Botticelli's Bastard

by Stephen Maitland-Lewis

  Giovanni took out the notebook in which he had been recording his discoveries. The latter pages contained abundant notes he had taken while searching the ITS archives. He turned to the first pages and studied the names, phone numbers, and addresses that he had written down from his father’s address book.

  He pulled out his mobile phone and stepped onto the small balcony that overlooked a bright patch of cornflowers and the hotel’s parking lot. He had already noted the country code for Switzerland, checked his watch, and saw that it was close to nine o’clock.

  The call he was determined to make would change the course of his investigation, and knowing that it would made him nervous. Once he started down the next path, there would be no turning back. He gathered his courage and placed the call to Zurich.

  A man answered in German. Giovanni was more surprised that anyone picked up the phone. He struggled to speak German the best he could on the spot.

  “Hello. Is that Max?” Giovanni asked.

  “Who is this?” The man did not sound pleased.

  “Is this Max?”

  “Who is calling?”

  Giovanni forged ahead even though he might soon regret doing so.

  “I’m sorry to call so late,” he said. “This is Giovanni, Federico’s son.”

  The only sound was the hiss of the phone line.

  “Max, are you there? It’s Giovanni Fabrizzi, your nephew.”

  “Giovanni?” There was a long pause. “My God. I never expected to hear from you.”

  “I know,” Giovanni said. “I’m sorry to call you so suddenly. I have to tell you, Federico died a couple of years ago and things became very difficult for me. I just separated from my wife. I don’t want to burden you with these things, it’s just that, well, I decided to take a trip, and now I really want to see you, more than anything. Would that be possible?”

  “Where are you, Giovanni?”

  “I’m in Germany, near Munich. I could visit you in Zurich. I would be happy to meet you anywhere for lunch or dinner. Whatever you like.”

  Again there was a long pause. Giovanni pondered what would come next.

  “Tell me,” Max said, less abrasive. “You say your father died?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry to be telling you now, but recently I found his old address book and your name was in there.”

  “Did your father say anything about me before he passed away?”

  “No,” Giovanni replied. “But I’m so glad to have found you.”

  “Yes, of course. It’s just such a surprise.”

  “Would it be all right if I call you tomorrow evening? I’d like to set up a time for us to meet.”

  “I suppose.” Max seemed to express little enthusiasm for the idea.

  “Wonderful,” Giovanni said. “I will speak with you tomorrow, and thank you so much, Max. Auf wiedersehen.”

  The line went dead without Max even saying good-bye. Still, Giovanni thought his luck had been excellent. He had found both the Touissants and his Uncle Max still alive. And there was a reasonable chance that Clara Meyerstein would also be alive, somewhere in the world.

  It was just too bad, he thought, that he was alone and could not tell his amazing news to anyone else. If only his communication with the Count were telepathic, he could share all that he had discovered. Well, perhaps their connection was telepathic. He would never know for sure, but up to that point anyway, it had only occurred in close proximity. When he called out to the Count and received no response, he considered the absurdity of the idea and had to chuckle out loud. But while no one in the physical world would believe the painting could speak to Giovanni, it certainly was real to him. It was as actual and verifiable as the records in the ITS archives. Giovanni yearned to tell his son Maurizio what had happened.

  Though unsure of what he would say, Giovanni dialed Maurizio at this home in Florence. He was pleased that his call was answered by the second ring.

  “Papa,” Maurizio said. “I’ve been so worried. Why haven’t you called?”

  “Everything is fine, don’t worry. I’m in a small town near Munich, and I’ve been having a great time. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, but what are you doing there?”

  Giovanni bent the truth some. “Catching up with friends. You know, looking up the past, the good old days. It’s been fascinating really, all I’ve learned. And next, I am off to Zurich.”

  “Zurich?” Maurizio was alarmed. “Papa, don’t you think this vacation of yours, I mean, don’t you think you’ve been away long enough?”

  “Don’t be silly, Mau. I’ve had a wonderful time. In fact, I’m rather excited to tell you about it, but I’m not quite sure where to start.”

