by G. L. Baron
He himself, through some of his companies, had developed this device. And Dubai, where he had been exiled by his brother years before, had been the perfect place: a sort of Silicon Valley that had grown rapidly between the desert sand and crystal clear waters of the Persian Gulf.
‘No matter which God you pray to, if you work hard and don’t disturb your neighbour, Dubai is your home.’ The city’s motto, coined by its monarchs, had also become his own.
In Dubai, legions of engineers and architects had competed to create the building that would enchant tourists. Every day, rich sheikhs had defied the laws of nature. Exactly what he continued to do in his own way, as well.
It had all begun by purchasing a promising Dutch patent whose technology used sensors similar to those of electroencephalographs. The procedure exploited one of the principle operations of the human brain: when neurons interact, in fact, the chemical reaction generates an electrical impulse that can be measured. The sensors mapped those impulses and transferred the data to a computer, which in turn interpreted and then elaborated on them to drive other devices.
With the help of scholars from around the world, Al Husayn could now control twenty-five types of conscious thoughts; thanks to the device, he could move the wheelchair, could speak through a synthesizer, could turn on the lights of a room or open an e-mail. What he could not do, however, was to regain the use of his legs to walk or run or make love to one of his wives.
He had been diagnosed with SLA four years ago and however much money he could invest, he knew he would never be cured. However, this was not an acceptable option for him.
So, alongside the project that allowed him to communicate and move, he had studied another more complex and detailed one. It was closely related to the studies of his youth and especially Renaissance art, which he had loved so much. With that knowledge, he was convinced that his life would change…
‘Load image,’ he thought. ‘Primavera.jpg.’ The screen went black, and soon after, the image of Sandro Botticelli’s Primavera appeared.
His art studies at university convinced him there was a clue in that scene. For five hundred years, art historians had been asking questions about that picture, in search of its meaning. Some speculated that the painting represented the marriage of his patron, Lorenzo the Popolano or “man of the people” (cousin of Lorenzo De’ Medici). According to others, the picture could have been inspired by the Fasti of Ovid, or by another great Florentine, Dante Alighieri.
‘Why paint so many figures representing just one season?’ the Sheikh asked. That reflection gave birth to the theory that he believed was the only correct one… Certainly the only one able to reveal the hidden reality behind the picture.
He instructed the computer with other simple commands, and in front of the picture appeared a white pattern composed of several triangles. The vertices of each coincided with the hands of Mercury, the three women and the central figure. Immediately after, the image of the Primavera disappeared and only the geometric design remained on the screen:
Up until six months ago he had not had much knowledge of spherical astronomy and astronomical position triangles, nor had he even known what ephemeris tables were. Now, however, he knew exactly what he was looking at.
Suddenly the phone rang.
‘Reply’, thought Al Husayn. The computer did the rest and put it in communication mode.
‘Hello, how are you this morning?’ It was Meredith’s voice, his fifth wife, who was calling him from Italy. She was the only one he trusted, and he had sent her to Rome because he believed she was the only one able to carry out the work that he had entrusted to her.
‘Like yesterday and like tomorrow,’ he joked. The voice reproduced by the computer, however, devoid of expression, was similar to that of a soap opera actor.
‘There’s a problem,’ hissed the woman without pre-amble. ‘Monsignor Claude de Beaumont… committed suicide.’
The Sheikh said nothing, limiting himself to asking the most important question: ‘Did we still need him?’
‘We wanted to try using him with bio-support...’ replied the woman. ‘At least for the Vatican.’
‘Did he kill himself because of OCST?’
‘According to Dempsey, you can rule that out.’
Al Husayn was silent for a few seconds. ‘Right. Continue as scheduled.’
‘Okay.’
‘One last thing: Did de Beaumont still have the equipment when he killed himself?’
‘Yes. He had just gone to see The Last Supper, and still had another experiment to do, in the Raphael Rooms.’
‘Make sure no pieces are left around,’ he ordered drily.
The fact that the Monsignor was dead did not worry him particularly; after all, he was neither the first nor the last to be sacrificed for the sake of science…
‘Zoom’, he thought.
The image on the screen popped up, zooming in on the right-hand triangle. A flashing message appeared in the top corner: Zenith.
The Sheikh closed his eyes. It had all started six months ago, when analysing that picture. There had been no positive results from the expedition to the glacier of Langjökull, in Iceland, but errors were part of the journey.
And that day another important step had been taken.
5
Florence, December 26th.
Two days after the suicide of Monsignor de Beaumont
Nigel Sforza crossed the threshold of the Uffizi at precisely nine o’clock.
The museum was closed but Andrea Cavalli Gigli greeted him at the door of the meeting room and motioned for him to enter. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘My pleasure. Thank you for seeing me.’ Sforza made himself comfortable on a couch in the sumptuous room. He could see the Arno and a glimpse of the Ponte Vecchio from the large windows. It was raining.
‘Unfortunately, I can only give you a few minutes,’ Cavalli Gigli said as he sat in the chair in front of Sforza. He was a man closer to sixty than fifty; his black hair was cut very short and revealed a receding baldness. He was wearing a tweed jacket, burgundy waistcoat, light shirt and a tie the same colour as the waistcoat. ‘On the other hand, I think I’ve already told you everything I know on the phone.’
