by Gigi Pandian
These creatures explained why Lazzaro’s sketches looked like the figures from Vicino Orsini’s Park of Monsters, but drawn with creative license. They were Lazzaro’s own interpretations of the mythological creatures that were all the rage in late-Renaissance Italy. Lazzaro’s sketches were models for these sculptures he’d crafted in stone.
“Sculptures,” Mahilan said. “Monster sculptures. I thought you said he made paintings. Not sculptures straight out of a Salvador Dalí painting.”
The reason Lazzaro thought his artwork would survive was so simple it had been staring us in the face the whole time. Lazzaro Allegri’s masterpieces weren’t paintings. They were sculptures.
Michelangelo had thought of himself primarily as a sculptor and had to be convinced to paint the Sistine Chapel. References to Lazzaro being the next Michelangelo weren’t based on his mediocre paintings, but on his promise as a sculptor. Because Lazzaro’s first works had been paintings, we’d all assumed his “masterpieces” would be paintings too. But none of the original documents we’d studied said the word painting. “Artwork” and “masterpieces,” yes, but not “painting.”
And I couldn’t forget “blasphemous.” It was his studies of the Sultan of Gujarat’s court in India that had made his family want to hide his achievements. They relegated him to a far corner of their land. Unable to fully cut ties, they let him continue to create beautiful art through unsightly subjects, unsure of what to do with him.
“We all jumped to the wrong conclusion by thinking he was only a painter,” I said. “It was stupid. I didn’t question what I was told. But nothing in the original letters or notes says ‘paintings.’ Only ‘art’ or ‘masterpieces.’ Renaissance men worked in many mediums. The idea was that it was the message and the craftsmanship, not the materials, that made a piece of art.”
Mahilan nodded and approached a figure that looked similar to the Ogre from the Park of Monsters, with wild eyes and a screaming mouth. The open mouth on the three-foot marble head didn’t lead to hell. It led to a cozy square foot in which a bird had made its nest.
“Didn’t you think he made art that depicted Bahadur Shah’s royal court in India? Sorry, JJ. It turns out he’s just another Italian sculptor.”
“Just another—?” Francesco sputtered. I’d forgotten he was there.
“If you two punch each other again,” I said, “I’m kicking you out of this cave.”
Francesco crossed his arms. “You said I had read too many movie scripts. If it were not for my success in film, you would think this room was all there was. But I know there is always—”
“Another secret room!” Mahilan cried. His banged-up nose forgotten, his face transformed into that of an eager toddler. He spun around, searching.
“I already spotted it,” I said, pointing. “Lazzaro would have needed somewhere to work when it was raining. It’s behind that sphinx.”
We stepped through to a covered section of the hillside cavern. In the center of the room, my flashlight bounced off of two tables, a chair, and stone-carving materials, all covered in moss and dust. Behind the furniture stood a rough slab of marble with only a corner chiseled out. But along the far wall, five finished marble carvings stood in a line.
“Ada-kadavulae,” a voice said from behind us. “It is like the Ajanta and Ellora caves of India, mixed with the royal court style of Persian miniature paintings, but with the Renaissance treatment of realism in the human body. May I borrow your flashlight, Jaya?”
Stefano Gopal squeezed my shoulder and pointed the flashlight at each of the figures. We stood in awe at a rendering of Bahadur Shah, Sultan of Gujarat, standing in marble in the center of four members of his court, just as he had been drawn in Lazzaro Allegri’s sketchbooks. The muscles in the warrior’s chest and arms were visible through the sculpted clothing.
There was nothing risqué or blasphemous about these figures. Unlike most Renaissance subjects, these weren’t nudes. But the physical realism of the Renaissance was present in the formation of the bodies. At the time, Indian art was symbolic but vibrant in its storytelling. Lazzaro’s sculptures captured elements of both styles.
Along the base of each of the figures was an army of miniature elephants, one of which held a miniature man in his trunk. I took the flashlight back from Stefano and looked more closely. A raven coat of arms was carved on the man’s coat. Of course. The man being strangled by the elephant was Portuguese—the nation that had betrayed and killed Bahadur Shah.
“You’ve found it, Professor Jones,” Stefano said. “You’ve found a connection never previously known to have existed. This is truly a treasure of art history.”
Chapter 60
Six weeks later, I sat in my office and put the finishing touches on the paper I’d written about the discovery.
Enzo’s cousin, the man who owned the Allegri land, had been horrified to learn of what Enzo had done. He and his wife came from their home in Rome to see their ancestor’s hidden sculptures, and quickly understood the importance of Lazzaro’s artwork. They loaned the sculptures to a museum for study while they decided on where they would end up. Based on her knowledge of Lazzaro Allegri’s paintings in her small museum, Stefano Gopal’s new curator girlfriend would be one of the people granted access to study the sculptures.
I was one of the scholars authorized to study the works of art as well. While Lane was in Portugal setting up a museum with his friend, and Sanjay was in France learning from Sébastien and making sure the old magician got back on his feet, I’d stayed on in Italy for another two weeks. It was a good thing I loved to run, because otherwise I would have outgrown all of my clothing due to my indulgence in the local cuisine.
