Benozzetti was roaring on, working himself into a lather about the quality of modern painting—no, modern paint.
“Acrylics! In five years they deteriorate, in ten they disintegrate! Look at the flesh tones on this portrait! Look here, and here! Flesh tones of this quality continue to develop and grow to their full beauty over a period of two hundred years. A painter who uses materials like that cares about painting, not about seeing himself in the next issue of some fashionable art magazine!”
And so on and on in the same vein. Of course, he was probably right, there was no denying that. You only had to look around the studio to see the man was a professional and must know what he was talking about. Only that didn’t mean that anybody else knew what he was talking about and the Marshal soon gave up trying to follow him. Almost automatically, the way he did when Mario the custodian was deep in some long-winded family saga, he took a step back. Then another. Then a step forward.
“That’s funny …”
“I beg your pardon?”
The Marshal stepped back and then forward again, oblivious of his impolite interruption. “Now isn’t that a turn up … oh, it’s nothing, just … you know the way these pictures just look like blobs and splashes when you’re standing right up close to them and then you step back and all of a sudden they’re as real as a photograph—I’m sorry, I interrupted you …” And he’d no idea either what the fellow had been saying except that it was something about making colours. He tried to pay attention but he couldn’t help edging back and forward a bit, just to check that he hadn’t been mistaken.
Determined to gain his attention, Benozzetti inserted himself between the Marshal and the easel and continued his angry discourse nose to nose. If the Marshal edged back he followed, beating the air with his right hand to mark the rhythm of his rhetoric and sending wafts of fine perfume into the Marshal’s face.
“When I was twenty years of age and a student at the academy …”
Lord, were they going to have his entire life story? What time would it be? No chance of that ferocious stare losing its grip for a second to permit a glance down at his wristwatch. Snake’s eyes …
“This is a man who calls himself a Professor of Fine Arts! I didn’t suffer it in silence, I can tell you. I stood up and interrupted him. I said, ‘Professor, you’ve made some comment about almost every painting in this end-of-year exhibition. Am I to understand that my own works are invisible to you, or is it that they are unworthy of your comments?’ Do you know what he answered?”
“I … no …” The Marshal tried to back away from the man’s hot breath and heavy perfume but Benozzetti closed in on him.
“ ‘The only thing worthy of comment in your work,’ he said, without so much as a glance at it or me, ‘is its extraordinary antiquated style.’ The other students laughed. They laughed!” He broke off. He seemed to be staring straight through the Marshal rather than at him now. A few beads of sweat broke at his temples and then, quite suddenly, he began to laugh. A harsh and cheerless noise, it might easily have been a sort of strangulated sobbing, so that it wasn’t until he spoke again that the Marshal could be sure.
“Well, I paid him back nicely for that one! It was so funny it kept me awake at night. I had to wait, of course, until October, but I didn’t mind. It gave me the summer to think out the best way to pay him back. Then I remembered. You have to understand that, though it wasn’t his subject, he often joined us in the life room if the model or the pose interested him—and more often it was the model, I can assure you. He kept an easel there and usually had a painting going. All I had to do was wait until everyone left for lunch, unscrew the supports holding his canvas and let the painting fall on the floor face down! Simple, you see? Then there was the pleasure of watching him find it and his mystified face as he checked the supports. He cleaned it up that first time as best he could and carried on and I waited until he’d put in plenty of work on it before it hit the dust again! That time I couldn’t resist going over to him. I suggested that the easel was defective and offered him mine. The silly fool accepted it and thanked me. Doesn’t that show how idiotic people are? He should have suspected at once. What reason had I to help him? And a half-witted fool like that sets himself up in judgement on me! You can’t imagine how much I wanted to tell him the truth but I didn’t. I left him looking ruefully at his painting which was ruined beyond hope and I went and sat down.”
The Marshal wished he could do the same. It must be late because he was beginning to feel not only tired but quite hungry. Above Benozzetti’s finely tailored shoulder the eyes of the handsome young man in the portrait gazed down at him calmly. If he’d known his portrait was going to give rise to all this fury he would surely have been as baffled as the Marshal. What was the fellow going on about now?
“And you think I’m talking purely about content but you’re wrong. You’re wrong because the value, the true value of the content can be judged by the materials used. A cathedral is built of stone and marble and seasoned wood but you can knock up a garage or a tool shed from corrugated tin—well, you wouldn’t use marble, would you? And why? Because the idea, the content, as it were, has no intrinsic value and it doesn’t need to last! Worthless materials for a worthless idea!”
The finger wagging in front of the Marshal’s nose was suddenly whisked away. Benozzetti was reaching for a huge tome from a nearby bookshelf and searching through it for something. The Marshal looked at his familiar friend in the painting and murmured under his breath, “It’s a funny business even so …”
It was still bothering him. There was no getting away from the fact that the distance at which the painting stopped being all blobs and strokes and became clear as a photograph was one big stride more than it had always been before. Would there be any harm in asking? Why should there be? It might start another avalanche, of course, and he’d probably be unable to follow the answer but—
“Look. Here. And here.”
