He shuddered. Stood back, taking in his treasures, his children, relishing the idea that this art was his and his alone.
Selfish?
He didn’t think so. After all, didn’t he take better care of them than the careless museums and galleries they had been stolen from?
It was his calling, mystical and divine, almost religious, the way he would see an artwork in a museum or gallery, feel a palpable vibration, and know he had to have it, had to rescue it—the thought whispered into his mind as if from God.
He moved from Gauguin’s Tahitian scene to a Madonna by the Norwegian artist Edvard Munch, surprisingly seductive, lips slightly open and dark red. He licked his own lips, then folded himself into the gold-plated Warren Platner chair, felt its curved back embrace his body as if he were floating. He skidded the chair a few inches closer to the painting, metal base scraping on the marble floor, the echo of a screech filling the room. He covered his ears, but too late; the ghosts were already here.
The chair screeched against the concrete floor of the garage where the man had been dragged from his bed in the middle of the night, eyes wide with fear, muffled pleading just barely audible through the duct tape across his mouth. The boy watched him, one eye on his father, who attached the silencer, then took it off and had him do it, hovering over him, wheezing from the beginning of emphysema that would have killed him had he lived long enough. The fourteen-year-old did it well, silencer on, off, hands moving deftly, trying to ignore the guttural sounds from the man in the chair.
“More tape on his mouth,” his father said.
The boy tore off a strip, pressing it over the existing tape, felt the man’s lips move under his fingers like worms. A smell too, heat and sweat and something sour, which he would only later come to identify as fear. He looked down, saw the wet stain spreading across the man’s pajama bottoms.
“What if someone comes home?” the boy asked.
“No one’s comin’ home. Wife’s away. Children—who knows where—and who cares? They don’t tell me the guy’s life story, just when and where.”
“What if someone hears?”
“That’s why the gun’s got the suppressor, stupid. Won’t make it silent, but not loud enough to wake the neighbors—and when the hell did I give you permission to ask questions?” His father pressed the gun into his hand. “Put these on,” he said, handing him a pair of plastic glasses, at the same time pressing foam plugs into the boy’s ears. “Don’t want you going deaf or blind. What good would you be to me then?” He wheezed a laugh. “Closer,” he said. “This ain’t no shooting gallery.”
The boy took a tentative step.
“I said closer!” He gripped the boy by the nape of the neck and pushed him forward.
The man jerked in the chair, head whipping from side to side.
“Do it,” the father said, steering the boy’s hand and gun toward the man’s chest. “Pull the damn trigger already.”
The man’s eyes were blinking wildly, lips contorting below the tape.
“Now! Goddammit! Now!”
The boy fired, gun recoiling in his hand, the sound a muted putt.
“Goddammit! You hit his fuckin’ shoulder.” He grabbed hold of the boy’s hand with his own, aimed the gun at the man’s chest, and squeezed the boy’s finger. Another putt and a spot of red appeared in the center of the man’s T-shirt, expanding and blurring before he squeezed the boy’s finger again, and another red spot appeared.
“Never take chances,” his father said.
The boy watched as the man slumped to the side, taking the chair with him, crashing to the garage floor, everything about the scene, the moment, etched into his brain, though when he thought about it later, he realized he had felt nothing.
“Good boy,” his father said, a rare moment of affection, patting him on the shoulder.
The wine-red lips of Munch’s seductive Madonna came back into focus and he grew calm again, shifted his gaze to the prize, to her soft lips and enigmatic smile, the only painting in the vault to have its own wall. He leaned one way, then the other, her eyes following, then moved closer, fingertips grazing the cracked paint of her cheek, believing he felt flesh and warmth where none existed. He leaned in, his lips an inch from hers, painted features blurring, dizzy from the spell she cast. He took a step back, breath caught in his throat.
But is it really her?
He had to know.
He’d set the search for proof in motion, and there was no turning back.
“Whatever it takes, I have to know you,” he whispered to her. “Whatever it takes.”
13
Laurentian Library
Florence, Italy
“How did you know I’d be coming in?” I eyed the white carton already waiting on Riccardo’s book caddy, careful to keep my smile in place, not to sound accusatory.
“I hear you with guard, in other room,” Riccardo said.
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure there’d been enough time for him to have gone into the back to retrieve the carton. But why be suspicious? Was I just being paranoid after so many years of looking for this elusive journal?
Chiara leaned toward us. “Is anything wrong, Signore Perrone?”
“Call me Luke,” I said. “No, nothing at all.” A thought: “I wonder, do you have anything on…” I stopped to think up a name. “Duccio?”
“There is much about the Sienese artist, Signore”—she smiled—“Luke. Rare books and more recent, how you say, scholarly papers.”
“May I see them?”
“There are several boxes.”
“The scholarly papers will do,” I said and smiled back.
