“I don’t know.” Lucia’s voice was quiet; she might have been talking to herself. “That night, in the warehouse, in the dark. I could hardly see it. But I could feel it. It felt alive.” She held her hand horizontally in front of her face, as if she were trying to block out the painted faces. “The bodies. The hands. The way Judas is leaning in, grabbing Jesus’s shoulder. I could feel his hand on my shoulder.”
Another long silence.
“But now, here, in the light. It’s not the same. I can see everything—but I can’t feel anything. Maybe it’s . . . I don’t know . . . not genius, not Michele. Just a painting.”
Professor Richman walked over to the painting and crouched down to examine it, holding his breath, his nose almost touching the canvas.
He straightened up and took a step back, lurching as his knee almost gave way. He stretched his back with a groan.
“I’m too old for this. Never mind. We all know I’m not an expert, but the work on these faces is very different from the rest of the painting. It’s all old. It’s all dirty. But the faces. Not only the way they’re idealized. The brushstrokes are different. Smoother, actually. More careful. I can almost see what you mean about the bodies. They’re stronger.”
“I don’t know.” Lucia’s voice was still small.
Moto broke in.
“You don’t have to know. We have the painting now. They can clean it. They can X-ray it. They can do whatever they do. We have the history—scraps of history, anyway. They have the science. Maybe together . . .”
“Maybe.”
“How did it get here?” The professor changed the subject.
“I don’t know. I told you. I woke up and it was here.”
“Hard to believe you slept right through it.”
“I know. That’s not like me. But . . . I don’t know . . .” She closed her eyes. The vertical crease appeared between her brows. Then she shook her head. “I don’t remember anything special about last night. Except”—she stopped for a minute, her eyes narrowed, and she shook her head—“a lot of bad dreams.”
“And then you woke up.”
“To this.”
The professor walked back to the painting and reached out.
“Don’t touch it!” Lucia’s voice had a ragged edge. “I don’t want to disturb anything until we figure out what to do.”
“‘What to do’?”
“I can’t call the carabinieri and tell them I’ve got the painting. All of a sudden. It just showed up. They’ll never believe me. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Sì. Certo,” said Moto, walking over to the window, opening it and looking out onto the piazza. He turned back to Lucia. “But if you’re going to figure out what to tell the police, you need to figure it out fast. There are two carabinieri heading this way right now.”
Lucia hurried to the window and looked out. The two policemen were striding across the piazza, heading straight for her building. As they reached the sidewalk, Vittore emerged from a doorway and rushed over to them.
His voice, filled with officious enthusiasm, rose up to the apartment. “Signori, è una bella giornata, non è vero?”
In fact, the day was far from beautiful. It was gray and cold, and a biting wind blew through the old stone village. But Vittore was undaunted by mere reality—or the fact that the two policemen didn’t seem interested in stopping to chat with him.
“To what do we owe the honor of your presence in our humble village?” he pressed on. “Surely we have no criminal activity here to merit your attention. As the local officer of the law, certainly I would know if there was anything amiss.”
The two carabinieri muttered to one another for a moment and then turned their attention to the local cop, their voices still low, but audible through the open window above. “Three men were found dead, killed in a car crash a few kilometers from here. They wore monk’s habits, but they had obviously been drinking. It’s very strange.”
“Indeed!” Vittore lowered his voice to match theirs, but his exclamation was still clear in the cold air. “But stranger still that it would bring you here.”
“Yes. Well . . .” The carabiniere paused, then went on. “The driver of the car had a slip of paper in his pocket with this address on it. And an apartment number.”
There was a moment of silence while he showed something to Vittore.
“Yes, of course,” the local poliziotto said. “The American. Una bella signorina. But”—and now his voice rose—“I have something important to tell you. I was here last night, all night. On duty. Keeping the peace, as is my responsibility.”
“Yes, yes. I’m sure it is.” The carabiniere did not care.
“And I saw two men hurrying across the piazza, carrying something large. And they were carrying it to this building.”
“To this building? Are you sure?” Suddenly, he was much more interested.
