Sensi was amused at Mason’s behavior. “Come closer,” he said, gesturing toward the painting. “Examine each inch. Touch it if you wish.”
The chore of examining it cleared Mason’s head, gave him purpose. He went on one knee and did what Sensi had invited him to do, using a magnifying glass he’d pulled from his pocket.
When he stood twenty minutes later, Sensi broke out in a broad grin that exposed yellow teeth with gaps. It was the first time Mason had seen the old man smile. Ordinarily, when someone smiles, it gives comfort and assurance. But this did not. Mason turned away.
“Okay?” Giliberti asked.
“Yes. Okay,” said Mason.
“It is a deal, Signor Sensi,” said Giliberti.
“I would like to leave now,” Mason said, taking quick steps out of the barn and toward the car.
Giliberti ran and caught up with him. “Do not offend him, Luther. He has been most gracious. You must thank him properly.”
Mason stopped and looked at his friend. “And how do I do that?”
“By expressing your appreciation for allowing you to come here. For the pleasure of having dinner with him last night. For honoring you with his trust in this business deal.”
When Mason turned to do so, he saw only the back of the old man entering his house. “You thank him for me the next time you see him,” he said.
It wasn’t until they were almost back in Rome and heading for the airport that Giliberti once again brought up Mason’s lack of courtesy. “You are much too nervous, my friend,” he said. “But if you continue to act with such animosity toward your benefactor, I cannot guarantee what will happen.”
“Benefactor? He is an old, ugly mafioso who steals and plunders and murders.”
Giliberti let the comment go until he pulled up in front of the Alitalia terminal. As Mason got out and removed his luggage from the rear, Giliberti leaned across the seat. “Remember one thing, my friend,” he said. “Signor Sensi may be old and ugly. He may murder and steal. But he is a man of honor. And you have chosen to do business with him. I suggest you become a man of honor yourself.”
Mason didn’t know how to respond.
Giliberti laughed. “Don’t take me so seriously, Luther. And relax. Everything will be fine.”
“You’ve made all the arrangements for the painting to go to Paris?” Mason asked.
“Of course. It will be there in the morning. By special courier.”
“And you will be there to see that it is handled properly?”
“Again, my friend, I say not to worry. I have taken care of every detail. Go. Catch your plane. Safe trip. I will be back myself in a few days and we will have dinner. To celebrate. At my house. My wife will cook a fine meal. She asks for you often.”
6
THE NATIONAL GALLERY OF ART—WASHINGTON, D.C.
Did Caravaggio know in gouache heaven that the art he created three hundred years ago would spawn so many meetings in a city that didn’t even exist in his time?
George Kublinski, chief of design and exhibition, gathered a group around him in an empty room in the East Building of the National Gallery to demonstrate a fiber-optic lighting system he’d designed especially for the Caravaggio exhibition to avoid potentially damaging heat. Kublinski was acknowledged throughout the international museum world as the preeminent expert on new lighting techniques. It was no surprise that he worked for “America’s Museum,” affectionately so-called despite technically being a gallery. Its reputation for excellence in art conservation and restoration, scientific testing, packing, shipping, and, because of George Kublinski, lighting, was without peer.
The group surrounding Kublinski included interested employees, and design and exhibition experts from elsewhere who’d traveled to Washington to learn more about fiber optics.
As Kublinski conducted his demonstration, several meetings were taking place within the institution.
Agents from private insurance companies, and Gallery attorneys, met with representatives of the federal government to finalize details of insuring the Caravaggio paintings while in the Gallery’s possession. Because most of the works would come from other nations, the federal government would indemnify the bulk of the exhibition through the Federal Council on the Arts, administered by the National Endowment for the Arts and augmented by private insurers.
In another office, in the East Building’s basement, the National Gallery’s top security brass huddled with the deputy administrator to review security plans. The Gallery’s “cops” prided themselves on never having lost a work of art since the Gallery opened in March of 1941. The only “breach” of security in its fifty-four years had resulted in an addition to the Gallery’s collection. A young Washington artist had spirited one of his paintings into the West Building and hung it on a wall alongside the works of the great master painters. It remained there until a sharp-eyed security guard noticed one too many “masterpieces.”