I’d then traveled to India for two weeks to study the Sultan of Gujarat’s royal court. What I found there brought my research full circle. In the archives of Bahadur Shah’s court were records of Indian artists working with Lazzaro Allegri. They’d taught each other.
Now, sitting in my office and typing the last revisions into my paper, I felt a deep sense of contentment that I’d been able to give Lilith Vine much of the credit for noticing a small reference in a paper by Wilson Meeks that turned out to be a clue to one of the biggest cross-cultural art history discoveries of the century. It wouldn’t bring her back, but it would restore her legacy.
I was also at peace with the fact that I wasn’t a scholar like Wilson Meeks, who’d been content to sit in a library and make small connections. But I also wasn’t like Lilith Vine, who was pulled in every direction and let her obsession destroy her personal life, her health, and her scholarly integrity. I was my own person, following my intuition in addition to the academic roadmap laid out for me.
While reporters had written about the discovery and news magazines had run pseudo-scholarly articles on Lazzaro Allegri’s artwork, I’d taken the time to understand the full context of his life and art, including the last piece of the puzzle: I found Lazzaro’s connection to Michelangelo.
I’d gone down some blind alleys the last couple of weeks, while following up with scholars across the world from my home base of San Francisco, but I finally found what I was after. My paper didn’t have to appear first. It was the one that revealed Lazzaro’s secrets and that would stand the test of time.
“What are you smiling about?” Naveen stood in my office doorway. Even though it was summer break, my cutthroat colleague was dressed formally in one of his usual suits.
“I finished that paper I was working on,” I said, closing my laptop. “I should celebrate. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” With the satisfaction that comes from finishing something you’ve poured your soul into, I could be generous in my feelings towards Naveen. No sense being snarky and rubbing it in.
“I should buy you the coffee,” he said.
“Why’s that?” I stuffed the laptop into my bag and stood up.
“That interesting discovery Lilith Vine co
ntacted us both about.”
In my generous mood, I held my tongue instead of pointing out she’d only contacted him as a way to get in touch with me.
“It was such an interesting idea,” he continued, “I did my own research and wrote my own paper on it.”
I stared across the desk at him. “You—”
He leaned into the door frame and smiled. “It was published in an online journal this morning. You might like to read it. See what real scholarship is about.”
I sat back down in my desk chair harder than I intended.
“Are you feeling all right?” he asked. “Maybe we should take a rain check on that coffee.”
He couldn’t have, could he? How did he get all the details to write a paper? My arms shook with anger as I opened my laptop. I found his article quickly. It was the front page article in a leading journal. I felt like I was going to be sick.
I was about to slam the computer shut when I saw his opening paragraph. I ran my hands through my hair, which had been tinted a dark brown by a month in the Tuscan and Indian sun, and let out a breath of relief.
Naveen had gotten it wrong. He was asserting that the supposed Michelangelo connection was fake. He’d written his article as if he was exposing a fraud.
I jumped to the citations at the end of the paper. Materials provided by Brunella Allegri were cited as one source. I shook my head. Poor Naveen. Brunella and I had become friends during my extended stay in Italy. She was bitter about Enzo, and was willing to take it out on any man she thought was lying to her. She’d heard me mention Naveen as a man who’d once tried to undermine me, so she must have remembered the name when he contacted her.
Naveen hadn’t learned that the marble Lazzaro used for his sculptures was from the same quarry Michelangelo had used, he hadn’t uncovered the fact that the two men had been there at the same time, and he hadn’t made the final shocking discovery I’d unearthed.
Those old records led me to something far beyond what I expected: It was Michelangelo himself who’d helped Lazzaro set up his studio.
Michelangelo knew what it was like to be prevented from working on what he wanted to. It was his idea to make a secret entrance to Lazzaro’s art studio. Michelangelo, who’d once hidden out in a secret room to avoid detection, had been the one with the skills to build the entrance disguised by a hydraulic lever. He wasn’t the architect of the Park of Monsters, but because he’d visited, there were enough fragments in historical records to lead scholars to speculate about a connection. Lilith had jumped to the wrong connection, as had others, but her instincts had been right.
I thought about running to catch up with Naveen, but decided against it. He’d find out his error soon enough. As would the rest of the academic world.
Besides, I wanted to fit in a run before my dinner date. My brother was back in San Francisco. Not with Ava, but in town for a job interview at a boutique law firm.
I couldn’t bring myself to break my brother’s heart by telling him the truth about Ava. She’d told him she was staying with Carey while he recovered from his illness—which I knew to be fake—and would be spending the rest of summer break with him. He wouldn’t be seeing her for a while, so I had time to figure out what to do.
I also had time to figure out what it meant to take charge of my own destiny. The summer was only halfway over. I wondered where it would lead me.
Lane had asked if I wanted to come visit him. Now that we knew Ava had faked her own death and there wasn’t any looming danger from Lane’s past, we no longer had to hide. But I’d declined the invitation to go back to Europe.
Sanjay had told me he’d be heading to England, once another young magician came to stay with Sébastien, to join a music tour with a musician friend of his. I wondered if Sanjay’s pal Tjinder knew the true extent of his sitar-playing skills.
