Botticelli's Bastard

by Stephen Maitland-Lewis

  Giovanni confirmed the Touissants’ address and promised to call them the following week when he would be in Paris. He hung up the phone, exhilarated by the good fortune of actually finding one of his father’s past contacts. He had not told Jean the true intent of his visit.

  *

  Energized by his new quest, Giovanni’s hands trembled as he unlocked the door to his studio. He stepped back and chided himself, “Take it easy. What are you so excited about?”

  He opened the door, deactivated the alarms, and went directly to the second strong room. Not only the portrait, he also brought out the crate in which it was shipped, then pulled out the portrait and set it on the easel. It was a bright day, not warm but sunny outside, and plenty of light streamed in through the windows. Nevertheless, Giovanni turned on every light in his work area.

  The Count groaned. “Is there a reason for the excessive light? It is so bright.”

  Giovanni opened a drawer of his desk and pulled out his trusty Nikon 35 millimeter SLR, which had served him for decades. The new-fangled digital camera that Arabella had bought him a few months earlier was perhaps handy at social events, as it would fit in his shirt pocket, but the task at hand required the utmost quality. He pulled up the winding knob to open the Nikon and dropped in a canister of color film. Once lining up the sprockets and feeding the end into the spool, he shut the camera back and advanced the roll to the first frame.

  “May I ask what you are doing?” The Count was becoming concerned.

  Giovanni stepped back and adjusted his stance until the Count’s portrait filled the viewfinder nicely and appeared square. Then he took shots from various angles.

  “I consider it rude that you are ignoring me,” the Count said. Then with a chord of fear, he asked, “You are hearing me, yes?”

  “I’m taking photographs of you,” Giovanni said. “Like the image you saw on my desk, of Serafina and Mau.” He continued to snap the shutter.

  After modeling for a few more shots, the Count sighed. “Spare me the details of your world’s glorious progress. It is all so complicated and only bores me.”

  “Good.” Giovanni knelt down and captured images of the crate as well, up close. “Saves me the trouble of having to explain it all.”

  The Count remained silent as more pictures were taken, then he proposed, “You are planning to show these images to people who will prove I am painted by Botticelli, yes?”

  “No. I will take you to a laboratory as I promised, where they will make an analysis, and then, if necessary, others will examine you to confirm your creator’s identity.”

  “Then what is the reason for the images, these photographs as you call them, if you would be good enough to explain?”

  Giovanni smiled secretively. “I’m going to show them to some friends of my father’s. I want to see if they recognize you.”

  “Why not simply invite them here?”

  “Because they live in Paris,” Giovanni replied. “To tell you the truth, Count, I am going to do some research about you. In France and in Germany.”

  “What about my laboratory authentication as a work of Botticelli?”

  “I’ll get to that after I come back,” Giovanni said. “I told you—I am a man of my word. I most certainly will be in this case.”

  “I should very much hope so.”

  Giovanni finished rewinding the film and opened the camera. “One last thing before I go, Count. Have you told me everything you know about Bruno Lothar and the other man, Kreitel?”

  “Of course.”

  “You haven’t left out any details?” Giovanni waited for an answer but the Count did not reply. “I mean,” Giovanni continued, “any little detail that will be helpful in tracing your background.”

  “I don’t understand,” the Count said. “You should send me to the laboratory this instant. Furthermore, I am perplexed by your reaction to my last story. You became very upset, and I have no idea why.”

  Giovanni wasn’t ready to tell the Count, or anyone else, the reason for his upset. First he had to confirm a few details. “Let’s just say the behavior of the Nazis, in general, and specifically toward the Meyersteins, angered me greatly. In any event, I must get going.” He lifted the painting off the easel.

  “Just a moment,” the Count said. “When are you coming back?”

  “It won’t be more than a week, I imagine.” Giovanni slipped the painting into the crate. “But I must dash. I’m leaving tomorrow and I still have to pack.”

  “Wait.” From inside the crate, the Count’s voice was muffled. “Why are you so eager to know about the Meyersteins and Lothar?”

