Botticelli's Bastard

by Stephen Maitland-Lewis

  Giovanni considered the possibility and concluded that, despite his woes, trapped in a painting would be worse. And if he were, he could not honestly say that matters of honor and truthfulness would be his foremost concerns.

  “May I ask if she will be coming back?” the Count inquired.

  “I don’t think so,” Giovanni replied. “I spoke to her last night and she didn’t ask to come back. She’s made her decision to leave me.”

  “I sympathize. A marriage in which spouses do not cohabit is awkward. I know firsthand.”

  “It’s different now, Count. When people no longer get along, we can get divorced. But it takes a good attorney to keep from getting screwed. I’ve made an appointment to see mine tomorrow morning. If this is what she wants, so be it. Of course, it’s going to be lonely without anyone, but that will pass.”

  “I am insulted and hurt, Signor Fabrizzi. How can you speak of loneliness? Do we not have a stimulating conversation on a regular basis?”

  Giovanni almost laughed but kept his silence. No need to further the insult, but conversation with an inanimate object did not compare to a relationship with another living, breathing human being. Particularly the warmth that intimacy provided.

  “I suppose it helps,” Giovanni admitted. “Our talks are something.” Rather than sit on the stool facing the portrait, Giovanni poured himself a glass a wine and slumped in the chair at his desk. “I’ve spent days at home. It’s empty, I’m alone. The telephone never rings. No one comes. It all feels wrong. We used to dine out all the time with friends. We went to art shows. To the theater. Together.”

  “Signor Fabrizzi. As sad as you may be about your life, I urge you to be happy with what you have. The suffering of others has exceeded yours, I assure you. Take for example, one of my most unfortunate owners, Marcel Radisson.”

  “Someone I should know?” Giovanni asked.

  “Surely you know of the Hudson’s Bay Company, the oldest company in North America.”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  “And what of events leading to its formation?” the Count asked, though not expecting an answer as he fully expected to provide it. “The story begins when two French fur traders, Pierre-Esprit Radisson and Médard des Groseilliers, learned of better fur country farther north. Seeking to finance their expeditions, they approached investors in Boston, and after their solicitations attracted attention, they were eventually brought to England where many were eager to exploit opportunities in the New World. With the money raised, Radisson and Groseilliers commissioned sailing vessels and embarked on their expedition to the Hudson Bay. When they returned to London with a cargo of premium furs, it was not difficult to raise more money. Soon after, King Charles granted a Royal Charter and the Hudson’s Bay Company was established. Many of the expeditions were financed by English bankers Moorgate & Eringham, one of whom was Lord Moorgate, a friend of Marcel Radisson, Pierre-Esprit’s nephew. At the time I belonged to Lord Moorgate, you see.”

  “I was wondering when you’d work yourself into the story,” Giovanni said.

  “My place in the story allows me to tell it,” the Count said. “Being the nephew of one of the founders of the company, Marcel was offered the opportunity to manage an outpost at Fort Nelson. As a farewell present, and in quite a theatrical gesture, Lord Moorgate gave me to Radisson. I was horrified.

  “Take this painting with you, Marcel,” Moorgate said. “Hang it with pride in your new office at Fort Nelson. Let it bring you prestige, just as it has to our bank, and may it always remind you of Europe.”

  “I was put on board a ship and we set sail. The weather was atrocious, so bad that we had to turn back more than once. Eventually the weather cleared and we crossed the Atlantic, to a stark fortress near the Arctic Circle, visited by primitive fur traders who resembled barbarians. During the summer and spring, the traders paddled their canoes upriver to the fort where they sold their pelts in exchange for food, hunting equipment, and other supplies. During the winter months, everything was frozen.

