standing on ceremony.
It took more than an hour to reach the notary’s office, in a backstreet hidden in the spider web of alleys and laneways that makes up the historic, and betrayed, heart of Milan.
For almost the entire trip the passengers were silent. It went against Signor Germani’s nature to keep quiet, accustomed as he was to making conversation with his boss, but it seemed impossible to make any connection with the son. Elena was silent. Ada was silent, though she did not wish to be. Roberto was silent, staring out into the distance through the car window.
By the time they entered the courtyard of the building at number 15 the rain had stopped. The gilded Vanni nameplate was prominent above the main door of the building, and by the central staircase, and at the entrance to the notary’s rooms. All these nameplates led them directly into the arms of an elegant and anonymous fifty-year-old secretary, who smiled pleasantly but without emphasis, a generic smile prepared in advance. She took them down a corridor with several offices coming off it, each with a dark wooden door, closed. From this angle the notary’s rooms could have been mistaken for a discreet 1930s bordello.
The correct room was at the far end. Ciprini was already seated at the table. Next to him was the notary. He was young. A neat but fashionable haircut, in keeping with his light-sensitive spectacles and silk suit. Only his yachting tan clashed. His smile was identical to the secretary’s. It seemed everyone smiled around here, other than Ciprini, who was quite tense and wasn’t attempting to hide it.
The man opened his file and then Roberto asked, ‘Shall we start?’
Ada took a small, worn and much-scribbled-upon diary from her handbag. Vanni opened an envelope and handed Roberto a photocopy of Carlo’s handwritten will.
‘When is it dated?’
‘If you look down the bottom you’ll find the date. It reached me a few days later. My official stamp and the envelope attest to that.’ Roberto flicked through the pages to check, as the notary began reading, so he missed the first few lines.
‘…my entire collection of books, historic films and my archive of non-personal letters and documents pertaining to my work as a publisher and preserved at Beltrami Publishing, within the Ernesto Beltrami Cultural Foundation…’
Elena looked at Roberto and he leaned towards her and whispered in her ear, ‘That’s the foundation my grandfather created in the 1970s.’
Ada jotted something down, just in case.
‘I hereby leave all my other possessions, including my material goods, financial assets, the contents of my safe deposit box—for which he has provided the codes in a separate envelope—full ownership of Beltrami Publishing, of Villa Beltrami, of the agricultural properties, to my son Roberto, to dispose of as he chooses…’
A solemn expression of triumph formed on Roberto’s face. It was spontaneous, slipping past the iron control he always exercised over his emotions. Elena was probably the only one to notice it, and she returned it to him with a look of love.
‘…with the exception of those farmlands in Tuscany still in my possession at the time of my death. I wish these to be put on the market under the management of my lawyer Mr Ciprini, who will see to it that they are sold to the highest bidder. The entire proceeds are to be transferred to Rosa Slat, née Lines, born in Rovereto on 12 October 1946, to the exclusion of any direct or indirect heirs or other relatives—the account details are provided in a separate envelope to be passed on to Mr Ciprini so that he can take care of the transaction.’
Roberto stiffened: the contraction of his face that erased any hint of lightness was like a giant wave sweeping away an entire coastline.
The notary took the envelope from the folder and handed it to Ciprini, who leafed through the pages and then asked, ‘There’s only the account number here. The address is missing. Do you have any other documents?’
‘No, that’s all there is. But I haven’t finished yet.’
He cleared his throat, as though he knew that the next point was going to alarm those present.
‘The transfer of the sum due to the aforementioned Rosa Slat is binding and it is to be completed as a priority, before transfer of property and other assets to my son and only heir, Roberto Beltrami. This last will and testament as laid out by the undersigned Carlo Beltrami, being of sound mind, must only be executed upon completion of the above transfer of funds.’
Roberto sat up straight, composing himself. Elena, like the others, glanced around her in confusion. She looked anxiously i
nto Roberto’s eyes but got no response. She slumped back in her chair, unsure what to think.
