Botticelli's Bastard

by Stephen Maitland-Lewis

  He put down his tools, then went to the stereo and muted the volume. The phone rang again as Giovanni reached for it.

  “Fabrizzi & Sons. May I help you?”

  “Giovanni, dear boy.” It was Martin Bryar, an English gentleman who had been a client for over a decade. “I have a request, and it is a bit different from the usual.”

  “Anything to help,” Giovanni said.

  “Well, I don’t require your excellent restoration skills this time. I know you have a considerable collection of art of your own. I have a nephew who is getting married, and I thought about buying him a painting for his new home.”

  “I see.” Giovanni smiled. “You aren’t asking me to sell my Titians or anything like that, I hope.”

  Bryar laughed. “No, Giovanni. I know you have a nice stockpile of paintings in your strong rooms. If there is something you can part with at a fair price, I would be very obliged. Dinner whenever you and Arabella can manage, too.”

  The mention of her name brought the sadness of their last encounter back to Giovanni. He shook it off.

  “Martin, you don’t have to take us out. God knows, you’ve brought me enough work over the years.”

  “But we haven’t seen you two in quite a while. Is everything well?”

  Giovanni could not find the courage to say anything about the widening gulf between him and his new wife, nor could he admit to the confrontation that had recently occurred, despite his need to address it in some way.

  “All is well,” Giovanni said. “You know, Martin, come to think of it, there are some items my father had stored in our Florence studio. I never did find out why he hadn’t stored them here in London. Anyway, they were shipped here after he passed away. I could look through those.”

  “Oh, Gio.” Martin Bryar became concerned. “I don’t want anything that might have sentimental value to you.”

  “Don’t worry about that. The shipment was a considerable collection, surprising really. Dozens of paintings, and most I haven’t even looked through yet. There’s probably one that will suit you and your nephew.”

  “There’s a good man,” Martin said. “Have a look at what you have, think about what you’d like for them, and I’ll come by at your convenience. You let me know. And dinner for the four of us. On me, I insist. All right?”

  Giovanni was struck by the second offer for dinner in the very same call. Martin was more than a client—he had become a friend, and here it was being demonstrated. His interest in Giovanni was sincere. But it only reminded Giovanni of how he had withdrawn from so many friends since his marriage to Arabella.

  “I look forward to seeing you,” Giovanni said, and he meant it. “I’ll call soon.”

  Off the phone, Giovanni sifted through a toolbox for a hammer and screwdriver. The crates that had belonged to his father were in the second strong room and most of them remained unopened. Not all were mysteries though. Many were labeled outside of each crate, which Giovanni had studied when the crates first arrived before the move to St. James’s. They were valuable and he would not be parting with any of those. However, deeper in the room were other crates that arrived at the same time, all without markings to indicate the artist or subject. One of them should do.

  The first crate he opened revealed a landscape. It was decent work, competent, and it was signed, but not by a recognizable talent that would garner much attention from a dealer or collector. The next two crates produced similar results, one of the paintings depicting a bridge over a river. Nothing of particular value, leading Giovanni to wonder why his father had collected them. Any of the three might please Martin Bryar, but having a greater selection to choose from would be best, so Giovanni continued sorting through the remaining unmarked crates.

  A crate leaning up against the wall was probably too large, but another crate hidden behind it looked a more appropriate size. Giovanni reached behind the larger crate and strained to slide the smaller one along the wall and into view. Then he laid it flat and used the screwdriver to pry open a small gap, bringing up the nail heads enough to get the hammer claw underneath. He worked the nails one after another, each squealing as they were pulled from the wood.

  Giovanni reached into the crate and slid the painting out, then removed the wrapping to discover a panel rather than canvas. He propped it upright atop the crate but the room’s light cast a glare across the face. He lifted it from the crate and shifted the angle so he could better study it.

  Clearly, the painting was old, evidenced by cracking of the paint in one corner. Giovanni judged the style to be Italian but it lacked an artist’s signature, so he couldn’t be sure. The subject of the portrait was an Italian, he was confident of that. A nobleman, probably early Renaissance. The subject’s haughty expression exuded supremacy, disdainfully proud of himself while looking down his nose at the inferiority of others, certain to find fault in anyone who dared to approach. Giovanni found it amusing that any artist would portray their subject, even if it were true, with such an air of arrogance.

  Beyond the pretentious subject, there was something impressive about the painting. Even though it was not signed, it had a fine style. Giovanni could not understand why the artist had not identified himself. Of course, an unsigned painting of any quality was worth less on the market. Perhaps this portrait, he thought, or one of the landscapes would please Martin and his nephew.

  Giovanni set the painting atop one of the crates and stepped back. The work looked less impressive from a distance. He started toward the bridge and river landscape to have another look at that one.

  Stepping away, he was stopped in his tracks by a guttural sound, like a man groaning. Giovanni whipped around.

  “Who’s there?” he demanded.

  Not a soul was in view.

  Giovanni seized the hammer and screwdriver, his only defense, and rushed out of the strong room. He scanned all directions but there was no one. He searched the reception area and then the kitchen, but still he found no one else present.

