by Tony Bulmer
The contessa gave her guest a quick smile. Realizing now she had underestimated the potential horror that the evening might hold. She extended her smile bravely, wishing that she were somewhere, anywhere other than this social inquisition. As she pondered these thoughts, Don Ferrante strode quickly past her, until he stood enraptured before the painting of the Lady Lucretzia. “My dear Contessa—where on earth did you get this marvelous painting?”
“A final gift from my husband. Bought shortly before his death.”
“It is the most marvelous example of the Florentine school I have ever seen, was this work purchased from a dealer in Como? I find it hard to imagine that a painting of this great quality could ever find a resting place in such a provincial locale.” Don Ferrante looked around incredulously. “Do you know the name of the dealer from whence it was purchased madam?”
The contessa gave Don Ferrante a careful look, every sinew in her body tightening against the continued questioning. “I am afraid I didn’t ask Don Ferrante, and my husband didn’t think to tell me—I believe he acquired it whilst engaged on business in the southlands.”
“The southlands you say? How extraordinary. I have heard tell that the roads south have been blocked, these many months, by the plague ridden armies of the invaders!”
Donna Prassede’s eyes widened noticeably, on hearing this news. Her tight little lips pinched together. She tilted her head back, as though expecting an explanation for the discrepancy.
Don Rodrigo let out a furious belch, and said “All this talk of dead artists is enough to bore the birds from the sky. I say the art of Florence is full of a cloying piety intolerable to the modern constitution. Why would one seek to collect such gewgaws, when a painting in the modern style can be commissioned in the market square for the price of a loaf of bread.”
“Daubers to a man!” barked Don Ferrante dismissively. “Art of the sixteenth century has an unmistakable richness that is missing from the modern age.”
“With this I can agree,” interjected Don Abondio. “The vanity of secular art is intolerable. True art should glorify God and not the worldly caprices of man.”
“Pah!” exclaimed Don Rodrigo impatiently. “Art is wasted on pious hypocrites. The arts should be reserved for those with wealth and taste, rather than squandered on the poor, in the hope that they might be drawn to the piety of the church.”
From thenceforth, the evening descended, into a hellish round of argument and counter-argument, in which perhaps the only thing the protagonists could agree was that the proponents of reformatory post Lutheran art where headed for certain damnation, when judgment day finally came. Not even the arrival of the great merchant Domenico Fetti and his wife Amadea could cool the heated nature of the conversation. As the argument grew hotter, contessa Manzoni stared at the picture of the Lady Lucretzia with distaste. That a simple picture had caused such argument troubled her deeply. Perhaps she should have left the cursed painting in Como after all? But the thought of the last gift her husband had given, her being stolen by marauding looters, filled her with an equal horror.
The contessa turned away from the portrait, to find the banker Antonio Griso standing directly behind her, a haunted look on his pale, thin face, “The portrait resembles you so closely Contessa Manzoni, and yet the legend beneath bears the name Lucretzia, how can this be so my lady?”
“Signor Griso, how marvelous to see you. Did you bring your lady wife?”
Griso looked forlorn, “Sadly not my lady. My wife passed, not six months ago—an affliction of the bronchial passageways. I hear your dear husband Lorenzo suffered a similar passing.”
The countess drew back, glancing quickly about her, to ascertain if anyone had heard this snatch of conversation. Reassured that the comment had been made in confidence she hissed, “I do not know what you heard Signor Griso, but my husband died in a fall from his horse. Any rumor to the contrary is quite malicious.”
A look of puzzlement descended over the face of Antonio Griso, “I meant no malice my Lady, quite the contrary. You must excuse me, if some grave misunderstanding has caused offence, I can assure you that none was intended.”
Donna Prassede on seeing her gracious host making conversation alone, with the evening’s most eligible young bachelor, broke off her flirting with Don Abondio, and flounced over to pass comment.
