Botticelli's Bastard

by Stephen Maitland-Lewis

  “And why might I do that?” Giovanni asked. “To secure a handsome fee from the museum?”

  “And protect your reputation,” Maurizio said. “Remember, you also have an obligation to the world of fine art. Think hard about this choice. If the work simply goes from one private collection to another, there could be resentment toward you. For crying out loud, it could be a Botticelli. It deserves to be on public display.”

  “I won’t convince her of anything. The decision is hers, and hers alone.”

  *

  Later that evening, Giovanni lounged in the living room while Arabella and Maurizio were busy in the kitchen preparing fettuccine with carbonara sauce, one of Giovanni’s favorite dishes from his youth. He had made it for Maurizio when he was a boy, as had Maurizio’s mother, and it came to be accepted as comfort food by them all, and now, Arabella too.

  As Giovanni waited for dinner, he stretched out on the sofa in the living room, talking on the telephone with Vincent Drysdale.

  “I know you did me a great favor,” Giovanni said, “and I appreciate it, Vincent. Whatever the outcome, I’ll ensure you’re recouped for any extra expense.”

  “No, no, dear boy,” Drysdale said, then emphatically assured Giovanni, “That is not what this is about. I understand your concerns about properly compensating Clara Meyerstein, and I am sure you will figure that out. It’s just that the Uffizi and the National Gallery and, well, frankly others have asked me why you aren’t returning their calls.”

  Giovanni sighed. Exasperated, he had trouble forming a good response. He looked toward the kitchen and saw his wife and son busy preparing dinner.

  Arabella called, “It’s just about ready, Gio.”

  He sought to wrap up his phone conversation. “Vincent, let me call you tomorrow. I’m about to sit down for dinner. My son is visiting as well.”

  “I understand,” Drysdale said. “Please, Gio, just talk to them. Even if you don’t have a definite answer yet. They all want to make bids.”

  “I told you.” Giovanni sat up. “First I have to talk with Clara.”

  “Gio, you’ve put me in an awkward position here. Unofficially, you have three museums willing to buy the painting. The National Gallery’s offer is somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty-five million pounds.”

  “I didn’t ask anyone to make an offer.” Giovanni stood and approached the dining room table. “I only wanted to have it authenticated.”

  “You work in the art world,” Drysdale said. “You know very well a discovery of this magnitude is going to cause a lot of attention. Can you please just communicate with them so they don’t turn on me? It will impact my business if they resent me. They already think I’ve deceived them into believing it was for sale.”

  “That’s your own fault for assuming it was.”

  “Fine.” Drysdale was frustrated. “Just tell them something. Anything.”

  “All right. I really must go.”

  “Thank you, Gio. Let me know how it goes.”

  Gio hung up the phone just as Arabella and Maurizio emerged from the kitchen with dinner, which they brought to the dining room table.

  “What did Vincent have to say?” Arabella asked as they sat down to eat.

  “The National Gallery is up to twenty-five million,” Giovanni said glumly.

  “Twenty-five?” Maurizio was excited. “That’s fantastic, Papa.” He looked at Arabella, who pursed her lips and gave the slightest shake of her head. Maurizio began to sprinkle peppers on his pasta and toned down his enthusiasm. “I mean, if you decide to sell it, that’s a great price.”

  “Yes,” Giovanni tiredly agreed. “It’s a large sum of money. Even for selling one’s soul.”

  “Oh, pooh,” Arabella said. “Let’s see what happens after you visit Clara.”

  “Can we not talk about it?” Giovanni asked. “I’d really like to enjoy this meal.”

  The phone rang.

  “Don’t answer it,” Giovanni said. “We’re eating dinner.”

  “It might be for me, you know,” Arabella said.

  “It’s about that damned painting.”

  Arabella went to the phone and looked at the display. “Gio. It’s Pino calling from the Uffizi.”

  “I’ll call him back.”

  “Nonsense.” She picked up the phone and exchanged pleasantries with the museum director in Florence.