The security meeting concluded with a tentative schedule to provide most of the three hundred guards with a short course in Caravaggio and to arrange for increased practice time on firing ranges around the city. Until recently, the National Gallery had had its own range. But after years of use, tests showed the ground to contain a shockingly high lead level, and it was closed.
The director’s office on the seventh floor of the East Building was also the scene of a meeting between Director Courtney Whitney and Senior Curator Luther Mason.
“Luther,” Whitney said in a tone intended to pacify, “I understand your concerns about including Caravaggio in the computer system. And rest assured I would like to accommodate you. But I’m afraid my hands are tied. The trustees are one hundred percent behind the Micro Gallery. They are not about to make exceptions.”
He was referring to the National Gallery’s newest innovation, a privately funded computerized visitor’s center in which gallery-goers could sit in front of computer monitors and use touch-screen technology to create their own personal tours of the vast Gallery without ever leaving their chairs. Older curators, Luther Mason very much included, were aghast at the notion of pixelizing masterpieces. But the project had many advocates. To Mason’s chagrin, Whitney had eagerly embraced the concept and had pushed to get the system up and running as quickly as possible. Luther had been informed of the decision first thing that morning, the wrong time to lay such unpleasant news upon him. For one thing, he did not much like mornings. For another, he’d been awakened before the alarm by a call from Cynthia, the second former Mrs. Mason, who informed him that she intended to hire a lawyer to pursue half of his personal art collection.
“That was determined in the final divorce decree,” he said sleepily.
“That was determined before I learned you’d lied about its worth, Luther. You defrauded me.”
“No, I didn’t—goodbye, Cynthia.” Fact was, he hadn’t lied. His small collection was well chosen but mediocre at best in market value.
Another prebreakfast call came from his only child, Julian, son by his first marriage, to Juliana. Julian, an artist, struggling, naturally, needed money.
“I just gave you money,” Mason told him.
“I need more. Supplies don’t grow on trees. The landlord’s bugging me. I have to find a new place. I need more room.”
I need—I need. Luther promised to think about it.
And now this. Caravaggio reduced to bits and bytes and manipulated by a “mouse.”
“Bad enough this is happening to any work of art in this institution, Court,” he said. “But to subject Caravaggio to this technological abortion is something I simply cannot, and will not, live with.”
Whitney checked his watch. They’d been talking for a half hour, and he’d grown tired of the debate. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to end this conversation,” he said. “I’m running late for another meeting. No matter what your views, Luther, Caravaggio in the Micro Gallery is, as they say, a done deal.”
“Nonsense! You can still stand y
our ground with the trustees.”
“I prefer to pick my battles with them, Luther, and this is not one I choose to take on. Besides, if it’s good enough for the National Gallery in London, it will be good enough for the National Gallery of the United States. End of discussion.”
Whitney had conducted the session in shirtsleeves. He took his jacket from the coat tree, slipped it on, and checked himself in a mirror. The director’s concern for his appearance only further upset Mason. He knew he could do little. He was, after all, an employee, and the man about to walk out the door—how he hated the thought—was his boss.
In a final attempt at conciliation, Whitney stepped behind Mason and placed his hands on the curator’s shoulders. “Luther, don’t let this issue taint your achievement of bringing Caravaggio to America. Like it or not, we both work for the trustees. They have spoken in all their infinite wisdom, and you and I must abide by their decision. By the way, is everything still on track?”
Whitney removed his hands, and Mason stood. “Yes, Court, things are going smoothly, aside from some loose ends to tidy up at the Borghese. I’m going to Rome tomorrow to resolve them.”
Whitney’s expression said that he wasn’t pleased. Mason had become a virtual commuter between Washington and Italy since the project began. He’d returned from his most recent trip only days ago.
“A problem?” Mason asked.
