by Morris West
‘Two Raphael portraits and five cartoons for an altar-piece – none of which appears in the catalogue raisonné.’
Seldes gaped at him.
‘You mean you’ve seen these things? They’ve been offered to you? You’ve authenticated them? What?’
‘I can prove they were painted and paid for. I can give you the date – October 1505. What happened to them after that is still obscure. But I’d like to show you the evidence I’ve got. It’s not something I can cart around easily, so I wondered if after lunch you’d be willing to stroll round to my apartment. It’s only a couple of blocks from here.’
‘Of course, of course. This is an important piece of news. It could cause quite a flutter in our little world.’
‘That’s what’s been bothering me.’ Mather made a small, dubious protest. ‘I’m not sure that sort of publicity is wise. From my own point of view, I know I couldn’t cope with it and I would hate to embarrass the Palombini family, who have been very good to me. I guess that was the real point of my coming to you. You would know how to handle such a matter in a muted and – how shall I say? – academic fashion.’
‘Naturally. I couldn’t agree more.’ The words were casual but Seldes’ eyes betrayed eagerness and a hint of greed. ‘The first question is, what one would be expected to handle: a simple research project or a worldwide investigation into missing master works – presuming, of course, that they have survived the ravages of time. The second question is, what you personally hope to get out of it.’
‘I?’ Mather’s laughter was happy and boyish. ‘God knows! At most a footnote in history, a credit mark for a scholar’s work. At least the fun of a treasure hunt.’
‘That encourages me.’ Seldes nodded ponderous approval. ‘Nothing taints a project so badly as hope of personal gain. Look, it’s not impossible that one could fund a certain amount of research. I could commission a piece for the magazine; I could without difficulty find a sponsor for a year’s work in Florence. The answer to the puzzle is probably in the archive itself, which you tell me is only partly codified. Would you be able to undertake that research?’
‘I could; I have privileged access both to the family and to the Library. On the other hand, there’s a very real inhibition.’ He hesitated just long enough to convey a hint of emotion. ‘Pia Palombini and I were very much in love. I nursed her during her last illness. I couldn’t face the villa or the city without her. So you must count me out.’
‘Forgive me.’ It was hard to know whether Seldes was offering compassion or expressing relief. ‘I understand, of course. But you could offer guidance and help to another researcher?’
‘Yes.’
‘In that case, I might even plan the project myself – write the introductory piece, set the direction of the inquiries as it were.’
‘Would you really?’ Mather was the perfect wide-eyed innocent. ‘That’s the last thing I expected.’
‘But first I’ll have to authenticate your material, verify the sources.’
‘Let’s do it now; I’ll get the check.’
Two hours later Harmon Seldes was huddled in an armchair in Max Mather’s apartment with a brandy in his hand, reading the latest item in the chain of evidence – a recent letter to Mather from the Custodian of Autographs:
Dear Colleague, dear friend,
I miss you. We all miss you. Now that the charming Miss Loredon has also left us, we are doubly bereft. In the city of flowers we need friends to share our springtime.
You will be happy to know that the transfer of the Palombini archive to our custody is now complete, and that I have been named curator of the collection. For this honour, which also reflects itself in my pension arrangements, I am deeply in your debt.
We had a big ceremony to celebrate the occasion. Palombini was there, also our director, the mayor, the senior members of the Comune, officials from the Belle Arti. Kind things were said about you. Your name is inscribed in our golden book of benefactors.
You have done me another favour as well. At that happy, tipsy farewell party for Miss Loredon, you suggested I research the life and times of Luca Palombini. I didn’t take the idea too seriously at the time. Like most scholars I am more at home in the safe and distant past. Besides, I have my own unhappy memories of wartime and I was not eager to revive them. It was a period of moral confusions and divided loyalties and most of us were left with some tally of private guilt. However, the notion took hold of me and finally I became enthralled by it.