There were drawings he was being shown now, a whole page of them. Hands, all of them.
“Let me tell you something about this ink.”
“I—do you mind if I ask you something? I don’t like interrupting what you were saying about the ink and so on, but it’s about this painting …”
“What about it?”
“Well, there’s something different about it and I thought you wouldn’t object to explaining it to me since you know such a lot. It’s something that’s always fascinated me—in fact, I remember I once asked Dr. Biondini about it and he did try to explain about it being something that happens in your brain, an illusion you create yourself, he said, only I can never understand why there isn’t a distance where you can see it happen. Do you know what I mean? It’s either the blobs or the perfect picture and you can never see it happen. I’m probably not explaining myself very well but, anyway, what I can’t understand about this painting is why it happens at four strides away instead of three, like it always is with Titian—or like it always is with me … of course the light’s different here, could that be the reason?”
He turned to Benozzetti and waited. What had he done? What was the matter with the man? His face was red but under the Marshal’s gaze it drained itself of colour. The snake’s eyes darted from the painting to the Marshal and back again. All he said was, “Biondini?”
“That’s right. He’s the curator of the Palatine Gallery. He knows a lot about Titian.”
“Yes? And you. Marshal? What do you know a lot about?”
The voice was icy. He was reaching up for the cloth at the top of the easel.
“Me? Nothing. I mean I don’t pretend …” Then it sank in. What in God’s name had he been thinking about? How could he have made such a stupid mistake? What would the painting from the gallery be doing here? Just before the curtain dropped down and covered it he registered the difference. The same face, the same silk cloak but he was sitting differently and there was something missing in his hand—
It was gone.
“I’m afraid you’re something of a fraud, Marshal. You know a great deal more than you like to admit.”
“No, no. That’s not true.” But how could he explain about his friend Mario? He’d already made a fool of himself so he wasn’t going to confess that as well.
“You can tell your friend Biondini”—Benozzetti’s gesture invited the Marshal to leave—“though I don’t pretend to know how he found out about this painting, that it is not and won’t be on the market, that the private collector who owns it doesn’t want its existence bruited about and that if I receive a visit from him or anyone else from the Ministry, I shall simply say that I painted this picture myself. Do you understand me? And if they doubt my ability to have painted it, I can paint another in front of their eyes. I hope I’ve made myself clear. Now I’m sure that you have as busy an evening ahead of you as I have.”
He was trying to waft the Marshal out of the room, but if the Marshal had a talent it was for rooting himself to the spot when people wanted him out of the way.
“There was no offence meant,” he said, “and Biondini’s never heard of you or this painting as far as I know.” How had he got himself into this mess? He’d frightened this man badly without understanding how, and if he wanted him to make an appearance at Marco’s studio after this he was going to have to offer him some sort of propitiatory confidence. He toyed with and rejected the story of Mario the custodian, not to save face now but because, like so many true and simple things, it wouldn’t be believed. And that left only one possibility.
“Still,” he began, “I owe you an apology. I have been hiding the real reason for my visit from you, but not for any sinister reason and nothing to do with Titian or with Dr. Biondini. I was just chattering on, distracting you. I should have realized that a man of your intelligence would see through me, but in my job I don’t do much more than deal with snatched handbags, lost cameras and so on, so I’m a bit out of my depth. Anyway, I’d better tell you all. Young Marco wants you to go round to the studio, not to choose a memento of his father, though I know you’ll be welcome to do that, but to look at a painting that’s there. I’d rather not have mentioned it, just as I decided I’d rather not see it at all myself. The reason for that I don’t need to tell you since you have the same problem yourself with the Titian there …”
“Not, strictly speaking, my problem. I’m restoring it, that’s all.”
“Even so, you understand what I mean. It seems Marco’s father intended to sell. The auctioneers have been to see him. But he can find no record of the painting in his father’s collection and he’s afraid of getting involved in something he can’t deal with. Like me, he’s out of his depth. He needs advice. I’d be grateful if you’d give him some and officially you and I have never met. It’s up to you. Now I really will leave you in peace.”
Benozzetti showed him to the door in silence and in silence closed it behind him.
“Where on earth have you been?”
The table was laid for two in the tidy, brightly lit kitchen and Teresa was tasting something from a saucepan on the cooker.
“Have the boys eaten?”
“Half an hour ago. They were hungry. You didn’t say you were going to be late.”
“No … well, I didn’t think I would. There’s a good smell; are we having pasta?”
“This sauce is for tomorrow’s lunch. Supper’s in the oven—oh, Captain Maestrangelo rang twice.”
“Twice?”
“He said ring him back. He wants you to go and see him tomorrow. That man never knows when it’s Sunday, does he? I mean, he’s very nice but you can tell he hasn’t a family—Salva, don’t stand there, you’re in my way. And aren’t you going to take your coat off?”