  “Sorry.” Giovanni smirked. “Can’t hear you, Count. See you in a week!”

  Giovanni returned the crate to the second strong room, set the alarms, and locked his studio. With the roll of film in hand, he headed for the nearest one-hour photo developer.

  *

  While the photographs were being developed, Giovanni sat in a coffee shop and went over a checklist of things to pack. When he collected the prints and looked them over, he was pleased with the resolution of his camera and the crispness of the colors. The address on the crate was clearly readable. Next he needed someone who could analyze the handwriting, and to know if they could do it from a photograph. By his own visual inspection, he was fairly confident the handwriting would match, but to prove his hunch, he had to be absolutely certain.

  Back at his flat, Giovanni searched the Internet and found a forensic services agency in London that could do the handwriting analysis. Upon calling them, he was pleased to learn that comparing a photograph to a Xerox copy was not a problem. He would not have to surrender the original letter, although doing so, they explained, would greatly improve the accuracy of their results. He assured them it would be good enough for his purpose and agreed to drop off the samples later that afternoon. Next he sorted through a box of family photos and picked out a few of his father and one blurry shot of his uncle Max. He added them to the envelope containing the prints of the Count and the crate in which he was shipped.

  Then Giovanni dialed his son in Florence.

  Flavio answered. He was apologetic, saying that he was working as fast as possible with Maurizio and that he would return to London soon.

  Giovanni told him not to rush, and that he had called because he had some information to share with Maurizio.

  “I’m looking forward to helping you when I get back,” Flavio said.

  “I’m sure, Flavio.”

  “How is it going with the Brueghel?”

  The subject of the Brueghel was quickly becoming Giovanni’s least favorite. “It’s coming along fine,” he replied. “But I really need to speak with Mau. Can you get him for me?”

  “Hold on.”

  As Giovanni waited, he looked at his watch, then reviewed his checklist again.

  “Papa, how are you?” Maurizio said. “I was going to call you later this evening. Really. You just beat me to it.”

  “That’s all right, Mau. I have some good news. I’m taking a little time off. I’m going on a trip to Paris and also to Germany.”

  “What about the Brueghel?”

  “I’ll get to that,” Giovanni said. “Don’t worry.”

  “But, Papa,” Maurizio said. “Do you really think traveling is a good idea right now?”

  Giovanni knew what his son really wanted to say. He questioned his father’s sanity, and it was the only reason travel might not be a good idea. He needed to convince Maurizio so he would not doubt his father, not hound him, and not tell him he was in no condition to travel. And he didn’t need everyone nagging him about the Brueghel, either.

  “It’s just for one week,” Giovanni said. “Maybe less. I’m sure you’d agree, I need some time to relax.”

  “Of course,” Maurizio said. “But… well, I guess I’m curious why you’ve chosen Paris and Germany.”

  Giovanni had already mentally rehearsed his excuses. “I want to see some exhibitions. I
also contacted an art dealer in Paris who knew your grandpa. Did I ever mention Jean Touissant to you?”

  “No, I’ve never heard you mention the name.”

  “The separation from Arabella has led me to think a lot about the past,” Giovanni said. He felt good to say that because it was true. “I need to get away, see some great art, and visit some people from my past. Then I’ll come back and finish the Brueghel. It will be a fresh start.”

  “Maybe some time away would help,” Maurizio said. “But I should join you, don’t you think?”

  “Mau, enough. I’m a grown man. I don’t need you to babysit me.” For Giovanni, it wasn’t a matter of getting his way. It was a matter of convincing Maurizio not to fight him. His son’s resistance only made Giovanni feel worse about what he had to do, as if he were misbehaving. “I will come to Firenze as soon as I can, Mau. How about that?”

  “That would be good,” Maurizio said. “The sooner the better.”

  Maurizio made his father promise to call while traveling, to let him know that he was all right. He agreed and they said their good-byes.

  Giovanni had done it. He was going on a trip to determine whether his worst suspicions were true. If they were, he didn’t know how he would live with knowing it. But at the same time, he couldn’t live with the question forever unanswered. No matter how it might affect him, he had to uncover the truth.

