25
The marquis told me to meet him at a small café.
The place was dimly lit but not so dark that I could miss the roaches on the floor or crawling up the walls. I did not think it was the sort of place a marquis would frequent. But he was there. He greeted me with a wolfish smile. Said we needed to celebrate.
I asked him why.
His answer was to remove a silk cloth from his pocket. Inside was a perforated silver spoon. He ordered a bottle of Pernod. Sugar cubes. A pitcher of water. Goblets.
He poured the Pernod. Placed a sugar cube onto the perforated spoon and carefully balanced it on the rim of each goblet. Then he slowly trickled water through the sugar until the emerald-green absinthe below turned a cloudy white.
He handed me a glass and told me to drink up. He talked and talked. Kept referring to me as DEAR BOY which I did not like. But I drank. The anise flavor was intense and sweet on my tongue. It burned my throat. But I didn’t mind.
We had one drink. Then another. Valfiero kept refilling my glass. He talked of paintings he bought and sold for huge sums of money. How he had traveled the world. The important people he had met and knew.
I listened but did not speak. I had nothing to say. But after another drink my tongue loosened. I spoke of my artwork. How I longed to make something great and beautiful. I complained about my job and my boss Ticolat. I even confessed my worry over Simone’s health. The whole time Valfiero nodded sympathetically like an old friend. And continued to refill my glass. Then he leaned in and whispered. Said he had a way to reverse my fortune and laid out his plan.
He finished and I laughed. I was sure he must be joking.
Valfiero waited. Then he said it again and I could see he was serious.
I told him he was insane! I got up to leave. But the absinthe had gone to my head and I was unsteady on my feet.
Valfiero took hold of my arm with his spidery fingers and lowered me back into my chair. He explained how it could be done. Every detail. And how much money we would make.
I told him it was impossible.
We sat there a few minutes not speaking. I thought he must be crazy. His scheme the ravings of a madman.
It can be done was all he said. He patted my shoulder. My cheek. Telling me to trust him. Calling me DEAR BOY over and over. I wanted to spit in his face!
Then he offered me a few francs to help see me through Simone’s cold. I did not want to take his money. But I did.
He told me there would be more. Much more.
And it is true I took his money. But I say now and before God that I had no intention of doing what he suggested.
And I would not have had things not changed.
26
I turned the page, expecting to read more about Valfiero’s plan, but Vincent had switched topics, writing at length about the drawings he was carving into his prison walls with a stick he had picked up in the courtyard, smuggled into his cell, and sharpened on the stone floor—a partially nude woman, an homage to Simone, and Napoleon on horseback, the image based on a famous painting by the dictator’s court painter, Jacques-Louis David, which Vincent had drawn from memory. When the bells of San Lorenzo basilica sounded closing time, I had still not learned how Valfiero had persuaded Peruggia to steal the world’s most famous painting, and I wanted to know, wanted to keep reading. I reflexively went for my phone, as I had a half-dozen times before, to photograph the pages, then remembered I did not have it.
I closed the journal and looked up. Chiara was not at her desk, and Riccardo was nowhere to be seen. A minute to make the decision to do this. But how? I opened the top button of my jeans, and with my other hand still on the journal, I began to slide it off the desk.
27
From the outside, the café next door to my hotel looked drab, but inside, it was busy and crowded, wall sconces creating film-noir shadows. The bartender, a young guy with slicked-back hair, greeted me with a flashy smile and a complimentary glass of prosecco, which I wanted but knew better. I let it sit there and ordered a sparkling water while he described the three panini choices that constituted the bar menu.
“Farmi una sorpresa,” I said. Surprise me.
A few minutes later, he brought me a panini of prosciutto di Parma and fontina cheese.
I had just taken a bite when a man eased onto the barstool beside me. “Chilly night,” he said. “I didn’t expect it to be so cold here.”
I nodded, not in the mood to talk.
“American?” he asked.
I looked him over: cap pulled down just above thick, tinted glasses that were almost opaque in the bar’s dramatic light.
I nodded again.
“Me too!” he said. “From Chicago. You?”
“New York,” I said, not matching his enthusiasm.
“Greatest city in the world!”
“Sometimes,” I said, then took a bite of my panini, head down, hoping he’d get the hint.
He lit a cigarette. “Thank God we can still smoke in Italy!” He offered me one. I hadn’t smoked in years, another habit I’d given up and didn’t want to start again.
The bartender poured him the complimentary glass of prosecco, which he chugged down and asked for another. He pointed to my panini and said, “Anche per me,” then looked at me. “I hope I said ‘Same for me.’ I don’t speak Italian, but it’s in the guidebook.”
I said, “You asked to sleep with his sister.”
“What?” The guy’s mouth dropped open.
“Kidding,” I said. “You got it right.”
“Good one,” he said and punched my arm, like we were fraternity pals. “So what brings you to Florence?”
“Visiting,” I said, still trying to keep my words to a minimum.
