Botticelli's Bastard

by Stephen Maitland-Lewis

Giovanni gazed out the window at the traffic along St. James’s Street. “It’s not something I really care to discuss.”

  “This is the first conversation I’ve had in a considerable amount of time, so please, let’s try to make it interesting and enjoyable.”

  Giovanni whirled around to face the Count. “What do you want me to say?”

  “Can you still perform?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Can you please her?” the Count asked. “Need I be specific?”

  “I’m not going to answer that.”

  “My dear Signor Fabrizzi, you are talking with someone who secretly oversaw Giacomo Casanova in action with Madame de Pompadour at Le Petit Trianon. You can confide in me. Who am I going to gossip with, for heaven’s sake? Sandro Botticelli?”

  “I don’t care who you saw or what they were doing. You’re getting too personal. And stop claiming you were painted by Botticelli. The style is similar, I admit, but he would have signed the panel.”

  “You do not know that,” the Count said. “Perhaps he had not yet completed it. I do not know how to convince you.”

  “Then stop trying,” Giovanni countered.

  “Hmm,” the Count murmured. “Perhaps I could tell you about Botticelli. Then you will know I am telling the truth.”

  “And just what can you tell me that I don’t already know?”

  “His real name was Alessandro di Mariano Filipepi. Sandro Botticelli was a nickname given by his elder brother. Meaning, The Little Barrel.”

  “Any art student knows that.”

  “He was first trained as a goldsmith, and later became an apprentice to Filippo Lippi.”

  “Then Pollaiolo. You’re not telling me anything special.”

  “It is rumored that a number of Lippi’s paintings may have actually been painted by his apprentice, Botticelli.”

  “It’s of little consequence. Botticelli made his mark nonetheless. Take his masterworks, Primavera and The Birth of Venus, for example.”

  “Lippi would be proud, certainly,” the Count said. “Or deathly envious.”

  “Okay, that I wouldn’t know either way, even though I did my thesis on Lippi. But on the other hand, your suggestion could be pure speculation.”

  “Are you aware the masterpieces of Botticelli to which you have referred were commissioned by my beloved uncle Lorenzo?”

  “Is that so? Then you should know the Adoration of the Magi contained the likenesses of your other uncle, Cosimo, and his son and grandson.”

  “You have impressed me,” the Count said. “Indeed. Uncle Cosimo took himself far too seriously. You know, don’t you, that Pope Sixtus commissioned Botticelli to paint the frescoes on the walls of the Sistine Chapel.”

  “Count, all you’ve told me could be gleaned from a book. It does nothing to convince me that Botticelli painted you.”

  “And how might I read such books?” the Count pointed out. “Or have read them, at any time during the past five hundred years.”

  Giovanni couldn’t argue the point and remained silent.

  “These books you speak of,” the Count said. “Do any expose that Botticelli was homosexual?”

  “We use the word gay these days,” Giovanni said.

  “Gay? That is to be cheerful and lighthearted. The acts involved may certainly lead to similar euphoria, though I believe homosexual has a more specific meaning. Botticelli was homosexual, as I understand the term, and in fact, he was accused of sexual relations with a young man. Fortunately, the charges were dropped, as the punishment for such acts—”

  “I’m well aware of the era’s brutalities, and it’s not anything I’m interested in hearing about, nor what Botticelli may or may not have done with others. Please, enough of this gossip.”

  “I was merely attempting to strengthen my claim. That I would know such intimate details must surely convince you that I speak the truth.”

  “Not really.” Giovanni went to the kitchen. He decided against more wine and rinsed out his glass. When he returned to the Count, Giovanni brought out his stool and sat down facing the easel, studying the panel as though he might begin restoring it.

  “You do realize,” the Count said with trepidation, “before you start working on me, that I am of tempera, not oil.”

  “Of course I know that. I also know you’re on panel, not canvas. I’m not an idiot.”

  “Hmm,” the Count murmured. “I simply wanted to make sure before you hover over me with your brushes and scalpels. What do you know about tempera?”

  It irked Giovanni to be treated like an ignorant schoolboy. “Count, I have been working with tempera all my life.” He pointed to the armoire across the room. “I have over two hundred powdered pigments, and in the refrigerator in the kitchen are dozens of eggs for the yolks. The pigments are from minerals and wood, plants, and clay. I have a full range. You don’t need to question my abilities.”

  “Of course. I ask you, Signor Fabrizzi, do not give me away to a private party. They will never know my true origin if you do. You will be depriving the world of a major work. As a lover of art, how could you?”

  Giovanni took the panel from the easel.

  “What are you doing?” the Count asked, worried. “Don’t put me back in that horrible room. I am Italian. I need sunlight.”

  “You won’t get much either way. You’re in London now.”

  “England? Ugh, such dreadful food. Thank heavens I lack a stomach to turn. Nevertheless, Signor Fabrizzi, please reconsider your actions. I beg you, do not return me to the dark.”

  Giovanni opened the door to the second strong room. “I need time to think. I’m just leaving you in here for safety.” He set the panel down and picked up the crate in which it was shipped.

