“Who is that?” Maurizio asked.
For two days Giovanni had sifted through his thoughts, comparing the possible ways in which he could tell his son about the Count. He had wanted to tell Arabella, but the tension between them was already high. Explaining that a painting talked to him would have only made matters worse. But he had to tell someone, and the one person Giovanni felt closest to in the world, his son, was sitting next to him. Maurizio would soon board his plane back to Italy, and Giovanni would not see him again for months.
“Mau, let me ask you something. Do you remember the portrait I showed you in my studio yesterday?”
“Yeah. What about it?”
Giovanni smiled nervously. He thought back to previous arguments with the Count and then to how Arabella looked at him when he suggested the painting spoke to him, though surely she didn’t take him literally. In any event, it was the closest he could come to telling her the truth of the matter.
“That painting has a special meaning for me,” Giovanni explained. “I feel I know the subject, even though I’m not sure who painted it.”
Maurizio waited for his father to continue.
Giovanni scratched his head, trying to find the right words. “Mau, I need you to try to understand. The painting of the Count, it has affected me strongly.”
“Of course, because it was Grandpapa’s.”
“It’s more than that.” Giovanni was given a slight reprieve as a woman’s voice over a loudspeaker announced the arrival of a flight. He waited until the end of the announcement, and then he thought about the Count’s voice and how it had so controlled his life of late. “That painting, Mau, it speaks to me. I don’t know how it’s possible.” He lowered his voice and grabbed his son’s arm, as if the embrace would help convince Maurizio of his sanity. “At first I thought I was losing my mind, just as anyone would. But there is an incredible history behind the painting, and the painting has told me about it.”
“Told you?” Maurizio shifted back and narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean? Like someone talking?”
“We’ve had a number of conversations, actually. It’s amazing.”
Maurizio squeezed his eyes shut, as if a great pain had suddenly lodged in his skull. “Oh, Papa, I’m so sorry. It’s the pressure you’re under. Look, I’ll help you find someone you can talk to, a therapist. There’s no shame in it. You really need it with this separation. And you’ve got to keep working. The Brueghel. You have a deadline, don’t forget.”
Maurizio stood, gathered his bag, and checked his boarding pass.
“You still have time before your flight,” Giovanni said. “Where are you going?”
“I’m just getting ready.” Maurizio appeared distracted, straining to read signs at the other end of the waiting area.
Giovanni stood. “I’m not crazy.” He was a bit too loud and a few people glanced his way. He stared back at the strangers. The only one who did not look away was a young girl, whose wide-eyed, innocent gaze was not the best of manners. Her mother pulled the child closer and whispered in her ear.
“Mau, listen to me,” Giovanni said. “The Count is real. I don’t understand it myself, but he’s the one who told me that Arabella was having an affair. When I confronted her, she admitted it. How else could I have known?”
“You’re under great strain,” Maurizio said. “You could think you’re hearing a voice, the voice we sometimes hear in our heads when we’re upset. You must have sensed Arabella was pulling away from you. That’s the logical conclusion.”
“Then how could I know so much of the painting’s history?” Giovanni asked. “It has told me about its owners, their names and details of their lives, dating back to the sixteenth century, in France, in Italy, America, and England. How could I imagine that?”
“I don’t know,” Maurizio said. “Maybe it’s from books you read long ago, when you were young. You must understand, Papa, what strain can do to a person.”
“I’m not under that much strain,” Giovanni said. “Yes, it has been difficult, but this is real. Why on earth would I imagine the portrait was painted by Botticelli?” Giovanni chuckled at the notion. “Botticelli. Ridiculous, isn’t it? To think my father had a Botticelli and didn’t know it. Well, if it really is.”
“I agree,” Maurizio said. “It is ridiculous. Can’t you see that, Papa? Please, don’t continue this.”
“Mau, I need your support, your understanding. Don’t shut me out like this just because it’s too incredible for you to believe.”
