Botticelli's Bastard

by Stephen Maitland-Lewis

  “There was no listing with the archives in Germany or France,” she explained, “and the U.S. Holocaust Museum in Washington D.C. could not find her either. And then, just to see if we might have some luck elsewhere, I checked Aufbau, a German-language newspaper that maintained a list of European refugees arriving in New York between 1944 and 1946. And there she was. Clara Meyerstein. She arrived August 1, 1946.”

  Giovanni asked, “Is there any way to find out what happened to her?”

  “Mr. Fabrizzi,” Jana said with great satisfaction, “it is my pleasure to tell you that Clara Meyerstein is presently living in Manhattan, in an area I believe New Yorkers call Hell’s Kitchen.”

  “She’s alive?” Giovanni was stunned.

  “Yes. I went through the records of the borough of Manhattan. She is living in an apartment on Ninth Avenue. I left a phone message for you earlier tonight. And I have already e-mailed her address to you.”

  “I’m not at my computer right now,” Giovanni said.

  “When you are, the message should be there.” With a thrill in her voice, she continued, “This is very special. So many times I cannot find a missing person. And most times when I do, the end of my investigation is only to learn of their death. But this—this is what I live for, Mr. Fabrizzi. She is alive.”

  “I will visit her,” he said. “And tell her about the painting.”

  “This is wonderful,” Jana said. “Is there anything else I can do for you regarding Clara?”

  “Do you have a phone number for her?”

  “I could not find one listed. But I have confirmed her address on Ninth Avenue. Check your e-mail.”

  “I will,” Giovanni said. “This is remarkable. How much do I owe you?”

  “I’ve already received your check,” Jana said. “I’m pleased to say the retainer covered your costs in full. All you owe me is a full account of your meeting with Clara Meyerstein.”

  “Thank you so much, Jana.”

  “Thank you. Please let me know how it goes.”

  They said their good-byes and Giovanni hung up the phone, then he switched the lamp off and slipped back under the covers. But sleeping was next to impossible, as his mind went round and round, imagining the trip he would soon take to America.

  *

  The next morning, Giovanni went to his studio and told the Count the great news. But there was even greater news. Finding Clara alive also meant that it was time to have the painting analyzed by a laboratory to confirm its authenticity. The Count was more excited by that news, and sincerely thanked Giovanni for keeping his promise.

  As Giovanni prepared to pack the portrait back into the crate, he paused to ask for the Count’s cooperation. Giovanni wanted his promise that he would not speak when Giovanni showed him to the director of the laboratory. Giovanni explained that he wanted to be focused and professional when he told the laboratory staff that the painting might possibly be the work of one of history’s greatest painters. The Count assured Giovanni that he understood and agreed to remain silent during his entire visit to the laboratory.

  Nevertheless, Giovanni remained apprehensive about his meeting with Vincent Drysdale, the director of L & D Laboratories, whose expertise in the authentication of significant works of art was renowned.

  When Giovanni entered Drysdale’s office, the director rose from his seat. He was exceedingly proper and ramrod stiff, outfitted in an impeccable suit. He greeted Giovanni with a strong handshake and offered him a seat, then asked if Giovanni wanted a coffee, which he politely declined.

  Drysdale lowered to his seat behind the desk. “Well, I must say, I am most anxious to see this sixteenth century panel of yours.”

  Giovanni took the cue and opened the crate. As he brought out and unwrapped the Count, Drysdale kept up the conversation.

  “We haven’t seen much of you of late, old chap. I did hear about you and Arabella from someone, I don’t recall whom.”

  Giovanni did not look up.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Gio. Really, I am. And how is the work going on the Brueghel?”

  “I took a little time off.” Giovanni prepared to unveil the painting to Drysdale. “A European trip.”

  “Of course. Keep yourself busy.”

  Giovanni pulled out the panel with a flourish and held it up.

