Botticelli's Bastard

by Stephen Maitland-Lewis

  The Count responded, “I do not know what else you are hoping that I might say.”

  Giovanni stepped closer to the portrait. “I want to know why there is this ever-expanding gulf between Arabella and me. You seem to be the expert on women. You tell me.”

  “Expertise is not required to see the problem.” The Count’s arrogance had reached new heights. “One must simply keep eyes wide open.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Giovanni was getting close to losing his temper.

  “It means,” the Count calmly explained, “that if your wife seems distant, and you are not making love to her regularly, and she invites a young, attractive man to your dinner party, that perhaps, just possibly, your eyes are closed. Are you blind?”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “How can you be so naïve?” the Count asked. “Have men become absurdly ignorant in the last few centuries?”

  “I won’t stand here and be insulted. Especially by an inanimate object.”

  “Oh no, of course not. You shouldn’t have to put up with the truth.”

  “Stop avoiding the question. Tell me!”

  “Your wife is having an affair with her young French friend.”

  Giovanni recoiled a step, speechless.

  “No man wants to be a cuckold, Signor Fabrizzi, but that is the truth.”

  Giovanni narrowed his eyes. “You vile, cruel man. Or whatever you are. You are so bitter, stuck in that painting, that your only entertainment is to fabricate malicious gossip and watch others suffer as a result. I may well give you away for free to my client.”

  “Signor Fabrizzi, please.”

  “Shut up!” Giovanni took the portrait from the easel and started toward the second strong room.

  “I am a witness,” the Count said. “You must listen. When you joined the servants.”

  Giovanni stopped. “The caterers?”

  “You stepped out to help them,” the Count explained, “and you left your wife alone with him. I take no pleasure in telling you this. They were in each other’s arms.”

  “Liar!” Giovanni continued into the strong room.

  “I have their words. He wanted to lay with her last night, but she was reluctant. He said, Don’t you want me anymore? And she said, Oh, François, you know I do.”

  Giovanni seized the crate where the Count would be spending some time. “You are sick and cruel, making up outrageous lies for your own twisted sense of pleasure. Go in your box and stay there.” Giovanni slid the portrait into the crate, wanting to shove it hard, but it was a work of art after all. His code of conduct would never allow anger to damage a piece, even when the work was vehemently despised and worthless.

  The Count’s muffled voice penetrated the wood. “You ask her. Go ahead. Don’t you want me anymore? Oh, François, you know I do. Ask her!”

  Giovanni locked the strong room, but the Count’s voice lingered in his skull.

  He pounded his fist against the metal door.

  “Goddamned liar!”

  He picked up the box of empty wine bottles and took them to the service elevator.

  *

  Giovanni tried to concentrate as he sliced mushrooms for the pasta he was preparing. The small kitchen of his flat was steamy and warm from the boiling noodles and simmering sauce, bubbling at an agreeably low rate. With each slice of mushroom, as the blade dropped, his mind would flop from the Count to Arabella and back again, as it had all afternoon since his confrontation.

  That she was gone when he arrived home didn’t help. But when she called, the sound of her voice reassured Giovanni. He did not mention anything about the day’s events in his studio, but he did ask why she was not home. Two of her girlfriends had arranged an impromptu dinner for a third who was feeling ill, and Arabella wanted to join them, to help out, to commiserate. She asked if Giovanni could manage dinner on his own, or go out, and to expect her later than usual.

  So there he was, home alone, making himself dinner. Normally, Giovanni wouldn’t have thought twice about such a turn of events. But as he sliced mushrooms and made a neat pile to dice into smaller sections, he couldn’t stop thinking about the Count’s vicious words. What if it were true? Giovanni would be devastated. But it couldn’t be true. The Count was pretentious, pompous, and self-serving. All he wanted to do was talk about his own adventures, probably all lies, and his cruel fantasy about Arabella was just another sensational tale. It had to be.