“Absolutely. If they were carrying something out, I would have stopped them.”
“Are you certain?” There was suspicion in the carabiniere’s voice.
“Please, my honored fellow officer of the law, I am sworn to keep the peace and tell the truth. That is what I saw.”
“So . . . let’s see what we find.”
Above, in the apartment, they could hear the street door open and slam shut and then the heavy footsteps on the stairs.
Lucia turned to face the door, and Professor Richman stepped around her, grabbed the frame of the painting, and tilted it forward, away from the table, before she could stop him.
“Nothing on the back,” he said, leaning the painting carefully back against the table. “No message. No poemetto. Nothing but dirty canvas.” He paused for a moment and then couldn’t help adding, because he was Professor Aristotle Rafael Richman, “Tabula rasa.”
In the main room of the big stone house, looking out over the Sicilian hills, two men sat together in conversation. One was gray-haired. The other looked young enough to be his son.
The younger man shook his head. “Non capisco.” I don’t understand.
It was midday, the sun was bright. With just the two of them there, the older man was willing to say more.
“Era sinza valuri.” It was worthless.
“Mah . . .” But . . .
“Ppi nnuautri! Sì è falsu. Sinza valuri. Sì è veru. Ancura sinza valuri.” For us! If it’s fake. Worthless. If it’s real. Still worthless.
He paused to see if the younger man understood. But he still seemed puzzled. So the old man finished the lesson.
“Comu putimmu dimustrari ca è veru?” How can we prove it’s real?
Now the younger man nodded.
“Assai attenzioni.” Too much attention.
The older man smiled.
“A fini. U gghiurnari.” At last. Dawn.
He reached out and patted the younger man’s cheek. Firmly. Certainly not a caress. But not quite a slap. He leaned back.
“E ora è u problema di idda.” And now it’s her problem.
He shrugged.
The younger man started to say something, but the older one raised a finger for silence.
“Ora timminau. Idda è ancora a famigghia. A famigghia ppi ssempri. Ma u dibbitu, u ddibitu d’onori è paiatu.” Now it is finished. She is still family. Family forever. But the debt, the debt of honor, is paid.
And as if worn out from so many words, he leaned back and closed his eyes, and the younger man quietly left the room.
Chapter 46
Siracusa, Sicily
1608
The white line on the horizon was Sicily, the city of Siracusa. As the gulls swooped and dived, Caravaggio’s eye picked out the formidable buildings of white stone.
“Siracusa looks like Valletta,” he said to the Maltese captain.
“They are built of the same limestone,” the captain said, keeping his eye on the flex of the sail.
“Where do we dock?”
“We will not enter Siracusa’s harbor. I can’t risk being st
opped by the harbormaster. I’ll leave you south of the city in a cove I know,” said the captain. “You’ll have to make your way around the harbor to the city. You forget my face, this boat, everything. Capito?”
Caravaggio shrugged.
“Do you know anyone in Siracusa?” asked the captain.
The artist nodded. “An old artist friend. One who likes his artichokes cooked in oil.”
The captain squinted at Caravaggio. “Doesn’t everyone?”
Still dressed in his sweat-crusted Maltese tunic—stitched with a filthy once-white cross—Caravaggio limped into Siracusa. The purse the boatman had given him held only a few coins. Little enough to survive on for a few days at most. Caravaggio suspected the boatman had added most of the contents of the purse to his fee for the dangerous rescue.
Siracusa pulsed with life. Carts piled with fruits—bright-yellow lemons and brilliant oranges—rolled down the stone streets, edging between creaking wagons packed with Oriental silks and Far Eastern spices. Wild and domestic fowl squawked in wicker cages. The wheels of merchant wagons churned through the waste deposited by herds of cattle, pigs, and sheep. Portuguese traders cried out their wares in barely intelligible Italian while the natives exchanged news and gossip in their Sicilian dialect.
Caravaggio stared at the bustling scene, trying to understand what the people were saying.
“Are you a knight?” asked a little boy stroking a flea-bitten kitten in his doorway.
“I am.”
