“I’m truly sorry I didn’t find my father’s address book sooner,” Giovanni said, “and tell you he was gone.”
Max nodded. “We were out of touch for a very long time.”
An uncomfortable silence passed, then Max’s drink arrived. Before he could take the first sip, Giovanni clinked his glass against his uncle’s.
“A toast to making up for long absences,” Giovanni said.
Max raised an eyebrow and sipped his glass, perhaps annoyed that his drinking was delayed, Giovanni pondered. Or maybe because Giovanni’s glass of mineral water somehow made the toast invalid.
The waiter was ready for their order, further postponing the conversation that Giovanni wanted to get started, but he couldn’t seem to light the fuse. He resolved to get down to the matter after they had ordered their meals. Giovanni chose a house specialty, the bollito misto, a stew of boiled beef, chicken, sausage, and tongue. Max ordered veal. As the waiter moved off, Giovanni eased into the conversation with casual questions about Max’s life in Zurich, the art world, and other relatively safe topics.
“I never really understood,” Giovanni said, “why you didn’t visit when I was a child. My father never told me much about you.” Giovanni reached into his pocket and brought out an old black and white photograph of Max and Federico, standing together in a garden. He put it on the table, facing Max.
Max sipped from his glass and then set it down. He reached for the photograph, slid it closer to him, and raised it up so he could study it. Giovanni watched carefully. Max did not make a show of emotion, although he did appear in concentration, as if unwinding a puzzle.
“Oh, Federico.” Max sighed. “I am sad we missed out on all those years. And I didn’t even know of his funeral.”
“Why was it that way between you two?” Giovanni asked.
Max put down the photograph and looked at his nephew. “Your father was an excellent restorer. I am sure you are one as well. The House of Fabrizzi. I tried hard to live up to that name. Your father believed I was trying to avoid work, that I was more interested in Parisian girls than working. He had a wife, your mother, and his great talent. I had nothing.”
“He told me that you stopped working with him in Paris,” Giovanni said. “Was that because he placed a lot of expectations on you as a restorer?”
The waiter arrived with their meals and interrupted the conversation. They both unfolded their napkins and began poking at dinner while Giovanni waited for an answer. Max did not appear in any hurry to provide one, rather he indulged in his veal. As they continued eating, Giovanni did not push for a reply, though his repeated glances at Max seemed enough to prompt a response.
Max set down his fork and knife. “I’m sorry to say this, and possibly I shouldn’t say it at all. That is, to you, his son.”
“No,” Giovanni said. “Please, say what you have to. I need to understand.”
“Very well. Your father and I parted ways. My abilities as a conservator could never satisfy him. There was, of course, also that I enjoyed the nightlife. Montmartre. Montparnasse. Music. Theater. Art openings. Women. But most of all, I believe Federico was cross with me because I deserted our family heritage of art restoration.”
“How was that?” Giovanni asked.
“I had to make living, and it wasn’t going to be restoring art as your father did, and as you do. I never had that talent. So I became an art dealer. And I became very successful. It took a good long while, believe me, but by the time your father left Paris, I was making far more money than him. I do not think that made him feel any better about matters between us.”
“I suppose not,” Giovanni said, but he was distracted to learn that Max, by his own admission, had become an art dealer. “When you were in Paris,” Giovanni asked, “did you ever sell any work by well-known artists?”
Max took a long sip from his glass and finished it. “There were some, eventually.” He laid his napkin over the unfinished plate of veal and signaled for the waiter to bring the check.
Giovanni stiffened. His question had touched a nerve, as he had feared it might, once probing Max’s history as an art dealer. Giovanni had to do something. His one opportunity to learn the truth was slipping away.
“Can I get you some coffee or dessert?” he asked.
Max seemed to ignore him, more interested in the waiter.
When the check came, Giovanni reached for it.