I know our friend Nicki told you some things about Luca. You expressed a special interest in the women in his life. Of all of them – and my list is long but incomplete – his wife was perhaps the least interesting. She was well-born, convent-educated, had lived all her life in an envelope of unquestioned certainties. Luca paid her the respect due to the matron of the household; he cherished her and her children and arranged the rest of his life to suit himself. In that, of course, he was every bit as conventional as his wife.
To his mistresses he was generous but never lavish. He bought them jewels, clothed them in high fashion, lodged them in comfort. He was, by report, an energetic lover. He was also a tyrant who would tolerate neither scenes nor gossip; the smallest hint that the woman was telling bedroom secrets meant an instant end to the affair.
The opera singer Camilla Dandolo seems to have been a special case. Her voice was mediocre; she was never a diva. However, she was beautiful and intelligent and Luca Palombini made full use of her talents. I get the impression that she was at various times agent, courier and a personage of trust in his political life. This would account for the respect in which she is still held by senior male members of the Palombini family; it also explains why they were unwilling to involve her in quarrels or litigation with Luca’s wife. It is clear that he made good provision for her. He bought her a piece of land in the Romagna; he endowed her with blocks of shares in various enti. It is not clear, however, whether he gave her any family property of substantial value. You will note, dear colleague, that I have been a busy and very happy voyeur.
After Luca’s death Camilla Dandolo returned to Milan. She was no longer in demand as a singer, but the authorities at La Scala were happy to let her sit out her contract. She sang in benefit performances, coached young performers, behaved in exemplary fashion.
Then, surprisingly, she married – this was in November 1947. The bridegroom was one Franz Christian Eberhardt, a Brazilian national resident in Rio de Janeiro. I enclose for your edification the extract from the records of the Ufficio Anagrafe in Milan. According to a press report, the couple went first to Lisbon for a honeymoon and then took ship to Rio.
There is, however, a piece of unconfirmed gossip which my twisted old mind tells me could be true. The gossip is that Franz Eberhardt was one of those Nazi officers who fled south to Italy and then, with the help of old friends in church and state, escaped finally to the South Americas.…
And there, my dear young colleague, the history ends, as do all our Italian histories, with a hint of melodrama. Now, what have you to tell me? Does the work go well? I am fascinated by the draft material on your thesis that you have sent me. You ask about an old chapel within the grounds of the Palombini villa. I made some inquiries about this and discovered that there did exist as late as the mid-seventeenth century a votive chapel dedicated to St Gabriele. However, it was the scene of the particularly brutal rape and murder of a peasant girl from the estate. The building was deconsecrated and razed to the ground; the timber and the stones were used in barns and out-buildings attached to the villa. The peasants say the site is still haunted by a veiled maiden who waits for unwary lads to lure to destruction.
This I find is one of the fascinations of our profession: turn a dusty page and a whole history is displayed before you. But I grow lyrical – and when that happens, my wife tells me I become a bore.
Write again soon. I am intrigued by your tales of wild doings on the snow-fields. I am even more intrigued by your dedicat
ion to energetic sports like downhill racing. These are unlikely talents in a scholar. Or does that very sentiment display my ignorance? After all, the British always put a premium on sporting prowess and the Russians turned it into a political tool. Our prowess is in the bed or on the battlefield. Eheu fugaces! Either way, I am getting too old to play games.
Affectionate salutations,
Guido Valente
(Custodian of Autographs and now Curator of the Palombini Archive)
Seldes folded the letter carefully and handed it back to Mather. When he spoke there was a new respect in his tone.
‘You seem to have a talent for friendship.’
‘Guido Valente is very special: a Renaissance man to his fingertips.’
‘May I ask, Max – you don’t mind if I call you Max, do you? You must call me Harmon.’
‘Thank you.’
‘May I ask, Max, whether you have shared this information about the Raphaels with the Palombini family or with your friend Valente? This letter would seem to indicate that you have.’
‘On the contrary. For very good reasons I have refrained from doing so.’
Seldes shot him a quick appraising look and said carefully, ‘Perhaps I was misled by the reference to the chapel of St Gabriele in both the letter and the account books.’
