by G. L. Baron
He put the car in gear and drove off. The next stop was in Milan, in the only other flashback that he could properly focus on. He was heading to Santa Maria delle Grazie, where the Last Supper by Leonardo da Vinci was.
40
Paris, January 2nd. 7:24 p.m.
The three men swept into the shop, bringing a breath of cold air.
The Hertz clerk, a girl with tawny hair caught in a ponytail, immediately realized that they were not normal customers. ‘What can I do for you?’ she inquired in a shaky voice.
There was a second of silence. Then, the eldest of the three – an Eastern European with greying hair and a pair of sunglasses – stepped forward and replied with a tone of authority, ‘We need your satellite tracking data.’
The young woman tried to remain calm. ‘I’m sorry but I am not in possession of this information,’ she lied.
Hidetoshi Tanaka approached the counter and took off his glasses. ‘We need the position of only one vehicle! Help us and we will not hurt you,’ he demanded showing his green and brown pupils.
We will not hurt you.
The young woman turned white instantly.
Meanwhile, one of the men had put up the CLOSED sign on the door, even pulling down the roller blinds. The noise of the traffic on the Champs-Élysées was replaced by the ticking of the clock on the wall.
Tanaka, with a sneering smile, took one of the modules displayed on the counter and examined it carefully. They spent at least thirty seconds in silence, then Hide began to read aloud: ‘The company is authorized to retain for statistical and rescue purposes the following relevant data collected by geolocation: places of origin and destination, travel time, stop times (middle stationary with the engine running), mileage, average and maximum speeds, monitor of doors opening… It’s your standard contract. Should I continue?’
The girl shook her head. ‘But the data is encrypted! I do not…’
‘I’m sure that with the right encouragement you will find a way…’ Tanaka smiled and pulled the Walther PPK with the gold engraving out from his coat. He cleaned the barrel sleeve and then mimed the movement of a conductor, using the gun as a baton. ‘I’ll count to three, then shoot you in the knee,’ he sang with a tenor voice.
‘Okay,’ sobbed the young girl. ‘What’s the name?’
41
Milan, January 3rd. 9:00 a.m.
The next morning, a taxi stopped in the shadow of Bramante’s Tribune. It was a typical winter day, with cold air and a shy, washed-out sun floating in a milky sky.
‘Thank you,’ whispered Manuel Cassini, turning to the driver – an Indian, who during the short drive from the hotel had not stopped talking for one second. He then got out and after a few steps found himself in Piazza Santa Maria delle Grazie.
The memory of his vision on the tram was extremely clear, as if the event had occurred the previous day. Or maybe it was actually true… at least for his neurons.
Many hours after his discovery he was still struggling to believe it; there were other people’s memories in his mind.
The good news – if it could be called that – was that his brain was slowly metabolising those visions. Every hour that passed, every passing minute reflecting on what had taken place, helped him get closer to the truth; the flashbacks were more comprehensive, clear and precise. And unfortunately, they confirmed this surreal story.
Now he knew what had happened and how it had happened; for what was deemed a crazy idea, someone had imprinted the memories of others in his mind. The question he kept asking himself, however, was always the same: why?
Why him?
Why without his consent?
And above all, to what end?
It was obvious that Renaissance art and his knowledge of Dante had been decisive. By what he could extract from his flashbacks, both Monsignor Claude de Beaumont and Andrea Cavalli Gigli had undergone the experiment before him. They were two great art experts and were both dead. The superintendent had undergone the procedure consciously – he had even signed a contract. Why had his fate been different? Why had he been drugged before that bizarre experiment?
The Secret of the Cursed Painters, the book that he had contributed to along with the Monsignor and the superintendent some years earlier, had to be part of the problem. Perhaps, the topics discussed in that book could help solve the mystery.
He tried to reflect on his role in the writing of the book; he was not an art expert like the other two, but his knowledge of Dante had been decisive.
The fact that he had been summoned with an e-mail depicting the Primavera of Botticelli was not casual. Just as the meeting place in front of the Mona Lisa wasn’t. If that was the direction he was to continue in, then it was not by chance that he was there in Milan; the Last Supper by Leonardo da Vinci was another example of allegorical art.
The book describing an idea that sixteenth-century painters shared with Dante some kind of hidden message, was a very plausible reason.
In any case, whoever the instigators were, it was not considered to be a relevant detail; the book did not give any explanation of the dilemma. If there was some hidden message, some concealed secret that maybe haunted Botticelli, he and the other two authors had not found it.
And how did Meredith, throughout that affair, become involved? She was certainly his torturer. The flashback in which she applied those strange microchips was increasingly clear and clean; he had recognised the bracelet, gleaming in the dark.
‘My hotel should have booked my entrance, under the name Cassini,’ he said to the woman at the Last Supper’s ticket office.
‘Eight euro.’
The professor paid and slipped into the small waiting room, a long and narrow corridor with a vaulted ceiling. An iron grating was behind them, looking out onto a kiosk and some illustrated placards recounting the fresco’s troubled history; it had been made with a very innovative technique for its’ time, but that made it extremely delicate.