Max slapped Giovanni’s hand. “You are the visitor,” he said. “Not the host.” He placed a credit card in the tray and the waiter took it away before Giovanni could protest. Soon the waiter returned and Max signed the receipt. “Now,” he said, “you will have to forgive me, but my stamina is not what it used to be. I will have to pass on dessert.” He struggled to rise from his seat.
Giovanni moved around the table to help.
“Stop that,” Max said, and he got up by himself. “You make a man feel older than he already is.”
He didn’t care to have his hand slapped again, so Giovanni backed off. But all of his plans were crumbling. He had no way to hold his uncle there, to ask him the questions he wanted answered the most, and to find the truth.
“Uncle Max, there’s so much more we haven’t talked about. Is there any way we could meet tomorrow? It would mean a great deal to me.”
Max looked at him for a long while. “I will have to think about that.”
“All right. May I call you in the morning? Is ten too early?”
“Eleven. Then I will tell you if I’m feeling up to another visit.”
He turned around and hobbled away on his walking stick.
Chapter 14
After breakfast, Giovanni sat in the hotel courtyard enjoying his morning coffee, as he considered the results of his meeting the evening before. He was still unsure if he had somehow offended his uncle, beyond touching a subject that he would rather not discuss. Max didn’t have the most agreeable disposition, but there could be plenty of reasons for that, the most likely of which was his advanced age. It was not uncommon for men in their golden years to be abrasive. After all, the daily aches and pains must be enough to ruin anyone’s good cheer, and Giovanni had to keep that in mind. It was enough of a miracle that his uncle could still get around. Most anyone Giovanni knew near Max’s age were bedridden and being spoon-fed in a nursing home. At the very least, Giovanni had expected his uncle would have been confined to a wheelchair. In one respect, he had to admire Max for his perseverance if nothing else.
But Giovanni was still obsessed by his hunch and that it might be true. Max had been an art dealer, the most important revelation during dinner, and all the other clues were fitting into place. Giovanni had not yet stumbled across even one fact that proved his hunch was wrong.
However, it was only fair to give his uncle the benefit of the doubt, and Max’s reasons for friction between him and Federico were all plausible explanations. It remained completely possible that their falling out had occurred for no other reason beyond those Max had expressed.
The time approached when Giovanni would call his uncle, and again he felt nervous, as he had the night before, about confronting Max. Partly because he feared, after their first encounter, that he had made some mistake, possibly said the wrong thing, which alone could be the reason Max excused himself from dinner so abruptly. As a precaution, Giovanni concluded that he should offer an apology, just in case it was all a misunderstanding due to an error on his part.
He pulled out his mobile phone and made the call.
Apparently Max had caller ID, as he skipped past the entire ritual of hello and who is calling.
“Gio,” he said firmly. “I want to apologize for last night.”
Surprised, Giovanni didn’t know what to think. So he chuckled. “Well, I accept. In fact, I was going to offer the same.”
“There is no need,” Max said. “I was a complete ass, and I am truly sorry. Please understand…”
“I totally understand, Uncle Max. Say no more, please.”
Giovanni was more interested in speaking to him face to face, as they had the night before, and continuing the conversation they had started. He expressed the desire and his uncle agreed, further suggesting they have dinner that evening, at Max’s home no less. Giovanni juggled the phone on his shoulder and jotted down the address.
After their call ended, Giovanni was mildly astonished. Some turnabout that was, he thought. Perhaps the Ghost of Christmas Past had paid Max a visit in the dark hours of the night. Not bad, considering it took two more ghosts before Scrooge changed his ways.
*
As Giovanni looked out of the window of his taxi, winding through the streets of Zurichberg that evening, he understood that Max had not just done well. He had excelled. He must have made a significant fortune selling art, as the exclusive area in which he lived was populated by homes the status of opulent mansions, situated on hills or hugging the lake, all caked with expensive veneer.
