Botticelli's Bastard

by Stephen Maitland-Lewis

  She was more obliged to answer the call, or simply wanted the ringing to stop. She slid across his chest and reached for the phone.

  “Don’t,” he said. “It can’t be anything important.”

  She smiled and returned to the warm pocket of his embrace. “Fine with me. I’m exhausted. In the best possible way.” She kissed his cheek and pulled him closer.

  “Leave your message after the tone…”

  “Gio, are you there?” the caller said. “It’s Vincent Drysdale.”

  Giovanni sat up in bed and let Arabella fall out of his arms.

  “Listen,” Drysdale said, “normally I wouldn’t bother you so early, and I did call your studio first. Here’s the thing, dear boy. I have some very good news, and I wanted to speak with you about it as soon as possible. Ring me back at—”

  Giovanni grabbed the handset. He covered the mouthpiece and whispered to Arabella, “Sorry.” Then into the phone he said, “Vincent, I’m here. Forgive me. I’m having a late start today. What is the good news?”

  “You may be on to something, old chap. The tests of the panel and tempera place your painting in the right period. To be honest, I was surprised, but now there are some other things to discuss. How about lunch?”

  “When?”

  “Today. I’m buying, and I promise you’ll leave the restaurant with a big smile on your face.”

  *

  Giovanni thought to invite Arabella along, but she declined before he could even ask. Though excited, perhaps even more than he was, she insisted that his lunch meeting was an important business matter rather than a social call, and it was not a wife’s place. Besides, she wanted to get her things back to their flat that morning rather than wait a moment longer. Giovanni kissed her and held her tightly, then expressed how he would miss her during their few hours apart, determined to never again let her feel neglected.

  At the appointed hour, Giovanni entered the bistro where Drysdale had suggested they meet. Giovanni spotted him immediately and joined him at the table.

  Vincent Drysdale reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope with the logo of L & D Laboratories on it. Somewhat ceremoniously, he handed the envelope to Giovanni.

  “With sincere congratulations,” Drysdale said.

  “Thank you.” Giovanni took the envelope, then pulled out the lab results and glanced at them. “Although, we are not quite home yet.”

  “The newer technology these days is quite fantastic,” Drysdale explained. “We’ve been able to pinpoint dates with ever increasing accuracy and within remarkably narrow ranges. If you’d care to take a closer look at those lab results, I think you will be pleasantly surprised. Not only does the panel date to the right period, and the wood is from Italy, but the estimate falls within the years most likely Botticelli might have produced such a work, according to the historian with whom I’ve already consulted. This notion of yours is turning out to be a pretty strong case.”

  “You’ve already consulted with others?” Giovanni was surprised. “Aren’t you moving a bit fast, Vincent?”

  “Just the one,” Drysdale said. “Just to see how the dates aligned.”

  Giovanni studied the pages and returned them to the envelope, which he then offered back to Drysdale.

  “You keep it,” he said.

  Giovanni tucked the envelope into his jacket.

  A waiter arrived and they ordered lunch. After the waiter moved along, Drysdale glanced to one side and seemed to recognize an old friend. “Well, good afternoon, Teddy.”

  A portly gentleman moving past their table noticed Drysdale and stopped. “Very nice to see you, old boy.”

  Drysdale stood and shook hands with the fellow, then said, “Theodore Schierholz, allow me to introduce Giovanni Fabrizzi. The Fabrizzi family has been in art restoration since time immemorial.”

  “Well, not quite that long.” Giovanni rose and shook the gentleman’s hand.

  “Teddy’s on the board at the Tate,” Drysdale said, then turned to him. “You know, Teddy, Gio and I are celebrating. His lab results came back positive for an undiscovered Botticelli he’s had in the family, stored away. Can you imagine that?”

  “Now hold on.” Giovanni was shocked that Drysdale would be so bold. “The dates are favorable, so it could be a Botticelli. Let’s wait until it’s verified.”