At that moment, an officer opened the gate and invited them in. Around the corner, along with a group of people, he found himself on the porch overlooking a green garden with flower pots, hedges and some small trees.
‘I must remind you that you are not allowed to take pictures or videos,’ proclaimed the young man.
The group went past two antechambers, into what had been the refectory of the convent. It was a long narrow room, even colder than the previous rooms and shrouded in the shadows of the past. On the left there was the Crucifixion of Donato Montorfano, while the Last Supper – lit by a yellow light – was on the opposite wall.
Cassini approached. They had arranged six benches in the immediate proximity of Leonardo’s work, three on one side and three on the other.
‘Antonio de Beatis testified that the fresco “was beginning to spoil” already in 1517.’ The guide’s words echoed in the air, behind him.
The professor tried to focus on the figure of Jesus and the apostles, hoping that something would come to him and his mind would start to function.
He stood with his eyes fixed on the bread of Jesus, resting on the edge of the dinner table. Then he looked at the faces of Thomas and John on either side of Christ. Nothing. No memory. No vision.
Cassini settled down on the bench and his eyes looked elsewhere, first to the ceiling and then to the walls. The right-hand one was completely white, probably rebuilt after the fall of ’43. The opposite wall had remained as it was at the time of Leonardo; the high windows were surrounded by a Greek fret in green, red and orange, which were the same colour tones as the frescoes of the cathedral. There was no certainty about the artist, but in all likelihood they were probably by Montorfano as well.
Suddenly, he heard a thud in the distance. The professor stiffened and turned round immediately. Two receptionists stood up quickly and headed toward the exit.
Cassini swallowed. He waited a few seconds, his eyes fixed on the door. Then, seeing no sign of anyone, was convinced that whatever happened did not concern hi
m.
He shook his head and went back to listen to the words of the guide: ‘… In 1652 the Dominican Fathers decided to expand the door that was in front of the refectory kitchens, to facilitate movement. They cut off Jesus’ feet from the fresco and they disappeared forever from the painting…’
Without warning, the words and any other whispers faded into silence. A clear and precise image appeared before his eyes. The dining hall was now completely empty.
The tourists had all disappeared in an instant; only one man remained, motionless in the shadows, with his eyes on the fresco.
42
Five weeks before. Milan, November 30th. 7:04 p.m.
‘Monsignor Claude de Beaumont?’ she asked.
The man was wearing a shiny black suit and had a pale deathly-white face. He turned away from the Last Supper and looked at her as if he had seen a beggar at a gala dinner.
‘How did you get in?’ he thundered with a slight French accent. ‘The museum is closed. This is a private visit.’
She smiled and sat down beside him. She was young, dark-haired with large hazelnut-coloured eyes. ‘My name is Meredith Evans and I want to show you something.’
De Beaumont, visibly upset, incinerated her with his gaze. ‘You could have made an appointment by contacting my office.’
Meredith smiled. ‘Not for this!’ she put on a pair of white cotton gloves and pulled out a sheet of paper, slightly larger than an A4, from an envelope. Then she showed it to the Monsignor.
He suddenly changed expression. He said nothing.
‘The author is Marcantonio Raimondi. It was found two weeks ago in a library in Istanbul.’
De Beaumont continued to observe the paper in silence; a black and white engraving, probably taken from a sheet of worked copper and sprinkled with ink.
‘Do you still think I should have turned to your office?’ Meredith asked with a grin.
‘Why are you showing it to me?’
‘Because my husband admires your studies on Suleiman the Magnificent. He’s always considered your theories fascinating.’
De Beaumont stroked his lips. He reflected for some moments in silence, then looked at Meredith. ‘Is it authentic?’
She tucked the engraving back in the envelope and then turned to de Beaumont. ‘We were hoping you could tell us that…’
*
Five minutes later, they were walking, one behind the other, along the darkened nave of Santa Maria delle Grazie. A faint light penetrated the rose window above the main door and drew long shadows on the reddish marble floor.
They moved up to the apse. When they were under Bramante’s dome, magnificently embellished with circular decorations, they turned left. After the vestry, which was being used as a small bookshop, they went through a door and found themselves outside in the so-called cloister of frogs. De Beaumont sat down on a little wall with his back to the small hedges and invited Meredith to do the same.
‘There’s more light here. Can I see it again?’ he asked with the same deference that he would use for the Holy Father.
The woman took the picture out again and handed it to the Monsignor. ‘You are one of the greatest fifteenth-century art experts,’ she flattered him. ‘My husband thought that this engraving could corroborate your argument that Raphael would have finished the Transfiguration before dying. If we have not misinterpreted your studies, you believe that the painting was subsequently modified only… to…’
‘Cancel Muhammad,’ interrupted de Beaumont.
‘Exactly… So you agree with my husband? You believe that the subject of the Transfiguration was Muhammed and not Jesus?’
‘It might be a sensational discovery. If this proves to be an authentic engraving it would be like a photograph of Raphael’s painting taken before he died. It would show that the face of Christ was realized after his death, probably by one of his students.’
‘Why paint a picture with Muhammad?’