‘You were.’ Mather was blunt. ‘The chapel and the references to Luca Palombini belong in the context of my exchanges with Pia during the last months of her life. She suffered from a wasting illness called motor neurone disease; she slept fitfully and always in fear that a choking spasm would take her during the dark hours. I used to sit with her and encourage her to talk and to tell me stories about her relatives and their tribal memories. By the very circumstances of their telling the tales were disjointed and fragmentary. Lately I’ve been trying to recall them and set them down. I…it doesn’t make the pain go away, but it seems to make it more bearable.’
‘I understand that,’ said Seldes mildly. ‘I don’t mean to offend you, but may I know why you have not chosen to discuss the Raphaels with the Palombini family? After all, they were the original owners.’
‘Two reasons.’ Mather’s answer was prompt but edgy. ‘First, I came upon the reference only after Pia’s death. Second, Pia had made me aware of certain disputes within the family about Luca’s administration of family assets during the Fascist period and the German occupation. Obviously he was buying survival and betting on all the numbers. I never asked for details, Pia never volunteered them. We were lovers, but I was still the outsider. However, after she died the family became very respectful and caring. That relationship is very important to me. I want to keep it intact. So I keep a still tongue in my head about family matters. I confess in the privacy of this room that I’ve often wondered whether Luca used these and other lost works in a deal with the Germans, possibly with Goering’s art agents who were active in Italy at that time. But, as you know, the Italians don’t take kindly to that kind of inquiry from a stranger.’
‘So they know nothing of this passage in the account books?’
‘Correct. However, before anything is published here I would feel obliged to inform them of the situation and at least invite their cooperation in any inquiries.’
‘My sentiments exactly.’ Seldes was obviously satisfied. ‘If you’d offer me another small brandy – then I must go.’
He held out his glass and made no protest when Mather poured him a generous measure. ‘Max, let’s get down to cases. I’d like to publish a few extracts from your thesis in the Belvedere. We pay well. It will probably help you when you go looking for a publisher. From my point of view it would set a proper academic tone for a research project. What do you say?’
‘I’d be delighted. I would of course need your guidance in the selection of suitable passages.’
‘For that I’d give you one of our senior editors. Do you have any objection to working with a woman?’
Mather was quick to see the barb under the lure. He grinned. ‘On the contrary, I’m very fond of women.’
‘Good.’ Seldes seemed relieved. ‘Which brings me to my next point. If one is to do this thing properly, give it the right cachet, one needs a prime sponsor. After seeing all your material, knowing that there is much much more to be examined, I’m sure I could persuade the directors of Belvedere to back the project. How would you feel about that?’
‘I’d feel very flattered.’
‘Would you consider joining us on a retainer basis with the title, say, of “Contributing Editor”?’
‘Well…if you think I’d be up to it?’
‘My dear Max,’ Seldes was suddenly expansive, ‘you’re a scholar of distinction. Your experience, although limited, is special. It has its own category of values. I’d be grateful if you would share them with me. I might even try to arrange my schedule so as to include a trip to Florence in late May or early June. If you were unable to come with me, you could perhaps arrange the introductions?’
Mather was hard put to restrain his joy. Seldes’ greed was clear to see. He wanted the credit of discovery and smelt big gains for himself afterwards. So be it, then. He was a power in the business. Where he went, money followed – gallery money, private money, trust money. No matter where he turned, he would never, could never, find the pictures, but every move he made would add to their ultimate market value.
But Seldes knew that too and he was likely to prove a persistent inquisitor, full of dangerous surprises. He asked now, ‘This Miss Loredon mentioned in the letter; is she any relation to Hugh Loredon, the Christies man?’
‘His daughter. She was working in Florence under the auspices of the Belle Arti. She’s a clever girl.’
‘Good-looking, I take it?’
‘Very.’
‘Hugh was a handsome devil, too, in his day.’
‘I’ve never met him.’