  Giovanni shook his head and continued eating. Maurizio did the same and kept quiet as he shifted glances between his father and Arabella on the phone.

  “Darling,” Arabella said, “come say hello to Pino.”

  “I’m eating,” Giovanni replied.

  Arabella covered the mouthpiece and became stern. “Giovanni. This is not how you treat friends you’ve known for over twenty-five years.”

  “Good friends don’t interrupt one’s dinner.” He threw down his napkin, got up, and took the phone from her. “Pino, we’re just sitting down to dinner with Maurizio who is visiting. Can I call you back tomorrow?”

  “Gio, sorry to disturb you,” Pino Vitarelli said in his thick Italian accent. “Yes, call me tomorrow. We don’t have to talk now. I am just a little confused because Drysdale tells me you are planning to give the painting to Clara Meyerstein in New York. If you were to sell to us, we would be happy to discuss some generous compensation to her as well.”

  “That’s kind of you, Pino, but the offer is premature. Let me visit her first. All right? She has a say in what happens, too.” Giovanni shook his head, frustrated that others could not fathom the simple logic of letting someone decide the fate of their own personal property.

  “Okay, Gio,” Pino said. “Let’s talk tomorrow. Give my best to Mau.”

  Giovanni hung up the phone and returned to the table. He stared at his bowl of fettuccine noodles and noted the lack of steam rising from them. The cold dinner had lost its appeal thanks to the unpleasant interruption. He pushed the bowl away.

  Maurizio was concerned. “You’re not eating, Papa. Are you feeling all right?”

  “Physically, I’m fine. I just feel heartsick. I feel like whatever I do with this bloody painting, it will be the wrong thing.”

  The phone rang.

  “For Christ’s sake!” Giovanni hollered.

  “I’ll get it.” Maurizio got up from the table.

  “I don’t want to talk to anyone,” Giovanni said forcefully.

  “Hello?” Maurizio listened. “Just a moment, please,” he told the caller and then said to his father, “It’s Hugo Coates, art critic from the Guardian.”

  “I don’t care if it’s the Pope calling.”

  Maurizio looked at Arabella who shrugged. Maurizio told the caller, “Mr. Coates, we’re having dinner now. Would it be possible for Giovanni to call you tomorrow?”

  “I’m not calling anyone!” Giovanni shouted.

  “Gio!” Arabella scolded. “Don’t be rude.”

  Maurizio wrote down a phone number and promised the reporter that someone would get back to him.

  Giovanni flew out of his chair and went to the hall closet. He grabbed an overcoat and then his keys.

  “Where are you going?” Arabella asked.

  “The one place where I can be left alone.” Giovanni moved rapidly toward the door. “I’ll be at my studio. Don’t bother calling, I won’t answer.”

  Maurizio rose from his chair.

  Giovanni halted and pointed his finger. “Not another word from you.”

  Sheepishly, Maurizio said, “I was just going to offer to drive you.”

  Giovanni stepped out and slammed the door shut.

  *

  Having the Count gone for days, at the lab being analyzed, had made Giovanni nervous. The Count had promised to remain silent, so it wasn’t that, but Giovanni was constantly worried about just where the portrait might be floating about, in this person’s office or another, or possibly even being transported offsite for a different test. Once the authentication was complete, his concern only grew as
news of the work’s value spread quickly. When it came time for the painting to be returned, it was not a simple matter of Giovanni dropping by to pick it up. The event required armed guards who accompanied the painting into the strong room and stood by to ensure that Giovanni locked the door before their departure. Of course, the additional people around had prevented Giovanni from speaking with the Count. Even so, Giovanni was sleeping better knowing that the Count was back where he belonged—for the time being.

  Upon arriving at his studio, Giovanni opened the strong room and brought out the Count’s portrait, then set it on the usual easel.

  “Did they treat you well?” Giovanni asked.

  “It was uncomfortable, though tolerable,” the Count said. “I am pleased the ordeal has passed. The lighting was very harsh.”