She gripped her hostess by the arm and led her quickly away, whispering, “My dear Contessa, for the sake of propriety I would suggest you eschew the company of Signor Griso. He is a man of foolish passions and you are vulnerable to unseemly approaches. I beseech you, consider your reputation, such an inappropriate association might excite comment.”
The contessa eyed the tiny bejeweled hands of Donna Prassede as they clutched tightly at her arm, and said, “What would I do without friends such as you Signora?”
“Heaven only knows,” sighed Donna Prassede, without trace of irony. “Fortunately for you my dear, social decorum is an area in which I have a degree expertise. Allow me to guide you. The ways of the city are quite different from those of the countryside. You have been so long absent from society, that you are vulnerable to pernicious gossip, it is best if you do nothing to encourage such attention.”
“You are right of course,” said the countess artfully. “Your understanding of decorum is without parallel Signora and I look forward to your close association in matters of social standing.”
“Perhaps then, you would take my counsel on this painting of yours. The demeanor of the sitter is quite scandalous. The poor creature has the look of the concubine about her. I must advise you my dear, that such airs, whilst popular amongst the decadents of the Florentine Republic, are quite inappropriate in the modern age. Take the décolleté cut of her gown for example, such expression is more than enough to excite the primitive passions of man—the poor creatures are quite incapable of containing themselves when confronted with such a shocking and licentious display.”
“Signorina, I really had no idea.”
“Why would you my child, your innocence is to be commended. Men are however quite different from us, they are given to a Rabelaisian fondness for obscenity, in all it is many forms and it is our Christian duty to curtail that urge.”
“You are indeed perceptive Signora, because your assessment of the painting corresponds in many respects with the established provenance of the painting.”
Donna Prassede’s eyes widened and she gave a sharp little intake of breath. “You know something of the paintings history?”
“Indeed Signora and I fear its heritage is even more scandalous than you feared.”
“Scandalous?” gasped Donna Prassede, pressing her tiny bejeweled hands together before her, as though in prayer. “Perhaps you will share this information with a trusted friend?”
“I was rather hoping I might tell the story to the assembled company over dinner, I had hoped it would provide a distraction…”
“I am not sure that scandal is an appropriate topic for the dinner table Contessa.”
“You surprise me Signora, it was my understanding that scandal is the most popular dish at any table.” The contessa paused, peering across the room to witness the arrival of Mayor Sicari and his lady wife Simone, the couple looking resplendent in their finery of office. “It looks like everyone has arrived at last, perhaps you and your husband will join us at the dinner table, cook has prepared quite a feast for us.”
Donna Prassede’s eyes bulged, her lips parting wordlessly, as the implications of her hostesses words bubbled hotly, with salacious implication.
THE FINE ART OF MURDER 19
As Don Abondio the priest rose up at the contessa’s side, to say prayers of thanks and break the bread of Eucharist. The burble of conversation drew into silence, and the blessed words of the sacrament echoed around the candle-lit room, drifting over the assembled company like the dour waft of incense Don Abondio offered words from Paul the Apostle to accompany the blessing. The priest fleshed-open the bread wit
h pale, hard fingers. Then came the cold, red wine, in a goblet of pure gold. The diners passed the wine from hand to hand, and each diner took a sip in turn; the dark liquid flowed across their lips, in a communal sacrament to the body of Christ. With every swallow, the creaking silence of the room consumed them.
Don Rodrigo choked on the bread, and reached thirstily for more wine. Coughing and spluttering, he received an abrupt slap on the back from judge Poveglia, seated on his immediate right. The judge gave Don Rodrigo a sour look. “The flesh of Christ is not to your liking?” he scoffed.
Gasping for air, his face coloring darkly with the strain of asphyxiation, Don Rodrigo could scarce manage a denial, instead he banged on the table with the flat of his hand, before taking another gulp of wine.
“Temperance is a virtue,” said Donna Prassede, tartly, “Do you knot agree Don Abondio?”
