She has to fight self-pity – she’s tougher than that now, she hopes. And Fernanda turns her attention back to Richard and his signature problem. After a while, their conversation drifts off into the niceties of brushwork and coarse-woven canvasses, and the genteel chaos of the staff dining room.
Clary Howell never did come in to discuss it, but he eventually phoned her to say the Met restoration was fine, and so, today, at long last, the tondo is returning from conservation. People have been talking about it for weeks, however, and chief among their speculations is the rumor that Gerard Doutreval at the Met has been on the phone with Charles, more or less constantly. Equally tantalizing is the general observation that, over the past few days – or at least whenever Fernanda and Courtney have had a few minutes to discuss it – Peregrine’s been bestowing his Cheshire-cat smile on everyone he sees. He’s really happy about something, people are saying. He’s even deigned to toss tiny, opaque, hints about his secret to Fernanda, although, to his disappointment, she doesn’t bite. Since Randi, she no longer needs to.
But the morning after the painting’s arrival at the gallery, Charles – not his secretary – phones her himself to ask if she can come at 11:00 to the largest of the viewing rooms. In a moment of uncharacteristic sensitivity, he hurriedly adds that Peregrine will be joining them there.
No one ever takes them, but at 10:57 Fernanda opts for the stairs over the elevator. This is going to be the best thing that’s happened to her since becoming who she is. And she’s euphoric, because she knows what this meeting is about. Although, just because of that, there’s no being with people in the elevator and having to make small talk. No strolling over to the meeting with the canary-swallowing Peregrine.
And despite what Randi said, she’s been trying to believe it’s no set-up. No, this was her. She saw something odd and anomalous about the tondo and followed it up. Randi just confirmed her growing expertise, the “eye” that preceded her transformation. She’s alone with her toasty-warm, second-hand secret right now, and wants to remain alone with it a little while longer.
As she exits the stairwell to the empty hallway (lucky!) only willpower keeps her from skipping down the corridor, from singing and whooping and pumping her fist in the air. She can scarcely wait to see her tondo. But wait, none of that now, she thinks, forcing herself to walk like the whiz-kid-cum-art-expert she’s about to become. It’s requiring incredible strength, though, especially when she finds the viewing room doorknob won’t turn. She focuses on the knob: her hands are trembling, that’s why. So when it suddenly swings open too fast, she has to hide her giveaway hands by lacing her fingers behind her back and it’s only when she’s safely inside the room that she realizes that Charles and Peregrine, their hands behind their backs as they examine the tondo, are doing exactly the same thing. Ah yes, the “expert” pose. Fernanda fits right in.
“Oh, hello there, Fernanda.” Charles glances her way. Peregrine barely nods.
Putting off the moment of revelation, and not trusting her voice, Fernanda nods formally back. Only after a disinterested pause and a reflexive, somewhat-tremulous, smoothing of her suit jacket, does she turn toward the picture on the velvet viewing stand.
It’s been staggeringly transformed.
“All that hair.” She tunes in first on Charles, who seems to be talking to himself. “All that hair – the Madonna, the Christ child, the secondary figure.… Just that hair. Isn’t it amazing? Just clumsy overpainting. My God. My God.” He’s taken out his magnifier now. “Probably in the late-eighteenth century, that’s when Doutreval thinks the picture must have fallen into the hands of some so-called restorer who lacked the skill to repaint what Doutreval told me appeared to be some very minor losses to the hair of only one of the figures – a little flaking, some scuffing, at the most. But somehow, that shoemaker simply decided to paint over everything. Everything! Made them all brunettes. Either that, or,” he straightens up and beams at each of his colleagues in turn, “either that, or some philistinic owner wanted them to look more like his own family, or less Northern Italian or earthier, or whatever. Can you believe it?” He moves closer to the tondo. “But now, with all the clumsy overpainting removed,” with a nod, Charles indicates each saintly head, “and now that they’re all blonde again,” he exhales delightedly, “and the delicacy, the balance, the refinement of the facial features shines through. Simply shines, don’t you think?” Momentarily, he’s at a loss for words. “It just shines. So now, instead of that muddy soup, this hair looks like … a shampoo ad.”