  He must be going mad. It was impossible for anyone to break in to this fortress, he concluded.

  Calmer, after convincing himself it was just the day’s strain, he went back to his work area. He approached the toolbox to put away the hammer and screwdriver, then rubbed the high bridge of his nose, massaging out the tension that had twisted his brain into a tight knot.

  Again he heard the groaning sound, but it was quieter.

  It was a human sound, Giovanni was sure. And it was not his imagination.

  He stood motionless, surrounded by the art. He slowed his breathing and listened.

  Another groan. It came from the second strong room.

  He crept closer, past the doorway, and scanned every corner of the strong room. There was no one, only the crates and the few paintings that he had pulled from them.

  Speaking Italian, an unseen voice said, “Get me out of this room. Please. I need light and air.”

  Giovanni bolted out of the strong room and then swung around. He stepped back, another and another step, staring at the open door to the strong room, until he backed into a wall and could go no farther.

  He advanced on the strong room door and slapped it shut, then dug into his pocket and pulled out keys to lock the door. Once secure, he hurried from his studio to the elevator and out of the building without activating any of the alarms.

  *

  Moving at a brisk pace along the sidewalk, Giovanni embraced the cold air, but out on the street without a coat drew attention from passing pedestrians, all of whom dressed appropriately for the chilly day and developing drizzle.

  The voice was right, whatever its source—he needed air. Giovanni certainly did. The cool weather was calming, and though he soon realized his lack of warmer clothing, he would not immediately return to the building. Not yet. It was all too strange.

  Giovanni’s thoughts were stuck on the language—Italian. His father spoke Italian, English, and some French, as did Giovanni himself. Perhaps that was it—Giovann
i himself—was urging for a needed breath of fresh air. It was possible, given the strain he was under, and the fresh air was helping to clear his mind. But doing so only opened the door to thoughts of the recently deceased.

  This must be what they call a psychic experience, he thought. Nothing like it had ever happened to Giovanni before. He did not believe in ghosts, at least, he didn’t want to. At that point he had to question his sanity, but then again, he had plenty of reasons to lack perfect mental health. He had lost his dear father, and then his first wife, Serafina. Any man would go mad. Her death had affected him deeply. He still could not part with her clothes, wanting to occasionally smell them and recall the warmth of her embrace, of course, only when Arabella was not present, and there was no risk that she might suddenly appear.

  After six months of wondering what to do with it, Giovanni had willingly given Serafina’s ruby bracelet to Arabella, but he had no idea how it would affect him. Seeing her wearing the bracelet brought it all back—like being forced to relive the agonizing loss of his beloved Serafina. He could not bear it.

  He knew his inability to release Serafina was threatening his marriage, even before the confrontation over the bracelet. Each day he was on the verge, inching closer to some horrible precipice, past which he would fall into territory that he could not recognize, and from which it might be impossible to recover.

  Giovanni realized—he had not secured the Brueghel. If the client knew, they’d have his head. He must return immediately to the studio.

  Chapter 2

  Giovanni unlocked the door to his studio and opened it slowly, afraid an intruder might leap out. There was no one in the reception area. He crept in and checked the kitchen next, saving his worst fear for last. There was no one in the kitchen, either.

  He gathered his courage, ready to dash for the toolbox and get the hammer, the screwdriver, anything, in the event an attack was imminent. There was no one in his work area, and the Brueghel was still on the easel. He breathed a sigh of relief.

  But his senses remained heightened—someone could be lurking in the shadows. Again he armed himself with the hammer and screwdriver, the only weapons available, however ridiculous, and searched every corner of his studio. There was no one.

  Back in his work area, he stared at the closed door to the second strong room, beyond which his madness began. Then he realized his tense grasp of the makeshift weapons, making his arms tremble.

  He felt like a fool.

  It was just one of those things, he told himself, whatever it was those things were, or could be. He dropped the tools in their box and went to the window overlooking St. James’s Street. The world outside looked okay. Normal as it should be. Any problem had to be inside—of him.

  On a desk near the window was a photograph of Giovanni with Serafina and their son, Maurizio, back when he was a cherubic, early teenager.

  Giovanni picked up the photograph and studied it, almost mystified by it. Serafina was more than beautiful—generous, caring, and the most understanding person he had ever known. Each day he woke to the truth—she was gone, well before her years. If only it were just a bad dream. But no, the cancer had run its horrifying course within a short six months, and her beauty was washed away to a sallow complexion. Toward the end, her eyes silently begged to be relieved of the misery.

  Maurizio came to London once during the time, trying to be as much help as he could, but when he was alone with his father, he crumbled, the tears unimpeded, and Giovanni found himself reassuring both his dying wife and his bereft son, yet feeling there was no one on earth to comfort him. Consoling friends would take him out to dinner, some of whom insisted on visiting Serafina, but as her stamina waned, both the doctors and Serafina decided it took too much energy to engage visitors.

  Giovanni fixed his gaze on the photograph. They were all smiling, happy, living a good life. It seemed so impossible, so distant, like a far-off cloud that might actually be a puff of smoke or nothing at all, just a trick of light.