  “Don’t be cruel,” the Count said. “You have no idea of the loneliness I’ve endured.”

  “Don’t worry, Count, we’ll talk again. In the meantime, I can’t leave you out.”

  When Giovanni lifted the crate, an envelope slipped out and fell to the floor. He bent down to retrieve it.

  “What is it?” the Count asked.

  Giovanni opened the envelope and began reading the contents, a single sheet. Then he became stern. “Did you know about this?” he asked the Count.

  “Know about what? What is it?”

  Giovanni fixed his stare on the Count’s image. “You didn’t know this letter was in the crate when you were shipped.”

  “I swear, I know nothing about it. What is it? Tell me.”

  “It’s a letter from my uncle. To my father.”

  “What does the letter say?” the Count asked.

  Giovanni ignored him, folded the letter, and returned it to the envelope. He noticed a sticky substance on the back. He picked up the portrait of the Count and studied the reverse side.

  “What are you doing?” the Count asked, worried.

  On the back of the panel was a spot similarly sticky. Previously, the envelope had been affixed to the panel’s backside.

  “It must have fallen off and settled in the bottom of the crate.”

  “The letter?” the Count asked. “What does it say?”

  Giovanni set the painting down and studied the crate. It had the typical markings such as gallery or other names stenciled on the side, and it had multiple shipping labels, all of which except the most recent were crossed out. It had last come from Florence, which he expected, but he was curious where it had come from before that. He found an earlier crossed-out label addressed to his father and the Florence studio, sent from an address in Switzerland.

  “Well?” the Count asked. “What is the letter about?”

  “It’s not something I’m prepared to discuss with you, Count.” Giovanni took one last look at the Count’s portrait. “I promise you, I will take you out again soon.”

  “Please,” the Count said.

  Giovanni carefully slid the portrait back into the crate and leaned it against the wall. Letter in hand, he stepped out of the strong r
oom and locked the door.

  At his desk, Giovanni sat down and opened the envelope, delicately this time. Again he read the letter, treating it like a relic, as though the finest painting in any museum.

  Dear Federico,

  I have long regretted that we haven’t spoken with each other in so many years. I don’t know how two brothers could come to such a sad state of affairs. In looking through my art collection, I found some works that you might want or might want to sell.

  I want this gift to be a peace offering. I don’t need for you to reciprocate with any kind of gift. All I want is that we can be brothers again, that I might see your family. I am alone. My wife died two years ago and you are all I have.

  We have lived too long and have seen too many hard and terrible times to let the past separate us. Please be in touch.

  Your loving brother, Maximiliano.

  Chapter 4

  It took fifteen minutes for Giovanni to attract the attention of a waiter in the crowded restaurant so that he could settle the lunch bill.

  Arabella asked, “We’re not in a rush, are we?” She gave him a teasing look with her dark eyes.

  He smiled, feeling caught.

  “No, my dear, but I am anxious to see what you think of this painting, whether you like it or think I should sell it.”

  Their waiter finally delivered the bill and was off to another table. Giovanni placed money in the tray, helped Arabella with her coat, and escorted her out. Their arms entwined, they moved along the congested, lunchtime sidewalks, destined for his studio.

  He punched in the required codes and they stepped inside.

  Arabella set her purse and coat on a chair. “I need to use the bathroom.”

  During her absence, Giovanni opened the second strong room and went to the back. He slid the painting of the Count out of the crate and spoke in a whisper.

  “Count?”

  No reply.

  “Count, are you there?”

  “Yes, I am here,” he replied. “Where else would I be? And why are you whispering?”

  “My wife is here. I’m going to show you to her. Will she hear your voice?”

  “I do not know,” the Count replied. “I never know. I did not know if you would, or others I have conversed with. You are one of very few, after all these years.”

  Giovanni started out of the strong room but stopped in the doorway. “Please don’t say anything upsetting to my wife. Things are tense enough between us, and I don’t know how she will react.”

  “I am not stupid, Signor Fabrizzi. You are afraid that your wife will think you are insane if she cannot hear my voice and you can.”

  Giovanni was still uneasy with the notion that his mental state might be impaired. And it didn’t help having the reminder come from an inanimate object.

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t talk until after she’s gone,” Giovanni suggested.

  The Count did not reply. Giovanni could only hope it meant the Count intended to remain silent.

  Giovanni came out of the strong room and went to the easel near the window. He set the painting on it and waited for Arabella to reappear. When she did, Giovanni expectantly watched her come closer.

  She glanced at the portrait. “So this is the painting from your father, eh?”

  “Yes. Take a look. Tell me what you think of it. Honestly.”

  She crossed her arms and studied the work. She moved closer, then to one side, taking it in from various angles.

  Giovanni silently stood watching her.

  “It has a Renaissance feel to it,” she said.

  “Yes,” Giovanni agreed.

  “How old is it?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “It’s a handsome subject.”

  “Mmm-hmmm,” the Count murmured, satisfied by Arabella’s compliment.

  Giovanni watched her for any reaction to the odd response. She continued to gaze at the portrait. Perhaps she thought it was Giovanni agreeing with her.