  “And the x-rays?”

  “I felt nothing, though from what I understand, the excessive exposure should kill me, eventually. Were I not already dead. Why have you come here tonight?”

  “I have a difficult decision to make.”

  Giovanni poured a glass of wine, turned off a bank of overhead lights, and lowered to his stool. He stared into the shadow of the painting.

  “Thank you for having my portrait authenticated,” the Count said. “I appreciate that. You know by now that I am honest, not an idle boaster, a passer of rumors. I am a work of great art that belongs only in a great museum.”

  Giovanni remained silent.

  The Count asked, “Are you here to tell me when I am going to the Uffizi?”

  “I’m here because I’m sick and tired of my wife and my son and everyone in the fucking art world telling me what to do with you.”

  “Surely you have told them of my wish to return to my homeland.”

  “Do you have the slightest understanding of the position I’m in?” Giovanni asked. “My wife and son already think I’m nuts for talking to a painting. Oh, but let’s make it even better. The painting wants to hang in the Uffizi. Sure, that will change everything.”

  “The sarcasm in your tone indicates you are irritated.”

  “Very,” Giovanni said. “No one understands that Clara Meyerstein, the only survivor of the family, has a right to the painting. All everyone cares about is how much money your portrait will fetch. Does anyone have a moral code anymore?”

  “I have a moral code,” the Count said.

  “Glad to hear it,” Giovanni. “It does neither of us any good, though.”

  “Out of curiosity,” the Count asked, “how much are the offers?”

  “Twenty-five million pounds for the National Gallery.”

  “My Lord, that sounds like a lot.”

  “It is.”

  “And how much will the Uffizi pay?”

  “Less than that, at this point.”

  “But still, you have to remember,” the Count said, “the only true place for a Botticelli is in the Uffizi. Anything less is unacceptable.”

  “You’re no better than the rest of them. Everybody has an agenda.” Giovanni reached for the panel and lifted it from the easel.

  “What are you doing?” the Count asked.

  “Putting you away. Then I’m going home to buy a ticket for New York. I’m sorry, but your portrait belongs to Clara Meyerstein, not me, not the Uffizi, not anyone else.”

  “You can’t,” the Count said.

  “I can and I will.” Giovanni said. “The poor woman lost her entire family. The Nazis sent them to die and stole their entire art collection, except of course, your portrait, swiped by my shameless uncle who has the audacity to offer you as some kind of pathetic olive branch to mend his feud with my father. By God, I will return you to her, and nothing you or anyone else can say will stop me.”

  Giovanni slid the Count into the crate and locked the strong room door.

  Chapter 18

  Giovanni walked out of the New York subway station and headed up Ninth Avenue, marveling at the variety of ethnic restaurants along the way. He studied the address he had written down for Clara Meyerstein and determined that she was only three blocks away. Hell’s Kitchen looked safe enough at that time of day. The area didn’t seem as marginal as when he and Serafina had visited New York almost two decades earlier. Their exploration of the city after seeing a Broadway play had only urged them to race back to the safer environs of the Plaza Hotel.

  Giovanni was relieved to be in another country—on another continent—far away from everyone and their opinions of the painting’s best outcome, the phone calls, and the pressure to make the right choice. At last he was beyond the reach of anyone who could interfere with his decision to return the painting. Others might have called him a fool, but he wouldn’t have to live out his days with a heavy conscience. The moment he had boarded the plane to America, a great weight was lifted from his shoulders, and with every step forward his mind became clearer, certain that he had made the right choice. It was going to be a good day, he thought, and all the days to follow, knowing he would no longer have the burden of decision regarding the painting.