‘Finally,’ Vanni added, smiling—perhaps channelling the commedia dell’arte character imposed on him at birth—‘the painting Winter Landscape with Bird Trap and Skaters, attributed to the workshop of Pieter Brueghel the Younger and dated 1605, which has until now hung in my study at Villa Beltrami, is to be donated to the Rovereto City Museum, with the only proviso that a secure and appropriate spot must be found for it to go on display to the public. The painting will leave our house, just as I leave this life.’
It took Roberto a few seconds to understand: he brought one hand over his eyes and doubled over. He collected himself almost at once, shaking his head in disapproval.
‘He must have gone mad.’
A disdainful smile crossed his face. That painting, which his mother had wanted and loved so much, was to be taken from him just like that, because of an incomprehensible whim.
Vanni crossed something off his page of notes, reordered the original documents and put them away, and then took out another piece of paper.
‘Your father was a very precise man, and left nothing to chance,’ he said with a little cough. ‘For this reason, when I told him that in order to make his will impossible to contest he would need to write it with his own hand and undergo a full assessment, he seemed very happy.’
Roberto and Elena looked at him blankly.
‘Here is the psychiatric assessment that your father passed on to me the following week.’
They all sat in silence, nobody making eye contact. Then Roberto turned slightly and said, ‘Absolutely fine. We’ll wait for the donation to be completed. However, this will take time, Ciprini, and for the publishing house…’
The lawyer exchanged a long look with Ada.
‘You can appoint a proxy, authorising us to undertake the search for Signora Slat, assuming she’s still alive. It won’t take long. In the meantime, we’ll proceed with the other provisions of the will.’
Vanni nodded.
‘Unless you know her Roberto? Signora Slat.’
They all looked at Roberto, who was lost in thought, his eyes on the documents in his hands.
‘Huh? No, never heard of her.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘All right. We’ll take it from here. Her account number should make it easy enough to trace her. Two days at most.’
Shortly afterwards they were back in the street. It was still raining —with little conviction now, but the city was still covered with the patina of confusion and dissonance that the rain seemed inexplicably to have caused.
Roberto and Elena walked together, with Ada a few metres ahead. Roberto, livid and absorbed, was silent, his eyes burning. Elena tried to engage him, without success. There was something cryptic about the whole situation, something beyond words, beyond Carlo’s last wishes, beyond her partner’s uncompromising character.
‘Who is that woman?’
He ignored the question. Elena went to step in front of him to cut him off, oblige him to respond. ‘What do you think you’ll do?’
‘What do you want me to do? We have to wait. Ciprini will take care of finding her.’
‘But we can’t stay on here.’
‘You can go back if you like. I have to stay.’
That was when Elena leapt in front of him. ‘You still don’t get it? You’re the one who has to get out of this place. As soon as possible.’
‘Why? There are legal procedures that need to be followed. Unless you can see something I’ve missed?’
Without waiting for a reply, he continued walking.
‘I’ve got a strange feeling about this, Roberto.’
‘We just have to let our feelings go.’
‘Including the feelings between us?’
Roberto did not turn towards her as she would have liked him to.
‘Everything is different here,’ Elena said, confused, as though contributing to another, unspoken, conversation.
‘As soon as they’ve found her, I’ll be able to come home. It’s as simple as that.’
‘And the painting?’
‘It’s very valuable.’
Elena looked into his eyes. Finally, Roberto seemed to come back to life. His features became discomposed, seeming to crumple as he lowered his eyes to protect himself. In that crack she recognised the good, shy, quietly powerful man whose intricate depths she thought she knew.
‘The painting reminds me of my mother.’
They had now arrived at the car, but Elena stopped still, muttered something to herself and then said in a louder voice, ‘I’m going back alone.’
‘What?’
Ada was already sitting in the car. Roberto, about to get in, was holding the door open. He turned to look at Elena, who took a step backwards.
‘I’ll get a taxi back.’
Ada stared at her, repressing her surprise.
‘I need a little fresh air.’
Ada nodded and gave the signal to the driver; they pulled away as soon as Roberto, without answering, had slammed his door shut.