The sun was tucked away but in the dwindling light, Giovanni could see the grandeur of Max’s home, its white, two-story, Palladian columns standing out prominently. Giovanni paid the driver and retained his business card for the ride back to the Baur au Lac. As he approached, he peeked around the side of the house to catch a glimpse of the lake below. At the front door, he pressed the bell.
The door was answered by a butler dressed in black. Giovanni introduced himself and the butler led him through the entryway, then into a marbled hallway. Giovanni was struck by the abundant art decorating his uncle’s home. Sculptures, paintings, and tapestries adorned the walls overlooking a gently rising and wide, curving stairway to the upper level.
The butler escorted Giovanni to a balcony overlooking the lake. The view was stupendous. In minutes, Max approached with drinks in hand, one for each of them. As they strolled through the house, Giovanni remained fascinated by the old master paintings his uncle had come to own. His compliments were unceasing, that Max could acquire such treasures. Giovanni was truly in awe of the collection.
Max thanked him for the kind words, here and there mentioning the percentage of profit he had made on the works displayed and others he had not kept, but never specifying their exact cost, where he had found them, or to whom he had sold them.
Their tour ended at a formal dining room, the long table with room enough to feed thirty people. Spread across the fine linen tablecloth, places were set, cut crystal, gleaming silver, and polished china. Dinner awaited them, two choices of wine and succulent game hens on wild rice that Giovanni had no qualms about devouring. Beyond the fact that he was enjoying the meal immensely, Giovanni concluded it was best to postpone conversation with Max about his past until after they had finished eating.
As they enjoyed after-dinner coffee and the butler cleared away their plates, Giovanni wanted to resume his pointed questions but the setting still didn’t feel right.
“Uncle Max,” he asked, “would it be all right if we spoke in private? I’d feel more comfortable.”
When the butler returned, Max spoke to him in German. Giovanni could make out enough to understand the request that he bring brandy to the library. Then Max beckoned Giovanni to follow and they proceeded there. Along the way, Giovanni continued to admire the fine art decorating every wall.
The dark wood paneling of the library provided a softly-lit, comfortable space, and they sat in overstuffed armchairs that flanked the crackling fireplace. Giovanni sipped at his brandy, its smooth bite warming his insides and calming some of his edginess.
Max dismissed his butler. At last, Giovanni and Max were alone.
Giovanni was about to plunge into his rehearsed line of questioning, but Max raised his hand in a gesture to pause.
“First,” Max said, “I want to explain last night.”
“There’s really no—”
“I insist.” His eyes flared. “Now be quiet and let me continue.” He took a breath to refresh himself. “It’s no secret I am no longer a young man, so stop trying to console me with your attempts to ignore that fact, which by the way, you’re lousy at. But that’s neither here nor there. Reaching this age has its downsides, as you can imagine, and it doesn’t make anyone chipper.”
“Uncle Max, please. You don’t have to say any of it. I understand. Really.”
“You’ll understand when you get to my age, if you do. Most people expected me to be dead by now. I certainly did. Yes, some days it seems best if life would just end. I’ve had my time. But after the life I’ve lived, all the struggles to survive, of trying to stay alive just another day, it all comes back to haunt you in the end. You still can’t give up. It’s conditioning, pattern, habit. A wretched curse is what it is. I am forced to stay alive.”
Sipping his brandy, Giovanni considered his uncle’s immaculate estate. Particularly the art it housed.
“The wealth you’ve amassed can’t hurt,” he said.
“Plenty else hurts.” Max looked perturbed. “But you’re right and I won’t deny it. I started with nothing, and I got to all of this.” Arm outstretched, he swept across the works of art in the library. “Yes, I am going to miss my treasures when I go.”
Giovanni seized the opportunity. “That’s what I wanted to discuss with you. A former treasure of yours. You see, there is a painting I received after my father died. As it turns out, you had sent it to him some years earlier, I’m not sure how many, but I am sure that you did because I found a letter, from you to him, inside the crate.”
Max took a sip of his brandy. “I am sorry, Gio, but I don’t remember. It must have been ages ago.”