The Monsignor sighed, as if he had in front of him an unpromising student. ‘If you came all the way here from Istanbul, you should know, madam… What did you say your name was?’
‘Evans. Meredith Evans.’
‘My theory is that the Transfiguration was not commissioned by the papacy but by Suleiman the Magnificent, Sultan and Caliph of the Ottoman Empire. Or perhaps even by his father, Selim I. The idea was that the Muslims wanted to – with that painting – represent peace between the people.’ De Beaumont made a theatrical pause, then continued: ‘You know that according to some of the seventeenth-century engineers, space had been predisposed in the architectural projects of St. Peter’s Basilica to build a chapel that was never built? It could have accommodated a work of art of the exact dimensions of the Transfiguration, but Raphael’s painting never got there.’
Meredith nodded.
‘The beginning of the sixteenth century was a time when Constantinople was in need of allies, rather than enemies. The actual Istanbul was the largest city in Europe, with four hundred thousand inhabitants. Suleiman devoted himself to a series of expansion campaigns in those years, from Hungary to Persia, from North Africa to the Persian Gulf.’
‘Would he have needed an ally in Rome with those ambitions?’
Claude de Beaumont smiled. ‘There is no evidence to support this theory… but I think so. And if this engraving was to be authentic, many pages of history should be rewritten.’
‘Do you want to keep it… to examine it?’ Meredith assumed an inscrutable expression.
He stared at her in disbelief. ‘You would give this to me?’
‘Of course… in exchange for a small favour.’
The Monsignor stopped short. ‘What kind of favour?’
‘Oh, one that does not cost you anything.’
‘Forgive me, I do not understand. You have come from Istanbul to show me this engraving… and you are willing to leave it to me in exchange for a favour?’
She crossed her legs. ‘I own this engraving, which could be able to confirm your theories. If you want it, it’s yours; my husband is willing to give it to you. Consider it a down payment.’
‘A down payment for what?’
Meredith ignored the question and continued. ‘It’s part of a diptych. We will give you the second part when the work is completed.’
‘Forgive me, but what work are we talking about?’
‘A job that would satisfy your artistic curiosity and… who knows… even your other curiosities?’
The word other was spoken in an ambiguous, almost lascivious way.
His other curiosities.
What was she referring to? She could not know…
‘Have you ever heard about devices called OCST?’ she finally asked.
The following week, on December 5th, Monsignor Claude de Beaumont got off tram number eighteen in Piazza Santa Maria delle Grazie. He had come back to visit the Last Supper with the OCST – which until a few days before he had never heard of – implanted at the nape of his neck.
The night before, without moving from his couch, he had relived the impressions of numerous sexual adventures with two Indonesian girls. Thanks to that wonderful device, he had satisfied some of his other curiosities, as Meredith had defined them.
And now he was ready to observe and imprint in his mind the details he had been asked for: the two apostles with Jesus and the three lunettes above the fresco. In exchange for this visit – and a few others – he would not only receive the engravings, but also this wonderful device.
He could not have known that the gift would cost him his life.
43
Milan, January 3rd. 9:14 a.m.
Manuel Cassini swallowed. He stared at the dragon coat of arms, the Sforza emblem, in the central lunette of the Last Supper, just like in his flashback.
Even that vision was now very clear, just like the one of the man getting down from the tram was another of Monsignor de Beaumont’s memories.
The assumption of having several people’s memories was
correct. As incredible and fictitious as it seemed – if not insane – he was certain that he was reliving fragments of memories of Cavalli Gigli and Meredith. And now de Beaumont.
The superintendent and also the Monsignor had made an agreement with that woman. In both cases, she must have offered something they needed: money for the museum to the first and an antique engraving to the second. But to do what? Why had de Beaumont returned to the Last Supper with the OCST implanted on his neck?
Cassini squinted, hoping for some other vision that would clarify his doubts. Would it come in a casual way, or did he simply have to figure out how to re-call it from memory?
He shifted his gaze from the central line to the right. In addition to the coat of arms, the letters DVX and BAR could be seen.
Then, suddenly, a strange rumble forced him to look away. It came from behind the wall.
Even the guide had suddenly turned towards the Crucifixion by Montorfano.
The first impression of what he heard seemed to be the sound of a lawn mower starting up. But it was certainly more thunderous.
When the main door of the great room opened, someone shouted. From the darkness of the anteroom four armed men in dark suits appeared.
The museum clerk was by the door, paralysed with fear, his face cadaverous and eyes aghast on one of the machine guns.
‘Don’t move. Don’t talk. And no one will get hurt.’ The voice was that of Hide Tanaka, the last to enter. Hands deep in his coat, his eyes ran over the frightened faces of those present. Finally, he spotted the man he was looking for: Manuel Cassini, standing a few metres from the Last Supper, on his feet and with his hands raised.
‘Professor, what a pleasure to see you again,’ grunted the Japanese.
Two of his men approached Cassini and lifted him up by the arms, literally moving his weight. The professor did not resist, because the smallest of his attackers was as solid as a two-metre wardrobe.
In a few seconds, the five went out of the former refectory of Santa Maria delle Grazie with much more discretion than when they had arrived.