  “You should come to Florence,” Maurizio said. “Then you can tell me all about your trip. Really, Papa, I think that would be best. We have plenty of room for you. And you know so many people here. Why not get a flight tomorrow?”

  “Oh my, I would love to, Mau, but I must not stay away from the Brueghel too long. You know how it is. But as I promised, when we are both done with our current projects, I will be glad to visit.”

  “Sure, sure,” Maurizio said. “Papa, I want you to be honest with me.”

  “Honest?” Giovanni wanted to be, particularly about the Count and how his latest story had turned out to be true. But Giovanni was still apprehensive after the last time he was completely honest with his son.

  “Yes,” Maurizio said. “Are you sad about Arabella? Or is it a kind of… I don’t know.” Maurizio struggled for the right words. “Is it a manageable sadness?”

  His son’s sincere concern touched Giovanni, and he choked up slightly. He held the phone away and cleared his throat, then continued, “Well said, Mau. It is manageable. And hearing your voice is a big help.”

  “When are you going home?”

  “Oh, maybe in a day or two.”

  “You don’t know?” Maurizio asked.

  “I don’t have my return ticket to London yet. Tomorrow, I’ll take a train to Zurich.”

  “This is not like you.”

  “Well, son, I don’t feel like who I used to be. But anyway, I’m sure to be back in London in two or three days. We’ll talk then.”

  After their good-byes, Giovanni plugged his mobile phone into its charger and went into the bathroom to wash and get ready for bed. As warm water filled the basin, he said a quiet prayer. He wished that when his journey was over, he could tell his son everything and have him accept it. And while he was at it, Giovanni made another prayer. He visualized telling Maurizio and Arabella both of what had transpired and then having them nod in understanding and wrap their arms around him.

  Chapter 13

  As Giovanni stepped off the train in Zurich, his mobile phone began to ring. Caught in the flow of arriving passengers and struggling with his rolling suitcase, he could not get to the ringing phone deep in his coat pocket. He searched the platform for an opening where he could get out of the crowd and answer the call.

  The phone continued ringing. Giovanni feared he might miss the call, and worse, the caller would not leave a message. He darted out of the crowd, his rolling suitcase flailing at his heels, and found a scrap of space that was standing room only. He parked his suitcase and dug into his coat for the phone.

  Just as he had hoped, it was Jana Vogler, returning the call he had made to her while in Munich, before boarding his train to Zurich.

  “I spoke with Johannes at the ITS,” Jana explained. “So I already know something about your search.”

  Giovanni asked about her fees and availability. When she began to answer, a train departure was announced over a loudspeaker and he couldn’t make out her reply.

  “I’m sorry,” Giovanni said. “I’m in the train station. Could you repeat that?”

  She explained her fees, and that she was available. She wasn’t cheap, but it was not beyond Giovanni’s means. Considering what was at stake, he concluded the expense was worthwhile and he agreed to her terms. />
  He asked, “What do you think the chances are that we can find Clara?”

  “There is always a chance,” she replied, “but I don’t want to give you false hope. In the majority of cases, we can find the individual at some point, but more often than not, they have passed away. But at the same time, I don’t want to crush your hopes, either. I have found a rare few who are still living. It is one of my greatest joys when we do.”

  “I understand,” Giovanni said. “Whatever the resolution, it will be worth the effort. It is something I have to know.”

  “I can check a number of sources both in Europe and the United States.”

  “America? But she was French.”

  “Mr. Fabrizzi, you might be surprised to learn where survivors emigrated to after the war. Many fled to America, Israel, Australia, even Brazil. You never know. After their experience, I think it is understandable that, though not a complete comfort, distance was the preference. To find them across the ocean, for example, is not unusual.”

  “I see your point,” Giovanni said, considering that if he were in their shoes, he wouldn’t return to Europe, ever. “I have some further research to pursue,” he explained, “related to the art world. After Zurich, I’ll be back in London in a few days. You’ll be able to reach me at my studio.” He relayed the phone number.