  “May I?” Drysdale rose from his seat and came around the desk. Giovanni handed the panel to him. As he held it with great care, the director studied the painting for some time, shifting the angle so the light would strike it differently.

  Giovanni was relieved that the Count had remained silent.

  “It appears from the right period,” Drysdale said. He carefully set the painting on an easel next to his enormous, mahogany desk. “Botticelli, you are thinking.”

  “I suspect it is possible, yes.”

  As he gazed at the painting, Drysdale nodded a few times, then he moved around his desk and returned to his chair behind it. He hesitated a moment before proceeding.

  “Gio, we’ve known each other a long time, and I’ve always admired your skills with restoration and your eye for fine art. So please, don’t take this the wrong way and let it be an insult, but you have to realize the implications of your suggestion. Remember, your reputation is at stake here.”

  “I fully realize that, Vincent. I am prepared, whatever the outcome may be.”

  Drysdale nodded though he still appeared concerned. “If I may ask, what has led you to believe it might be the work of Botticelli?”

  “The trip I just went on,” Giovanni explained. “I did some research in France and Germany, and ultimately in Switzerland. The painting had belonged to a Jewish family who lived in Paris. The Nazis confiscated their collection in 1940.”

  “Then you have documentation,” Drysdale said.

  “Sadly, not any to verify this particular work, only others. You see, the item was taken by a hired appraiser, an art dealer, before it could be cataloged.”

  “Then it went to a private collection,” Drysdale said. “So you’ve been in contact with the collector. Care to give any names?”

  “I can’t say. And it doesn’t matter anyway. The collector doesn’t have any documentation either.”

  Drysdale’s eyes grew wide. “Heaven’s sake, Gio. You have this notion and no documentation whatsoever?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “You’re operating on a hunch,” Drysdale said. “This isn’t like you, Gio.”

  “I realize that, but you have to trust me, Vincent. I have to know one way or another.”

  Staring at Giovanni with a look of disbelief, Drysdale was silent, then he began to nod slowly. “Anyone else I’d say they were crazy. But the years we’ve worked together are something I can’t ignore. If you’re that confident, so be it. But, Gio, what if we test and discover the work is a knock-off created early last century?”

  “I’m confident that won’t be the case,” Giovanni said. “I’m certain of that much.”

  Still disbelieving, Drysdale nodded. “All right, but the tests come at considerable cost. That’s a lot of money to throw away if you’re wrong, and it’s not a Botticelli.”

  “The expense is peanuts if I’m right.”

  Chapter 16

  Shortly after she left their home, Arabella Fabrizzi had sent an e-mail to her husband, informing him in straightforward, businesslike terms that she could be reached on her mobile phone and that she would be staying with a girlfriend in Islington.

  Giovanni had received the e-mail with no great surprise, but as it reminded him of her affair and the failure of their marriage, he had transferred the message to a separate folder in his e-mail program so that he would not have to see it over and over again.

  But after his meeting with Vincent Drysdale, although still fatigued from his trip, Giovanni felt that his life had changed for the better. He had positive expectations for the first time since he and Arabella had split. And so, after staring at pictures of her and Maurizio, and re-readi
ng her simple, informative e-mail many times, he gathered his nerve and called her.

  He reached her voice mail, but just to hear her speaking, even though only a recording, both excited and saddened him. The tone, indicating a message should be left, came so quickly that he was unprepared and immediately hung up. He stared at a photograph of her on the beach at St. Tropez, the sun acting as a backlight separating her from the crowd, as if she were on a sandy stage with scores of actors milling about.

  Giovanni studied her face. Her smile was subtle, like the Mona Lisa, and she held her sun hat, straw with a purple and gold band. She was standing carefree, unaware of anyone or anything, except for her husband as he captured the image. Giovanni studied the photograph, and in that moment he resolved to do whatever it took to be with her again. If she were still carrying on her affair, he would ask her to break it off. He would not beg her, nor would he command her. He would ask politely, lovingly. He picked up the phone and prepared to leave a message for her to call him.