“You look more like a beggar,” observed the child.
“What do you know of knights, you little bugger?”
“My uncle is one,” said the boy. “He’s a Maltese knight and wears a cross on his tunic just like you. Only he’s clean and the cross is bright.”
“Your uncle.”
“There are many knights who visit Siracusa.”
Caravaggio raised his eyebrows and dodged two men carrying a stout pole between them, with a bloodied wild boar swinging side to side, skewered through the snout and hind end.
“Where is a good place to eat? Cheap.”
The boy eyed Caravaggio from head to toe. “Rafaello’s,” he said. “They serve anybody. Sardines and the leftover catch nobody else buys.”
“Where is it?”
“Behind the cathedral about twenty paces to the right.” The boy pointed. “You’ll smell the fish frying. And the stink of the sewer!”
Caravaggio nodded, eager to get away from the boy whose uncle was a knight. He turned toward the cathedral, dodging the parade of merchants, farmers, and peasants. He crossed the Piazza Duomo, clogged with stands covered with makeshift awnings and peddlers calling out their wares.
The boy was right. The smell of fish frying in garlic and olive oil scented the street. A carved wooden sign of a fish hung over a doorway.
Caravaggio’s stomach lurched. He was starving, but the heavy smell of oil and sardines was almost more than he could stand.
He stepped into the dim doorway hung with long strands of rawhide to keep out the buzzing flies. A young boy was mopping up a puddle of dirty water.
“Buongiorno, signore! Sit there,” said a stout man with a rag tied around his waist. “Wine? Fish? Fish stew?”
“Wine and fish,” said the artist. “And bread. Lots of it.”
The fat man gave him a look, taking in his northern accent. Staring at Caravaggio’s ragged tunic, he plunked a terra-cotta pitcher of wine in front of his customer. Then he crossed his thick forearms, resting them on his ample pancia.
“Il pesce sta friggendo,” he said, giving Caravaggio a hard look. “My wife is preparing the fish now. You are a cavaliere? The Order of Malta?”
“Sì.”
“What happened to you? Shipwrecked?”
“Bring the fish when it’s ready,” said Caravaggio, staring hard at the proprietor.
The man grunted. “I don’t care about your history, signore. A coin is a coin no matter whose palm it’s from.”
Caravaggio stuck his nose in his wine cup. “This wine is rancid.”
“That wine is cheap.”
“Bene,” said Caravaggio, knocking back a gulp and wincing. “My kind of wine.”
The stout man grinned, exposing his rotten teeth. “You need a place to stay?” he said. “As cheap as the wine?”
“Forse,” said Caravaggio. Maybe.
“I have a room off the kitchen. Where I store the fish—”
Caravaggio scratched his chin, his beard matted with dirt and salt from the sea journey. “I don’t keep company with fish,” he said. “Do you know an artist by the name of Mario Minniti?”
The man hesitated, wiping his hands on the soiled rag at his waist. “Everyone knows Maestro Minniti!” he said, taking another look at his customer. “He has his studio on the other side of Piazza Duomo.”
Caravaggio dug in his purse for his coins.
“Send the boy to fetch him here,” he said. “Tell him an old friend who likes his artichokes prepared in butter wants to join him for an early supper.”
Mario Minniti parted the rawhide strands with the backs of his hands and stepped into the tavern. He stared at Caravaggio and his face erupted into a smile.
“It is you, Michele!” he said, moving forward to embrace his old friend.
The owner came bustling out of the kitchen with a plate of artichokes, shiny with oil. Upon seeing Minniti, he bowed, nearly dropping the platter. “Maestro Minniti! It is an honor to have you here,” he said. “I—”
“Give us the food before you spill it,” said Caravaggio.
The owner placed the artichokes on the table. Caravaggio poured his friend a cup of wine.
“Wait!” said the owner, holding up his hand to stop him. “I have better wine—much better wine—for Maestro Minniti. Let me get it.”
As the man bustled out, Mario leaned over, speaking in a low voice. “What trouble are you in, Michele?”
“A lot.”
“Another man dead?”