  Schierholz seemed to ignore Giovanni and said to Drysdale, “I say, that is cause for celebration. I’m sure you two know all the best experts.” Smoothly, Schierholz pulled out a business card and placed it next to Giovanni’s plate. “I wish you well with your painting.” He turned to Drysdale and said, “Vincent, you and I are overdue for lunch.”

  “I quite agree. I’ll ring you, my good man.”

  Drysdale shook hands with Schierholz, who then continued on his way, though he did glance back with an eager smile and nod aimed at Giovanni.

  “Vincent,” Giovanni said once Schierholz was out of earshot. “I’m hoping it’s a Botticelli, but really, we should wait until—”

  Drysdale called out to another fellow who conveniently happened to be walking past their table, and he went through the entire routine again. Giovanni remained gracious, then after the curator to whom he had been introduced moved along, Giovanni eyed Drysdale warily.

  “Vincent, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you invited me specifically to this restaurant because you knew friends of yours would be lunching here, and you could mention the lab results.”

  Before Drysdale could explain himself, the waiter arrived with their meals.

  As they proceeded with lunch, Drysdale paused to reach for his napkin and wipe his mouth. “Gio, I’m truly excited for you. I haven’t told you the other news.”

  “What? That you’ve already sold it?”

  “I’ve already arranged for the examination,” Drysdale said. “When the results came back, I got on the phone. I’ve talked with the Courtauld, the Warburg, and the National Gallery. They have all agreed to examine the portrait to determine if it’s a Botticelli. They want to have a look as soon as possible. Do I have your permission?”

  “Of course,” Giovanni said. “Vincent, I don’t want to seem unappreciative, but at the risk of being presumptuous, you said you had other news. The lab results are favorable so the examination is a given. I assume that’s not your other news.”

  Drysdale leaned closer to Giovanni as if preparing to tell a secret. “Gio, this is not official, and you didn’t hear it from me, if anyone asks.”

  “Fine. What is it?”

  “My contact at the National Gallery, whose name I cannot divulge, told me that if the work is authenticated as a Botticelli, he wishes to have the opportunity of making the first bid. And, unofficially, he said that if you did not donate the work, he expected the market value of a Botticelli today to be somewhere around twenty million pounds.”

  “Twenty?” Giovanni’s eyebrows rose to the sky.

  “Yes,” Drysdale said. “Pounds, not dollars.”

  “That’s a lot of money.” Giovanni was still in shock.

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” Drysdale said, “do you think you might sell versus donate? Or I suppose it’s a little early for such questions.”

  “Why?” Giovanni asked. “Because of your friend at the National?”

  “Actually, news of the lab results have been disseminated to others, outside of Britain.”

  “Hard to imagine that,” Giovanni said sarcastically. “Unless of course, you had lunch in another country this morning.” He glanced about the bistro and imagined the entire crowd approaching their table, armed with business cards and plastic smiles.

  Drysdale chuckled. “No, that’s ridiculous. You see, when I heard the National unofficially bid on the Botticelli even before its authentication, I thought, well, others are going to find out about it. And I have spoken with Pino Vitarelli at the Uffizi.”

  “I happen to know Pino,” Giovanni said.

  “Yes, he mentioned it. And he told me
he wants to talk to you about sending one of his experts. He said the Uffizi may bid on the work for inclusion in the Botticelli Room.”

  “I must say, Vincent, you certainly don’t waste any time.”

  Drysdale’s enthusiasm dampened. “Gio, is there a problem? You don’t seem very happy about this. You realize, you may be considerably richer in the near future. And every major museum and collector in the world is going to know your name, if they don’t already.”

  “May know my name. What if the authenticators do not agree?”

  Drysdale looked confused. “Are you telling me you doubt it’s a Botticelli?”

  “No,” Giovanni said. “I’m saying I believe it is, and you believe it is, but what if the experts don’t agree? There will be doubt, and doubt is not good.”

  The waiter brought the bill and asked if they wanted anything else. Drysdale waited for Gio, who shook his head. Drysdale then handed his credit card to the waiter.

  “Before I go,” Giovanni said, “There is something I should tell you.”