Elena stood in the rain and watched the blue sedan slowly drive along the flooded, car-clogged street. The air now seemed to her heavy with crashes and distorted noises.
They were thoughts.
As though they had exploded inside his head, Roberto tried to put them back together, but the pieces would not match up.
Maybe Elena was right. Maybe all that was necessary was to get out of the situation. He wondered what would be so terrible, so humiliating about choosing escape. And yet he knew he was not going to do it. Just as he knew that this brand-new preoccupation, this shadow that had to be sought out—God knows where, up in the mountains that had betrayed them all—was simply the final punishment, the long shadow of another shadow, an indelible one. Once again, he wondered from whom it was possible to ask forgiveness. Even after all this time, he had never found an answer.
Signor Germani was peering at Roberto in the rear-vision mirror. It seemed a waste to be here with the man on whom the survival of the business depended and not to say something.
‘You’re an art expert, is that right?’
‘Yes, I deal in old paintings.’
The man smiled, pleased. ‘I’m interested in art too, you know?’
‘Really?’
The man at the wheel nodded, a little mysterious.
‘I did some courses at the university a few years ago. I even sat some exams. My wife has always said it’s my only obsession, ever since we met.’
‘So it’s serious then?’
‘Very serious. I even wrote a thesis on Millais’s Ophelia. Do you know it?’
‘Yes, I know it.’
‘Well, I think it’s marvellous! I can’t tell you how many hours I’ve spent looking at that painting.’
‘You’ve been to the Tate Gallery, then?’
The man candidly shook his head. ‘No, sir, I meant in books. I looked at photos of the painting.’
He seemed a little disappointed. As though his enthusiasm had been dashed by that shortcoming. Roberto tried to make amends.
‘You did the right thing. Certain paintings are better in reproduction than in real life. And it’s better for studying them.’
‘I just love photos of paintings. I still spend ages at it! There’s something hypnotic about it.’
Roberto studied him in the mirror. Around sixty years old, the driver had a time-worn face. And his body, overweight, was that of an old man. And yet there was a light in his eyes, a sparkle of childish vivacity sufficient to overcome any toil—perhaps even any pain.
‘If you don’t mind my asking,’ the driver said, ‘have you thought about what a great art publishing house Beltrami could become? It has everything it takes to be the best of the lot, you know? The printing works, the archive, editorial team…’
Ada, who meanwhile was putting her notes in order, looked up at the ma
n with a smile that was mocking without being cruel.
‘If I had the money I’d buy it. I swear! To produce art books. The most beautiful ones in the world.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘You’ve got it all. Experience, expertise, funds. And the business itself.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Roberto repeated, to shut down the conversation.
Germani turned on the radio and a diabolical burst of brass instruments filled the vehicle.
Shortly afterwards, Roberto raised his voice. ‘Excuse me. Excuse me!’
Roberto waved his telephone and took the call, holding the device close to his ear as the driver turned the volume all the way down.
‘So? How did it go?’
‘Fine. It’s practically all mine, Adrian.’
‘So when are you coming back?’
‘There’s still one small problem.’
His associate at the other end of the line held his breath in expectation.
‘We have to wait for them to trace someone. It will take a few days.’
‘Who?’
‘Don’t worry, it’ll be two days at the most.’
‘The main thing is that by the time you get back everything’s sorted out.’
‘It will be.’
‘I hope so…’
A car drew up behind them, travelling fast, and the sedan had to pull over suddenly. His associate continued talking.
‘I hope so too. News of the circumstances of your father’s death has now reached us here.’
‘What source?’
‘The newspapers. One of the usual lot wrote that a father’s suicide is less than ideal in a candidate for mayor.’
‘He didn’t commit suicide. He was very ill. His death was caused by his illness.’
‘You know how it is.’
‘They’ll write what they want.’
‘At this point, you should let the process take as long as it takes but come back without any baggage. Rumours about your past, your family, whatever…they could be more disastrous than a sex scandal.’
The Mountain Page 19