  “As for the young Marcel Radisson, he had the administrative skills of a moron. Even so, or due to the nepotism that awarded him the position, he managed to hold the post for a time, but then changes in English rule brought complications. First King Charles died, and his successor, his younger brother James, was deposed after a short reign of only four years. England’s new rulers, William and Mary, were not so favorable to the French as James had been. We will never know the truth, but given that James fled to France, one can surmise that he may have incited much of the trouble that followed. After all, what king wouldn’t be bitter about losing his throne? In any event, France and England went to war, in great part due to disputes over the territory in which the Hudson’s Bay Company was operating. The French, under the command of Pierre Le Moyne d’Iberville, raided many of the company’s forts and caused much grief for the English.”

  “So what happened to the younger Radisson?” Giovanni asked.

  “When the French overtook Fort Nelson, they found him sitting at his desk. I was on the wall behind him. He was trembling like a leaf, and d’Iberville was quite rough with him. However, because Radisson was a Frenchman, he was given a choice rather than share the fate of his dead colleagues, all of whom swore allegiance to the King of England.

  “Join your countrymen in defeating the English,” d’Iberville said. “In which case your post is secure. Refuse and I doubt the Frenchmen I intend to deploy here will be so kind.”

  The Count explained, “Radisson convinced d’Iberville that he would cooperate, when in actuality, he had no intention of doing so, as I soon discovered. In the dark of night, he took me from the wall and we boarded a ship destined for England. He was a coward, pure and simple. Fearing execution, he sought to escape by any means available.

  “I was pleased to escape that god-forsaken wasteland. However, I was quite anxious about my future. The young Radisson was very fond of me, but upon our return to England, he was impoverished. The sale of animal pelts barely kept him alive, and in time, his supply was depleted. Sooner or later, if circumstances did not change for the better, he would’ve had to sell me to support himself.

  “Fortunately, before Radisson was completely destitute, he called on his friend and my former owner, the banker Lord Moorgate. He seemed much friendlier than before, a little plumper and less aggressive. He was happy to receive Monsieur Radisson and even kind enough to invite him to share in a glass of sherry.

  “The British have outsmarted d’Iberville.” Moorgate said. “They have forced the French out and regained control of the fort. Our investment is safe and we have already seen a handsome return on it. Your courage and loyalty to us have not gone unnoticed. We are all very proud of you.”

  “And so,” the Count continued, “because of loyalty and luck, perhaps in equal measure, Radisson was saved from a life of poverty. If only Moorgate had known the truth of Radisson’s cowardice, perhaps he would have withheld the cash award, in gratitude for service to the company, that solved Radisson’s hardship. The irony was appalling, yet it would only become more outlandish. Lady Moorgate, the daughter of an English duke whose name escapes me, was an acquaintance of Anne, daughter of the deposed King James. At a dinner party hosted by Lady Moorgate, to which Radisson was also invited, Anne was in attendance and they were introduced. I cannot say their relationship was sexual as I never witnessed acts between them, though in either case it would not last. Anne’s sister Mary, the reigning Queen, was outraged that Anne shared company with a Catholic Frenchman, intimate or otherwise. Earning the Queen’s disdain was not a wise course of action, so again Radisson chose to flee, this time to his native France, where for all he knew, a firing squad or guillotine was waiting for him due to his abrupt exit from Fort Nelson.”

  “He was executed?” Giovanni asked.

  “Quite the contrary,” the Count said. “Through a highly improbable set of events that I failed to witness, Radisson somehow managed to come into the ser
vice of the former King James, exiled in France. Apparently it was his fluent French and Spanish. Oh, and he played the harp. I understand that had some bearing as well. Or more likely, though I cannot say with certainty, perhaps it was Anne who sought favors of her father.”

  “Now hold on,” Giovanni said. “You said Radisson was one of your unfortunate owners. Working for a king, former or otherwise, doesn’t sound unfortunate to me.”

  “The story is not yet complete,” the Count said. “Indeed, Radisson was quite pleased with his outcome, at the time. Serving King James meant everything to Radisson, and to live that lifestyle, well, he was in heaven. Later, given his linguistic skills, he was the natural choice when King Louis of France wanted an interpreter in Versailles and asked his guest and good friend, King James, to recommend a suitable candidate. So Monsieur Radisson and I moved into the Palace of Versailles. It was very grand, as you can imagine.”

