The Last Mona Lisa

by Jonathan Santlofer

  On the upper level to my left, The Tribute Money depicted Christ and the apostles confronted by a tax collector—the only guy among them without a halo! It got me thinking about taxes and the obvious losses I’d be deducting for my close-to-nonexistent art career. I thought about my great-grandfather’s money troubles too and the fact that after he’d stolen the painting for Valfiero and Chaudron, who undoubtedly sold the forgeries for huge sums of money, they had little use for him. How, I wondered, could a man like Vincent, humble and without contacts, possibly sell such a famous painting? So much had already happened to him—Simone’s death, losing his son, betrayed by Valfiero and Chaudron. And yet I had come to believe in him and believed he could do it.

  I glanced up at the right side of Masaccio’s painting. It showed Saint Peter pulling money out of the mouth of a fish, one of Christ’s miracles. What my great-grandfather needed: a miracle. Perhaps what I was looking for too. The quiet was shattered by a German couple, chatting loudly and taking pictures.

  I headed back down the few chapel stairs; I wanted a view of the fresco cycle from a distance. The rain must have stopped, because there was light streaking in from a window at the far end of the church. Other than that, the place was dark and cordoned off to visitors, though I saw something move, a man who quickly disappeared into a side room. I headed back up the stairs, waited for the Germans to get bored and leave, and was soon alone again, staring up at Masaccio’s Adam and Eve. Adam nude, his face buried in his hands, Eve hiding her nakedness with her hands and howling with grief and shame, everything about the anguished pair conveying absolute despair. The way I had pictured Vincent, cast out and riddled with guilt at losing his beloved Simone and his son.

  It was a moment before I felt it, turned, and spotted him again, the man I thought I’d seen at the far end of the church. He was maybe twenty feet away now, backlit by the light from the window, so I couldn’t make him out clearly, only that he was big. I headed down the stairs for a better look, but he darted away, a shadow, a phantom.

  I sucked in a breath, my radar still flashing. Something about the guy had felt not only threatening but familiar.

  Outside, I began walking toward the bookseller’s shop. The sun poked through the clouds the way it had through the church window, sharp and bright. I tried to shake off the uneasy feeling of that guy, but Brother Francesco’s sudden death had left me feeling off-balance and suspicious about everything.

  After a few blocks, I came into a lively square lined with restaurants and shops, Piazza Santo Spirito. The church was closed, but the cafés were open. I sat for a bit, sipped a coffee, and thought of my great-grandfather, a man who never quite fit in, a solitary man who had lost the one person who had truly loved and believed in him.

  The area around Santo Spirito reminded me of Manhattan’s NoHo or the East Village, with lots of restaurants and artisan shops of pottery and picture frames, handmade belts and shoes. My boots still wet, I was tempted by a pair of handmade wingtips until I saw the price tag.

  Via Toscanella turned out to be only a few blocks away, the street lined with bookbinders and old bookshops, all of them closed, including the Libreria Antiquaria de Firenze. Most of the shops had signs noting they would reopen after riposo, but not Liberia Antiquaria de Firenze, its metal gate down and locked. I peered through the bars, but there was little to see. I was ready to give up when I noticed a blinking sign at the end of the road.

  The Ristorante Americano had peanut shells on the floor, Dolly Parton on the jukebox, and Budweiser on tap—an Italian’s idea of an American bar.

  I ordered a Coke, and the bartender—masses of curly dark hair and bright-red lipstick—served it with a smile.

  “American?” she asked.

  “Italian American,” I said. “Does it show?”

  “You look like every good-looking Italian palooka I ever dated.”

  “Luke Perrone,” I said.

  “Like the beer?”

  “Different spelling and nothing to do with my family.”

  “Too bad,” she said. “Teresa Ferrara. Nothing to do with the bakery in Little Italy.” She offered her hand, rings on every finger. “From Hackensack. That’s in New Jersey.”