Silent, Maurizio considered the words for a long moment, gazing at his father and forming a look of regret. “I’m sorry, Papa. You’re right, I should be more supportive. I’ll tell you what. Maybe you should have the panel tested. A full scientific evaluation. You’ll at least get an idea of when it was really painted. That might give you some peace of mind.”
Giovanni could read between the lines—his son’s suggestion was more in the hope that testing would prove the panel was a fake, giving him the leverage to convince his father that it was all his imagination.
“That’s a good idea,” Giovanni said. “And what if it dates to the sixteenth century?”
Maurizio sighed. “Papa, let’s talk tomorrow. I want you to keep working, and I want you to talk to me, and others, about what’s going on with you.”
“I don’t need a therapist.”
“Think about it. And maybe I can finish early with Flavio.”
“I don’t want you discussing this with Flavio or anyone else. This is between us.”
“We’ll talk about it more on the phone.”
Maurizio reached out to hug his father and they embraced. Giovanni did not want to let go. Then the woman’s voice over the loudspeaker announced a departure.
“My flight is boarding.” Maurizio pulled away from his father and picked up his overnight bag. He prepared his passport and boarding pass.
“Thank you for coming, Mau.”
He looked up, sadness in his gaze. “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy.”
The guilt in his son’s voice made Giovanni feel even worse.
“I’ll call tomorrow,” Maurizio said. “Take care of yourself, Papa.”
Giovanni nodded and watched his son fade into the crowd of travelers filing through the security checkpoint.
Chapter 8
After seeing his son off at Heathrow, Giovanni had trouble sleeping that night. By three in the morning, he resorted to a sleeping pill, but still he did not completely fall asleep until well past four o’clock.
When he woke up a few hours later, still drowsy, he didn’t feel rested, which was no great surprise. Giovanni was not prone to insomnia, but the absence of Arabella’s warmth next to him through the night could not be ignored.
He showered and dressed, then made breakfast. As he sat sipping his coffee, he thought about his life and how each day it was only becoming worse. He doubted Arabella would even talk to him anymore. She certainly wouldn’t if she knew about the Count. Telling Maurizio hadn’t been a wise choice either. His son likely thought Giovanni was senile, and from that moment forward he would treat him as an overly imaginative child who could easily bring harm to himself.
His life was better before all of the recent upheaval. One of the things he missed most about his former life was the sights and personalities of Soho. The thought alone brought him pleasure, like a favorite food, and it was one aspect of his life that he could control—he would visit Soho. It wasn’t any desire to see his old building. There was little benefit in that. But at that moment, he was in no mood to face the Count, and further work on the Brueghel could wait. Both were perfect reasons to avoid the impersonal streets of St. James’s.
He took the tube and transferred to Piccadilly Circus, then walked toward Soho and the familiar streets that had been a part of his daily life for many years. Giovanni wanted to see people he knew, have someone offer a warm greeting, or run into a past acquaintance with whom he could enjoy a genuine, heartfelt con
versation.
As Giovanni wandered the streets of Soho, he recognized the futility of revisiting the past. Just as he could go to his flat, which no longer felt like home, the district where he had once worked was not the same. Even if he did bump into an old friend who insisted Giovanni tell all about his recent life, there was little he would be willing to say. There was no pride in his second marriage falling apart, nor his son’s concern about Giovanni’s mental health. There was little motivation to work, and other than during his son’s brief visit, he had not socialized with anyone for weeks. He felt cut off, adrift from the pleasant busyness of his prior existence, and he had no idea of how to get it back.
At half past ten, Giovanni decided it was a good time for a coffee, as the morning rush would be over. He reached Golden Square and was drawn to a familiar spot, the Nordic Bakery. Over the years, he had enjoyed many delightful breakfasts there, watching the morning hustle roll past. He ventured inside.
The dark blue walls, pinewood, and high ceiling were still the same, and he was delighted to be greeted by the bubbly blonde, Annie, whom he had always enjoyed chatting up. When he stepped up to the counter, her eyes widened in surprise and she reached out to take his hands in hers.