The priest gave her a look of discomfort. The devil prowls like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour,” he said quietly.
“Whoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life,” choked Don Rodrigo. “Your savior obviously had me in mind!”
The contessa rose to her feet. Standing alone at the head of the great dinner table, she said, “I would like to thank Don Rodrigo for his words of wisdom, and propose a toast to you all, for today we celebrate the blessings bestowed upon us by scripture, at this very special time of year. Fortuitously, we also celebrate my return to the great city of Milan, and I would like to take this moment to thank you all, for the warmth of your welcome.
A murmur of stouthearted approval carried around the table, as the distinguished guests raised their glasses in toast.
Mayor Sicari stood then. Looking most elegant, in his thick-banded chain of office and ermine trimmed robes. “I would like to thank you Contessa, for your most generous invitation, this evening, so that we might welcome you back into our hearts and homes,” he raised his glass. “In addition, I would like to salute you all, at the start of this carnival season. Now that the trials of the great pestilence are behind us, we might once again go about our godly business, without fear of the unholy contagion that has pursued us so relentlessly these many long years.”
“I will drink to anything that brings business back,” said Domenico Fetti the Merchant. “Perhaps your damned carnival will do that mayor—perhaps it won’t.”
“The streets are already alive, with the many voices of celebration,” replied the mayor. “People are no longer afraid to come forth from their homes, now that the unwholesome miasma of the plague has passed back into the hell from which it came.”
“The Angel of Death!” burbled Lodvico Setalla. “He walks amongst us!”
Mayor Sicari shot the countess a nervous look, before addressing the aging surgeon directly, “You should know more than most Doctor Setalla that the miasma has been conquered by my wide ranging public health initiatives.”
“Conquered, pah! Burning corpses in festering pits? Entombing citizens in their homes, while the sickness eats away at their living flesh? You think these methods will conquer the curse of God himself? Such measures are charlatanism masquerading as science!”
The mayor drew back his head dismissively, “It so happens Signor Doctor, that I have a very firm and wide ranging understanding of the miasma, and its deleterious effects on human health. In fact, I am familiar with all the latest scientific techniques in plague prevention.”
“Is that so?” scoffed Lodvico Setalla wetly. “Perhaps, then, you could share with the assembled company, some knowledge of these scientific methods, of which you speak.”
Mayor Sicari beamed with pleasure. He was only too happy to relate the how his methods had successfully beaten the most dangerous public heath crisis to ever face their city. The mayor said, “Firstly, there is the holy trinity of rosemary, mint, and vinegar. When mixed together in liquid form, their scent provides a cloak of protection that shields all within its range from infection. Secondly, it is well known that plague may be passed from person to person by touch of any kind. Therefore, the careful and regular washing of hands and feet is a vital method of prevention.” The mayor looked around the table. “I trust that you all washed your feet in the footbath by the door as you entered tonight? It is good that our hostess is taking every precaution, even though the sickness is now behind us, for we must be ever vigilant against unhealthy practices that might encourage the miasma return. For this reason, I would encourage you all to ensure that you keep your windows closed at all times, especially whilst traversing the streets in your carriages. Similarly, the wearing of a scented mask is always advisable whilst in public, as there may be lingering patches of miasma that remain undetected, especially in the more unsavory areas of town.”
“I cannot imagine anyone who would have the need to travel to the areas of which you speak,” interjected Donna Prassede quickly. “As for dipping ones feet in a wretched footbath, have you any idea what such treatment would do to footwear of quality?”
“You will understand Signora, that I recommend such measures purely for the sake of your own protection.”
“Protection sir?” snapped Donna Prassede. “Surely the pestilence is now behind us? Either we are free of its curse, or we aren’t and if we are not free, that would suggest your grand gestures are in vain Signor Mayor.”
“Were that so, it would be the second scandal of the evening,” said Don Rodrigo carelessly.
The comment turned all heads at the table.