There were two things Teresa, in all the years of their marriage, refused to adapt to: one was her husband’s incurable habit of homing straight in on her in the kitchen and planting his great uniformed bulk right in the middle of the room so that she had to push round him with her pans. The other was the army’s incurable habit of expecting him to work on Sundays and sometimes even at night. She didn’t actually complain about this or create problems for him. She was just surprised by it.
He went to take his coat off, calling, “I wouldn’t mind a shower. I’ve been too hot.”
“Be quick then. I’ll switch the oven off.”
Dressing after his shower, he could hear the two boys in the living room squabbling over which channel to watch. He slipped a pair of old leather slippers on and went back into the kitchen. The good smell from the oven brought on a sharp pang of appetite along with a comfortable sense of its imminent satisfaction. That huge chilly studio … no warm kitchen there. But there’d been a cooker, he was sure he hadn’t been mistaken about that. A cooker amongst all the paints and tools; funny people artists were and you couldn’t judge them by normal standards.
“Ah … that looks good.” He reached for his napkin and the flask of red wine.
“Did you ring the Captain back?”
“Damn! Well, if it’s only to fix a time for tomorrow it can wait till I’ve eaten this.”
Now that was a point. Captain Maestrangelo was an educated man. It might be a good idea to have a word with him about this business of Marco’s, see what he thought. It was a point, but it was one the Marshal forgot along with Benozzetti and Titian and all the rest when he heard what Captain Maestrangelo had to say.
Two
On Sunday morning the city was still blanketed in warm, foggy dampness. The olive-green river slid smoothly between the high, ochre buildings and the soaked terra-cotta roofs seemed luminous.
When the Marshal crossed the river on his way to Headquarters he could see no farther than the next bridge down with a few grey and ghostly trees beyond. Upriver to his right the Ponte Vecchio stood isolated, its usual backcloth of hills screened off by a curtain of fog. Because of this, and perhaps because it was Sunday and the lights in the jewellers’ shops were off, the bridge looked like a deserted stage set seen in the dull light of morning. It was so quiet, too. Most of the brown and green shutters of the tall buildings along the embankment were still closed and the roads were empty of traffic.
It was the ideal time to walk about and look at the city and the Marshal and his wife were always saying they should make the effort to do it. They had got themselves organized two or three times and, armed with a guidebook, had taken the two boys with them. Somehow or other, though, it hadn’t lasted. The boys were really a bit young to enjoy that sort of thing and once they had climbed to the top of Giotto’s bell tower and seen the knights on armoured horses at the Stibbert Museum they got fed up and started to protest. Since they were also rather young to be left to their own devices all morning, the whole business had been dropped. A pity, though, really. They ought to have another try at it.
In the meantime, the Marshal savoured his walk, short though it was, and even stopped for a coffee in the bar almost opposite the barracks. He took his time with that too, looking at the long glass counter filled with decorated cakes and tarts which would soon be cleared by young families on their way to Sunday lunch at the grandparents’.
Inspired by this cheery colourful contrast to the dull day outside, he decided to buy a cake himself and, since he could hardly appear before his Captain carrying the beribboned parcel, he would buy it now while there was still plenty of choice and collect it on his way home.
He chose a torta della nonna, a creamy tart sprinkled with almonds and icing sugar, and paid for it along with his coffee. As he crossed Via Borgo Ognissanti and entered the cloister of the ex-convent where Headquarters was housed, a squad car passed him driving out at high speed, piercing the Sunday morning quiet with its siren.
“Me?” The Marshal sat there stunned for a moment before remembering his position. “I’m sorry … I didn’t mean—I was just so surprised.” He was searching Captain Maestrangelo’s face for some sort of clue, a hint at least of the explanation that wasn’t forthcoming in words.
All he could read there was embarrassment and something of anger. The Captain wasn’t very communicative at the best of times, but the Marshal had known him for so many years that he was usually able to decipher something of what was happening behind the good-looking, deeply serious face. This time, though, the eyes were avoiding his and after a moment the smooth brown hands dropped the pen they had been turning over and over and the Captain stood up and walked over to the window. He stayed there looking out with his back to the Marshal, silent.
Why me? Why? The Marshal too remained silent but his troubled, slightly bulging eyes scanned the room as though the dark oil paintings, the soft leather furniture or the row of army calendars hanging from their red tassels might provide him with an answer to his question. All that came into his head was another, equally baffling question.
“And why now? I mean, nothing’s happened that I’ve heard of. He hasn’t killed for what … five years or so …”
“Five years, yes. In nineteen eighty-five.”
“Well, I don’t know much about these things, of course, but I’ve heard it said by those who do know that likely as not he’s dead.”
“It seems likely, yes. It could be, though,” the Captain was choosing his words carefully, “that he’s in prison for some other offence—that’s just an example. What I’m trying to say is that there could be other reasons why he’s no longer active.”
Not choosing his words, the Marshal corrected himself, but reciting them. “Is that what this man Simonetti thinks?” he asked as blandly as possible.
The Monster of Florence Page 3
