Botticelli's Bastard

by Stephen Maitland-Lewis

  “Donating it,” Arabella said, “rather than selling it, says much about your generosity.”

  “Maybe,” Giovanni said, “but since the story hit the media, I’ve been contacted by almost everyone I’ve ever known in the art world, and some people I didn’t know. I’ve got more work than I can handle. I won’t complain about that, but the thing is, I really wanted Clara Meyerstein to take it. A big part of me is disappointed. I wanted her to be happy. I wanted to improve her life, not ruin it. I feel like I’ve made matters worse.”

  “Because she never wants to see you again?” Arabella asked.

  “When she said that, it felt like I had touched an electric fence.”

  “You have to understand, Gio. No one wants to relive pain like that. Wait a few months, then write to her. Maybe things will be different.”

  “God, I hope so,” he whispered.

  “Papa,” Maurizio said. “Look on the bright side. At least the Count is happy now that he’ll be in the Uffizi.”

  Giovanni was shocked to hear it from his son. “Now you believe the Count is real?”

  Maurizio shrugged. “I can’t say I do, but I also can’t say that I don’t believe. I mean, before all of this, when you told me the portrait was an unsigned Botticelli, I didn’t believe that, either. We all know how that turned out.”

  *

  Before his current visit, Giovanni had not been back to Florence since the Count had first spoken to him. He had a new perspective after listening to the Count’s stories, many of which included events in Florence. In the Oltrarno district close to the Pitti Palace, Giovanni thought about the Count living in that same palace centuries earlier, and it caused him to smile.

  Giovanni and his family drove past many familiar and beloved spots. They passed through Santo Spirito on the way up to Piazzale Michelangelo, where they had a wonderful view of the city. They descended again, taking in a quick view of the Campanile, the Gothic bell tower designed by Giotto, then passed the Piazza della Signoria, where the Bonfire of the Vanities had taken place in 1497.

  Giovanni, Arabella, and Maurizio all knew Pino Vitarelli. When they entered his second floor office at the Uffizi Gallery, there was much hand shaking and cheek kissing. Vincent Drysdale had already arrived, and soon Vitarelli’s assistant brought in a tray of champagne and passed out glasses to all.

  “There’s quite a mob of reporters downstairs,” Drysdale said. “Pino has done a remarkable job of getting the world press here for the unveiling.”

  Giovanni smiled. “I hope there’s a back door so I can duck out.” Others laughed at his joke, although he wasn’t entirely kidding.

  “Now, now, Gio,” Vitarelli said. “You promised a few photographs in the Botticelli Room.”

  “A few,” Giovanni said.

  “And we would greatly appreciate it,” Vitarelli added, “if you would say some words to the press as well. I already plan to speak but you should also.”

  “I didn’t promise that,” Giovanni said.

  Arabella jabbed him in the side, gently. She said, “Gio will be happy to say a few words about the greatness of Botticelli and how fortunate he was to find the painting.” She turned to Giovanni. “Right, dear?”

  “Yes, dear,” he replied.

  Vitarelli smiled. “Now, all the rest has been taken care of. As you asked, we have made a handsome donation to the Jewish charity in New York that has been looking after Ms. Meyerstein all these years. They are very appreciative and asked me to let you know, they will put the money to good use. I’ve also arranged to send you the color prints of the painting, as you requested.”

  “Thank you,” Giovanni said. “Pino, I do have one other small request before the unveiling. As you can imagine, I’ve grown very fond of this work. It would mean a great deal to me if I could spend a few minutes with the panel in the Botticelli Room before we get started.”

  “Of course,” Vitarelli said.

  Giovanni turned to Arabella and Maurizio. “I’d like a few minutes alone with the painting.”

  They both nodded. They understood.

  *

  Downstairs, Vitarelli escorted Giovanni into the corridor and through large double doors into a wide gallery.

  “Here we are,” Vitarelli said. “And there it is, as I promised, between Saint Augustine and the Old Man.”

  Giovanni stopped a distance away from the Count. There he was, hanging in the prestigious, famous gallery, as a carefully aimed, low-wattage light accentuated him.

  “You are happy with the placement?” Vitarelli asked, despite the fact that he and Giovanni had already agreed to everything.

  Giovanni’s mind was elsewhere. He thought about the series of events that had brought him to that moment. All that had happened was almost too much to believe. Yet all of it was true, and most importantly, that he had honored the wishes of the long-dead subject of the painting. Giovanni waited for the Count to call out, complaining that it was too light, too dark, or that he wanted to be on a different wall. The room was silent. There was no voice of the Count to hear anymore.

  Vitarelli awaited a reply to his question about the placement.