  Gently, as if her image were alive and delicate, he set the photograph down and went into the bathroom. Over the sink he doused his face with cold water, again and again. To be in mourning was a natural thing, he convinced himself. But now he felt that he was losing a grip on what was real, and it was intolerable.

  He took a hand towel and patted himself dry, then saw himself in the mirror. His bulging eyes were those of a madman.

  He returned to the photograph and stared at the angelic image of his only son. He sat at the desk, reached for the telephone, and dialed the Fabrizzi studio in Florence.

  Flavio, Giovanni’s assistant, answered the call. Giovanni asked to speak with Maurizio and Flavio responded by asking how things were lately. Giovanni ignored the cordial small talk and again asked to speak with his son. Flavio went to fetch him.

  There was a long pause. Giovanni fully expected that Flavio would return to the line only to claim that Maurizio was too busy for calls, even one from his father. Which could actually mean, particularly calls from his father.

  Giovanni was surprised to hear his son’s voice, pleasant enough but also hurried, indicating that he was busy. Giovanni did not modulate his voice as smoothly as usual. He was relieved and went on to tell Maurizio how much he wanted to talk to him, and to know how he was doing, and how the progress was going with the large canvas that he and Flavio were restoring.

  “It’s going well, Papa,” Maurizio assured him. “We’ll be done on time, don’t worry.”

  It saddened Giovanni to imagine that his son only thought of his father as a boss, calling to check on the progress of a deadline.

  “That’s not why I called,” Giovanni said.

  There was another long pause.

  “Oh? Then what is it?” Maurizio asked.

  There was no simple way to tell him, in the middle of a busy workday, that his father feared he was going mad and that his life was coming apart, like an old crust of bread between one’s fingers. But something had to be said.

  “I just needed to hear your voice, Mau.” Giovanni had no idea how to speak to his son about his feelings. “I haven’t seen you in months, you know.”

  “I know. Are you well? How’s your work on the Brueghel?”

  “I’m not working,” Giovanni hesitated to reply. He reached for the family photograph and tilted it face down on the desk. “Things are not going well, Mau.”

  “Is it mother?” Maurizio asked.

  “Her absence is difficult to…” Giovanni couldn’t finish. Thinking of it was never pleasant, but voicing his pain only made it come alive.

  “But Arabella…” Maurizio let her name linger on the line, as if implying his stepmother should be the balm for his father’s sadness and that nothing else was needed.

  “It’s just hard,” Giovanni said. “I know you miss her too.”

  “Of course I miss her, Papa.”

  “Usually I’m all right, but the last couple of days, things have been bad.”

  There was another long pause. Giovanni gauged that his son was just as uncomfortable with their conversation.

  “I wish there was something I could do to help,” Maurizio said. He sounded small and pitiful, despite being in the prime of his life.

  “I think there is something,” Giovanni said. “You could come and stay with me. With us. For just a few days.”

  “Well, of course. But I should probably finish this project first. I can’t leave it all to Flavio.”

  “Maurizio.” Giovanni spoke with firm clarity. “It would mean a lot to me if you would come soon. I need to see you. It’s not something Arabella can help me with, if you know what I mean.”

  “Papa, can you tell me what it is exactly? Are you having trouble sleeping? Or is it just your mood? Is it something a therapist could help with?”

  Giovanni winced at the word therapist. He dreaded the idea—confide his darkest secrets in someone who quietly sat listening, asking how he felt, who then charged him an enormous sum of money
. It was not that therapy wasn’t useful. It just saddened him that he and Maurizio could not talk about Serafina’s death in any substantial way.

  “I know you have a commission to finish,” Giovanni said. “When you get that done, please consider coming for a few days.”

  “All right, but I think you should seriously consider the therapy idea.”

  “We’ll see how it goes. If it comes to that, I’ll give it some thought.”

  “Take care of yourself, Papa.”

  Giovanni hung up the phone and stared out the window at the gray sky. He was incapable of any further work that day.

  He carried the Brueghel to the first strong room, locked the door, and set the alarms of both rooms. After turning off the lights and activating the remaining alarms, he locked the office and started toward the elevator. Rather than going straight home, he decided to pay a visit to his old Soho neighborhood.

  *

  At his flat, Giovanni turned the key and stepped in. It was well after six o’clock as he had promised. Most every light was off, except for the kitchen. He guessed that Arabella would be there waiting for him, and she would not be happy.

  He hung up his coat and went to the liquor cabinet. He poured a scotch, not his usual drink, but it appealed to him at the moment. Standing before the cabinet, he relished the smoothness of it.

  He poured another two fingers and then turned on the stereo, put in a CD of Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony, and turned it up loud. He sat down on the sofa, in the dark, and let the music sweep over him. Eyes closed, he sipped his scotch.

  The room filled with light. With eyes adjusted to the dark, Giovanni had to squint, and then he saw Arabella across the room, hands on her hips, glaring at him.

  “Where on earth have you been?” she asked. “Look at the time. I called you at your studio and on your mobile phone, and you never answered.”