  He was startled when she answered after one ring. Not her voice mail, but her.

  “Gio? Is that you?”

  “Yes,” he replied, and then he was silent.

  “Did you call me a few minutes ago?” she asked.

  “I had some trouble with my phone.” He thought about his white lie and that he was being a coward. “No, it’s not true,” he said. “I got through to your voice mail and… well, I didn’t know what to say.”

  “And now?” she asked.

  “I don’t mean to bother you. I’m sorry. It’s just that so much has happened.” He felt awkward. He hadn’t talked with her in weeks.

  “Are you calling about us?” she asked. “Or is it something else?”

  “Both, I suppose. A lot has happened since…”

  “Since you asked me to leave?” she said. “If you’re calling to invite me back…”

  “No, I mean… I didn’t mean to say no, I just wasn’t… it’s just, it’s all been so difficult.”

  “Gio, whatever you have to say, please, just be certain it’s what you want.”

  He hesitated. Then it hit him like a slap in the face. “You don’t want to come back.”

  She quickly replied, “I didn’t say that. I just want you to be sure, and if this is really something you want to talk about, I don’t think we should do it over the phone.”

  “I completely agree,” he said. “We should meet somewhere.”

  “All right,” she said. “When?”

  “As soon as possible. Are you available today?” he asked, but then he wanted to rephrase his words, fearing that he was being too aggressive.

  “I could be,” she said cautiously. “Where would we meet?”

  His heart beat stronger. She had not rejected him.

  “How about the wine bar down the street from our flat?” Without thinking, he had said our flat. “Or if that’s not convenient…”

  “That’s fine,” she said in a level voice, neither cold nor warm. “How about four?”

  “Yes, great. See you then.”

  “Bye.”

  He stayed on the line until he was sure that she had hung up.

  *

  Giovanni arrived at the wine bar well before Arabella, hoping to find a table in the corner as far away from other customers as possible. When she entered the wine bar, Giovanni spent a breathless moment staring at her. She looked professional in a blazer and matching skirt, a woman’s version of a business suit. Her upswept hair revealed the contours of her neck, and for Giovanni, it was like viewing her for the first time, all over again.

  She spotted him, and with no recognizable expression on her face, she approached the table, her high heels clicking on the smooth tile floor. He stood and waited for her, wondering if he should kiss her on the cheek or dispatch all pretense and pull her into his arms.

  Arabella arrived at the table and stopped, similarly unsure of how to proceed. She shifted her stance, waiting for Giovanni to make the first move.

  “It’s good to see you again,” he said, in a daze as he took in her beauty. It was so true what they say about what you have and once it’s gone.

  “Are you going to invite me to sit?” she asked.

  He snapped out of his trance. “Oh. Yes, of course.” He moved to pull out a chair for her.

  She set her purse down and sat at the table.

  He returned to his chair. “Arabella, so much has happened, I don’t know where to begin.”

  A waitress arrived and Giovanni ordered a bottle of wine. He and Arabella made small talk for a time, inquiring into each other’s well-being since their separation. Once the bottle arrived and Giovanni downed his first glass, he launched into his story of the painting and hearing the voice, not giving her a chance to speak for fear she would call him crazy and leave. He continued in a rush of words and described all that had happened in Paris, Germany, and Zurich. He told her every detail, and then the news of submitting the painting to the laboratory for analysis.

  He caught his breath after speaking without pause, then reached for his glass and drank more wine.

  “Well,” she said, “I don’t know where to start. You actually hear a voice from the painting?”

  “I know it sounds incredible, but really, we talk.”

  “Do you have many other imaginary friends?” she asked sarcastically.

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “It’s difficult, and I have to wonder about your mental well-being. People generally don’t hear paintings talk to them.”

