Botticelli's Bastard

by Stephen Maitland-Lewis

  Botticelli’s Bastard

  by Stephen Maitland-Lewis

  Copyright © 2014 Stephen Maitland-Lewis

  All rights reserved

  ISBN 978-0-9915084-0-2

  LCCN 2014931314

  Smashwords Edition published by Glyd-Evans Press

  P.O. Box 14946 Portland Oregon 97293-0946 U.S.A.

  info@gepress.com

  Edited by Brad Schreiber and William Campbell

  Cover artwork by Alan Gutierrez

  Also by Stephen-Maitland-Lewis:

  Hero on Three Continents

  Emeralds Never Fade

  Ambition

  Print editions of this e-book are available

  Visit www.gepress.com

  No portion of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means, translated, transmitted, or stored in any information retrieval system existing or hereafter invented without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews.

  This novel is a work of fiction that contains references to well-known historical figures who are not participants in this fictional narrative and references to well-known historical events that did occur. Such references are included solely to provide a semblance of realism and are not to suggest the persons or events, as portrayed, are historically accurate or to suggest the persons took part in fictional events depicted in this novel. All other characters and events portrayed in this novel are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Smashwords License Statement

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  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Also by Stephen Maitland-Lewis

  About the Author

  This novel is dedicated, with affection, respect and gratitude, to my own Mr. Chips - Peter Waterfield - the headmaster of my English preparatory school. He imbued me with a love of history and literature and was the finest and most inspiring schoolmaster any young boy could ever have had.

  The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science.

  Albert Einstein

  Chapter 1

  Seated at the vanity in their bedroom, Arabella Fabrizzi faced the mirror as she selected jewelry to complement her evening gown and upswept dark strands. Consumed with herself, she failed to notice her husband’s troubled expression.

  Behind her, Giovanni stared into the mirror, first at her loveliness and then at his sagging face, that of a man thirty years her elder. His wife was the epitome of elegance, yet he felt his insides wither. She was still attractive to him, physically, as she had been a year ago. Many had teased him about taking a child bride, mostly other men, no doubt envious.

  The color drained from his face, washing away his normally dark, Mediterranean complexion, leaving him more the color of his graying hair and wispy beard.

  He watched in horror as Arabella cinched the clasp of a delicate bracelet with thin strands of gold and silver intertwined, circling a total of nine rubies.

  “I rather like the way it looks.” She raised her wrist to admire the jewelry. “I certainly hope you do.”

  He did not reply.

  She turned to him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Giovanni stared helplessly at her. He was speechless and she was puzzled, each waiting for the other to say something.

  “You’re upset,” she said. Then she noticed Giovanni looking down at her arm.

  “This?” She held her wrist high to display the bracelet.

  He turned away.

  “You gave it to me. You said I could wear it.”

  “You’re right,” he mumbled, avoiding her gaze. “I said that. I just didn’t know it would affect me like this.”

  “I don’t know why you’re holding on to it.” Her resentment grew stronger. “I mean, I know it makes you think of her, and then you get morose, and then you have no…” She began to remove the bracelet. “No passion. For anything.”

  “No, wear it.” Giovanni stopped her and tried to clasp the bracelet but his aging fingers could not manage.

  “No!” She pulled free and dropped the bracelet into a jewelry box on the vanity. “I can’t get you out of this flat, or your studio, so I go to these social events on my own. The least I was hoping for is that I could without you sulking, but I suppose that’s too much to ask.”

  Up from her seat, Arabella went to the closet and sifted through her coats, looking for one heavy enough to keep out the chilly London night.

  Giovanni felt helpless. “I know. I just cannot get rid of her things. Not all of them. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t want to go on like this.” She made an effort to contain her aggravation. “I think we need to see a therapist about this.” She threw on a coat, grabbed her keys to the Jaguar, and started downstairs. “You’re either married to me or to your memories, Gio. Not both.”

  *

  The next morning after breakfast together, during which nothing of substance was discussed, Giovanni kissed Arabella on the cheek, carried his dishes to the sink, and promised to be home by six o’clock.

  As he did each morning, Giovanni traveled by train to Green Park’s underground station where he joined scores of commuters pouring from the exit. Outside the station, he flung back his scarf and buttoned his overcoat, ready to endure the early drizzle. His fellow travelers hustled past, rushing about like sheep and scattering as each sought out their individual offices. How he hated his new daily routine.

  It was not his occupation, at which Giovanni excelled. The restoration of fine art was a craft passed down by his father, which Giovanni was equally pleased to pass on to his son, who oversaw the family’s operations in Florence. That he was among a family of talented conservators should be reason for pride, and it was. The part that gave Giovanni daily grief was the new location of his office. If his father were still alive, he would probably be dismayed as well.