“Uno momento,” she said, then spoke to Riccardo in Italian, while I thought about the break-in at Quattrocchi’s apartment and the inquiry from a collector of rare papers. Chiara asked again if anything was wrong. I told her no, that I was just tired, and she said I was working too hard and patted my hand with her fuchsia nails. Riccardo returned with a carton labeled Duccio II, and I slipped my hand out from under Chiara’s, balanced the Duccio carton on top of High Renaissance Masters, and headed across the room to the long table, where I took the same spot at the end.
The two scholars from the other day were there too, in the same spots, though none were assigned. The one with the ponytail looked up, seemed almost to be watching me, peering over his reading glasses. I stared at him until he looked away. Then I opened the Duccio carton, mostly folders and loose papers, and just what I needed. I set it aside, took a moment to create the makeshift fortress with Guggliermo’s folders before I removed the journal, then found my place and began to read.
14
I did not want to go to Picasso’s studio. But Simone insisted I spend more time with other artists. And it was difficult for me to say no to her.
I took the omnibus from Place de l’Odéon and got off at the top of the hill. Climbed another street lined with bakeries and restaurants where the air smelled of sweet pastry. My stomach felt hollow and empty. It had been hours since I had eaten. Only a slice of bread with strawberry jam Simone had made from berries she picked in the Bois de Boulogne.
I rolled a cigarette. Used the smoke to fill my lungs. Headed along rue Ravignan to the Ruche. A small wooden building. Several artists had studios here. Including Picasso.
I hesitated. There was still time to turn back. I had met the Little Spaniard before and did not like him. But Simone’s words urged me on.
Picasso answered the door in paint-stained overalls. Told me to sit while he painted. Too busy to stop and be cordial.
The studio reeked of linseed oil and turpentine. And dog. An ugly old thing asleep at Picasso’s feet. There were canvases everywhere. All in the new cubist style. Fragmented and ugly. I spied two small sculptures that looked familiar on a shelf. Iberian and primitive. All the rage in Paris. It took only a
moment to remember where I had seen them last. At my job. At the Louvre Museum!
I kept my tone casual as I asked Picasso where he had gotten them.
When he told me from his friend the art critic Guillaume Apollinaire I felt a rush of anger. Apollinaire had singled out my paintings from a recent gallery exhibition. Had called them old-fashioned and dull. Words that still burned in my gut.
Did Picasso know the sculptures were stolen? Perhaps he had even been a party to it. I was not sure. But I made a note of them being here.
Picasso sang while he painted. A popular dance-hall ditty.
Oh Manon ma jolie
mon coeur te dit bonjour
ma jolie ma jolie ma jolie
He sang the silly verse over and over. Then he lectured me on art and my responsibility as an artist. I listened without comment though his lecture offended me. He talked of his friend the other cubist artist Georges Braque. Referred to them as the Wilbur and Orville Wright of painting. Such conceit! He talked on and on about old-fashioned artists and their concern with beauty. I knew this was aimed at me. The same words Apollinaire had used in criticizing my work.
Picasso put his brushes down. Faced me. Turned his painting around so I could have a look. He explained at great length how he was reinventing three-dimensional form on a flat surface.
All I could see was a fractured mess. But I did not say a word.
He asked if I understood what he was saying. I felt anger rise up in me. But I answered calmly. I told him I understood perfectly and asked a question of my own. Why not paint the most beautiful picture possible?
Picasso spat his answer. Because it has been done before and better than you or I could ever paint it again!
I told him that all I had ever wanted was to make the most beautiful paintings possible.
He looked at me as if I were an idiot. Said beauty was a thing of the past.
We went back and forth like this. Neither one of us willing to concede our point.
Picasso finally offered me a cup of coffee. But it was too late. I had had enough of his lecturing. Enough of his insults.
I made an excuse and left.
Outside it was cold. Frost in the trees. I stopped in front of the Café des Abbesses and peered through the steamy window. Inside was my old friend Max Jacob. Drawing pictures in the air for a pretty young woman who stared at him captivated. I had not seen Max in months. Not since he had aligned himself with Picasso and Braque and that bastard Apollinaire.
I longed to sit with Max and the pretty girl. To drink coffee. To be part of their lively conversation. But no. I turned away and vowed never to come back to this place again. I was an outsider. Always would be.
I headed down the hill and walked swiftly to the Place de l’Odéon. I ignored the omnibus. I needed to keep moving. I headed up the hill and started to run as fast as I could. I know now that I was running away from the future into the safety of the past. But all the time I was running I thought about those sculptures in Picasso’s studio. And how I might use them against him.
15
I stopped reading where Peruggia had drawn a heavy pencil line at the bottom of the page, noted that he had done this before, his personal demarcation to end a passage. I thought of him in Picasso’s studio, how humiliated and furious he must have felt, and understood it too—the competition between artists. I got up and stretched, my back stiff from sitting for too many hours. The guy with the ponytail looked up and nodded and I did the same, noting with more interest that the blond was back at the end of the table. I’d been so absorbed in the journal that I’d missed her coming in.