Charles looks around to include them in his self-congratulatory guffaw.
“Although wouldn’t it be nice if there were actually a shampoo that turned bad paintings into good ones? Like this!”
His idea appeals to him tremendously, and pocketing his magnifier, he chuckles broadly and winks at Fernanda, who’s just worked up her courage to have an even closer look.
‘Shampoo ad!” she mouths, indignant on the artist’s behalf. She’ll have mittens on the next time she and Charles meet.
But just now, in the concentrated light of this velvet-swathed room, she doesn’t want to be distracted or annoyed. She hungers for each exquisite detail of the Child’s dimpled hands and Mary’s lightly veiled hair – so thread-like, so filament-fine. The baby’s curls are silvery, like corn silk, and they look soft. And all at once, Fernanda feels the tondo is, somehow, an otherworldly entity. The “Primavera” slips weightlessly into her mind as, simultaneously – osmotically, perhaps – it seems to occur to the men. The three of them, in unison, step back from the easel, but it is Charles, finally, who adjusts the knot of his tie and whispers the word:
“Botticelli.”
Savoring the moment, Peregrine echoes him enthusiastically, “It’s indeed by Botticelli.” That “indeed” is pregnant with awe. “And a great one, I think.”
Fernanda says nothing, but Peregrine doesn’t notice. Charles doesn’t either. He’s busily extracting a leather notebook from the breast pocket of his suit and beginning to jot down notes.
“Call downstairs,” he orders her after a bit, raising an eyebrow, “and have some pictures taken of this right away – black and white and color, eight-by-tens. And film, not digital. What time is it in Europe?” He looks at his phone. “Too late.” So tomorrow morning, first thing, I want you to phone Priam Farll in Florence and ask him if he’ll come to New York as soon as he can – at our expense, naturally – to authenticate this … this marvelous painting. “I’m sure and you’re sure, he inclines his head towards Fernanda and Peregrine, “but our potential buyer will almost certainly require Farll’s imprimatur. And Fernanda, remember the ‘please.’ The man has an ego.”
She isn’t offended. She barely registers his voice.
Because, yes, she might have known the outcome in advance, but she’d never imagined how – with all that scurf wiped away – how the thing would incandesce. The mother. The child. The radiance of it all. The tenderness. And grace. That child.
The tondo is speaking to her, and it is saying that – in this puzzling, dangerous, always heartbreaking world, beauty alone is absolute. And absolute beauty, untouched by imperfection or flaw, has to come from Satan, not God. God believes in imperfection.
A bottomless hole yawns at her feet, but she won’t look down. Her voice is suddenly locked within her chest
It was Satan all the time.
She refuses to look down.
“Who is Priam Farll?” she gets out at last.
Charles wraps her in his arms from behind, startling her. Her body goes rigid. It is trapped against his, but he’s oblivious. He hugs her close, rubs his cheek against her hair.
Peregrine looks disapprovingly away.
“The great Botticelli expert, of course, and I want you there with us when he arrives to examine the tondo.” He holds her out at arm’s length and grins. “Because you deserve credit, Ms. Turner. Oh yes, you do. Without your – justifiably – legendary eye, and your diligence in fo
llowing up, we might have missed this divine picture entirely and some clever dealer would certainly have picked it up for a song, cleaned it, had it authenticated, and made a huge profit. Berger’s would be wiping the egg off its face.”
His right eyelid quivers at the unthinkable.
She’d like to respond modestly, and ten minutes earlier she might have found something nice to say. But in this terrible moment she stares at the floor.
It’s not divine, Charles, she doesn’t say. It looks it, but it isn’t. And Fernanda Turner made no discovery here. Showed no initiative. Had no infallible “eye.” It was Mrs. Andros all the time, she’s utterly certain now. And her many houndlike minions, of course. Because sublimity like this? No, not divine. Such perfect, unblemished beauty belongs to Satan, she’s sure. Like Randi’s. Like the Poussin.
Fernanda’s clearly does.