  “I know. I’m from Bayonne. How did you end up here?”

  “Followed a boyfriend. Something I do not recommend.”

  “I’ll remember that if I get a boyfriend.”

  Teresa laughed. “You hungry?” She didn’t wait for an answer, disappeared into the kitchen, and reappeared a few minutes later with a plate she set down in front of me. “Homemade calzone. On the house. And no snide remarks because I made it.”

  I took a bite, told her it was great, and it was.

  She thanked me and asked what had brought me to Florence. I told her I was doing some research and checked my watch.

  “You in a hurry?”

  I told her no, I had a half hour till the library reopened, though I was anxious to see what came next in the journal.

  “Research,” she asked, “in this part of town?”

  “A bookstore,” I said.

  She nodded and asked which one.

  “Libreria Antiquaria,” I said, and her smile disappeared.

  “You’re not a cop, are you?”

  “Me? No—why?”

  “We had a lot of them when it happened.”

  “When what happened?”

  “The owner of Libreria Antiquaria, hell of a sweet guy, Carlo Bianchi. He came in here all the time. Murdered in his shop.”

  “Jesus. When?”

  “About two months ago.”

  “Robbery?”

  “Unlikely. It’s a little store filled with dusty old books. Who would kill an old man for a handful of euros? It made no sense then and still doesn’t.”

  43

  I should have known it would end badly. That those two scoundrels would betray me.

  I hid outside Chaudron’s building. Saw couriers come and go. Followed several of them and made notes as to where they went. But I had no idea what to do with this information.

  I still had no money and no way to get it. Weeks passed and I was soon desperate. What would I do to survive?

  Then I devised a plan. I would ransom the Mona Lisa!

  I recalled the thought that had come to me at the Louvre on that August morning when I stood in front of the painting of Napoleon. I would offer the stolen painting to the Italian government. I would say that I was returning it to its country of origin. For a price.

  I made plans to leave Paris and take the painting to Italy. I did not tell Valfiero or Chaudron what I planned to do. Or that I was leaving. But there was something they had not told me. Something I did not realize until I was in the Hotel Tripoli. With the two men I had contacted to sell the painting—the antique dealer Alfredo Geri and Giovanni Poggi the director of the Uffizi Gallery. I had just unveiled the painting. Both men stood before me with astonished looks on their faces.

  It was then the first telltale sign made an appearance. The slightest smell of oil. Something I had not detected before. I thought it must be a residual odor from hanging around in Chaudron’s studio for so many months. But it was too strong. I was certain the men would smell it too. But they did not. They stood awestruck while I looked for some proof that the painting in front of me had been made by Chaudron’s hand and not Leonardo’s. Something I should have looked for when the painting was returned to me. Something Chaudron had pointed out to me months earlier. Something I had forgotten.

  I searched the painting. Squinted to see if I could detect it. And I did!

  Chaudron and Valfierio had played me for the ultimate fool. They had given me a forgery!

  I said nothing. I knew the Mona Lisa I held in my hands looked exactly like the original in every way. Even the images buried beneath the surface would be identical if they were to X-
ray the painting. But I knew for certain it was one of Chaudron’s forgeries.

  The smell had only been the first sign.

  Now I had seen the proof.

  What happened to the original? I did not yet know. I only knew that the painting I was offering to Geri and Poggi was not the painting I had stolen! And it was this painting that was finally returned to the museum.

  If you doubt me go into the Louvre and bring with you a magnifying glass. Now slowly drag it over the surface of the painting and—

  This was it, what I’d been waiting for, what scholars had been debating for over a hundred years. The question of whether or not the Mona Lisa in the Louvre, the one Vincent had stolen and returned, was a forgery—and if so, how to find out.

  I turned the page.

  Geri and Poggi notified the police, and I was arrested.

  I flipped back.

  Now slowly drag it over the surface of the painting and look very carefully at—

  Forward again.