“I’m here on business,” he said, though I hadn’t asked. “To purchase some paintings and objects for my clients.”
That got my attention. “So you’re a dealer?”
“I don’t care for the name, but yes, I buy and sell art.”
“No shame in being an art dealer.”
“No, but sometimes I think I should do something else, you know, something worthwhile.”
“Buying and selling art isn’t worthwhile?”
“Well, it doesn’t do much for the betterment of mankind.”
“Few things do,” I said, wondering if that was what I was doing here—something for the betterment of mankind or just for myself?
“So what do you do?” He nudged my arm with his elbow.
I put my sandwich down, tried not to sigh. “Teach,” I said, hoping that would end the conversation.
“Oh. What do you teach?”
I considered making something up, knew that my answer would spark further conversation, but couldn’t come up with anything. “Art history.”
“No kidding,” he said. “Well, we have a lot to talk about.”
And that was it, the beginning of his art historical discourse with an emphasis on Leonardo, his “favorite artist of all time,” another thing that got my attention. Then it was everything, from Leonardo’s remarkable oil style to his disappointing experimentation with a new fresco technique. “Hey, don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I love the guy, but if he’d applied traditional fresco rules, The Last Supper would not be in such terrible condition.”
“Artists need to experiment,” I said, not wanting to be drawn into the conversation, thinking of Vincent and what Picasso had said to him.
“I guess you’re right, though I wish Leonardo had had more patience.”
That was it. “Are you kidding? He worked on the Mona Lisa for like twelve years! Took it with him when he moved to France and kept working on it until he died. Come on. The guy had patience.”
“I suppose you’re right.” He lit another cigarette. “But I wish he’d done more art or at least finished eve
rything he’d started.”
“Everything Leonardo made—whether he finished it or not—was great!” I pictured his Adoration of the Magi in the Uffizi, Alexandra beside me, and wished she were here now instead of this guy. “You’re an art dealer, so what do you think about this new Leonardo, the Salvator Mundi?”
“You mean, if it’s a Leonardo.”
“You doubt its authenticity?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” he said.
“I don’t know, but it sold for like what—three hundred million?”
“Four hundred and fifty million to be exact,” he said.
“Do they know who bought it?”
“Supposedly Saudi’s crown prince, Mohammed bin Salman. Now it’s missing or in hiding. Not in the Louvre’s big Leonardo exhibition, and the Abu Dhabi Museum has gotten cold feet about showing it—excuse me, the Louvre Abu Dhabi Museum. The power of a name. Stick the word ‘Louvre’ in front of a pile of steel and bricks, and you’re suddenly a great museum with great art.” He made a noise of disgust in the back of his nose. “Word is the Saudis might be holding the painting hostage as a bargaining chip in dealings with the French.”
“How do you know that?”
“Heard it…somewhere,” he said with a shrug. “You know that Napoleon took the Mona Lisa to hang in his bedroom, right?”
“Wouldn’t you, if you could?”
“No way. I don’t think great art should be removed from the world and hidden away!” His voice rose, cigarette smoke streaming from his nose like a dragon.
I told him to relax, that I was kidding.
“Sorry. Just a pet peeve of mine, the way some private collectors steal art from the rest of us.” He paused. “You wouldn’t do anything like that, would you?”
“Me? No. And I couldn’t afford it, even if I wanted to.”
“What if you could?”
“Again, I was kidding.”
“Of course,” he said, elbowing me, a big smile on his lips, the only part of his face I could see clearly in the dim light, the dark glasses totally hiding his eyes. “So how long are you staying in Florence?”
It was starting to feel like an interview, my old Kill Van Kull radar picking up a vibe I didn’t like it, and I turned it around. “How long are you staying?”
“Depends on how well my business goes. What are you working on?”
I didn’t remember saying I was working on anything, but either way, I’d had enough. “Time for me to turn in,” I said.
“So early? The night is young.”
I told him I was tired and wished him good night.
“Up early tomorrow?”
I hoped I would be, anxious to get back to the journal, but it was none of his business, so I didn’t answer, slid off the barstool, and turned to go. He stopped me, a hand on my arm.
“Hold on. We never introduced ourselves.”
“Right. I’m Luke Perrone.”
He extended his hand. “John Smith. Really good to meet you,” he said and punched my arm again.
I felt like punching him back, harder, something about him I didn’t like or trust, those dark shades indoors, all the questions, but all I did was say, “Good night.”
28
I have not been writing for days. I could not. The idea of putting this down on paper was too painful. Instead I made drawings on the walls of my cell. Anything to distract myself. But today I have decided I must write everything down. Exactly as it happened. Every word.
Days passed at the museum. When I finished my work on the glass box for the Mona Lisa Ticolat told me that my services were no longer needed. He used the excuse that I had taken days off. Which was true. But I had only stayed home to take care of Simone. Ticolat knew this but he had no sympathy.
