Botticelli's Bastard

by Stephen Maitland-Lewis

  “Very posh, Papa.” Maurizio climbed into the backseat. “Not on account of my visit, I hope.”

  Giovanni settled next to his son and the taxi rolled into traffic. “Of course it is, Mau, and how happy I am to see you again. It has been months.”

  “I guess it has,” Maurizio said. “Actually, since the…” He didn’t finish.

  Giovanni knew the rest. Since the wedding. His wedding to Arabella.

  “It’s okay, Mau,” Giovanni said. “I’m not going to get upset.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Maurizio asked.

  “Not yet. First let me have a look at you.” Giovanni studied his son as the taxi moved through traffic. He smiled. “Next we shall eat. I am famished, and I can’t imagine your airline snack was much.”

  *

  Throughout dinner, Giovanni did not touch the subject of Arabella and her infidelity. Not so much because he was avoiding the topic, rather because he was interested in Maurizio and all that was happening in his son’s life. More than anything, he was simply pleased to have him near. A weekend was such a short time, and there was so much catching up to do.

  “And how is your girlfriend?” Giovanni asked. “I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten her name.”

  “The one I brought to the wedding? Don’t worry about her name. That didn’t work out anyway.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anyone new?”

  Maurizio smiled and reached for his wallet. He produced a snapshot and handed it to his father.

  “Wow,” Giovanni said. “She’s a catch. Well done, son.”

  “You’d like her, Papa. She’s an intellectual, an art student. You know how it goes when you talk with someone about art, and the next thing you know, you’re talking over their head. Not her. You’d be surprised.”

  “You really think so?” Giovanni handed the photo back. “Well then, I look forward to meeting her.”

  Maurizio put his wallet away and an uncomfortable silence passed as father and son continued eating.

  “Papa,” Maurizio said. “Don’t you want to tell me what happened?”

  “I already have,” Giovanni said. “She was having an affair and I asked her to leave. Simple as that.”

  “Was it someone you know?”

  Giovanni savored another bite of his Dover Sole and then sipped his wine. “There isn’t much more to say.”

  There was a great deal more to reveal, but Giovanni didn’t feel it was the right time. He would show the painting to Maurizio first, and perhaps that would soften the blow. There was no telling how his son would react to Giovanni’s new friend, the Count.

  *

  Saturday morning, Giovanni went to the kitchen with the plan of making breakfast for his son, as a surprise. But Maurizio was already up and it appeared he had a similar idea, hoping to surprise his father. He had heated a skillet and was just about to crack a pair of eggs when Giovanni halted in the doorway, dumbstruck though pleasantly so. They exchanged glances, stood silent for a moment as if both were caught, and then they shared in a round of laughter.

  “I’ll set the table.” Giovanni arranged plates and poured coffee while Maurizio continued at the stove. When the eggs were ready, they sat down and enjoyed the simple time they could share together.

  “I want you to come to my studio this morning,” Giovanni said. “Before the rest.”

  “You have big plans for today?” Maurizio asked.

  “Indeed. We have a gallery opening, then later, I’m taking you to the theater. But first I want to show you a painting. It’s from your grandfather’s collection.”

  “Something valuable?”

  “That’s questionable. You see, it’s unsigned. But word is…”

  “Whose word?” Maurizio asked.

  “That’s just the thing.” Giovanni wasn’t ready to tell his son about the Count. “I’ll explain, in time. First you have a look, then we’ll discuss it.”

  Maurizio agreed and they finished breakfast.

  *

  Outside the St. James’s Street building, Giovanni went through the ritual of access codes as Maurizio trailed behind him. Once inside the studio, Giovanni opened the second strong room and stepped in. He paused to consider if he should inform the Count that they had a visitor, but he decided against it. He would bring out the Count’s portrait and see what would happen.

  He set the painting on the easel and stepped back. “There it is.”

  Maurizio took a moment to study the panel. “It’s an interesting piece. Looks Renaissance. No signature, you say?”