Not wanting to get too specific about his recent life, Giovanni immediately told her how much he missed Soho, the Nordic Bakery, and her.
She smiled. “Giovanni, you’re an Italian charmer, you are.”
He beamed, enjoying his decision to visit Soho, as it was the perfect remedy for his troubled state of mind. He ordered a double espresso and his favorite, a soft rye roll stuffed with salmon tartare, chives, and red onions. He paid and added a healthy tip that Annie tried to refuse.
“You have to earn that tip,” Giovanni said. “Before I go, Annie, you must join me at my table and tell me all about your life.”
She had another customer waiting but agreed to join Giovanni when she brought his order.
He found a table and sat down. While waiting, he exchanged brief but pleasant greetings with a few people who stopped in to buy takeout. He lingered, luxuriating in the feeling of an oppressive burden temporarily lifted from his shoulders.
Annie spoke briefly to a fellow waitress, then brought Giovanni’s order to his table and sat down with him. He asked her to update him on her life, and with relish, it spilled out of her, all the little trappings of her existence. Her kitten Jonquil, the young man she was dating, the rock band they had just seen. Giovanni did not know anything about rock music, but he drank in Annie’s enthusiasm, as her exuberance for such seemingly small things clearly brought her great happiness. Twice Giovanni deflected her inquiries about his life, and he did so with such interest in her affairs that again she would launch into another tangent, talking nonstop.
Annie glanced over her shoulder. Her coworker had the store under control, handling the one customer at the counter. Back to Giovanni, she said, “Now tell me, what is going on with you? Eh? You’re being rather quiet, aren’t you?”
Giovanni smiled and considered taking a risk. He could ask her about the Count, without, of course, telling her who the Count was, just to see what she might say.
“I know you have to get back to work,” he said, “but may I ask your opinion about a friend of mine? I like him very much, but he is upsetting me.”
“Of course,” she said. “I’d be glad to help. Is this someone in the art world?”
Clever young woman, he thought. “Yes, Annie. You might say he is an expert on art as well as history. I love his stories, utterly fascinating. But he is, how shall I say? Abrupt. He does not mince words. If he does not like something, he says so without hesitation. And when he does not like other friends of mine, he does not spare my feelings in telling me.”
“Is he cruel?” Annie wrinkled her nose. “One thing I simply cannot tolerate is cruelty.”
“I wouldn’t say cruel,” Giovanni replied. “It’s just that he doesn’t censor himself. Still, I value his friendship. The problem now, dear Annie, is that he and I have an argument over an unsigned painting.”
“Oh, that’s a shame. You mean, you disagree on the price?”
“Not that. He insists the painting is by a famous painter, and I say it is not.”
“Well, in your field, how does one normally go about resolving these arguments?”
“There are special laboratories that analyze the pigments, X-ray the artwork, and other scientific procedures that determine the work’s age. If the time period is correct, then art historians are hired to judge the work’s authenticity. The entire process can be very expensive.”
“I don’t know much about art,” she said. “Would the painting be worth a lot if it is done by this famous artist?”
“Oh, yes.” Giovanni chuckled. “I would not have to work for a long while, if it is. But I doubt it.”
Annie twiddled strands of her blond hair. “Still, Gio, what if it’s the real thing? I would go mad, not knowing for sure. It’s like, well, like being a semi-finalist in a contest and never finding out if you’ve won.” Annie looked back at the counter. It was getting close to the lunch hour and three customers were waiting. She got up from the table.
Giovanni rose with her. “Annie, you make a very good point. I must think seriously about what you’ve said.”
“And think seriously about coming by more often, will you?” She gave him a peck on the cheek and then hurried off to help the waiting customers.
*
Filled with food and lighter cheer, Giovanni walked back to St. James’s and to his studio. He came off the elevator, unlocked the door, and punched in the last of the security codes.