  “Absolutely.” Drysdale appeared distracted, watching for the waiter to return with his credit card.

  “Vincent, I told you the painting belonged to a family in Paris.”

  “Yes, I recall. And the Nazis confiscated their collection. Very sad indeed, and a most unfortunate end for the poor folks.”

  “A member of the family is still alive.”

  Drysdale became concerned. “So we may have a legal battle to contend with. I see. Not good, Gio. This could complicate matters.”

  “I don’t think you understand, Vincent. If the painting is a Botticelli, I am obligated to fly to New York and give it to her. It’s the proper thing to do.”

  Drysdale’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious? You’re joking.” When Giovanni didn’t respond, Drysdale grew louder. “Tell me you are joking!”

  His reaction didn’t surprise Giovanni. It was tame even, compared to the reaction he expected later, once he could find enough courage to tell Arabella of his plan to return the painting.

  Chapter 17

  Giovanni had difficulty telling his son all that had happened. On the phone with him, he gave a partial explanation, describing how the Count’s portrait had come from Max via Federico and that if it was authenticated, it could be worth upwards of twenty million pounds.

  Maurizio had expressed delight at the splendid news, and he was also pleased that his father and Arabella were back together again. Maurizio insisted on flying to London to celebrate.

  There was no way Giovanni would have told his son not to come, but he dreaded informing him and Arabella of his plans that would not only suggest his business judgment was cloudy, but also that his state of mind was unstable.

  As Giovanni drove with Arabella to the airport to pick up Maurizio, using the excuse of listening to a CD of Chopin etudes for his lack of conversation, Giovanni wondered if Arabella could help him convince his son that hearing a voice from a painting was in the realm of possibility, and that it should not be looked upon as encroaching senility. After all, Arabella had accepted his communication with the Count. But she also assumed they would be receiving millions for the sale of the painting. When she and Maurizio learned of his other intentions, their reactions could be harsh.

  As they waited in the passenger arrival area, Arabella again expressed her excitement about the Count’s portrait. Earlier that morning, she had shown Giovanni newspaper clippings from the British press about the possible discovery of a Botticelli painting. She had collected them in a photo album for safe keeping and excitedly pointed out where Giovanni’s name appeared in each article.

  He had done his best to smile, chuckle even, and encourage her, though he dreaded the revelation that he would soon have to share. Drysdale certainly had taken it badly during their lunch date, even suggesting that Giovanni was being self-destructive and possibly hurting Drysdale’s own credibility in the art world. Giovanni had pointed out his moral obligation to Clara Meyerstein and insisted that obligation was bigger than any benefit to Giovanni, Drysdale, or any collector or museum in the world. Lunch ended with a tight-jawed Drysdale politely urging Giovanni to reconsider. Give Clara a portion of the proceeds, he suggested, rather than the entire painting. Giovanni had walked away, noncommittal.

  “Here he comes.” Arabella waved as Maurizio appeared among the river of airline passengers flowing into the arrival area.

  Maurizio, striding energetically with an overnight bag slung over his shoulder, finally caught sight of his father and waved. He hurried out of the crowd and threw his arms around Giovanni, then Arabella.

  “I have to show you,” Maurizio said. “I have newspapers from Italy. Your name is in them.”

  Arabella took over, telling Maurizio of the meeting with Drysdale, of the scrapbook she assembled, of all the new developments she could think of, as they walked through the busy terminal, navigating the crowd.

  “Let’s get you something to eat.” Giovanni entered an airport cafe. “We’ll let the traffic die down and then head home.” He found a table and then waited for Maurizio and Arabella to catch up.

  Maurizio sat down and unzipped an outer pouch of his overnight bag, from which he took out the Italian newspapers he had brought. He had already folded each to the pages of specific interest.

  “Here, Papa, see? Renowned restorer Giovanni Fabrizzi may be sitting on the greatest discovery in a generation of an Old Master’s artwork. And look, here’s another.”