I’d declined Sanjay’s offer to visit him as well. I didn’t know what the future held, but for now, I was happy on my own.
After a run through Golden Gate Park, I met Mahilan at the Tandoori Palace.
“How’d the interview go?” I asked, joining him at the corner table. He’d already been seated and ordered us two Kingfisher beers. I was glad to see his nose had healed completely. “You can take your tie off now that it’s just us.”
“I like wearing a tie.” He loosened it infinitesimally. “I fear San Francisco might be too informal for me. After running through Italian forests and being chased by insane noblemen, I feel the need for constancy.”
“Don’t order off the secret menu,” I warned.
“Noted. What’s up with you telling me Sanjay couldn’t play the sitar? While I was waiting for you, Juan was telling me he plays badly only when you’re around.”
“That can’t be right.”
“For a brilliant little sister, you can be surprisingly obtuse.”
“Who uses the word ‘obtuse’ in conversation? It’s just me on the tabla for a while anyway.” I looked over that week’s secret menu. “I’m on my own here at the restaurant, and in every way.”
“I take exception to that statement,” Mahilan said.
“You’re right.” I raised my glass and clinked it against my brother’s. “It’s you and me against the world, Fish.”
“Like old times, JJ. So when do I get to read this paper of yours?”
“Soon.”
“What’s the holdup? I thought you’d finished your research.”
“I have. I’m done writing it too. But I haven’t come up with a title.”
“That’s easy,” Mahilan said.
“It is?”
“The key piece of history that tied everything together was the hydraulic sculpture that kept Lazzaro’s studio secret for centuries. You figured out that Michelangelo designed it, but after he and Lazzaro died it wasn’t tended and was mistaken for a ghost. That makes it—”
“Michelangelo’s Ghost.”
Author’s Note
The modern-day characters in Michelangelo’s Ghost are fictional, but the historical figures aside from the Allegri family are real, as is the Park of Monsters.
The Park of Monsters is a Renaissance sculpture garden in Italy that exists as I describe it. It’s off the beaten path, but it’s worth a day trip if you find yourself traveling to Rome or Florence. The surrounding area is similar to what I describe in the book, but I changed the names and details of the villa, restaurants, and wineries.
Pier Francesco “Vicino” Orsini is the true historical figure who conceived of the macabre park, but scholars disagree about his motives. Many historical “facts” contradict each other, but the history Jaya unearths is as accurate as history has recorded—except for Vicino’s friendship with the fictional character of Lazzaro Allegri. Lazzaro and his Allegri relatives, including the ghosts, are fictional.
Michelangelo is, of course, real. And yes, there is a theory asserting it was Michelangelo, not Pirro Ligorio, who was the true architect of the Park of Monsters. Is it possible this is true? The dates fit, as does the location. Michelangelo spent time at a nearby marble quarry. However, it’s unlikely there wouldn’t be more historical evidence if it were the case (and unlikely that Michelangelo wouldn’t have taken credit for it). Yet at the same time, the more historical research I undertake for my novels, the more I’ve come to realize that history is far more complicated than what’s presented in school textbooks.
One of the aspects of history that fascinates me most is the world travel that happened long before travel became as easy as it is today. Explorers, missionaries, traders, artists, servants, and slaves have visited and learned from other cultures for millennia. Some of that history has been recorded, but much of it is still being pieced together. There’s not much recorded history about what Indian and European artists learned from each other during the Renaissance, but with the other ideas being shared between those cultu
res at the time, why not art? Bahadur Shah of Gujarat was a patron of the arts before he was killed by the Portuguese.
The rediscovery of the Park of Monsters is nearly as fascinating as the park itself. The park was opened to the public in 1552, but after Vicino Orsini’s death in 1585 his labyrinthine sculpture garden fell into disrepair. Before visiting, I couldn’t imagine how that had happened, but after seeing the feral forest surrounding it I came to understand how nature could easily take over. It wasn’t until a century ago that people again stumbled upon it and thought it worthwhile to clear away centuries of overgrowth. Salvador Dalí was one of the people involved in doing so, and the otherworldly sculpture garden has inspired many artists, poets, and filmmakers. In 1954, four hundred years after it first opened, the park was bought by Giovanni Bettini and restored for the public.
I don’t want to say too much about the solution of the mystery at the Park of Monsters in Michelangelo’s Ghost, in case you’re reading this note before finishing the book, but I can say this: The details of the explanation are historically accurate.
Like the treasures in my other novels, this one is fictional but based in very real history, making it possible that something quite similar is out there, waiting to be found…
About the Author
USA Today bestselling author Gigi Pandian is the child of cultural anthropologists from New Mexico and the southern tip of India. She spent her childhood being dragged around the world, and now lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. Gigi writes the Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt mysteries, the Accidental Alchemist mysteries, and locked-room mystery short stories. Gigi’s fiction has been awarded the Malice Domestic Grant and Lefty Awards, and been nominated for Macavity and Agatha Awards. Find her online at www.gigipandian.com.
The Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt Mystery Series