  “It’s very nicely done, whoever did it,” she said. “But I wouldn’t think twice about selling it. I certainly wouldn’t choose it for our flat.”

  The Count bellowed, “Because you have absolutely no sense of taste, nor any inkling of art history.”

  Giovanni stiffened and cleared his throat.

  Arabella continued to gaze at the portrait, then glanced at Giovanni. “What?”

  “What?” he asked.

  She turned her full attention to Giovanni. “What is it?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You look strange,” she said.

  The Count said, “And you look like someone who wouldn’t know a Botticelli if it smacked you on the ass!”

  Giovanni took a swift breath, fearing how Arabella would react. But she didn’t have any reaction. She could not hear the Count.

  Giovanni released his breath in a long sigh. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Why are you so fond of it?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. It… it speaks to me. If you know what I mean.”

  “Well, it says very little to me.”

  “Because you are not worth talking to!” the Count hollered.

  Arabella gathered her coat and purse, then started toward the door. “If you want to sell it, you go ahead. I’m going back home.”

  Giovanni kissed her on the cheek, the lightest peck. He opened the door and watched her walk to the elevator, then shut the door and returned to his studio.

  The Count said, “I am sorry to speak against your wife, Signor Fabrizzi, but I have never been so insulted. How anyone can overlook the timeless quality of my portrait is incomprehensible. However, she is correct that I am not fit to hang in your home. The Uffizi is the only place for me. Anything less is a disgrace to the memory of the artist. Furthermore—”

  “Will you stop!” Giovanni shouted.

  There was silence, during which Giovanni paced back and forth, running his fingers through his thinning, gray hair.

  “Is there a problem?” the Count asked.

  “You know I was nervous about showing you to her,” Giovanni said. “You said it yourself, if I told her that you spoke—actually spoke—to me, she’d think I was mad. And next she would contact an attorney and file for divorce. I have enough problems without giving her the legal foundation to leave me and take half of what I own.”

  “Do you actually believe she would leave you?” the Count asked.

  Giovanni sat at his desk and hung his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.”

  “I have an idea,” the Count said. “You should have a small dinner party here in your studio. I would like to see Arabella and your friends talking with one another. It will be a grand and enjoyable event, and it will bring you and your wife closer together. And most importantly, it will entertain me. I miss watching the interactions of people. Trust me, you do not know this dreadful fate, to live hundreds of years in the dark.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Giovanni said. “I’ll talk to Arabella about it.”

  “You can hang me on the wall,” the Count said, “and see what others have to say about me.”

  As always, the Count’s expression was frozen in time, forever unchanging. Even so, Giovanni could imagine the Count’s beaming smile, overly satisfied with himself.

  *

  That evening when he arrived home, Giovanni proposed the Count’s idea of a dinner party. Arabella was surprised, but in the best possible way, as the suggestion to host a party in the unique setting of the studio delighted her.

  The Count had been right—the idea of organizing a party added a needed spark to Giovanni’s relationship with Arabella. In the days that followed, she threw herself into preparations for the social event, selecting the menu, arranging for the caterers to deliver the tables and chairs, and purchasing small books of great artists as both gifts and place markers for the guests.

  Arabella expressed her pleasure with Giovanni’s improved mood, coming out
of his dark abyss, and his desire to spend time with her as together they planned the event and sorted out the many details. She was more a part of his life than ever. They discussed who they should invite, not only for pleasant company but those who might lead to further business for Giovanni.

  Giovanni suggested they invite an Italian art dealer who was in London. He might help Giovanni gain more commissions from Italian museums and private collectors. Arabella agreed and mentioned that she knew the first secretary at the French Embassy, via a girlfriend, and that he too, with strong connections to the art world in France, would be a wise choice as a dinner guest. The table would be a mixture of old friends, business contacts, and others who could open the path to new clients. Giovanni and Arabella had a common goal and were working as a team, which brought them closer together.

  The day of the party, Arabella spent all morning busy on the telephone, attending to details with the caterers and making sure the small kitchen of the studio could be sufficiently adapted to accommodate the servers. Everything had to be just right and set up well before the event began.

  In the late afternoon, Giovanni went by himself to his studio. He brought the portrait of the Count out of the second strong room and asked for his opinion on where he should be hung.

  “I want to oversee the entire table,” the Count replied. “Hang me in the middle of that wall and not too high, as I want to hear their conversations.”

  Giovanni did as the Count asked. He had to reposition the portrait a few times until the Count was satisfied, then he stepped back to gauge its place overlooking the center of the dinner table.

  “Thank you, Signor Fabrizzi,” the Count said. “I appreciate your doing this for me.”

  “In a strange way, it is more for me than it is for you. I needed a project other than restoring the Brueghel, something that could involve Arabella. She’s taken to this idea with great enthusiasm, which was surprising. I thought she would say no.”

  “Women are the ultimate mystery of life,” the Count said. “I was intimate with many in my time. I can assure you, their subtlety and complexity is a puzzle and a challenge to every man. But that is part of their charm, their allure, is it not?”

  “I suppose you’re right.”