Sforza smiled, puzzled. ‘As you know I am conducting an investigation with the Vatican Gendarmerie. From the list of calls made by Monsignor Claude de Beaumont there are many calls to your mobile and your office. Can you explain why he wanted to get in touch with you so urgently?’
‘As I already told you, I met de Beaumont five years ago. We published a book together.’ Cavalli Gigli’s eyes locked onto a statue of two angels between the windows while he chewed his lips. ‘I had not seen or heard from him again until the beginning of December.’
‘When the Monsignor contacted you…’ snapped Sforza.
The superintendent nodded and got up from the chair. ‘He said he had an engraving to show me, wanted to know what I thought.’
‘On the phone you told me that he brought it here in person and then left it for you to examine. Can you show me?’
The elderly man had reached the table on the opposite side of the windows. From an envelope, which he had obviously put there before the arrival of the inspector, he pulled out a black folder and opened it.
‘It’s by Marcantonio Raimondi, dates back to 1520. Seems authentic,’ he said, as he handed the parchment to Sforza. ‘It could be part of a diptych.’
The inspector looked at the picture. It was an engraving in black and white, like a drawing, but obtained by sprinkling ink on an engraved copper plate. It was not much bigger than a normal sheet of A4 paper. ‘Looks like something I’ve seen before…’
‘It looks like Raphael’s Transfiguration,’ the superintendent explained. ‘It’s a bit like a photograph. According to Claude de Beaumont, Raimondi did it while the painting by the artist from Urbino was being completed. Although it’s a copy of the top of the picture, it differs in one detail.’
Sforza
examined the engraving better and immediately noticed that the central figure of Christ had something unusual about it. It seemed to be different from how he remembered it.
‘As you may know, the Transfiguration was the last picture Raphael painted. It is said that the painter died soon after completing the face of Christ.’ The superintendent sat down. ‘If that engraving is really a copy of Raphael’s Transfiguration, which de Beaumont thought it was, whole pages of art history books must be re-written.’
Sforza lingered for a moment, not sure whether to interrupt Cavalli Gigli. ‘Forgive me, but I still don’t understand why the Monsignor was so insistent.’
‘Until now it was said that Raphael had died immediately after painting Christ’s face. And that the incomplete part had been finished by his students,’ he explained calmly, as if speaking to a child. ‘But if that engraving is really a kind of photograph of the work before the artist’s death, it means that the picture was already finished.’
Sforza gazed quickly at the engraving and then at the superintendent.
‘Have you looked properly at the central image?’ Cavalli Gigli turned the sheet, still lying on the table, and showed it to Sforza again. ‘That is not Jesus, according to de Beaumont, it is Muhammad. The engraving would be evidence that someone changed the picture after his death… Raphael was killed and Muhammad became Christ.’
‘He wanted to know what you thought? And he phoned you seventeen times in one day?’ Sforza paused theatrically, certain that Cavalli Gigli was hiding something. ‘At this point, just out of curiosity, what do you think?’
‘The Monsignor was convinced that Raphael had been killed and that Pope Leo X was the instigator. According to him, the painter’s work was intended to represent peace between Catholics and Muslims. And that could have been a valid motive.’
‘You still haven’t answered me: Do you think de Beaumont was right?’
Cavalli Gigli shook his head and went back to looking at the engraving. ‘As I said, the engraving seems authentic. Everything else, including the theory on the pacification of the people, seems a bit hazardous and imaginative…’
‘You only talked about art then?’ Sforza tried to change the subject. ‘Did you discuss anything else? Did de Beaumont ever tell you about a woman?’
Cavalli Gigli shook his head, with a contrite expression. ‘Do you think he committed suicide because of that picture?’
‘For sure he was obsessed with it… But that isn’t for me to speculate. I didn’t know him that well.’
‘Before, you told me that you had published a book together. What did you say it was called?’
‘It’s a niche work, called The Secret of the Cursed Painters,’ replied the superintendent proudly.
‘What’s it about?’
‘Allegories. Concepts expressed through images in some of Botticelli’s, Tintoretto’s and Caravaggio’s paintings. All those symbols were intended to convey a secondary message in the paintings. A message that, in the artists’ intentions, had to remain a secret.’
At that moment there was a knock.
‘Doctor, your guest has arrived,’ announced a young woman.
Cavalli Gigli nodded to Sforza with a triumphant look. ‘I’m afraid that the “few minutes” have expired. Like I said, I have another appointment: public relations.’
Sforza shook the superintendent’s hand and was escorted to the door. The secretary, with a small delegation of three women, their heads covered with veils, had arrived.
Cavalli Gigli did the honours: ‘Inspector Nigel Sforza, let me introduce you to Meredith Evans Al Husayn, wife of Sheikh Mohamed bin Saif Al Husayn… One of the gallery’s most generous benefactors.’
6
Florence, December 26th.