  “Give me three to four weeks,” she said, “and I should have something to report. Unless there is big news, in which case you’ll hear from me sooner.” After a pause, she added, “And by the way, I want you to know, I personally appreciate the work you are trying to do, regarding the return of the stolen artwork.”

  “Thanks,” Giovanni said. “I don’t think it’s a great act of generosity. I see it as a necessity. Something that would bother me if I didn’t do it.”

  “I still insist on complimenting you,” she said.

  Giovanni liked the compliment and smiled.

  She continued, “If I may ask you another question, Mr. Fabrizzi. Your research at the ITS showed that none of the other Meyersteins survived. Is that correct?”

  “It is.”

  “Then, if it is not too personal a question…” She paused, as if unable to continue without permission.

  “Go ahead,” Giovanni said.

  “If you find Clara Meyerstein is no longer alive, will you keep the painting? Or would you consider donating it?”

  Giovanni rubbed his forehead. He didn’t have an answer, as he was not yet prepared to consider that possibility.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I might donate it to a museum.”

  “Perhaps in Paris,” Jana suggested. “Since that is where the painting was last owned before it came to your family.”

  Giovanni immediately understood that Jana was dedicated to dealing with the loss and anger of others, and trying to make up for what had happened to millions, decades earlier. He could not blame her for asking.

  He explained, “I’m trying to do two things here, Jana. One, find out how the painting came into my family. And two, learn who the artist is. It’s unsigned, you know.”

  “Yes, Johannes told me.”

  “This will all become more complicated if the work turns out to have been painted by the artist I think painted it.”

  “And who is that?”

  “Botticelli.”

  There was a long pause before she spoke. “Well, Mr. Fabrizzi, I’m no expert, but even I know how important he is. But stolen Jewish art, created by famous or even unknown artists, nevertheless is still stolen and deserves a special home.”

  It was the last thing Giovanni wanted to think about, but he had to admit, the potential quandary had crossed his mind. If his investigation somehow revealed the painting was by Botticelli, he had that entire can of worms to deal with—everybody who was privy to his discovery and their endless suggestions of what Giovanni should do with the portrait.

  He wanted to a find quiet, dark place and enjoy a soothing drink. He thanked Jana Vogler for taking the case and asked her to call when she had any information.

  *

  As his taxi rolled through the streets of Zurich, Giovanni was too consumed by his latest dilemma to notice much of the passing cityscape. He had not expected to find a member of the Meyerstein family alive, and even though he had not yet confirmed that possibility, the new developments were leading to difficult choices. He was certain the Count’s story was true and the painting had once belonged to the Meyersteins. That alone burdened him with a moral responsibility that he could not ignore. Added to that, if Clara Meyerstein were still alive, he could not in good conscience do anything other than return the painting to her, its rightful owner, even if a work of Botticelli.

  It wasn’t until he arrived at the Baur au Lac Hotel, paid the driver, and wheeled his suitcase toward the entrance that Giovanni took a moment to absorb the surroundings. He and Arabella had stayed at the Baur au Lac before, where they walked around the lake, strolled the Bahnhofstrasse, and took in local shopping and dining.

  Giovanni checked his watch. He still had a few hours before his dinner plans, but he couldn’t relax. He considered taking a walk, as the hotel was located in a splendid area of Zurich, but he was too preoccupied by the uncertain outcome that his meeting might produce. Instead he stayed in his room, unpacked some of his clothes, and collected the photographs and documents that he would bring with him to dinner. He needed to mentally prepare, knowing the meeting could well be his only chance to learn the truth about the Meyersteins and the Count.