  Giovanni took the papers, not wanting his son to continue reading them aloud. He glanced at them to be polite, patted Maurizio’s face affectionately, and then pushed the papers toward the empty side of the table.

  A server arrived and Maurizio asked for a bottle of champagne before Giovanni or Arabella could order.

  “Fine with me,” Arabella said. “We are celebrating, after all.”

  Arabella and Maurizio began talking at the same time, then they laughed.

  “You go first,” Maurizio said.

  “I was just going to ask how work is going.”

  “Yes,” Giovanni chimed in, “how is it?”

  “Fine, fine,” Maurizio replied. “But I have so many questions, Papa. It felt like you weren’t telling me everything when we talked on the phone.”

  Giovanni held up his hand to interject. He looked at them both. The thrill of the possible future they imagined made their eyes shine. It was going to make what he had to say all the more disappointing. Nevertheless, the time had come to say it.

  Before he could begin, the server returned with the champagne and three glasses.

  “Celebrating, are we?” she asked, then popped the bottle and poured.

  “Too early to say,” Giovanni grumbled.

  Arabella offered the first toast. “To my dear husband, who has shown me great love and patience. May your dreams come true regarding the Botticelli.”

  The three of them clinked glasses and drank.

  “And may I add,” Maurizio said, “a toast to my dearest papa, who has imbued in me both the love and the preservation of fine art. It is my greatest wish that your art repay you with all the money and acclaim you so richly deserve.”

  “Here, here!” Arabella said, and again their three glasses met. She asked Giovanni, “And what do you have to say?”

  He studied the bubbles in his glass, as he wondered how he had arrived at such a strange place in life. He lifted his glass, and his wife and son did the same.

  “My dear ones,” he said. “I love you both and cannot adequately express how important you are to me. The last thing I would ever want is to hurt or disappoint you. So here is a toast, a toast to my love for you and a prayer that if we should ever disagree, it will not change the love we shall have for one another, forever.”

  Arabella and Maurizio exchanged puzzled glances. Then they shrugged it off and continued the celebration, clinking their glasses into Giovanni’s.

  “Now that we agree,” Giovanni continued, “allow me to
tell you something very important. The Count’s portrait belonged to a family named the Meyersteins. It was taken from them by the Nazis in 1940. I employed an investigator in Germany who has found one survivor of the family, Clara, who is living in New York City. If the authenticators determine the Count is a Botticelli, I am obligated to visit Clara and return the painting.”

  In chorus, Arabella and Maurizio cried, “What?”

  “Listen to me,” Giovanni said. “I would be happy to sell this work and make millions, but it doesn’t belong to me. And furthermore, the way it came to me is shameful.”

  He drained his glass. His son and wife were too astonished to move a muscle. Giovanni explained his confrontation with Max and how the painting had been acquired, which amounted to theft, pure and simple.

  The server returned and asked if they wanted anything to eat. Neither Arabella nor Maurizio responded, and Giovanni had lost his appetite. He told the server they were fine. But they were far from fine.

  “This is incomprehensible,” Arabella said. “Hearing a voice is one thing. I agreed not to fight you on that. But giving away a portrait worth millions…”

  “I’m not giving it away,” Giovanni argued. “I’m returning it, to its rightful owner.”

  “But, Papa,” Maurizio said. “That’s crazy. If not for you, she’d never have known. You’ve discovered something that was lost.”

  “We’re not talking about someone’s misplaced pocket change. And stop saying I’m crazy. I won’t hear any more of that from either of you. The Count is real, and I’m returning the painting, and no, it’s not because I’m under some kind of mental strain you’re convinced is afflicting me. Enough!”

  Silent, Arabella and Maurizio glanced at each other. Then she said to him, “Mau, this is your father’s decision. After all, he has to honor his conscience, and we have to respect that.” She glanced at Giovanni. “I’m thankful we’re back together again.”

  Maurizio thought about it. “I understand. You don’t want to risk another upset.” He shifted to Giovanni. “But, Papa, please, at least keep your options open. Maybe you can convince Clara to place the work in a museum where it belongs.”