  “None,” Giovanni replied. “What do you think of it?”

  Maurizio examined the cracking paint. “Shouldn’t be a difficult restoration.”

  “But what do you think of it? I mean, compared to other paintings.”

  “It’s okay.” Maurizio glanced at Giovanni. “We’ve both seen better, Papa. And without a signature, I can’t imagine it’s worth much.”

  Giovanni waited for the Count to protest, as he had when Arabella wasn’t impressed by his portrait. The Count remained silent.

  “What’s so important about it?” Maurizio asked.

  “I just wanted you to see it, that’s all. We should go now. We have a gallery opening to attend.”

  “Yeah.” Maurizio chuckled. “Surely we’ll see something better than this.”

  Giovanni took the portrait from the easel, expecting the Count to groan, or worse, start hollering that his portrait was crafted by the one-and-only Botticelli. But the Count never made a sound. Giovanni returned the painting to the strong room and locked the door.

  *

  The gallery opening was just the medicine Giovanni needed. To again socialize with others was a joy, even though he bumped into acquaintances at the show who asked about Arabella and how she was doing. He didn’t reveal that he was separated and told everyone that she was fine, then pushed the conversation in other directions. When he and his son left the gallery, on their way to the theater, Maurizio insisted that his father should talk about what had happened with Arabella.

  “In mixed company,” Maurizio said, “I can understand you don’t want to talk about it. But, Papa, I’m your son. It concerns the family.”

  “Please, Mau, don’t ruin our wonderful day together. We’ll talk about it, just not now.” Giovanni rattled his son’s shoulder and smiled, upbeat and playful, though actually, he was becoming annoyed by the repeated probing for more details. Fortunately, his mood improved as the evening progressed. The play was excellent, during which Maurizio was unable to continue asking about his father’s marital problems. Despite his son’s nosey questions, Giovanni thoroughly enjoyed the day and evening spent with him. Such quality time with his family was well overdue, and he vowed in the future not to let there be so great a lapse between visits with Maurizio.

  Sunday morning before his flight back to Florence, Maurizio wanted to visit friends in London that he hadn’t seen for some time. He and his father had spent an entire day together, and Maurizio proposed that it wasn’t too much to ask. Giovanni agreed that it would be fine except for Maurizio’s suggestion that his friends give him a ride back to the airport. Giovanni insisted that he would take his son. He still wanted to tell Maurizio about the Count, but it wasn’t the right time. The airport would be his last chance. Maurizio promised to return in time for them to make his flight.

  Giovanni spent Sunday morning alone in his flat. It was a welcome chance to relax. The previous day had been a whirlwind of activity, but it was a refreshing change from his recent daily routine. However, all of the day before and into the evening, Giovanni couldn’t stop thinking about one nagging mystery—why the Count had remained silent as Maurizio examined his portrait. It brought back Giovanni’s earlier fear that the Count’s voice might suddenly cease, and he would never have an explanation as to why, nor why he had heard the voice in the first place.

  He decided to visit his studio before Maurizio returned. There was enough time.r />
  *

  Giovanni unlocked the strong room and brought out the Count’s portrait. After setting it on the easel, he pulled his stool closer and sat down.

  “Count? Are you there?”

  “I am,” the Count replied.

  “Why were you quiet yesterday?”

  “Given the outcome the first time I was confronted with one of your visitors, I concluded silence would be a better course.”

  Giovanni nodded. “Fair enough. So what did you think of—”

  The Count continued, “However, now in our secluded company, I shall clearly voice my dissent. I have never been so insulted.”

  Giovanni wanted to laugh, but he knew that would be rude. “I suppose that answers my question. The one you didn’t let me finish.”

  “Your son?” the Count asked. “I imagine he is a fine young man, however offensive he may be toward me.”

  Giovanni laughed. He couldn’t hold it back. “Count, you really have an ego problem. If someone doesn’t care for the style of your portrait, it’s nothing personal. It’s like if others didn’t care for your style of clothing. It doesn’t mean they don’t like you.”