  After all, Giovanni thought, it was Arabella who had been so loving to him when he felt dead himself, barely able to get out of bed, for weeks after Serafina’s funeral. Arabella had been cheery, had come to his flat with food, and had invited him out to concerts. She had taken him to art openings that he would have normally attended, but after his tragic loss, he dreaded. His depression had not completely immobilized him, but it seriously prevented him from entering social situations in which well-meaning friends would generally make him feel worse. He would try nonetheless, with Arabella at his side. There were occasions when friends, their faces pinched with concern, would ask how he was doing. It was out of the best intentions but he found the weight of their questions unbearable. He did not want to hurt them, or to reject their heartfelt inquiries. Thankfully, Arabella was always a loving interloper, steering the conversation to a livelier or simply completely different topic, for which he was eternally grateful.

  He would never forget the night they came back from an evening out, a little tipsy from too many drinks, laughing about a petty argument two friends had over the look of a handbag. It was then that he realized—it was the first time he had laughed since losing Serafina.

  I owe my life to you, he told Arabella in that moment, and he kissed her, not an innocent peck on the cheek, rather his lips to hers and without any reservations. His eyes slipped closed as he indulged in the wondrous sensation, and for a moment, he was lost in time, until he realized what he had done and withdrew, fearing how she might react. Arabella gasped lightly, surprised but not scolding, and she did not voice disapproval. Gazing at him, she tugged at his shoulder, pulled his lips to hers, and returned the caress, deeper, more passionately. He did not remember exactly how, but their lips never parted as he guided her to his bedroom.

  Giovanni looked down at the mushrooms he was chopping. Or what was left of them, minced to a gooey mess and juice that was running off the cutting board. He wiped the blade and set it down, then turned off the stove. He sat at his kitchen table and dropped his head in his hands.

  The irony did not comfort him. He suspected the very woman who had saved him from darkness. And worse, his suspicion was based solely on the voice of a painting. How absurd, he thought. And the further irony, how the painting had come to him, from his father, who received it as a peace offering from Giovanni’s uncle, banished from the family for some murky reason.

  This was ridiculous, Giovanni thought, to let his suspicions so unnerve him. It was not only pathetic, it was damaging. His stomach ached. The last thing he wanted was his favorite pasta of vermicelli, mushrooms, duck sausage, and Roma tomatoes. He wanted the acidic burn of his innards to cease.

  There was a nagging fear that the Count might have been telling the truth. The distance that had grown between Giovanni and Arabella was undeniable. Although they never had a ferocious fight of any kind, he knew that his physical affections had been dampened of late. The issue of Serafina’s jewelry had merely brought that into focus.

  He thought about François. He certainly was handsome. But Giovanni had seen nothing between them during dinner that suggested a sexual relationship. Arabella said François might bring more business to the House of Fabrizzi, via his worldwide French contacts. She was making a sincere effort to aid her husband, not betray him.

  Then why did he feel ill, suspicious, and at the very center of it all, icily afraid? He did not want to confront Arabella with this. What good would come of it? She would resent his not trusting her and it would surely strain their relationship, co
mplicating it even further.

  And yet, he could not imagine living another twenty-four hours with the gnawing unknown that was burrowing through his intestines. He wanted to interpret the Count’s words as vindictive. And his words may well have been in that moment. But what if it were true? Giovanni was most disturbed by the Count’s precision in recounting the tale of Arabella. He had not simply claimed that she was unfaithful. He had repeated their conversation. Don’t you want me anymore? Oh, François, you know I do.

  If it were true, a painting could contain the soul of its subject, overhear conversation, and speak to Giovanni, then why this outcome? Of all the people in its history, the portrait chose to upend Giovanni’s life by suggesting he organize a dinner party and then inform him that his wife is having an affair. Could such cruelty be the Count’s only reason to exist?

  Giovanni admitted to himself that the Count’s words could be true. It was a possibility, but still an unknown. Giovanni would have to do something. He could not ignore his doubts, but he had no idea of how to approach the topic with Arabella. Telling her that a painting spoke to him would be reason alone for her to leave. Yet, if she was guilty of adultery, he would not want to remain with her anyway.