  Giovanni realized that he was daydreaming. “It’s excellent, Pino. I’m sorry. I’m just a little taken aback. It’s very moving.”

  “I’m glad you’re pleased, Gio.” Vitarelli looked at his watch. “I’ll come back in ten minutes. Is that all right?”

  “Fine, fine,” Giovanni said absentmindedly, his focus on the panel as he stepped closer to it.

  Vitarelli silently excused himself.

  Giovanni approached the Count but kept a distance, farther away than during their many conversation back in his studio.

  “Well, Count, here we are. Your dream has come true. You’re in the Botticelli Room at the Uffizi.”

  He waited for the Count to respond, but he was greeted by silence. Giovanni hung his head. In a way, he expected this possibility. Whatever the reason for his communication with the Count, it always took place in his own studio, among Giovanni’s works of art, books, and bottles of wine. The studio was Giovanni’s exclusive corner of the world, but the Uffizi was open to all. From then on, the Count belonged to everyone. But only Giovanni would ever know the Count’s true personality.

  Moving closer to the panel, he admired the subtle restoration he had completed before bringing the Count to Italy. It was in his blood, the restorer’s understanding that the idea was not to make the painting look as pristine as it had on the day of its creation, but to retain a suggestion of its original appearance while at the same time not let restoration efforts erase indications of age. Giovanni studied the Count’s shirt. No doubt when Botticelli had created it, the white of the garment stood out considerably. But half a millennium later, the grayish tint of the shirt was to be expected. Giovanni had very carefully and purposefully allowed the white to appear dulled.

  He imagined the Count saying Are you looking at the shirt?

  Yes, Giovanni thought. I see it for what it looks like, for our time, not for yours. “We all get gray with age,” Giovanni said aloud and smirked.

  “When a white shirt turns gray, I say throw the damned thing away!”

  Giovanni could not contain a smile that stretched across his face. He was not speculating what the Count might say. The Count had actually said it.

  Giovanni stepped back and looked into the eyes of the Count. As usual, the portrait’s expression remained unchanged, the same elitist Florentine looking down his nose at all who dared to cast their gaze upon him.

  “Count, you can hear me!” Giovanni said. “My Lord, I did it. I got you into the Uffizi, just as you wished. And you’re complaining about the color of your shirt?”

  “It is no small matter,” the Count said, “to be on exhibit in one of the greatest museums in the world—and painted by one of the finest artists of all time—and have people visit to admire you, only to notice your soiled attire, doubting not only the artist’s use of color, but one’s hygie
ne as well.”

  Giovanni laughed. “Count, you play at being tough. You’re happy, I know you are. You’ve been authenticated and put in your rightful place, here in the Botticelli Room.”

  “I can see the room somewhat, but it is blurry. Describe it for me, Signor Fabrizzi.”

  Giovanni listed the magnificent works of art that filled the room. “And your placement is just as I requested, and I have to say, Count, it is the perfect choice. Between St. Augustine and the Old Man.”

  “That is wonderful,” the Count said. “Tell me more.”

  “What else can I say? You know the Medicis created the gallery. You now hang among famous works by Michelangelo, da Vinci, Titian, and Rubens.”

  “I am not so impressed by Rubens.”

  “Count,” Giovanni scolded, though playfully.

  “All right, my dear Signor Fabrizzi. You have honored me in the finest place I know, in my hometown, in my country, and for that, I am eternally grateful.”

  “It has been my pleasure.” Giovanni smiled.

  The Count cleared his throat. “Signor Fabrizzi. During our many conversations, there may have been occasions when I was short-tempered and perhaps even rude to you. I hope you will forgive me. At times I must have behaved like Botticelli’s little bastard.”

  “Of course I forgive you, Count. Likewise, there were times when I was irritable and did not afford you, as a Medici, the respect that you deserve. I hope you will forgive me too, Count.”

  “You have looked after me well. I know it is a difficult subject for you, and I fully recognize your strong feelings that I should have been returned to Clara Meyerstein. However, I must admit, I am thankful that she declined, allowing me to be placed in the Uffizi.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Giovanni said, “but it makes me sad. I’m glad you’re here, too, but I just wish that Clara would have taken you back and let it be her decision to donate you. She haunts me, Count. She’s like a body walking around without a soul. It hurts to see anyone like that.”

  The sound of footsteps approached.

  Giovanni turned to see Pino Vitarelli coming closer.

  “I’m sorry, Gio,” Vitarelli called out, “but everyone is here and we’d like to start the press conference now.”

  Quietly, the Count said, “Please come back to see me, to talk to me.”

  Giovanni moved closer to the portrait. “Of course I will, Count.”

  “What’s that?” Vitarelli asked.