“What ever do you mean sir,” said judge Poveglia, outrage straining his voice.
“You mean you haven’t seen the scandalous painting yet?” slurred Don Rodrigo. He flung out his arm and pointed in the direction of the painting of Lady Lucretzia and roared, there she is your worship, the Whore of Florence. Will you throw her in prison or give her a stiff talking to?”
Gasps rose up from the ladies present. Domenico Fetti’s wife Amadea raised a lace handkerchief to her lips and let slip a tiny sob of indignation. Dark stares abounded from the men folk. Lodvico Setalla the surgeon peered up from his plate and licked his lips, like a toad that has just sighted a fly.
The contessa cleared her throat. “As usual Don Rodrigo speaks in jest, even if it is a rather intemperate jest.”
“The man is drunk!” said Domenico Fetti. “It is an outrage!”
“If so, that is the third scandal of the evening,” said Don Rodrigo “Four if we are counting the prices you charge in the market place.”
Judge Poveglia’s wife Laverna emitted a shrill laugh, then covered her mouth hurriedly with a napkin. She hung her head, peering quickly around, to compound her embarrassment.
The contessa gave Laverna Poveglia a reassuring smile and said, “Perhaps it would be…distracting, if I mentioned something of the paintings provenance, although it is by no means firmly established.”
“A parlor painting from a common bordello!” announced Donna Prassede. “You should put the past behind you my dear. Artifacts of such low nature cannot be called art. You must rid yourself of the painting. I am sure you could gain a tidy price at market amongst the classes who appreciate such smut.”
Don Ferrante said quickly, “I would be prepared to help you find a home for the painting, should you deem it necessary, I might even be prepared to buy it myself if the price were right, as a novelty piece you understand.”
Donna Prassede gave him a withering look, “My husband will most emphatically not be purchasing such a disgraceful painting,” she said primly.
“It is perhaps for the best Signorina, because your complaints against the painting may have a measure of truth—although perhaps not in the way you would expect.”
Donna Prassede’s face twisted unpleasantly. Her prejudices confirmed. She squirmed in her seat and held her head aloof, “I knew as much,” she snapped.
“Where did you acquire the painting?” asked the mayor, his lack of interest in art piqued by Donna Prassede’s outburst of self-righteous indignation.
> “My dear husband acquired it on one of his many travels south, to the heart of the Florentine Republic.”
“Florence? I cannot see the attraction,” said the mayor surprised. “Apart from their talent in matters of trade, the place has very little to offer. Certainly, the great city of Milan is better known for its discerning taste, and patronage of the arts.”
The contessa gave a gracious nod and continued, “When he purchased the painting, for what I am told was a very reasonable sum, the seller gave two very different and conflicting stories regarding the paintings history.”
“In the first story, my husband was given to understand, that the painting originally belonged to a lady of the court of Florence, during the time of the Galfoniere Piero Soderini,”
“That would date the painting to the early sixteenth century,” said the mayor with great authority.”
“Matters of historical detail have never been my strong suit Signor Mayor, but my husband told me that the subject of the painting was the lover of the famous Florentine diplomat Niccolò Machiavelli.
“Ah, the great Machiavelli, a national treasure if ever there was one,” said Judge Poveglia. His writings on politics provide perhaps the most erudite and learned understanding of political will since the days of Plato.”
Don Rodrigo snorted loudly, and the judge gave him a savage stare.
The countess said, “As the story goes, Machiavelli tricked the artist into painting the portrait for free.”
“That I can believe,” said the mayor.
“But he didn’t quite manage to get away with this trick, because the artist’s faithful young assistant, who’s name has been lost through the passage of time, seduced Machiavelli’s mistress, travelling to her private chambers on a daily basis, to indulge in acts of a torrid and passionate nature. Then, once the lady’s confidence had been gained, the painting was stolen from her, and both the young man and his master disappeared, leaving a trail of debt, anguish and betrayal behind them.”