‘You should. He knows damn-all about art, but everything in the world about selling it. By the way’ – he was off on another tangent – ‘we haven’t talked about the Palombini collection itself. You must know it very well?’
‘Reasonably well; I superintended the cataloguing done for the estate by Niccoló Tolentino. I have to tell you that apart from a few good pieces the greater part of it is junk – copies and low-grade originals. One thing I can affirm: there are no Raphaels. We know they had them at one time. So when did they let them go and to whom? Anyway, if and when you go to Florence I’ll arrange for you to visit the villa and be shown the collection. I’ll also have you meet Tolentino, Guido Valente and a couple of other interesting folk in Florence.’
‘Generous of you, Max. Most generous. I have of course my own long-time friends in Florence. But yes, I’d love to meet your people.’ Seldes’ Olympian laurels were slipping a little. ‘About the job. Call me on Monday. We’ll fix a time to chat and meet some of my bright people. If you’ll allow me, I’ll take a copy of your manuscript so that I can get an editorial reading before we meet. As for the Raphaels, that’s thee and me only until we have the whole thing in focus. Capisce?’
Mather ushered him out and watched him pace down the sidewalk towards Lexington. A pompous ass he might be, but he was bright. In a few brisk moves he had put himself in control of the investigation and all the publicity attached to it, and therefore of any profit which might grow out of it. Which was exactly what Max had planned. Harmon Seldes and his magazine provided yet another patent of legitimacy. They distanced him by long strides from the pictures themselves; they made him a humble scholar overshadowed by a greater one. Amen. So be it. Seldes would always be an unsafe friend who could turn into a dangerous enemy overnight; but pray God he wasn’t mugged or hit by a taxi. For this moment, anyway, he was worth a lot of money to Maxwell Mather.
With which happy thought bubbling in his brain, Mather picked up the telephone, called Anne-Marie Loredon and invited her to drinks and dinner at Gino’s. Her protest rattled the receiver.
‘Max, you’re a monster. You h
aven’t offered me a meal since you arrived and now the best you can suggest is Gino’s.’
‘What could possibly be better? I love the old joint – zebras and all. I’m embraced when I go in, I get a free Sambucca before I leave. The wine’s honest. The food’s good. And we can both brush up our Italian. By the way, I had a letter from Guido Valente. He misses you. They all miss you in Florence.’
‘I’ve missed them, too.’
‘Did you miss me?’
‘Not too much. I’ve been busy – and I’ve struck it lucky. I’ll tell you about it over the drinks.’
‘I’ve got news for you too. I’ll keep mine for the pasta. Love you.’
‘You don’t at all, but it’s nice to hear you say it. Seven-thirty okay?’
‘Seven-thirty it is. Ciao, bambina.’
As he set down the telephone and began tidying his desk and washing glasses, he was caught up in a wave of unbidden memories – of the ‘Blackbird Tower’; of Pia Palombini, frail and fearful, clinging to him for comfort; of Niccoló Tolentino, the humpbacked one with the luminous eyes and the magical hands. There were memories of Anne-Marie too, of waking at dawn in her apartment to the sound of Angelus bells and wondering, if only for a moment, where and when all the innocence of things had gone.
The sudden onrush of memory gave a special touch of emotion to his meeting with Anne-Marie. They embraced warmly. They perched themselves at the bar for two cocktails apiece, then settled at a table under a whole wall full of rampant zebras. They ordered pasta, vitello alla Toscana and a bottle of Barolo. While they waited, Anne-Marie continued the breathless recital of her news.
‘So the upshot of it is, I have the gallery. I’m opening with the exhibition of Madeleine Bayard’s pictures. Bayard himself has appointed me to deal for him – buying and selling. His collection is very valuable, but it’s a mixtum-gatherum lot that needs weeding and refocusing. Beyond that I haven’t been able to plan anything. Bayard’s driven a hard bargain. He’s given me a five-year lease with a three-year renewal option, but he insists I take the whole building. Now I have to rent off the two top floors to pay for it. That leaves me more stretched than I wanted to be.’