As the men begin an elated discussion of the marketing campaign, she slips unobtrusively through the door.
The following Thursday, Priam Farll arrives. Slight and sleek in his English jacket, with busy, boneless hands and the voice of a prepubescent boy, he is, in fact, far less eccentric than Fernanda had expected him to be and he would like to seem. Despite his name, he’s part Italian, which means that after half an hour of inscrutability and forty-five minutes of posturing, he allows himself to be overcome by both the tondo and his heritage and he darts about, wringing every nearby hand and planting kisses on all the women and each of Fernanda’s earlobes. Later, at lunch in the director’s dining room, he declares over and over again that the tondo is unquestionably the work of the master and is far too excited to eat. Although not to drink. Which is why it isn’t until rather late in the day, long after he’s tottered off to his painfully pricey hotel, that Charles, Peregrine, and the oddly withdrawn Fernanda, thoroughly drained and depressed and sick to her stomach again, meet to discuss an estimate for their coup.
It should be conservative, the two men agree: the sort of estimate that will encourage “privates” to bid. It should also be “out there.” Charles feels particularly strongly about that. To let the trade and the museums know they’ll have to work for this one. They settle on $4,000,000 to $6,500,000. Unquestionably, it will go for more.
“So intuitive,” Charles declares on the elevator ride down. He encircles Fernanda’s waist as she inches toward the door. “I can’t believe you spotted that.”
“What an eye,” says Courtney later on, hugging her appreciatively. “I was sure you were a winner. Let’s go out and have a drink.”
“Hey, I knew you way back when.” Richard clasps her hands in his. “Remember that!”
“Nice,” says Peregrine, passing by.
And as the good news leaks out, as colleagues from Nineteenth Century European Paintings, Tapestries, and Jewelry acknowledge Fernanda both by email and by phone, as the deputy Chairman of American Indian Art actually stops to congratulate her in the ladies’ room, as the word goes out on Twitter and Facebook (although not on Instagram), and the warm and genuine kudos continue throughout the following week, Fernanda knows, deep in her being, in her … soul, that they’re entirely undeserved.
She spends a silent weekend on her bed, but by noon on Monday, having taken a few minutes to organize her thoughts and to rehearse a few useful phrases, she phones Clary Howell. She’s subdued, but nervous, too.
“Mr. Howell? It’s Fernanda Turner from Berger’s again.”
“Oh Fernanda, how nice to hear from you. Wait a minute while I drop these rackets in the closet, will you?”
Fernanda waits, glancing over her notes and trying to ignore the noises from the handset: distant doors opening, metal somethings clinking, something else thumping shut.
“Now I’m ready,” and he’s back, a little breathless. “Did you find anything out?”
Fernanda takes refuge in auction-speak.
“Actually, we did, Mr. Howell. And the news is very good. So good, that I think you’ll be pleased we took this extra time with your picture. So …” She takes a deep breath. “So what we’ve been doing, basically, is subjecting the tondo to infrared and x-ray. We’ve had the oak panel tested. We’ve had it vetted by experts in the field. We’ve been very, very thorough.”
“Sounds impressive. And expensive. But we know that, right?” He laughs. “But, okay, don’t keep me hanging by my thumbs here. What’s the verdict?”
“Sorry, sorry.” She manages a small laugh. “Okay. I’ll get right down to it. Your picture is by Botticelli – you know who Botticelli is, I’m sure? It’s, well … it disappeared several centuries ago, so in a way, you could say it’s ‘undiscovered’. And, well, the department here thinks it’s wonderful, and we’re going to put an estimate on it of four to six-and-a-half million. But we’re being conservative, we think. It’s likely to bring more. Possibly a good deal more.”
There’s a silence at the other end of the line that grows, unsettling her initially, but then, becoming worrisome. Is Mr. Howell disappointed by their estimate? Does he want his painting back?
All at once, she remembers his heart.
“Mr. Howell. Are you there, Mr. Howell?”