  “Obviously not. But you have to understand. If not for the Count telling me, I would never have known any of it. Consider that, Arabella, please. I can show you all of the documents I’ve collected. There is no way I could have imagined all of these facts about the painting, the Meyersteins, the Nazis, my Uncle Max. It’s just not possible.”

  “And a talking painting is?” she asked.

  “I can’t explain it. You just have to believe me. Max confessed in so many words, and that alone confirms what the painting told me. And what if it’s true, and the painting really is by Botticelli? Then will you believe me?”

  She thought about it. “How much would it be worth?”

  “Millions,” he said.

  Her eyes grew wide. “Really? That much? We would have, I mean, you would have such prestige for discovering it. Imagine what that could do for business.”

  “It would be grand, I imagine, but honestly, I hadn’t given it much thought.” Giovanni wasn’t ready to tell her that he intended to return the portrait to Clara. “There are other matters I must resolve first. To start, the subject of us. I don’t mean to pry, but I think I have right to know. After all, we are still married.” Giovanni waited until she looked him in the eye, then he aimed his question point blank. “Are you still with him?”

  “I was a fool.” Arabella opened her purse. She took out tissue and dabbed the corner of her eye. “I know it’s taken you a long time to get over her. I should have been stronger. But I needed you, Gio, and you were so cold. And then, I had this young man constantly flirting, flattering me, clearly wanting me. I laughed off his advances but eventually, I believed you wouldn’t ever touch me that way again. And I was weak. I gave in to him. It was wrong. I was wrong. But that’s why it happened, Gio. I’m being as honest as I can.”

  “You didn’t answer the question.”

  “No, I am not still with him. I haven’t been since you asked me to leave. I called him that night and told him we could not see each other anymore.”

  “And…?” Giovanni probed.

  “All right, it’s true.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “He did call again, more than once, but I never went back to him. I never will. I swear it, Gio.”

  “Then come back home.” He reached out to take her hand in his. “All that’s happened since we parted, it’s been unbelievable. I feel I could do anything, but not without you.” The Count’s advice came to mind. “I forgive you, Arabella. And I need
your forgiveness as well. This wasn’t all your fault, I realize that now. I was cold, distant, and I only drove you away. Please forgive me.”

  “Of course I’ll forgive you, Gio.”

  “Come back home,” he said. “Come back now. Right now.”

  She wiped at her tears. “But my things, they’re still at my girlfriend’s.”

  “We’ll get them later,” he said. “Together.”

  Through her teary, mascara-smeared eyes, she stared at Giovanni for a long, hard moment. She began to slowly nod her head, yes.

  Few words were exchanged as they walked home together, Arabella hanging on his arm and her head against his shoulder. When they entered the flat, she looked around as if seeing the place anew. He watched her fondly as she wandered about, touching things and viewing photographs of them together, still arranged just as she had left them.

  “I want to start over with you,” he said. “I promise to never ignore you again, my beautiful one.”

  Giovanni took her in his arms and they kissed passionately. He began to move back, bringing her along as their embrace continued, into the hallway and he opened the bedroom door. They fell on the bed and kicked off their shoes, then he unbuttoned her blouse as she unbuttoned his shirt.

  “One thing,” he said. “I won’t ask you to believe I can hear the Count’s voice. Just don’t treat me like I’m crazy. I couldn’t bear that.”

  She softly caressed one side of his face. “I believe you can hear a voice,” she said. “I respect that. Just don’t ask me to hear it too.”

  They made love into the night, as if it were the first time.

  *

  The next morning, Giovanni basked in the warmth of Arabella’s embrace, their bodies entwined beneath the comforter. He had no urge to get up and attend to anything in particular. She was equally content to curl into his body and keep him near. The morning was unlike any other, as normally they would have been up and had breakfast long before the lazy hour of half past eight.

  The phone rang.

  Giovanni didn’t budge, too inclined to indulge in the rare instance of sleeping in late, best of all while cuddling Arabella.