  For decades, Fabrizzi & Sons conducted business in Soho Square, occupying the top floor of a building that had served it well since Giovanni’s father, Federico, had come to England and established the London branch of the world-renowned art restorers.

  Federico Fabrizzi soon established good relations with the National Gallery, the two major auction houses, Christie’s and Sotheby’s, and the curators of many of the major collections. It was not unusual for Federico and one of his assistants to disappear for weeks, traveling across the country to visit many of the great estates, where they would take up temporary residence and perform their craft.

  In time, Federico became a regular at Buckingham Palace and Windsor Castle, leading to further prestige when the fi
rm was granted the Royal Warrant, allowing the addition to its letterhead By Royal Appointment to His Majesty King George V. Similar honors followed from George VI and Queen Elizabeth.

  Eventually, Federico entrusted the London studio to Giovanni, who was proud to follow in this father’s footsteps. Father and son continued working side by side, but as the years passed, Federico split more of his time between London and Florence. Giovanni assumed that his father, in his later years, yearned for his homeland of Italy. After his father died, Giovanni entrusted his son to manage the Florence studio while he remained in London, where increasing pressure from clients demanded him to find a new location.

  Moving from Soho Square was not only a physical drain but an emotional nightmare. Giovanni felt it had been forced on him and that it was ultimately unnecessary. But the art business had changed. It had new blood, though that didn’t make it better. Young turks in St. James’s concluded that Soho Square was no longer a convenient place to have their artwork restored. They claimed that parking was difficult. The building, they insisted, was impossible to adequately secure against breakins. There was a constant risk of fire on account of the old wiring, and the potential for water damage due to the ancient pipes. Some of them had the audacity to present Giovanni with an ultimatum—Either move to safer premises or we are likely to take our business elsewhere.

  What a bloody nerve. The House of Fabrizzi had been in Soho for decades and never as much as a paintbrush had been stolen. When Giovanni told his neighbors in the building that he was seeking a new location, all were saddened by the news. Mr. Genaro, a restaurateur whose family had served the Fabrizzis lunch for decades, was inconsolable. Regardless, and against Giovanni’s futile protests, the auction houses prevailed. They demanded a modern studio and even suggested a site that suited their preferences.

  So Fabrizzi & Sons was forced to take residence at the corner of King Street and St. James’s. The new construction still smelled like the glue that held together all the granite, glass, and chrome. Ah, but it had, as the realtor pointed out with an air of superiority, all the latest amenities. Climate control, security cameras capturing every angle inside and out, bulletproof windows, and alarms with direct lines to Scotland Yard, Savile Row Police Station, Brinks Security, and likely, Giovanni surmised, to the Prime Minister himself. It was all too much. He hated it. It had no soul.

  A mere two miles away, Soho Square was such a different world. Even the Soho hookers and pimps, nightclub bouncers, strippers and drug dealers treated him with more warmth than the scarce few who might recognize him arriving for another day of work at the impenetrable St. James’s facilities.

  He thought of Beth, the hooker who worked the corner of Frith and Old Compton Streets. She had fallen in love with one of Mr. Genaro’s waiters. She had a nest egg built up over the years, so he quit the restaurant, she quit the corner, and they bought a coffee shop in the north of England. The last Giovanni heard, they owned three hotels and had a villa in Sardinia.

  Another of Mr. Genaro’s waiters had a son who qualified as a barrister and later became a high court judge. There was another, the son of the chef, who became a cabinet minister. Prestige didn’t keep them away from the Soho neighborhood, and their visits weren’t accompanied by displays of class difference or attempts to impose their superiority. They remained the same people just like everybody else. People who enjoy the simple pleasure of knowing a bit about each other’s lives.

  Then there was Harry, who had a stall at the Berwick Street Market. He always picked out the ripest fruit for Giovanni. And the French patisserie around the corner where he went every morning for a croissant; the newsagent on Wardour Street who stocked the Italian newspapers; the hefty bouncers who kept an eye on Giovanni when he got in or out of a cab, laden with paintings. The old neighborhood was a melting pot of big-time entertainment executives, the denizens of late night clubs, ballet dancers, and restaurant staff. In contrast, the St. James’s crowd was strictly business. They all dressed alike, talked alike, and few rarely explored the world outside their offices. Most of Giovanni’s fellow tenants were dour old men who couldn’t crack a smile if they tried. Thinking about it, perhaps he had become a perfect fit for his new neighborhood.

  As he did every day, from his wallet Giovanni pulled out a business card, on the back of which he’d written the long list of codes to gain access to the building and get into his studio. He had given up all hope of trying to memorize them.