“Just a silly thing called a budget, Luther. We’re already thirty-two percent over on Caravaggio. Travel costs are far in excess of what was allocated.”
The cost of the Caravaggio show had risen with each passing day. That morning’s estimate put the total close to nine million. But Whitney chose not to challenge his esteemed senior curator any further. “No problem at all, Luther. By the way, I’ve told Annabel Reed-Smith that I agree with Mrs. Aprile. Annabel should accompany you on some of the Italy trips. Will you be traveling alone tomorrow?”
“No. Donald is coming with me to take a final look at The Entombment at Vatican Pinacoteca. It’s the only work we seem to have any serious debate about. He’s still not sure whether it’s prudent to travel the painting. I think he’s being overly cautious, but that decision is his, after all. He’ll be going on to Malta to make a final decision on Saint Jerome. He might be right about that one. It’s in dreadful shape. Even if he does decide it can travel, the amount of conservation and restoration that would have to be accomplished in Malta could prove prohibitive.”
“I’ll see if Mrs. Smith is free to join you on the trip and have her coordinate with your office. Thank you for all your good work, Luther. Not only do the trustees appreciate it, you have my personal gratitude.” With that he was gone, leaving Mason standing alone in the middle of the office, thinking: What happened to his concern about the budget?
The National Gallery’s Office of Special Events, always busy choreographing its many social events, grappled with planning a black-tie dinner that had been injected into the schedule at the last minute. Ordinarily, only one dinner would be held to celebrate an upcoming exhibition at which the lenders of works, the trustees, and an assortment of government and industry movers and shakers in the D.C. arts scene would gather. But the trustees, prodded by Courtney Whitney, decided to host a second bash in advance of the official opening dinner and had persuaded the corporate sponsors to foot the additional bill.
Mary Helm, head of the department, met with representatives of the outside catering service. The menu would, of course, be Italian, without reverting to gastronomic clichés. A three-course Venetian meal was chosen because the caterer felt it would be more delicate, subtle, and lighter than fare from other regions. Each dish would be renamed to coincide with the theme of a Caravaggio painting—Antipasto Medusa, Sleeping Cupid Baked Scallops, Smoked Lamb Soup Salome, Veal with Tuna Sauce Emmaus, and for dessert, Boy with a Basket of Fruit, with its suggestion of cannibalism. Finding subject matter in Caravaggio’s works not dealing with crucifixion, incest, or murder was a challenge.
Raul Sebastian, head of the Gallery’s music department, was given the assignment of providing appropriate background sounds during the cocktail hour. Sebastian was a man known not only for his musical expertise, but for never allowing a simple project to remain that way. Despite the minor role music would play, he agonized over the choice of Italian composers to feature. Italian Renaissance? Or Baroque, with more music from which to choose? Renaissance composer Don Carlo Gesualdo, whose madrigals and motets were primarily vocal, but whose personal life paralleled Caravaggio’s? Gesualdo had had his unfaithful wife and her lover murdered. The Baroque Jean-Baptiste Lully, born in Florence but who wrote French opera? Sebastian pointed out in a memo that Lully died of gangrene after accidentally smashing his foot with a staff used to pound the floor when his musicians did not keep correct time.
“How about Vivaldi?” Mary Helm suggested.
Sebastian dismissed her suggestion. “Why do you suggest him? Because he wrote four hundred concerti? No, Vivaldi wrote one concerto four hundred times!”
He settled on Corelli and instructed a chamber group culled from the National Symphony to rehearse sections from the composer’s twelve concerti, as well as La Folia, to be performed by a violinist with piano accompaniment. So much for background music, unlikely to be heard consecutively or attentively by anyone other than the musicians.
“Mac, it’s me.”
“I gathered as much,” Smith said to his wife after taking her call in his home office. “Recognize your voice anywhere, Annabel.”
“What a relief. Mac, I just received a call from Court Whitney at the National Gallery. He wants me to accompany Luther Mason—tomorrow—on a trip to Italy. Think you can break loose?”