  Chapter 10

  If he were still living with Arabella, Giovanni would have taken the opportunity to buy her a gift on Avenue Montaigne. Since the 1980s, the graceful Parisian street was home to high fashion stores like Dior, Chanel, Valentino, and the like. But instead, he wandered past the shop windows, killing time in the eighth arrondissement, prior to his appointment with Jean and Mathilde Touissant. The Golden Triangle of streets between Avenue Montaigne, the Champs Elysées, and Avenue George V provided him a breath of cleansing air after too many cloistered months back in London.

  From his room at the Plaza Athénée Hotel, he called to confirm the time he would meet with the Touissants. It was an expensive hotel, but he had not traveled in so long that he felt the need to indulge himself. Exhausted, he wanted to be close to the Touissants. And why not pamper himself a little, he thought. His trip could wind up being very unpleasant, so he might as well enjoy himself before things possibly turned sour.

  Giovanni was impressed by the opulence of Avenue Montaigne. He stopped in front of an expensive jewelry store. The display of glittering diamonds seemed ironic considering that, decades earlier, the Nazis exerted their evil influence over the whole area, which then boasted mostly art galleries.

  Giovanni checked his watch and saw that it was exactly two o’clock. He took out the map he had printed from the Internet and followed the thick blue line he had drawn, off Avenue Montaigne and around one corner, to the building where the Touissants lived.

  He climbed their stairs and pressed the bell. He was greeted by a round-faced, white-haired woman well into her eighties, who introduced herself as Mathilde. She welcomed Giovanni into their home and Jean appeared immediately, wearing a black velvet smoking jacket as if the occasion were a formal dinner.

  Mathilde offered Giovanni coffee and pastries as he sat with Jean at the dining room table. The three of them enjoyed the tasty éclairs and sipped from their fine bone china cups. Giovanni talked of his father and how Fabrizzi & Sons had prospered in London. Jean and Mathilde asked about some of their clients and the artists whose work had been entrusted to the Fabrizzis.

  As the pleasantries subsided, Giovanni took the opportunity to pull out a small black and white photograph of his parents, taken in Paris just before they moved to London. He handed it to Jean, who held it up so Mathilde could also view it. He sweetly put his arm around her as their failing eyes strained to examine the snapshot.

  “It’s a photograph of the time when you knew him.” Giovanni gave them a moment to absorb the image and whatever memories it might bring to them.

  “Your father was a wonderful man,” Jean said. “Such a gusto for life. Whenever I saw him on the street, he would excitedly tell me what he was restoring and tell me of this gallery opening or that artist whose work had sold recently. Mathilde and I met many of his friends through events he invited us to attend.” Jean’s mood darkened. “I was very sad to see your father go,” he said. “But it was for the best. His decision to flee was a wise choice. Life became very difficult after the Germans invaded.”

  Aiming to be polite, Giovanni decided they had spoken enough about his family. “And how have you been since my parents left Paris?”

  “We have been fortunate,” Jean said. “We lived through the Occupation and the strange and unpredictable world of fine art. And here we are, at the end of our lives, with some pains here and there, but little else to complain about.”

  Mathilde smiled and patted Jean on the shoulder, then she got up from the table and shuffled toward the kitchen.

  Giovanni asked permission to look at some of the paintings on their walls, and Jean urged him to do so without getting up to join him. When Giovanni was done, he returned to the table, where Jean still held the photograph of his parents.

  “Jean, I know it was very long ago,” Giovanni said, “and you met hundreds of people in the art world, but I need to ask you about someone in particular.”

  “I’ll try my best.” His eyes twinkled with mischief. “But don’t count on me for too much.”

  Giovanni smiled, then proceeded to the reason for his visit. “I have a painting that I think belonged to a Parisian family, the Meyersteins. It was taken from them after the Germans invaded France.”

  Jean shook his head. “I don’t recognize the name.”