Chiara had just left her post to follow Riccardo into the back room, Beatrice hunched over her desk as usual. The ponytailed scholar crossed the room to peruse a stack of books. I took advantage of the moment and did what I had planned to do earlier—emptied half the contents of the Duccio carton, placed the journal inside, then covered it with folders and papers. If someone was looking for the journal—and from what Quattrocchi had said, a collector of rare papers was—they would not think to look for it in here. It was a risk if the librarians checked. Would they think I stole it? Quattrocchi had said no one knew it existed, but had the library gone through Guggliermo’s papers and seen it? I had no idea, but it was a risk worth taking.
I brought both cartons up to Chiara’s desk. She asked if I’d found what I wanted among the Duccio papers, and I told her I had but needed to read more and would be requesting them again.
“Certo,” she said, adding her usual flirty smile.
I went back to get my laptop and backpack, once again made a point of taking the long way around, smiling when I passed the blond, and this time when she returned it, I stopped and, in what I considered to be one of the boldest moves in my thirty-seven years, leaned down and asked in my best Italian if she would like to get a coffee.
“But I’ve got reading to do,” she said.
“You’re American,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “So are you. I was sure you were Italian or Spanish.”
I liked that she had imagined a backstory for me, even an incorrect one. I angled my head to read one of her book titles, Painting in Florence and Siena after the Black Death. “A real hoot. I’ve read it.”
“You have not!”
“Swear to God.” I made the sign of the cross. “Give me a good book about the bubonic plague, and I’m one happy guy.”
She laughed, full lips parting over straight white teeth.
Chiara aimed a finger at us.
“You’re going to get me in trouble,” the blond whispered.
“Sorry,” I whispered back. “But you know that book is in paperback and in English. You don’t have to read it here.”
“Oh, but I love it here.”
“Me too. It’s just that you can read about the aftereffects of the plague on artists anywhere,” I said, showing off a little.
“Oh.” She affected a pout. “Now you’ve spoiled the ending.”
I laughed, and Chiara glared at us again.
“One coffee,” I whispered, “before she throws us out.”
With no windows in the research room, I’d had no sense of the weather since I’d arrived this morning when it had been cloudy and looked like rain. Now the sky over San Lorenzo was a pale watercolor blue with cotton-ball clouds, though the chill lingered.
“Is that real?” I asked, watching her wrap the fur scarf around her neck.
“If you consider rabbit real.”
“I think most rabbits would.”
“You’re not going to report me to PETA, are you?”
I laughed as we headed down one of the streets that radiated off the square, this one narrow and angled and lined with shops—a fancy shoe store, a gelato stand, a trendy men’s clothing shop, even a Foot Locker. Just beyond it, a small café, where I suggested we stop.
“But the weather has gotten so nice. Let’s walk a bit.”
“Sure,” I said.
“You’re easy,” she said.
“I like to think so.” I added a grin.
“Oh, you’re worse than the Italian men. Have you been here long, or are you always like this?”
“Sorry,” I said. “No, just a few days. By the way, I’m Luke Perrone.”
“So you are Italian.”
“Italian American. Does that count?”
Her answer was a raised eyebrow and half smile; one more time, I felt as if she were studying me or looking through me. “Does Luke ever have a nickname?”
“Nope,” I said, though I thought back. My buddies in Bayonne had called me “Lucky,” something I’d dropped the day I left, along with my Jersey accent and everything else I associated with the place.
“Luke then. It suits you,” she said. She extended her hand without removing her glove. The leather felt
soft and expensive. “Alexandra Greene,” she said. “With an E.”
“You ever Alex or Ali?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“Whether I like you or not.” She looked me up and down. “I haven’t decided yet.”
We kept walking, the street mostly in shadow, buildings on either side so close they blocked much of the sky. I asked where she’d grown up and was not surprised when she said the Upper East Side of Manhattan. She had that combination of cool and sophistication Manhattan kids wore like a second skin. I was sure she’d gone to private school too.
“Friends,” she said when I asked.
I would have guessed one of the tonier uptown schools like Nightingale or Brearley. “Is there a Friends School in Manhattan? I only know the one in Brooklyn.”
“Brooklyn,” she said.
“And your parents didn’t mind you traveling all the way from the Upper East Side?”
“My parents are divorced,” she said as if that explained it. “But aren’t everyone’s?”
“Not mine,” I said. “They got a life sentence, no parole in sight.”
“Not happy?”
“I don’t think the word is in their vocabulary, plus they don’t have the money to get divorced.”
“Oh,” she said, and for a minute, I thought she was looking at me differently, sizing me up as if searching for signs of poverty. She asked where I was from, and I admitted to New Jersey, then changed the subject, asked what had brought her to Florence.
“I’m finishing a doctorate…in…medieval history.”
“Ergo the plague book.”
“Just for fun,” she said and smiled.
“Where are you studying?”
“Barnard. You know—the women’s part of Columbia.”
I was not surprised she was attending an Ivy League school. No way I’d be admitting to two years of community college where I’d worked my ass off to create the portfolio that got me into art school. “So you’re a smart girl too.”
The Last Mona Lisa Page 6
