My Brother's Keeper
Page 56
I arrived at the Ministry at half past two and was ushered through the stupendous columned halls of Bernini, and the anterooms hung with Raphaels and Caravaggios, to the office of the Minister. He rose as the doors closed behind me, and came from his place to shake hands. Then he returned to his desk, a neat, simple writing-table austerely in contrast to the baroque room. He indicated the chair on the farther side of the desk, facing his own, and we sat down.
It was in its way an awkward moment, for I had to begin talking, but he encouraged me with a warm smile. His manner was natural and gracious. I had been told that this scholarly man, one of the world’s most distinguished in his field, had been prevailed upon only after repeated, urgent appeals, to take this post in the Cabinet at a time when Italy, like every other nation, desperately needed the services of its best brains; so many had perished in the depredations of our time. It was only to be expected that I should look at Sebastiano Gandolfi with extraordinary interest, and I suppose he understood that, for he put me quite at ease during those moments of silence. He was one of the handsomest men I have ever seen, in his middle forties, with a head of nobly-sculptured proportions, clean-shaven, the mouth and the brow serenely reposed, the eyes a clear greyish blue, deep-set and intensely perceptive. His skin was a sunny brown, his curly brown hair threaded with grey. But his hands were the most remarkable feature of all; they were uniquely beautiful. They were square and masculine, the fingers straight, fairly solid, blunt, cushioned, strongly suggesting the hands of a musician. The skin looked silky-smooth, and the fine muscles were visible beneath it. In every line and every motion they were hands of the utmost sensitivity.
I raised my eyes from his hands and looked at him and said, “Eccellenza, do you know why I am here?”
“I may as well tell you that I do,” he said, in perfect, unaccented English. “It will save us both a considerable amount of explanation?”
“I think so. And may I speak freely?”
He inclined his head in a gesture of consent.
“I saw Signora Tosi at San Bernardo yesterday,” I said slowly. “I had come directly from New York where I have been working for six weeks on the papers found in the house of the late Seymour and Randall Holt.”
First he said nothing; then he said: “Yes?”
“I am speaking upon the assumption, Eccellenza, that you know of the condition in the will of Seymour Holt, upon which depends the bequest of his fortune. If I am mistaken—”
“You are not mistaken, sir.”
“Then you know of my conversation with Signora Tosi in October, when she refused absolutely to meet that condition … to answer that question?”
“I know.”
We both smiled, a little wryly, I suppose, for nobody could help feeling a sense of admiration in the presence of that man, and he understood that I was finding my assignment a difficult one.
“The situation is changed now,” I said, “because of the fact that Randall Holt was proved to have died before his brother—he died intestate—and his property therefore went to Seymour Holt’s estate. This about doubles the original amount involved and we in New York feel very strongly that you are the rightful heir.”
He made a little gesture almost of humorous indifference.
“But, Eccellenza,” I said, “I have failed absolutely to persuade Signora Tosi to make the necessary declaration which will meet the condition of Seymour Holt’s will.” I stopped and wondered how to put the next thing, and then, laying my cards face up, I said, “Frankly, I cannot feel that Signora Tosi is competent—mentally competent—to decide what she should do about answering that question.”
“And you came here, sir, thinking to ask me to persuade her?”
“In your own interest.”
“My dear sir,” he said, leaning a little forward and smiling faintly, “I would not think of doing such a thing.”
“But can you believe that she is doing right in refusing?”
“Yes, I can believe.”
“You agree with her position in this matter?”
“I agree.”
Hopelessly discouraged, I asked, “You support entirely Signora Tosi’s insistence that she is not your mother?”
“Entirely.”
“You know how much evidence there is to the contrary?”
“I suppose I know.”
“I have uncovered in New York and brought here a mass of incontrovertible evidence.” I looked him intently in the eye.
“With which Signora Tosi will not agree,” he said gently.
“And the village people in San Bernardo, their memories of your childhood, your visits to Signora Tosi, your photograph which she appears to treasure—”
“I love Signora Tosi very dearly, sir. She has been all my life the person nearest and dearest to me. I owe her everything. I would do anything she wished.”
“Even to refusing a quarter of a million dollars, which is rightfully yours?”
“Even.”
“And you refuse to state that she is your mother.”
“I have no reason to state that she is. I have every reason to support her word, agree with her, and give her peace of mind.”
The Minister folded his beautiful strong hands with a motion of finality, and his warm Italian face with its gentle grey-blue eyes smiled at me across his desk.