  “No, it’s someone else I want to know about. I have in London, well, let’s call him a researcher. He insists, because he knew the Meyersteins, that after they were taken away by the Nazis, a man named Bruno Lothar who worked—”

  “Lothar!” Jean blurted out. “That bastard helped the Nazis choose which art was most valuable. Helped them steal it! Well, whatever he didn’t steal for himself. He was very close to Goering, you know. Provided most of his personal collection.”

  “Yes, I’ve read about Lothar. But it’s someone else I am interested in. Jean, did you ever deal with anyone named Kreitel?”

  “Kreitel?” He thought for a moment, but the name didn’t appear to strike a memory. “What was his first name?”

  “I don’t know,” Giovanni replied. “He was an advisor, or an art dealer, I think. He worked with Lothar, who supposedly allowed him to take the painting I now have, when artwork was confiscated from the Meyerstein home.”

  Jean closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, as if trying to make the memory return by magic.

  Giovanni felt terrible, making this kind, old man recall a period of his life that was surely the worst, for him and his country. And the prospect of an answer from Jean was no comfort either. If Jean didn’t remember, the mystery would still eat at Giovanni. And if Jean did remember, it would tear Giovanni apart.

  Jean stopped rubbing his temples and opened his eyes. “I am sorry.” He shrugged and one end of his mouth turned up, an odd but endearing expression of helplessness. “This is what you wanted to know most, and I cannot help you.”

  “It’s all right,” Giovanni said, though he had hoped for more.

  Mathilde returned to the dining room with a fresh pot of coffee.

  “Please,” Jean insisted, “let me pour you more coffee.” Jean did so before Giovanni could politely decline, sated as he was already. It was clear that Jean wanted him to stay longer, and Giovanni had no immediate plans to leave for Bad Arolsen. He enjoyed the idea of spending more time in Paris.

  “Mathilde, darling,” Jean said as he poured her another cup. “Do you remember, during the Occupation, whether we ever met someone named Kreitel?”

  “Kreitel?” She sat down at the table.

  “He was an art historian,” Giovanni said. “Or perhaps a dea
ler.”

  “Was he a Nazi?” Mathilde asked.

  “I’m not sure, but I don’t think so,” Giovanni said. “I think he might have been an advisor to Bruno Lothar.”

  Mathilde shook her head.

  Giovanni nodded though the lack of solid answers was frustrating. “Would you mind if I used your…” He searched for the right word. “Uh, bathroom?”

  They both looked at him blankly.

  He stood up. “Perhaps my French is not the best.” He smiled. “The toilet?”

  Jean nodded and pointed to a hallway. “The second door on the right.”

  “Thank you.” Giovanni started toward their bathroom, loo, water closet, or whatever one called it in polite company.

  “Wait,” Mathilde called out.

  Giovanni halted.

  “What is it?” Jean asked.

  “Kreitel,” she said.

  Giovanni hurried back to the table. “Yes?”

  “I think I remember.” She looked at Jean. “It was maybe 1940, or 41. Do you remember the art dealer who came to our door and tried to sell us work? Wasn’t his name Kreitel?”

  “I vaguely remember a man,” Jean said, “and we refused to buy, but I don’t recall his name. I don’t even recall why we didn’t buy.” He chuckled. “Your memory, my darling, has survived far better than mine.”

  Mathilde reminded him, “We thought the art was taken from Jewish homes.”

  “Really?” Giovanni asked. “Why did you think that?”

  “It was suspicious,” she said. “He did not have a gallery. He went to people’s homes with canvasses.”

  “That was not unusual,” Jean said. “The art market was absurdly inflated when the Nazis came in. Whether people sold stolen art or legitimate art, the prices went up two to three hundred percent during the Occupation.”

  “But this Kreitel,” Giovanni said. “Mathilde, this is so important to me. Do you remember what he looked like?”

  “Would it matter?” she asked. “He would look much different today, if he is even still alive.”

  Giovanni reached into his jacket and brought out the envelope of photographs. He quickly sifted through, selected one of the Count’s portrait, and handed it to Mathilde.