“Not as bad as that, but the knights will come looking for me.”
“Just as bad, then. The Knights of Malta have a long arm, especially here in Sicily.”
“You’ve got to hide me.”
“They’ll know to question me. I’m working on a pardon from the pope, so I can return to Roma.”
“Hide me, Mario! And get me work.”
Mario pressed his lips tight together. He nodded. “I’ll talk to the Capuchin friars. They hid me when I first arrived under the bando capitale. I think I could convince them to take you in.”
“What?” scoffed Caravaggio. “Me? In a monastery?”
“Why not? Who is going to come searching for you among a pack of monks?”
“No monastery! I can’t stomach that—a brothel, now that would work.”
“You’d end up in a brawl,” said Mario, sighing. “You always do.” Then he smiled, clapping his hand over Caravaggio’s. “You can come and live with me and my wife as soon as we think it’s safe. We’ll shelter you. But first, the monastery.”
“Can you find me a patron?”
Mario snorted. He had never known Caravaggio to ever thank anyone. “I’m sure I can. Everyone knows your work, Michele. I have patrons who would give you their teeth on a platter in exchange for one of your brushstrokes. Leave it to me. I have some influence here. I think I could arrange for some sort of protection in exchange for your paint—”
“Here it is, signori!” said the stout owner, returning with a large pitcher. “Now this is the good vino,” he said, splashing the ruby-red liquid into their cups. “Nerello. Here’s to your good health, signori.”
Mario lifted his cup. “Salute!” he said, smiling at their host.
Caravaggio watched Minniti as if he were preparing to paint, studying the composition. “Capuchin monks?” he said, snorting. “Mario, for such a genius, you really are a shitty artist.”
“Salute,” said Mario. “You son of a whore! May you paint your way out of trou
ble once again.”
This time Caravaggio raised his cup.
Mario met with a few members of the senate of Siracusa in a room off his busy studio.
Closing the door on the dozen young apprentices hard at work completing his canvases, Minniti told the senators about Caravaggio’s presence in the city and the special circumstances.
Would they be interested in protecting the artist and in exchange have the opportunity to procure his work?
“Sì! Sì! I’d shelter the devil if he could paint half as well as Maestro Caravaggio!” said Senator Russo. “I know his paintings well. I’ve seen them in Roma myself—The Calling of St. Matthew, The Madonna of Loreto. And of you, Mario . . . Bacchus!” He gave Mario a sly grin. “You were a handsome youth, Minniti. How did you become so ugly as an adult?”
“It must be the company I keep,” said Mario.
“We must have Caravaggio paint our Santa Lucia!” said Senator Moretti, gesticulating wildly. “Do you think your friend would consent?”
Mario nodded. “Sì, certo. If you senators would agree to keep him alive and speak nothing of his residence here. The Maltese Knights will be searching everywhere for him.”
“Of course we can agree to that,” said Senator Caruso. “I can’t stand those swaggering knights. They have no jurisdiction in our city.”
“Tell him to come to my home this evening,” said Senator Moretti. “We shall talk in secrecy and arrange his commission.”
The Burial of Santa Lucia depicted the final moments of Siracusa’s patron saint in the year 304 AD.
Caravaggio painted the immense canvas in the medieval Basilica di Santa Lucia al Sepolcro, above the Christian catacombs where Saint Lucia was originally interred. Sometimes Caravaggio would descend into the catacombs, his eyes scanning the rock and shadows, the niches that cradled the dead.
The painting of Saint Lucia emerged in muted colors—the young martyr lying on the bare ground, enormous stone walls dwarfing her figure and the others gathered in the scene. Her body was diminutive, vulnerable, with her right hand cast out on the ground, the left crossed over her belly. Her upper body shone in muted light, though it was the gravediggers who commanded the viewer’s eye: two men in filthy white loincloths, leaning over their shovels. One looked up, watching Saint Lucia’s mother weep over her daughter’s lifeless body. The other plunged his shovel into the stony earth, light spilling on his muscular buttocks.
Light in the Shadows Page 32