  “Hmm,” the Count murmured. “Ego, you say?”

  “I think so,” Giovanni replied. “It has occurred to me more than once during our conversations. You talk a great deal about yourself.”

  “It is difficult for me, Signor Fabrizzi, to discuss that to which I am not a witness. I am sorry that my stories include me, however, it cannot be otherwise. Is this fact so difficult to comprehend? I am at a loss to grasp your trouble with the idea.”

  “Your point is completely understandable,” Giovanni said. “It’s just the way you always seem to become an important part of every story.”

  “Hmm. I must focus on others, you suggest.”

  “It might help.” Giovanni thought for a moment. “Tell a story to which you’re a witness, but let me care about the people, not what happened to your precious portrait. You know what I mean?”

  “Your request is fair. Very well, then consider the tale of Catherine. I will skip the saga that led to my portrait becoming the property of a Russian Prince and Princess. She died first. 1861, I believe it was. The Prince died a few years later. In any event, I was passed down to one of their children, Natasha. As a descendent of nobility, she had made a choice in life that was rare for the era. She married a commoner. Not to mean that he was poor, as he had profited handsomely from the steel industry, supplying materials for steam locomotives and such. They had a daughter named Catherine. She wasn’t a noble, of course, as her father was not. But as a successful businessman, he was displeased when she married Alexi in 1885. He was quite effete, but most upsetting to her father was the young man’s bleak financial future. He was a dancer with the Bolshoi Ballet. He claimed to derive inspiration from viewing me. Of course he did.”

  “Count,” Giovanni said. “This is what I’m talking about. Tell me about the people, not you.”

  “I cannot completely remove myself from the story. Alexi and Catherine were given me as a wedding present, by her mother Natasha.”

  “Stop there. To say they were given me, or even I was given, or I was this or that, comes across as arrogant, you know?” Giovanni didn’t want to insult the Count, but something had to be said. And he quickly considered—it should be said as tactfully as possible. “I’m not saying you’re arrogant, just the way you tell the story sounds arrogant. Do you understand?”

  “I see,” the Count said, and then he was silent for a moment. “I will consider your advice. Alexi and Catherine were given my portrait as a wedding present, which was hung in an apartment close to the Bolshoi.”

  “Better.”

  The Count continued, “Certainly the apartment was not the splendor of my previous homes, but it was comfortable, and more importantly, it was warm. The winters in St. Petersburg were brutal. Alexi was continually paranoid of contracting a cold or influenza so there was always a stack of wood burning in the fireplace. He would roll up the large Persian rug and practice his pirouettes in front of the fire.”

  “Was he any good?” Giovanni asked.

  “He was a reliable performer, though not by any means the star of the company. When the Bolshoi’s theater in St. Petersburg was demolished to make room for a new conservatoire, the ballet company moved to Moscow. So we moved as well. I did not care for Moscow, nor did Catherine. Her father was so incensed that she had disobeyed him by leaving St. Petersburg that he discontinued her allowance. Alexi had no money to speak of, so they were obliged to live solely on his earnings from the Bolshoi. They managed for a number of years, and then one morning, in a rush to get to the theater, Alexi ran across Shabolovska Street and was knocked down by a streetcar. This form of transportation was new in Moscow and people were not yet accustomed to looking carefully before crossing the road. They frequently misjudged the car’s speed. He was badly hurt, and his dancing career was over.”

  “Gracious, the poor man. What became of him?”

  “The Bolshoi felt sorry for him. After nearly a year in the hospital, he was offered a job in one of the administrative departments. His heart was broken, and tragically, he chose to kill himself, leaving poor Catherine a widow with a five-year-old son. She moved back to St. Petersburg and lived with her father, who reinstated her monthly allowance, though the meager sum was hardly a generous amount. She wasn’t completely destitute, but it was a struggle, as she was untrained for any form of employment. As her son Sergei grew older, he began to show talent as an artist, especially drawing. The boy’s grandfather was so impressed that he arranged for a meeting with a professor at the Imperial Academy of Arts.”