“For some reason, Annabel, I always have trouble with people who give me too much advance notice. Tomorrow? Can’t. That lecture I made the mistake of agreeing to is coming up fast. I’ll need every minute I can steal to get ready.”
“Damn.”
“I suggest you go, discharge your official duties on behalf of the United States, enjoy yourself, buy something pretty on the via Condotti, and hurry home to me.”
“Why do you always make it so difficult for me to live my life?”
“Because I love you. You say you leave tomorrow? Let’s celebrate with dinner out tonight. I don’t suppose you’d be in the mood for Italian food?”
“I’m always in the mood for Italian food.”
“Sounds like a corny lyric to a Dean Martin song. Soon you’ll be up to your pretty neck in the real thing.”
“You’re right. Let’s make it sushi.”
“You know I don’t eat sushi.”
“But I do. We could go to Sapporo. The one on M, not Pennsylvania. I can satisfy my sudden urge, and you can have tempura.”
“Seven?”
“Let’s make it six. I have to pack.”
“Okay.”
“Mac, one request while I’m gone.”
“Yes?”
“No tatuaggi.”
“I can’t get a tattoo while you’re gone? I was thinking of a heart with your initials in it.”
“Were you?”
“Or maybe a depiction of one of Caravaggio’s paintings.”
“Uh huh.”
“Which do you prefer, Annabel?”
“Make one permanent mark on that skin I love to touch and you’re the former Mackensie Smith.”
“You have a talent for taking all the joy out of a man’s life, Annabel. See you at six. And by the way, I love you.”
7
ROME—TWO DAYS LATER
“I’ll leave you to your work,” Annabel told Luther Mason. It was an hour into their flight to Rome, and they’d been talking since leaving Washington.
“Yes. I really should get this written before we arrive. I give the lecture the day after we get back. Annabel, I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to have you with us.”
“I’m delighted to be with you. I just wish Mac had been able to come.
”
“Another time, I’m sure.” He opened his briefcase, put on his glasses, and went back to writing his lecture on the influence on Caravaggio of Peterzano, Figino, and Jacopo and Francesco Bassano.
As Annabel browsed through a magazine, she cast an occasional glance at her companion. The more time she spent with Luther Mason, the more he impressed her. Not only was he an expert on Caravaggio, his enthusiasm for the subject was contagious. He’d traced the artist’s life for her in considerable detail, linking his works to periods in his tumultuous personal life.
On her way back from a restroom visit, Donald Fechter beckoned her to the empty seat next to him. Fechter had come to the field of art conservation from a background that included a Ph.D. in chemistry and a stint as a college professor. To Annabel, he looked more the rugged, middle-aged pugilist than a man who’d spent his life in intellectual pursuits. That, as she eventually learned, his favorite leisure pursuits were mountain climbing and white-water rafting came as no surprise.
Fechter proved to be as engaging a seat companion as Luther Mason had been for the first hour. By the time the captain announced they were beginning their descent, Annabel had learned a bewildering amount about conservation and the National Gallery’s approach to it. Fechter supervised fifty-four specialists in matting and framing, textiles, oil, and watercolor, three-dimensional objects, and pure science. He was accompanied on this trip by two assistants, carrying with them a variety of scientific instruments to measure humidity levels and pH factors, a portable X-ray machine, and a book Fechter claimed was his traveling “bible,” The World Weather Book.
Carlo Giliberti met them at Leonardo da Vinci Airport and deftly navigated their passage through Customs. Mason sat in the front passenger seat of the chauffeured Mercedes. Annabel, Fechter, and Giliberti shared the roomy rear seat. Fechter’s two assistants were driven into the city in a rented minivan.
Annabel found Carlo Giliberti to be charming—maybe a little too charming—insincero, Italian for not always meaning so many flowery compliments. Yet she enjoyed his company, his enthusiastic chatter, his overt love of Rome and its people. He assured Annabel that he and the car and driver were at her disposal and that he would take personal pleasure in escorting her about the city during any free moments.
Murder at the National Gallery Page 5