  “I imagine it was, but how is any of this—”

  “Bear with me, Signor Fabrizzi.” The Count continued, “Sometime after settling in Versailles, Radisson began a relationship with la Duchesse de Chavigny. She was quite beautiful. At last, I had the opportunity to see Monsieur Radisson with a woman. It was the first time that I had, and many more instances followed. He was inept at the beginning, but la Duchesse was a woman of great experience, and she helped him along. I had a most convenient view from the wall, you understand, and I was in no position to look away. Oh, but she was so loud. She frightened the pigeons away. It was said that King Louis had also enjoyed a few nights of pleasure with la Duchesse prior to her meeting Radisson. After several months of their new affair, she approached the King and suggested that Monsieur Radisson should be ennobled. I believe money changed hands. It was a common means to enter nobility. Imagine, only a few years earlier, Radisson was nearly a vagrant, and now at Versailles, he was sleeping with a former paramour of the king’s who was busy promoting his advancement at court. And sure enough, the King agreed. So young Marcel became le Marquis Radisson, and the King’s Grand Chamberlain allocated him far more luxurious quarters. I had a wonderful view of the lake. It was spectacular.”

  Giovanni was perplexed. “It sounds like his life just got better and better.”

  “For a time that was the case,” the Count said. “Radisson, who easily could have been executed in Canada, had the most amazing reversal of fortune one could ask for, in addition to a mistress who promoted his career while he sat about and accomplished nothing. To relieve the boredom, there were frequent balls, and of course, nonstop sexual activity. The infidelity was constant. I must say, your wife would have been quite at home.”

  “Just tell the story.” Giovanni didn’t care to be reminded of his wife’s affair.

  “Gambling was also a great preoccupation,” the Count explained. “Many of the apartments resembled casinos. And it was gambling that brought down le Marquis Radisson. He became addicted to baccarat, I’m afraid.”

  “He couldn’t pay his losses,” Giovanni suggested.

  “La Duchesse helped him on several occasions. Other times he would give a promissory note to cover the debt in the hope that by the time the note fell due, he would have had better luck. It saved him a few times but I always expected that one day his luck would run out. After a time, la Duchesse grew tired of Radisson, and who could blame her? Wanting to divest herself of the layabout Marquis, she cleverly introduced him to Elizabeth LaCasse, the wealthy daughter of a tax collector. In little time they were married, though it did not please Elizabeth’s mother, Madame LaCasse, when she learned that Radisson was constantly in debt and often asked her daughter to cover his losses. Elizabeth’s mother was Italian, a former actress from Venice who was unhappily married to Elizabeth’s father. As a result, she divided her life between Venice and Versailles. However, as I witnessed on more than one occasion when mother and daughter argued, Madame LaCasse felt the large meals at court were pompous and all the fancy balls were boring. She couldn’t enjoy the plays, she complained, because the theaters were too hot and overcrowded. However lavish and wonderful it all seemed from the outside world, she wanted out of Versailles. But she could not leave her daughter behind, particularly in the unsupervised company of a son-in-law for whom she had contempt.”

  “And did they discuss this with Radisson?” Giovanni asked.

  “Of course not. Signor Fabrizzi, the story is about how women subtly control activities, sometimes without our even being aware of it.”

  “Apparently, in my case.”

  “As in Radisson’s as well,” the Count said. “Madame LaCasse was a resourceful woman. In the palace, she learned that King Louis’s envoy to the Republic of Venice was due to retire. The King had selected le Duc de Grimaud to succeed him, though not for any obvious reasons, such as his capability to hold the post. Rumor has it, King Louis had taken a fancy to Grimaud’s wife and wanted him out of the way. So the King appointed him as the new envoy to the Republic of Venice. Madame LaCasse saw this as an opportunity to return to her beloved homeland. She took a stroll one afternoon, knowing Grimaud would also be taking some fresh air, as it was generally known that he walked the rose garden every afternoon. She approached the poor unsuspecting man, and before nightfall, they were in bed together and her son-in-law’s gambling debts were paid. What’s more, she extracted a promise from Grimaud that he would ask King Louis to allow le Marquis Radisson to accompany them to Venice, where he would become counselor at the embassy.”