  Perhaps the Count didn’t exist, and Giovanni was going mad. Was it all himself, he wondered. His subconscious could have picked up on the signs of her betrayal, and rising out of the depths to protect him, invented the Count as means to expose a truth that was in plain sight but Giovanni refused to face, at least, consciously. Enough of that, he thought. Ideas like that were more outrageous than a talking painting, and trying to analyze himself only made his head hurt. Besides, calling it madness wouldn’t change anything. However he arrived at doubting her fidelity, there was no going back.

  “What are you doing in the dark?”

  Arabella’s voice startled him. Her silhouette was in the doorway of the kitchen.

  “I don’t know,” he muttered.

  “For God’s sake, Gio.” She reached for the light switch.

  “Don’t.”

  She flipped the switch on and he squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Gio, I’ve had it with your moods. I’m tired, do you understand? I’m tired of hoping you come out of these morose dives into misery.” She went to the stove and saw the unfinished dinner left out to rot. “I don’t want to live this way!” she shouted. “I don’t want your doomed attitude dragging us both down. And I don’t want the memory of Serafina always hanging over us.”

  He vaulted upright. “I have not been thinking of her. It’s not that, it’s—”

  “Yes it is!” She jabbed him in the chest. “It’s always her.”

  Giovanni was shocked. She had never before called him a liar, nor so much as hinted that he might be.

  She continued. “Gio, this has to stop, or… I don’t know. I can’t go on like this.”

  “Is that so?” Giovanni imitated a boyish voice, the best he could imagine that François might sound. “Don’t you want me anymore?”

  Her eyes pinched, confused.

  “Wait,” Giovanni said. “Let me guess your answer.” He seized her shoulders to make her look at him. He raised the pitch of his voice to that of feminine mockery. “Oh, François, you know I do.”

  She staggered back and her face went blank.

  Giovanni let her slip from his grasp, and he became equally baffled. Her reaction was an admission of guilt.

  “Then it’s true,” he said, though still he could not bring himself to believe it.

  Her eyes welled with tears, and her lips began to quiver.

  “Tell me!” he hollered.

  “How…” Her voice cracked. “How could you possibly…”

  “It doesn’t matter, and you wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

  “But you were…”

  “Don’t lie to me! Tell me the truth, now.”

  She began to sob. “You don’t understand. If you would just hear me, see me, you would know I needed to be the only woman in your life. Maybe you would have shown me more affection. Maybe you would have touched me more. Maybe…”

  Giovanni sat down at the table.

  He was right. The Count was right. He had never felt so awful to be right. He wished that he had never opened that crate. Never talked to the Count. Never…

  She wiped at her tears and tried to compose herself.

  He calmly said, “I’d appreciate it if you would sleep in the guest bedroom tonight. Then in the morning, we’ll talk about where you will be moving.”

  As he stared down at the table, her footsteps shuffled away. After she was gone, he got up, turned off the kitchen light, and sat down at the table, in the dark. Sleeping would be impossible, or even to lie awake in the bed that he had shared with Serafina, the bed he had shared with Arabella, and the bed that awaited him, alone.

  Chapter 6

  Days after Arabella had moved out, Giovanni felt the rawness of her absence. He would not invite her to return, but at the same time he felt lost, unanchored, having to continue life without her.

  He did not go to his studio, even though he wanted to flee the loneliness of the flat. Going to his studio meant inevitably facing the Count, and Giovanni was still angry about his revelation of Arabella’s affair. Instead Giovanni wandered about the flat, sleeping late most days, some days lying in bed until noon. After a long bath, he would put on some tranquil piano music, Schumann or Bach, and make himself something to eat, then pick up a book to read or watch television, but these distractions never lasted very long. His attention would wander back to the mess his life had become, until forcing himself to ignore it and again search for something else to occupy his time.