  Giovanni took one long, last look at the Count.

  “Tell me,” the Count said. “Is there a plaque identifying me?”

  “Yes,” Giovanni said aloud, not caring that Pino was aiming a quizzical stare at him. “Portrait of Count Marco Lorenzo Pietro de Medici by Sandro Botticelli. Donated by the Fabrizzi Family and an Anonymous Donor.”

  “Very nice,” the Count said.

  Vitarelli tapped Giovanni on the shoulder to gain his attention.

  Giovanni ignored it and proudly gave a small salute to the Count. “Until the next time, my dear Marco.”

  Giovanni joined Vitarelli, who was somewhat puzzled, and they exited the room.

  “Good-bye, dear Gio, and thank you,” the Count whispered in the stillness of the Botticelli Room.

  Also by Stephen Maitland-Lewis

  2013 USA Best Book Awards Finalist, General Fiction

  Having it all will never be enough for George Tazoli, an ambitious dealer on the trading floor of a prominent California bank. He is hand-picked for a special assignment to sell off bad loans, but not because he is dating the daughter of the bank’s president, rather for his skill at working the market. The promotion sends him to New York, putting a strain on his relationship, but then a scandalous discovery lures him into the gamble of a lifetime. George must gauge the risks—his direct superior is the bank’s president and his potential father-in-law, who is married to an heiress worth billions, all the more reason for George to vow his fidelity. Back at the bank’s headquarters, the president and his father, the chairman and grandfather of George’s L.A. girlfriend, are embroiled in a long-standing feud with another family of stockholders competing for control of the bank. The boardroom tension and ultimate showdown keeps everyone busy while George makes difficult choices that will teach him a lesson learned the hard way—even wealth has a price.

  Hardcover ISBN 978-0-9832596-5-7

  Paperback ISBN 978-0-9832596-6-4

  E-book ISBN 978-0-9832596-7-1

  *

  2012 Benjamin Franklin Award winner, Historical Fiction

  2011 Written Arts Award winner, General Fiction

  Before World War II, two German boys enjoy playing piano, and one visits each week to teach the other. When the Nazis seize power, the lessons must end—one of the boys is Jewish. Leo Bergner, the Jewish pupil, escapes Germany while his piano teacher, Bruno Franzmann, is called to serve the Fatherland. As the war ends, Bruno escapes to Buenos Aires and Leo begins a career in banking, only to uncover a conspiracy of Jewish persecution that puts him in direct opposition to his beloved Israel, while also jeopardizing his career, his marriage, and his life. In Argentina, Bruno hatches an unscrupulous plot to finance a multi-national corporation, and in time, his efforts require a business trip to London—his first visit to Europe since he escaped. After forty years, a lost family heirloom will decide their fate.

  Hardcover ISBN 978-0-9832596-2-6

  Paperback ISBN 978-0-9832596-3-3

  E-book ISBN 978-0-9832596-4-0

  *

  A chronicle of the twentieth century as the protagonist, Sir Henry Brown, participates in events both cataclysmic and personal that interface with characters both famous and imaginary. From the jazz age of the twenties, to the war-torn 1940’s, to the international crises of oil and terrorism in the 70’s, this novel makes history intimate, the work of any epic. After Oxford, Henry Brown serves on the staff of the Viceroy in India where he meets his first wife, the youngest daughter of one of England’s premier dukes. Service in Kenya follows where he is awarded the Military Cross for a heroic defusement of explosives on a strategic railway route. Maitland-Lewis demonstrates the importance of uncompromising research as well as the art of writing in a fast-flowing, enjoyable, can’t put it down style.

  Hardcover ISBN 978-1-4134142-9-5

  Paperback ISBN 978-1-4134142-8-8

  E-book ISBN 978-1-4535698-3-2

  About the Author

  Stephen Maitland-Lewis is an award-winning author, a British attorney and a former international investment banker. He held senior positions in the City of London, Kuwait and on Wall Street before moving to California in 1991. He owned a luxury hotel and a world-renowned restaurant and was also the Director of Marketing of a Los Angeles daily newspaper. Maitland-Lewis is a jazz aficionado and a Board Trustee of the Louis Armstrong House Museum in New York. A member of PEN and the Author’s Guild, Maitland-Lewis is also on the Executive Committee of the International Mystery Writers Festival. His novels, Hero on Three Continents and Ambition received numerous accolades. His Emeralds Never Fade was the 2012 Benjamin Franklin Award winner in the category of Historical Fiction and the 2011 Written Arts Award winner for Best Fiction. Maitland-Lewis and his wife, Joni Berry, divide their time between their homes in Beverly Hills, California and New Orleans.

  www.maitland-lewis.com

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