“I’m here.” His voice is muted. “And of course I know who Botticelli is. Venus on the half-shell, right? I can’t believe it, that’s all.” There’s another long pause in which he seems to recover himself. “I can’t believe it, that’s all. That painting’s been in the family since I can remember. Since I was a boy. And it’s by Botticelli?” A silence. “At Christmas we draped it in homemade popcorn garlands. Cranberries, sometimes.” Another silence. “My wife loved that thing. My God, if we had known.”
He’s forgotten she’s on the line.
“Oh, Mr. Howell. Believe me, anything your family did to the tondo wouldn’t have affected its value nearly as much as the work of that … may he ever remain nameless … that terrible restorer who almost succeeded in disguising it.”
“My God. My God.” He isn’t hearing her. “All this time. Over the fireplace in the study. Getting cooked, too, I guess.
“But this is just terrific, Fernanda. This is … well, I’m sort of speechless.” He takes some deep, highly audible breaths. “And now there’s nothing to do but flog it. Right?”
That was one way of looking at it.
“Right.”
“Listen. I’m coming into the city on Wednesday next week for a couple more doctor’s appointments – eyes and things like that. Maybe you’ll have a drink with me and we can go over the details? I need some time to absorb this thing – plus, I’ll have a lot more questions by then, probably. Better yet, what about dinner? I’m thinking I need to celebrate.”
Fernanda takes her own deep breath. She thinks she’d love to see him again. Still, will she be compromising the department by meeting a client socially? She’ll have to clear this with Courtney. And after that, well, she’ll have to ask herself what it is about this man – aside from their both being old and widowed – that touches her so. Fundamentally, he’s just another “snowball” – her private name for her elderly suitors, who are precisely that in Fernanda’s particular Hell.
But of course he’s not interested in her that way. Remember how embarrassingly unmoved he was by her tasteless – yes, it was tasteless – display? If anything, she thought he’d felt – disdain? Regret? Regret would be a tiny bit less humiliating, she decides. Which doesn’t mean she couldn’t imagine having something, something truly nice – maybe even something a little important – with Clary Howell. He is, after all, attractive and well-preserved. And then, there’s that other thing she can’t define. That he’d be good for her, maybe. She feels that in her bones. And she very much needs something that’s good for her.
“I think that’s a lovely idea.” She’s her professional self once again. “And then I can fill you in on our marketing plans and expectations for the sale. Where shall we meet?”
“I’m old-fashioned, Fernanda. Instead of meeting somewhere, why don’t I pick you up at t
he auction house? At 7:00, say?”
“But we’ll be closed by then.”
“Oh, sorry. I should have realized.”
“Why don’t you meet me at the restaurant at 7:00?”
“Let’s eat at my club instead of at a restaurant. Is that all right with you? Then I can pick you up in the lobby of your building.”
“I think that’s all right. I’ll let you know if it’s not.”
“Great. Great. My God, I’ve got to call the boys.” He sounds like a boy himself right now. “So, I’ll see you Wednesday, then?”
And in some strange, harmonious way, Fernanda is feeling fifteen herself. A fifteen that’s ridiculously aware that women of sixty-six have surprisingly much in common with women of twenty-six.
Or is she twenty-seven yet?
The air feels lovely and warm as Fernanda and Clary Howell cross Fifth Avenue and stroll to his club. She likes it that he makes an unobtrusive point of walking on the street side of the sidewalk, and he helped her into her coat, a flashback to the niceties of her youth. He’d arrived on the dot, on top of all that, and if she’s honest with herself, she’s been having something of an issue with people not being on time these days. Or keeping her waiting for appointments. Or not showing up at all. She’s been missing the old-fashioned courtesies, and Clary Howell feels the smallest bit like home.
So does his men’s club, a nineteenth century survival with a majestic lobby that’s dignified further – as if further dignity were needed – by ranks of milky, marbled columns and a wedding-cake plaster ceiling. The sheen of brassy stair rails bespeaks decades of care, as do numbers of softly glowing leather chairs scattered about, and tapestry-covered sofas. And Clary Howell himself, urbanely handsome in a navy suit and green rep tie, looks very much at home here, she thinks. The doormen greet him by name. An attendant smiles, nods and turns to place a peg in the members’ board to tick him in.
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