  He did not have the strength to call on his friends and inform them of what had happened. It wasn’t only a matter of pride. Just as he did not care to discuss how his mourning for Serafina had damaged his marriage to Arabella, he did not want to discuss his reason for asking her to leave.

  However, three days of unfocused meandering and feeling sorry for himself, not to mention zero interaction with other human beings, wasn’t helping him cope, either. He concluded that remaining in his flat was no way to work through his suffering. So he went to his studio.

  There he stood before the strong room doors, unable to decide which one to open first. He should bring out the Brueghel and get back to work on it. He should also confront the Count, but there was no telling what he might say next. Giovanni opened neither door. Instead he sat at his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed his son in Florence.

  After they exchanged greetings and inquired about each other’s well-being, there was a pause.

  “Papa,” Maurizio said, “the work here is going all right. But I still need Flavio. I hope that’s okay with you.”

  “I’m not calling about Flavio. You use him as long as you need.”

  “Grazie. Well then, why are you calling?”

  Giovanni dug his fingertips into the flesh of his forehead. He inhaled deeply and then came out with it.

  “Mau, I asked Arabella to leave. I found out she was having an affair.”

  “God, I’m so sorry. You mean, she’s already gone?”

  Giovanni attempted to say yes, but all he made was a soft hissing sound. He cleared his throat. “Mau, I’m not doing very well. I haven’t been able to work. I’m feeling kind of lost, you know?”

  “Oh, Papa, I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m sure you’re busy, but it would mean a great deal to me if you would visit. Even if it’s just for a couple days.” Giovanni closed his eyes and prayed that his son would agree to visit. When there was no reply, Giovanni added, “Whenever you can manage.”

  “I’ll come this weekend,” Maurizio said. “Don’t worry. I’ll ask Flavio to work extra so we don’t fall behind schedule. Let me call the airlines, and I’ll let you know my arrival time.”

  “Thank you, Mau.”

  “I love you, Papa. Don’t worry. Talk to you soon.”

  “Love you
too, Mau. Ciao.”

  Giovanni hung up the phone. It pleased him that he would see his son again, but it wasn’t enough to lift him out of the hole created by Arabella’s absence. He expected his depression to lighten if Maurizio agreed to visit, but after the call, though a positive outcome, it failed to make Giovanni feel any better.

  He opened the second strong room, brought out the Count’s portrait, and set it on the easel. Minutes passed without conversation between them. It was as if they both realized how explosive the situation had become and that the wrong word or phrase could result in something terrible, even irreparable.

  Giovanni broke the silence. “Count, I need to speak with you.”

  He waited for a reply. There was none.

  “Count, I’m talking to you. Do you hear me?”

  When no reply came for the second time, Giovanni felt dizzy. The voice was gone, just when he needed it most. The injustice of it made him furious, but then he began to question all that had happened since the first day the Count had spoken to him.

  “So you’re abandoning me, are you?” Giovanni said. “Well, then I will abandon you!” He grabbed the panel off the easel, tempted to smash it against the wall and throw it in the garbage.

  “Signor Fabrizzi!” the Count called out. “Please. I hear you. Put me back.”

  Giovanni held the portrait at arm’s length and searched the panel for a change of expression, hoping to see fear on the smug bastard’s face. As always, the Count’s haughty stare was never-ending. Giovanni returned the painting to the easel.

  “I will surmise,” the Count said, “from your absence these few days, that my news of your wife was not well-received.”

  “I asked her to leave,” Giovanni said. “Are you happy now?”

  “Such an outcome is not a source of pleasure, no. Please forgive me, as I did not mean to cause you harm. I wanted to see your wife and your friends interact, simple as that. I had no idea this unfortunate revelation would be the result. You must believe me.”

  “Why did you have to tell me?” Giovanni asked.

  “It was only right that you should know the truth. You may be angry with me, Signor Fabrizzi, but I must tell you, if the circumstance arose again, my actions would be no different. It is a matter of honor. I would expect the same from you, were our positions reversed.”