  It didn’t make sense.

  Not until I saw the shredded edges of paper trapped in the binding.

  Shit! No! I ran my finger over the torn remnants of paper, my mind whirring. I sat back, felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach. What I’d come to Italy to discover.

  Gone.

  44

  Missing pages.

  I tried to think it through and what, if anything, I could do about them. Who had torn them out—and when?

  Had Guggliermo torn them out before donating the journal to the library? Or had it been Quattrocchi? Was that why he disappeared? Or had it been someone else entirely? But who? When?

  I had to know, had to find out. I couldn’t give up so easily. I’d risked too much. There had to be a way to find out what Chaudron had put into his forgeries. I forced myself to read what followed the missing pages—Vincent writing about his arrest. Interesting, but no clue to identifying the forgeries.

  Had I missed something? Maybe there were enough clues here if I could study the page I had just read more carefully.

  I looked up. Only one other scholar here today, and he was across the room going through a periodical. Chiara was heading into the back room. Beatrice sorting index cards as if her life depended on it. Riccardo nowhere to be seen. I reached down and opened my backpack. Only a few seconds to make the decision.

  Do it.

  A glance toward the front room. Again, how would I get the journal past Griselda?

  I couldn’t. It was too large.

  But would she notice a missing page?

  I shuffled papers, making just enough noise to cover the sound of tearing the page out, which wasn’t difficult—it was already loose, the binding weak. Folded it quickly and stuffed it into my backpack, wedging it down behind my laptop. I slid my yellow legal pad on top and let out a breath. I looked up to see Chiara back at her post.

  Had she seen me do it?

  I glanced up at the ceiling, at the cameras in the corners of the room—I had completely forgotten about them. My back was toward them, but had they recorded my act of thievery?

  I closed the journal as casually as possible, put it into the Duccio carton, covered it with folders and papers, and carried it to the front desk, along with Guggliermo’s carton. I offered Chiara my practiced smile, then turned and headed out of the room, backpack under my arm, conscious to walk at a normal pace, but my heart was hammering.

  At the door, evil stepsister Griselda stopped me as usual. I handed over the backpack, chatting about the weather and the newest strikes and anything else that came to my mind while she unzipped it and dipped her hand inside. I kept up a steady stream of talk, sweat inching its way down my back.

  She seemed to be taking forever.

  The other scholar joined the queue behind me, a stack of books in his arms, puffing and sighing with impatience until Griselda finally removed her hand from my backpack to check his books and waved us both through.

  I could have kissed the guy. I closed my backpack, careful to steady my shaking hand, went through the X-ray machine and out the door.

  There were a few monks in the courtyard, but I didn’t stop to chat. Backpack securely in place, I headed across Piazza San Lorenzo, feeling too much like my teenage self after shoplifting, or worse. I reminded myself to slow down, to act normal.

  On the east side of the piazza, I chose the shadowy less-traveled street that led away from the Duomo. Halfway down it, I had a thought, got my cell phone out, and made the call.

  “Musée du Louvre,” the operator said.

  I asked for the curator of Renaissance painting.

  When the curator got on the line, I listed my credentials—degrees, teaching, grants, awards, articles, more than a few embellished and exaggerated, but it worked. The curator agreed to let me into the museum on a day it was closed to tourists, the day after tomorrow. I immediately booked a flight to Paris.

  I had done it, stolen the page to study it on my own. In another day, I’d be studying the painting itself. Maybe I’d see something in it that would connect to what I’d been reading. I leaned back against a building, my adrenaline starting to ebb, and had a thought I hadn’t had in years: I need a drink.

  I walked another half block, stopped to glance into a bar, then started walking again, faster. When I next stopped, it was a tabacchi shop where I looked in the window and spotted the green tin of La Paz tobacco, my great-grandfather’s brand. I caught my reflection in the glass too, then another one coming up behind me.