  He scheduled a taxi to arrive in two hours and take him to the restaurant Max had suggested, the Kronenhalle on Rämistrasse. Then he went over the questions he had for Max. He went so far as to write the questions on a sheet of hotel stationery, then changed his mind, scratched out some and wrote others. He did not want Max to feel as though he was being interviewed, if Giovanni could avoid it, but he needed direct answers. Then he tried to imagine responses Max might offer and formulated follow-up questions, but the myriad directions their conversation might take only frustrated Giovanni. He crumpled up the sheet of stationery and pitched it into the trash. He would simply focus on the most important questions, and if Max balked, Giovanni would have to improvise on the spot.

  After a shower and once dressed, Giovanni took the elevator to the lobby and waited for his taxi. He had scheduled the taxi to come early, as the restaurant was some distance from the hotel and he wanted to arrive well before Max.

  After his taxi ride to the Kronenhalle, Giovanni paid the driver and went into the restaurant. He paused to admire the setting, just as he had the last time he dined there with Arabella. If not for the tables and fine linen, one might imagine they had walked into a museum. The room itself was a work of art, the warm walls covered in wood and intricate molding, the tall ceiling as well. Among the handsome woodwork, priceless art in elaborate gilded frames hung throughout the restaurant. The works of Chagall, Kandinsky, Matisse, Picasso, and others. Any one of the paintings would have fetched an enormous sum on the international art market.

  Giovanni told the maître d´ his name and was shown to a table. As he settled in his seat, still admiring the fine art, it reminded him of his dilemma. What if the Count’s portrait really was a Botticelli? It would bring much comfort to an aged Clara Meyerstein. Or perhaps she would sell it and live her remaining years in luxury. There was nothing wrong with that. But he had a disturbing thought. What if he found Clara still alive, but she was unable, due to age, to remember her past during the Occupation? Ironically, Giovanni considered, it might be a mixed blessing to have an impaired memory. It might be preferable if the incomprehensible brutality her family had endured, and millions of others, was a vague flicker of a memory, if that. It would be a gift to be forgetful, after what she had been through.

  Sitting, waiting, and doing nothing only fueled Giovanni’s growing anxiety about the meeting he would have shortly. He sipped his mineral water and nibbled on a slice of bread. Giovanni checked his watch, saw th
at Max was ten minutes late, and wondered if his uncle had intended to keep their dinner appointment in the first place, or if he was just leading Giovanni astray.

  Then Giovanni spotted a frail man with white hair, speaking to the maître d´. They both looked at Giovanni and the old man nodded, then started toward the table. He used a walking stick that looked expensive, adorned by hammered silver. As he drew near, Giovanni gauged that more than his walking stick came at great expense, though the sight was somewhat of a contradiction. The man was ancient, but hanging from his ailing frame, he wore a suit tailored from the finest cloth.

  Giovanni stood and extended his hand. “Hello. I’m Giovanni.”

  “Well, well. Giovanni. I am your Uncle Max. At last we meet.”

  He reached out to Giovanni’s hand but rather than shake it, his gesture was more of a quick slap. Giovanni did not judge it as disrespectful, rather a matter of Max’s advanced age and vulnerability.

  “Didn’t we ever?” Giovanni asked. “Not even when I was an infant?”

  Max didn’t respond and Giovanni felt awkward, worried that his response might have been taken as an insult. He was no youngster himself, so his words might suggest that he and Max were from different centuries. Max had survived to a remarkable age, which was difficult to ignore, but Giovanni didn’t want to make it a topic of conversation.

  They sat down at the table and spent a moment studying each other, neither of them sure of where to begin the conversation. Max chose a safe route.

  “You have been here before, at the Kronenhalle.”

  “Yes, with my wife, although I’m sorry to say we’re separated right now. It’s been very hard.” Giovanni hadn’t intended to make his marital problems a topic but it just came out that way.

  “I know how it is,” Max said. “My wife has been gone many years.”

  “It’s hard to be alone.”

  “I have a butler and a beautiful home. I don’t travel much anymore, but I think I am more fortunate than most.”

  A waiter came and Giovanni was surprised when Max ordered a vodka on the rocks with three olives. No less than three, he insisted, as if he had been cheated in the past. Giovanni wanted to remain clear-headed, so he kept to his mineral water.