  At the building’s entrance, there was a panel of buzzers for each business that shared the premises. Giovanni wanted to put up the old brass sign that was proudly displayed outside Soho Square for so many years, alongside King George V’s Royal Warrant, but the landlord had refused.

  Giovanni slipped his key into the lock and studied the business card with access codes. After punching in the required numbers, he waited for the green light and then turned the key. A buzzer sounded and the door unlatched. Past the threshold, he proceeded into the lobby as the heavy door swung closed and sealed out the world, along with any audible hint that it still existed. The white marble floor stretched out before him, flanked by barren gray walls. The sterile facility was devoid of art and furniture.

  At the elevator, again Giovanni had to study his card with access codes. Apparently, the fortress’s front entrance wasn’t enough to thwart intruders. Perhaps the developers should have added a moat.

  After mistyping the code and retrying without sounding any alarms, which as Giovanni had understood, would occur after three failed attempts, he boarded the elevator and ascended to the fifth floor. He was the only tenant on the floor. In fact, there was only one tenant for each of the seven floors. He had met most of them, but none were interested in pursuing a conversation of any length.

  At the door to his studio, another key and code were required. The light turned green, he turned the key, and he pushed his way in.

  No alarms yet, but Giovanni was greeted by the high shriek of warning that alarms would sound in sixty seconds if the proper codes were not entered. He moved quickly to the panel past the doorway, studied his list of codes, and silenced the annoying squeal.

  The glass-topped desk and chrome lamp gave the reception area a sleek and modern look. His secretary and bookkeeper, Mrs. Anderson, was not present as she only worked Fridays, so the room was dim and the computer on her desk was turned off.

  Bookcases surrounding the room were teeming with art books and endless archives relating to the many restoration commissions that Fabrizzi & Sons had completed over decades. In the center of one wall was a barred gate from floor to ceiling, beyond which was his work area. Another key and code opened the gate and again another alarm had to be disabled. Giovanni waved at the motion sensors and security cameras with the same contempt that he had greeted those in every corridor since the building’s entrance.

  His workshop was fifty feet square with bulletproof windows that overlooked St. James’s Street. Instead of the homely wooden floors of Soho Square, with the cracks that Giovanni found charming, the marble floor was like glass, the walls were bright white, and small spotlights shone down from the dark void above. Of all Giovanni despised about his new quarters, he had to admit the lighting was an improvement, as it aided his restoration work. Two large easels were stationed in the center of the room, and a large oak table along one wall was stocked with brushes, paints, oils, and other tools of his trade. An armoire on the opposite wall held more equipment.

  Giovanni took off his coat and scarf and hung them on the coat stand, which stood alongside the Fabrizzi & Sons sign that he was not allowed to display outside the building’s entrance. Next to that were the Royal Warrants and framed letters of appreciation from grateful clients, a number of whom included several monarchs, curators of the world’s major museums, and some of the most important collectors and dealers such as Paul Mellon, Baron Thyssen-Bornemisza, Lord Duveen, and others. He went to the armoire and turned on the stereo. He liked to work with music in the background a
nd chose one of his favorites, Vivaldi, to put his mind in a more relaxed state.

  Deeper in the room were two steel doors to the fireproof strong rooms. Each had a separate key and access code. In one of the strong rooms, Giovanni kept works in the process of restoration. In the other he stored those waiting to be restored and paintings of his own that he had collected over the years. As he did each morning, Giovanni unlocked both strong rooms.

  He went to the stereo and adjusted the volume, then into the kitchen and made a cup of espresso. After a few sips, he returned to the first strong room of work in progress and brought out the Pieter Brueghel that he had started months ago, and still it was not complete. It takes as long as it takes, he would tell the client and justify his procrastination, when really, deep down he knew the restoration was dragging out far too long. The turmoil of life delays such things, he would conclude, only further justifying his inability to finish the job.

  With great care as always, he set the Brueghel on the easel, then fussed with the adjustments until it was secure and positioned at the correct height. He fetched his stool, rolled his cart of tools closer, and sat facing the painting.

  Sweeping melodies of Vivaldi poured from the stereo as Giovanni worked on the Brueghel, concentrating his tiny brush on one little square after another, bringing the color of each back to life. The process of improvement was tedious, but it energized Giovanni to engage in the gradual transformation, leading to the ultimate triumph when he would present the fully restored work to the museum, collector, or dealer and watch their smile stretch wide.

  Lost in his work, all sense of time vanished, and Giovanni became detached from reality. Enough so that it took him a minute to realize the telephone was ringing. He kept working, thinking that Flavio would get the phone as usual. But reality came crashing back—his assistant Flavio was in Florence, helping restore a large canvas. Giovanni knew that. He was lost indeed, to have forgotten that he was alone in the studio that day.