  “And the result?” Giovanni asked.

  “Never to be certain, as events of the time interrupted their future. In Russia, the Industrial Revolution had taken place so rapidly that it triggered an undercurrent, which led to great social unrest, and ultimately, an uprising against the Tsar, Nicholas II. Workers went on strike at a factory in St. Petersburg, and within days, thousands of textile workers had walked off the job. Catherine’s father stayed home that day, afraid he would be lynched in the street. Those on strike were demanding food and there was fighting in the streets. The Tsar ordered the people back to work and then commanded his troops to shoot any demonstrators. This led to many deaths. His promises of reform kept him in power for a time. However, most people would forever resent his use of force against his own subjects. Further complications arose during World War I, when the government printed millions of ruble notes to finance war operations, and in doing so, they devastated the Russian economy with runaway inflation. The Tsar struggled to maintain power but it was hopeless. The revolutionaries, fueled by deteriorating conditions, as well as the Tsar’s brutal acts some years earlier, turned against their government. Even the military sided with them. The Tsar had no choice but to abdicate.”

  “So what happened to Catherine and Sergei?”

  “Catherine told Sergei that he should leave for Paris. Many of their friends had already fled St. Petersburg. Catherine felt that her son, as a developing artist, would have better opportunities in France. He agreed without a moment’s hesitation. His mother helped him pack, gave him money, and then, to my surprise, she gave him the portrait of me as a gift, to take with him to Paris.”

  “Better than Russia at the time. But probably not to a fancy palace like before.”

  “The change of location was pleasing, indeed, even with modest accommodations. However, I was not pleased with the change of ownership. To tell you the truth, Sergei was not a nice young man. He was a thief. One day I saw him steal money from his grandfather’s pocket while the poor man napped on the sofa. On another occasion, he stole a pair of earrings that his grandmother had left out. An innocent servant was accused of the crime and Sergei never came forward to clear the matter.”

  “The little creep.”

  “He was one of my less than ideal owners.”

  Giov
anni glanced at his watch. “Oh, shit.” He stood quickly. “I’m late. I have to get Mau to the airport.”

  *

  Giovanni’s taxi stopped along the curb in front of his flat, and he slid across the seat to open the rear door. Sure enough, Maurizio was waiting outside.

  “Where did you go?” he asked. “I’ve been here for twenty minutes.”

  “Sorry,” Giovanni said. “I got caught up in a conversation. Let’s go.”

  Maurizio tossed his overnight bag on the seat and hopped in. The taxi launched into traffic.

  “A conversation with who?” Maurizio asked.

  Giovanni still wasn’t ready to tell his son about the Count. Especially not in earshot of a taxi driver. But he was running out of time. He had until Maurizio boarded the plane, otherwise explain it later over the telephone.

  “We’ll talk at the airport,” Giovanni said. “How were your friends? Did you have a good time?”

  Maurizio recounted his morning and the fun he had, during which Giovanni showed great interest and probed for more, successfully postponing the topic of the Count until they arrived at the airport. Giovanni could only hope there would be enough time, and he was in luck. Maurizio’s flight was delayed.

  Giovanni chose a secluded end of the waiting area and they sat down. In the rush to pick up Maurizio and get to the airport, Giovanni hadn’t any chance to dwell on the cold reality—his son’s weekend visit was ending. It had passed so quickly.

  “We’ve had a wonderful time,” Giovanni said.

  “Yes, we have. I’m sorry I couldn’t spend more time with you.” Downcast, Maurizio fiddled with the tag on his overnight bag.

  “It’s all right, Mau. It was good to have you visit.”

  Maurizio’s face pinched with concern. “Papa, you haven’t really talked much about Arabella. I’m worried about you being alone.”

  “I’m not exactly alone.”

  “You said it yourself at the gallery opening yesterday. You ran into countless friends you haven’t seen in months.”

  “True,” Giovanni admitted. “But there is someone I have relied on for conversation during all of this.”