  45

  “I hoped I’d catch you.” Alex said, slightly out of breath as if she’d been running.

  “Catch me?”

  “Chiara said you’d just left.” She studied me a moment. “Are you all right?”

  I told her I was fine and asked if she wanted to get coffee or something to eat, had almost said a drink. If I continued to steal things, I would have to go to a meeting, and soon.

  Alex said, “Sure,” slipped her arm through mine, and we headed in the opposite direction while she talked about getting her sublet in order, the sun beginning to fade. We walked several blocks and ended up in the Piazza della Signoria, the large expansive square dominated by the fortress-like Palazzo Vecchio, people taking turns having their picture taken with Michelangelo’s oversized statue of David.

  “Don’t they know it’s a copy?” I said, the idea of forgery very much on my mind.

  Alex shrugged like she didn’t care and wandered over to the Fountain of Neptune, the marble sea god surrounded by cherubs and mermaids. Even in winter, the fountain was going strong. From my angle, it looked like Neptune was taking a leak—and I said so.

  “Classy,” Alex said but laughed, then tugged me away, spray from the fountain getting us both wet. She stopped to read a small plaque, in Italian, and asked me to help translate. It was about the Renaissance monk Savonarola, who had preached repentance like some medieval Billy Graham. It explained how he’d been hanged and burned right there in the square. I suggested it was a fitting end for a guy who tried to control people’s lives, burned books and anything else he considered blasphemous or vain, including a lot of great paintings—Botticelli and Michelangelo among them.

  “He deserved worse!” Alex snapped.

  “What’s worse than being burned alive?”

  “Some people just deserve to—” She stopped, wrapped her arms around her torso, and shivered.

  I put my arm over her shoulder, but she shrugged me off as if I had just made it worse, whatever it was. I backed away, hands up, “Sorry,” I said, a little surprised, a little hurt.

  “No, I’m sorry,” she said. “It was a chill, that’s all—from the fountain’s spray—and I didn’t want to get you wet.”

  “I’m already wet,” I said and told her it was okay. But what had set her off? What had I done that was so bad?


  At the edge of the square, I got that feeling again. Ha un amico a Firenze? I glanced over my shoulder, but there was no one lurking nearby.

  Alex, in a better mood now, took my hand, said she wanted to see the Duomo square at night, and I was happy to leave this piazza for another.

  It wasn’t far and was worth it, the buildings lit up against an inky-blue sky, the cathedral with its amazing dome, Giotto’s bell tower, the medieval-looking baptistery. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t rushed over to see this the minute I got here, though I was enjoying it now with Alex, almost as excited as I was, by my side. I was surprised the area was almost empty, tried to picture it in its day, fifteenth-century men in tunics and leggings, women in tightly corseted gowns, hair elaborately braided, people strolling or heading to the cathedral obviously built to impress, which it did.

  “It never disappoints, does it?” Alex said.

  I agreed, as if I’d been here before, staring up at the church facade that rose up in front of us, pink and green marble, sculpted figures in niches, recessed rose windows, every inch of it decorated like an oversize wedding cake. Looming behind it, Brunelleschi’s huge redbrick dome. All of it spectacular and beautiful but ominous too, the way the buildings seemed to lean forward, all the nooks and crannies and small pockets of darkness.

  Alex pointed out a group of nearby soldiers in camo, heavy boots, and maroon berets, each holding an automatic rifle, pistols holstered at their waists. I thought they looked a little scary, but Alex proclaimed them “gorgeous,” wondering aloud why every Italian man looked like a movie star.

  I led her toward the baptistery—did not feel like competing with handsome soldiers—the low and octagonal building of green-and-white-striped marble, possibly the oldest building in Florence, if I remembered correctly. But it was Ghiberti’s famous doors that I wanted to see. The Gates of Paradise, ten bronze and gold relief sculptures of Old Testament stories, Adam and Eve, Cain and Able, Abraham and Isaac.