‘It’s an extraordinary piece,’ began the superintendent a short while after Sforza had left. They were in front of a dying Alexander, a sculpture placed in front of two large windows overlooking Ponte Vecchio.
They had reached the mezzanine floor of the Uffizi Gallery a few minutes earlier. They were walking along the beautiful Second corridor, where the continuous windows formed an entire wall of glass, overlooking the Arno. ‘It is believed to be Hellenistic art, probably inspired by an original from Pergamum.’
Meredith did not seem very interested in the superintendent’s words and was silent for a dozen or so steps. In addition to Julia, her bodyguard, there was another woman behind her holding a black briefcase.
The small delegation turned left, down the long Eastern corridor, the oldest part of the gallery. There was nobody inside the museum; Cavalli Gigli had delayed opening time for the Sheikh’s wife’s private visit, just for that day.
The superintendent was undecided whether to tackle the main reason for the visit immediately or to continue acting as a guide or “Cicero”, as the Italians say – the part of his job he liked the most.
Cicero. His nickname reflected his passion, although he rarely guided people nowadays.
He was born into a wealthy family, and not knowing what his real vocation was, had decided to study history of art. Not because he was particularly gifted, but because he was convinced that it was the faculty with the most beautiful girls. Unlike what happens to most people, an almost random choice had turned out to be the perfect choice for him and his abilities.
After graduation, he had found employment through one of the thousands of public contests at the time. He started from the bottom, but with tenacity had managed to climb all the steps from being a mere Ministry employee, to becoming one of the most important officials. His lucky break arrived when he was chosen, thanks to his contacts, as chief of staff to the former superintendent. He had become the grey eminence of the museum centre, an organization that ran a network of museums, villas and cloisters throughout the whole city.
During that time he had met the right politicians and formed a dense network of contacts with many benefactors. And that was the quality that had tipped the balance in his favour when replacing the old superintendent: he had become very clever in finding eccentric millionaires, wealthy Russian art lovers, and bored heiresses. All people willing to contribute, with a small slice of their assets, to the culture of his city.
‘I have checked and the donation has already arrived,’ he muttered between his teeth at the end of a long reflection. He had decided to get directly to the point. ‘Your husband has been very generous.’
Meredith smiled. She was beautiful. Her amber skin, smooth black hair and deep hazel eyes contrasted well with the blue tunic. ‘Indeed he is. My husband can be very generous. However, he obviously expects recognition…’
No beating about the bush.
That was the main problem: What he wanted in return! They walked along the black-and-white chequered floor. From the large windows one could see the opposite wing of the museum, which contained sculptures that the de Medici had collected in the golden years of the Signoria.
‘This is just what I wanted to talk to you about.’ The woman suddenly stopped and glared at him. ‘Are there any problems?’
Cavalli Gigli swallowed, not sure whether to speak his mind or humour the woman. ‘You knew Monsignor Claude de Beaumont?’
She did not answer.
‘He committed suicide the day before yesterday,’ he added. ‘I know that you had a contract with the Monsignor. He didn’t seem to be in the best of health, so to speak.’
Meredith dropped her gaze onto one of the marble busts next to the door of a room ‘No. In fact he wasn’t. But not because of us, don’t worry.’
‘Well, I would like some more reassurance.’
‘There is a signed contract, superintendent. You cannot go back on that, especially since my husband has already fulfilled his obligations…’
Cavalli Gigli rubbed his sweaty hands on his tweed jacket.
‘De Beaumont was unstable’, Meredith felt compelled to add. ‘He wasn’t able to control himself. You do what we discussed and there will be no risks.’
The superintendent was not at all convinced, but he knew he had no choice.
‘The important thing is to follow protocol,’ the Sheikh’s wife insisted. ‘The next step should be done within two hours, preferably one. If you wait any longer, you’ll get a sort of…’ The woman searched for the right word to use to a neophyte, and for a second she remained silent. ‘A sort of data compression. In jargon it’s called lossy. The consequence is that some redundancies result in loss of information.’
The man nodded. The agreements stated that once the procedure was completed, they would go to his villa in Chianti for the “second phase”. But at that moment he could not wait to complete the first – which concerned him more closely.
‘Here we are. We’ve arrived,’ he said.
They slipped into the Leonardo room and immediately turned left.
In front of them a huge room opened out, with two islands of benches and Renaissance paintings all over the walls. Botticelli’s Primavera stood out in the centre of the wall.
‘Let’s start,’ Meredith ordered.
7
Paris, New Year’s Day. 09:15 a.m.
A week later.
Manuel Cassini stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.
He was thirty-eight years old, his physique was anything but athletic, and at that moment he looked like a ghost: puffy eyes, dark circles around them and pale skin. The few wisps of brown hair, thinning at the temples, were crushed on one side and ruffled on the other. His lips were dry and cracked in several places.
He decided to shave and rinsed his face again.
‘And he turned his steps along a way not true’. He repeated the words of the canto XXX from Purgatory to himself. ‘Following false images of good, which pay no promise in full’. Without knowing exactly how, Beatrice’s reproach towards the great poet – of having gone the wrong way and followed false worldly images – began to ring in his mind.