  “Well there he goes again,” Giovanni said. “Just when he’s down and out, he ends up on top. The guy’s life is anything but unfortunate.”

  “Signor Fabrizzi, if I may remind you, I have not yet completed the tale. Please, allow me to finish.”

  Giovanni nodded and remained silent.

  The Count continued, “Grimaud offered Radisson the position in Venice and he agreed, though reluctantly, as he had become quite comfortable in Versailles. Of course, his wife Elizabeth was thrilled. Given that her mother had a magnificent residence on the Grand Canal and was well known in the Republic, Elizabeth knew that she would be far happier in Venice, rather than Versailles, where most of the aristocracy looked down on her.”

  “So you went to Venice.”

  “I would have preferred Firenze, but never mind that. Elizabeth insisted that Radisson show appreciation to her mother. After all, she had introduced him to Grimaud, who had paid his debts, and better still, offered him a prestigious post and the new opportunities it provided. And so Radisson, that incompetent man who had more luck than brains, gave me, a great and historic work of art, to Madame LaCasse. Can you believe that? He takes me across the Atlantic Ocean twice and then gives me up because he is a wastrel and an unrepentant gambler. I had been with him for decades. A week later, Madame LaCasse and I set off to Venice and her daughter and Radisson followed a month later. His gambling resumed and, after the most remarkable of lives and more benevolent turns of fortune than any man deserves, he dissipated and died, making nothing of his life’s opportunities. He passed away at a relatively early age, despite the efforts women had exerted on his behalf.”

  “Okay, so his end is not so fortunate. Is there a point?”

  “I was rather hoping, Signor Fabrizzi, if you were to compare the misfortune of others to your own, surely you would see that your life is not so terrible. And by realizing that, perhaps it would lift your spirits.”

  “That was supposed to cheer me up? Maybe it worked in your time, to show how rotten someone else’s life is, and somehow that makes people feel better about themselves. That’s not the way these days.”

  “Is it not?” the Count asked. “I counter that people today are not so different. Do they not indulge in the misery of others? And in doing so, feel better about their own situation?”

  Giovanni considered the newscast he had watched on television earlier that morning. He had never thought of the news, specializing in all that was awful outside the comfort our living rooms, as a means of che
ering up anyone. But given the popularity of such programs, the Count’s suggestion wasn’t so outrageous.

  “It’s an interesting story, Count, but to think I should be happy with what I have, after all that’s happened, is a lousy moral of the story.”

  “Your problem, Signor Fabrizzi, is that you have no historical understanding of the relationships between men and women. And if I may also say, you don’t appreciate the greatness of the artwork before you, the fact that my voice can reach you, and that my portrait was created by one of the greatest painters of all time, Botticelli. I deserve to be hung in the Uffizi.”

  “I’ve already heard that story,” Giovanni said. “It’s a good tale, too, though I still doubt it has any basis in reality.”

  Chapter 7

  At Heathrow Airport on Friday evening, Giovanni proceeded to the passenger arrival area. He stood waiting with others as an endless stream of travelers poured from the concourse. For twenty minutes he searched for his son’s face within a flow of people that seemed enough to fill fifty planes that had landed all at once.

  At last Maurizio emerged from the crowd. He was the perfect image of his father’s youth. Thick dark hair, Mediterranean complexion, and inviting smile. It would be years before he shared Giovanni’s gray.

  “Papa! So good to see you.”

  “And you as well, Mau.”

  They exchanged a warm embrace as other travelers flowed past, then Giovanni pointed toward the baggage claim.

  “I don’t have more.” Maurizio rattled the overnight bag slung over his shoulder. “After all, I’m only here for the weekend.”

  Giovanni nodded and instead they moved directly to the street exit. Outside, a string of taxis were waiting.

  “To Scott’s on Mount Street,” Giovanni told the driver.