I did not know what to do. How would I make money? How would we survive? I could not sleep. I could not eat. I tried to hide my worry from Simone. I pretended to go to work every day. I looked for carpentry jobs. But there were none. Our funds grew low. And I became desperate.
And so I met with Valfiero. I told him I would agree to his plan. I asked him for a few francs on deposit and he gave them to me. We shook hands. But I swear I had no intention of going through with the plan. Not until Simone’s condition became worse.
For days she had been unwell. Now she was shivering. Her face flushed. Her breath constricted.
I wrapped another blanket around her. I told her we must go to the hospital. But she protested. Her voice was weak but her will like iron. She claimed the last time the hospital had almost killed her with neglect. She was confident she would get better. That it was just a silly cold.
But her cough worsened.
I implored her to let me take her to the hospital. Again she refused. She begged me. Told me how much she hated the place. That the baby would be here in a few days and she would be strong again. She said the medicine I had purchased from the chemist was all she needed.
It was impossible to fight her.
Another day passed and her cough persisted. And when I saw her handkerchief spotted with blood I would no longer listen to her protests. I lifted her into my arms. She was too sick to fight me and folded her frail body against mine. I felt her fevered breath against my cheek.
Down six flights of stairs I held her. The most precious object in my life. The whole time I prayed and whispered in her ear. Hang on my darling. You will be fine. I promise.
It was a frigid Paris night. No moon. No stars. With the little money I had from Valfiero I hired a taxi. A luxury I was unused to. It bumped over cobblestones and I shouted at the driver to slow down. A moment later I begged him to speed up! I clutched Simone to me. Her skin was burning. Despite the noise of the street I could hear a rattle in her chest. I cursed myself for waiting so long.
Over and over I told her we would be there soon and begged her to hold on. I smoothed back her damp hair. Kissed her eyelids. I saw by the light of a passing streetlamp that her skin had gone from flushed to ashen. I begged the driver to go faster. I held Simone tighter. Though I worried I would not be heard by the God I had long ago abandoned I prayed and prayed.
She clasped my hand and whispered my name. Told me I was a great painter. I must remember that. And to be happy.
I told her it was no time to speak of such things. That we were only minutes away from the hospital. But she would not stop. Said it was important that I remember.
I told her to be quiet. Lay a finger gently on her lips. Felt they had gone cold.
She asked me to promise to be happy when she was gone.
I could not bear to hear her say such things. Repeated there was no need. That she would be fine. But she would not stop. So I promised her. Promised I would remember. Promised I would be happy. Begged her to save her strength. Told her how much I needed her. Beside me. Her belief in me. That without her I was nothing. I made her promise she would always be with me.
And she promised. Whispered my name. Said she would always be with me. Told me to look for her in the shadows.
I begged her not to say such things! It was her fever talking. She would be fine. Healthy and happy and painting her own beautiful paintings. I pleaded with her to hang on. For me.
I kissed her cheeks. Her forehead. Her lips. I held her firmly as the taxi bumped along the Parisian streets.
She said she loved me. And I said I loved her.
I told her she was my world.
I felt tears in my eyes and on my cheeks. Simone closed her eyes and nestled her head against my neck. And I felt her tears too.
Then she asked me to sing to her.
Sing what? I asked. And why?
She said sing. Sing anything.
My mind was spinning. All I could think of was that silly ditty Picasso had sung and so I sang it.
“Oh Manon—ma jolie—mon coeur te dit—bonj
our.”
Simone started to laugh and coughed blood. On her blouse. On the blanket. And I tried to quiet her.
But she pleaded with me not to stop. To keep singing. She needed to hear my voice. Needed to know I was there beside her.
She clutched my hand tightly. And so with tears clouding my eyes I sang that silly song over and over as Simone’s grip eased and the only woman I have ever loved died in my arms.
29
I splashed cold water on my face, the image of Simone dying in Vincent’s arms still resonating in the back of my mind. I could not remember ever feeling like this, my usual MO to turn sadness into anger or simply bottle it up and pretend not to feel anything. More than one girlfriend had pointed that out. I had come here looking for facts, not feelings, but the journal was affecting me in ways I’d never imagined.
I was sorry I had not stolen it yesterday. And I would have if Riccardo and Chiara had not come back into the research room at precisely the moment I was sliding the journal off the desk and about to cram it into my jeans. I had to stop. Stealing from the Laurentian Library would surely carry a substantial fine and undoubtedly bar me from ever using the library again, maybe even get me arrested and prosecuted. I pictured myself in some crummy Italian prison, the futile calls to the American embassy where they’d look up my juvenile history and that would be that. I wasn’t about to end up like my teenage posse, two of them dead, one in prison, the others, who knows?
Perhaps it was for the best, safer that the journal remained in the library where no one else could get it.
I looked into the restroom mirror and splashed more cold water into my red-rimmed eyes.
The Last Mona Lisa Page 9