He sat at his desk and thought about all that had happened since the painting had first startled him with its disembodied voice. His life had been jolted so abruptly that all he had taken for granted was now unpredictable, uncomfortable, unrecognizable.
Giovanni realized that the Count had become a reliable source of distraction from his woes. But at the same time, the conversations they had, in a very real sense, took him away from the normal realm. Even talking to Annie, he regulated his words so that she would not think he had lost his mind. Giovanni’s behavior had changed dramatically since he had opened that crate. He felt haunted. Then Giovanni had a new thought, as the murky noon sun struggled through the window in front of him. He wondered if his father had heard the Count’s voice. If so, it must have startled him too. But if true, his father had never shared the secret with him, as Giovanni had with his son.
He wanted the answers to these questions and more. He went to the strong room, brought out the painting, and set it on the easel.
“Hello and good afternoon, Count. Are you there?”
“I am not likely to be anywhere else, am I?”
Giovanni smiled. He was beginning to enjoy the Count’s sardonic responses.
“I told my son about you.”
“Then surely he felt remorse for his insults directed at me.”
“Not really,” Giovanni said. “If I had to guess, he’s more worried about me. He probably thinks I’m entering a period of dementia.”
“Do you think you are imagining my voice, Signor Fabrizzi?”
“No,” Giovanni stated flatly. “But my son does.”
“Then he questions the information I have shared with you.”
“He thinks I read it in a book and just don’t remember.”
“Hmm,” the Count murmured. “Some are apt to choose the first supposed explanation, however improbable.”
“He’s right though,” Giovanni said. “It’s all improbable. I don’t have an answer to explain it.”
“I do,” the Count shot back. “My spirit is alive, simple as that, and no amount of your trying to explain it, scientifically and rationally, will ever suffice.”
“Can’t you understand?” Giovanni said. “I feel like I have a secret life that I have to hide from others. Where is your humanity?”
“My humanity,” the Count replied
, “is trapped inside of a painted panel that has been generally ignored for hundreds of years. And worse, you nor anyone else will recognize that I have been painted by one of the greatest artists who ever lived.”
“Not Botticelli again.” Giovanni shook his head. “Please, let’s not go into that. You didn’t finish telling me about Sergei, Catherine’s son. He took you to Paris. What happened?”
“I have no intention of discussing more of my past until you have me examined and see that I was painted by Botticelli.”
Giovanni sighed. “Come on, don’t be that way. I’ve had a lovely day visiting my old neighborhood, and I don’t need you spoiling it.”
The Count remained silent.
Giovanni continued, “If experts in my field don’t agree that you were painted by Botticelli, I’m going to look very foolish.”
“The potential gains,” the Count said, “which I am certain will result, outweigh your imagined disgrace, were you right and I were wrong. Verifying my authenticity will make you a wealthy man.”
Giovanni recalled Annie’s analogy—it was like being in a contest and never learning the results. Even her logic was difficult to argue against.
“I’ll consider it,” Giovanni said. “Now tell me what happened to Sergei.”
“I am not asking you to consider the possibility,” the Count said. “I want your promise that you will have my portrait examined.”
“All right,” Giovanni relented. “I will make this agreement with you, and I always honor my word. If you will just for today tell me about your time in France, I will agree to send you to a laboratory for analysis.”
“Do you swear?”
“Yes. I swear.”
“As a gentleman and restorer?”
“Yes, Count.”
“I agree to your terms,” the Count said. “But I must warn you, Signor Fabrizzi, my time in France was a disturbing period.”
“Did something bad happen to Sergei?” Giovanni rolled his desk chair closer to the easel and sat down.
“It was appalling,” the Count replied. “When we arrived in Paris, Sergei was given the name of a lady who lived just off the Avenue George V. She was an American. A professional widow. She made a career of marrying rich elderly men, soon to expire, and inheriting their fortunes. However, her apartment was rundown and suffered from countless leaks that she had neglected to repair.”
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