“Perhaps I could refresh your memory.” Giovanni reached in his pocket and produced the actual letter, which he had brought with him. He handed it to Max and let him read it.
As Max absorbed the letter, Giovanni continued, “Sadly, it seems the two of you had not been communicating for some time. I suppose you were trying to get him to talk with you again. But the thing is, after finding the letter, I studied the crate. It was sent to my father in Florence, from Zurich, and it had a name stenciled on the outside. Kreitel.”
Max put the letter down and took a long, hard look at Giovanni.
“The artist, surely,” Max suggested.
“I don’t think so,” Giovanni said, but he wasn’t ready to tell Max the work was unsigned. Nor was he going to let Max keep the letter, which Giovanni deftly retrieved and slipped back into his pocket.
“Then it must have been a gallery along the way,” Max claimed, “before I used the crate. I shipped works constantly and often reused crates.” Max dismissed further implications with a wave of his hand.
“There’s more.” Giovanni brought out a photograph he had taken of the crate, back at his studio in London, with the shipping label in full detail. But then he reconsidered. He should hold back that evidence for now, until he could establish more of his uncle’s recollection. Instead, Giovanni would lay the next seed. “Or maybe it was an associate,” he said. “Another dealer you had worked with. In Paris, perhaps.”
“Kreitel, you say.” Max pondered for a moment. “It’s a name I have not thought about for many years. I may have known someone by that name in Paris.”
“During the Occupation?” Giovanni asked.
Max sighed. He took a long sip of his brandy, savored it, and then set it down. “This may be hard for you to understand, Gio, as you were not yet born. When the Nazis took over Paris in 1940, some people suffered and others prospered. I’m speaking of the art world, of course. Your father, as I’ve already explained, was not happy that I was not a better restorer. He simply had that talent and I didn’t. But there was something else that he resented even more.” Max was hesitant to continue, perhaps ashamed. “There was a Nazi organization called the ERR. They took Jewish art and furniture and appropriated it for Hitler, for Goering, for the Reich.”
“Is that so?” Giovanni nodded understandingly and didn’t reveal the research he had already done on the subject.
“And the terri
ble truth is,” Max explained, “I may have been an inadequate restorer and of little use to your father, but I did know a great deal about art, its history, and the value of paintings on the international market. Whatever you may think of the Nazis now, at that time they were in control, and they offered opportunities to people with experience in the world of art. The gallery owners, the collectors, the dealers, even restorers like your father, we all knew what was going on. There was nothing we could do to change it. But at the same time, the Nazis wanted to know the value of art.”
“You appraised art for the ERR?” Giovanni asked.
Max did not answer.
Giovanni realized the accusatory tone of his question. He didn’t want to push Max too far and risk him walking out like the night before, even though walking out of his own home was hardly likely. Still, pushing too hard could make him balk, and he might dismiss further discussion for the evening.
“I’m just curious, Uncle Max. That’s all.”
Still delaying his response, Max poured more brandy for them both. Max swirled the liquor around in his glass, studied it, then took a sip.
Giovanni raised his glass to his lips but did not let the liquor pass, as he did not want to become too relaxed. His investigation, approaching the pinnacle of discovery, required his utmost focus.
Max explained, “Federico had the luxury of making a living on his own. I believe he did not want to speak with me again because he misinterpreted my new opportunity, which to him appeared as supporting the Nazis. When the ERR asked for my opinion on works, they paid me. Federico had every right to loathe the Nazis, as I did, as we all did, but I survived by being a consultant. There is a world of difference between being a Nazi supporter and someone who consults on artwork they have appropriated.”
“Of course,” Giovanni agreed, though the Nazi appropriation of any art, Jewish or otherwise, was theft plain and simple, and it was the last thing he would ever agree with. To keep their conversation on an even keel, he added, “You would have starved to death if you did not make that money.” Perhaps an exaggeration, but it did the trick.
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