  Giovanni had brought along a copy of the New York Times that he purchased a few days before in London. The Arts and Leisure section had a story about Giovanni, the reclusive art restorer who would not consent to an interview, despite being officially heralded as the owner of a heretofore unknown Botticelli. Giovanni was not interested in collecting stories about himself and the painting of the Count, but it did not stop Arabella from doing so. After the authentication of the work, she checked the papers and magazines daily at their neighborhood newsstand. When Arabella had shown him that even the New York Times had announced his discovery, Giovanni bought an additional copy, thinking that it might have an impact on Clara when they met. After all, he had no idea what condition she might be in. She could be a victim of Alzheimer’s disease, or other ailment that had stripped away her memory of events in Paris and Germany. Perhaps she was of sound mind but simply would not believe he was in possession of the most important work in her family’s art collection, now of astronomical value, unless she read it in a newspaper. He had prepared the paper, folding it to the section and having outlined the article with a red marker, so that he could direct her attention to it.

  The variety of Ninth Avenue restaurants was like a tour of world cuisine. Jamaican, Ukrainian, Argentine, Korean. Giovanni pondered how far he had traveled since the Count had first spoken to him. He also wondered if perhaps Jana Vogler in Germany was wrong and Clara Meyerstein was in fact dead, or if Jana had found a different Clara Meyerstein. Then the painting would go to the highest bidder, he assumed, which led to an unsettling thought. If the public learned the painting had at one time belonged to the Meyersteins, Giovanni might be seen as a profiteer, selling a piece of Jewish-owned art, made all the worse if anyone were to discover that his uncle had assisted the Nazis.

  Giovanni went over and over the words he would say to Clara Meyerstein when she answered the door. Or perhaps a nurse would answer, if Clara were infirm and cared for by live-in help.

  A block away from her address, Giovanni stopped in front of a small grocery store. Next to the produce, carefully piled up in little mounds, there were bundles of flowers wrapped in light green paper, in a scratched and dirty, white plastic bucket. He studied the flowers, pulled out the best two bundles, and bought them.

  Giovanni found her address and climbed the stairs to the building’s entry door, which of course was locked. He leaned closer to a panel of buzzers with the residents’ names listed. His information from Jana indicated that Clara was in apartment 4C, but he could not verify it, unable to read the names as the lettering was old and smudged. He rang the buzzer to 4C but there was no answer. He sat down on the steps and waited.

  About ten minutes had passed when the building’s entry door opened. A middle-aged Hispanic woman was coming out of the building.

  Giovanni leaped up. “Can you please hold the door?”

  The woman stopped in the doorway. “Who you want?” she asked, suspicious a
nd concerned.

  “Clara Meyerstein,” Giovanni replied. “I’m told she lives in apartment 4C.”

  The woman studied him thoroughly, all the way down to his shoes.

  “The elderly lady,” he said. “French accent?”

  Again she studied him. Giovanni hoped the gray the years had given him would help convince her that he wasn’t a street thug looking for easy prey.

  “You from Social Services?” she asked.

  Giovanni thought to say yes, but he reconsidered. “No, I’m…” He resorted to bending the truth only a little. “I’m an old friend of hers. Please, I haven’t seen her in many years.”

  The woman hesitated, then moved aside and held the door open. “She lives here. Her name is Clara?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good. She don’t see many people. She don’t come out a lot.”

  Giovanni thanked the woman, slipped into the building, and the door swung shut and latched behind him. The tiny, dark lobby was dirty and paint was peeling from the walls. He found an elevator but an out-of-order sign was taped over the call button.

  After climbing three flights of creaky stairs, Giovanni was winded and had broken a sweat. He didn’t want to appear as though he had run the entire distance from the airport to her apartment, so he took a moment to compose himself and catch his breath.

  He leaned close to the door marked 4C and could hear nothing on the other side. He brushed back his hair with his hands, mopped up the last of his sweat with a handkerchief, and knocked on the door.

  A long moment passed with no response. He heard no footsteps. He knocked again, louder and for a longer time. Across the hallway and a few doors down, one opened, though only enough to peek out, the gap limited by the security chain inside. In the narrow opening, the face of an older man appeared, staring curiously at Giovanni.

  “I’m here to see Clara,” Giovanni said. “I’m a friend.”

  “She’s old,” the man said. “You have to make a real racket to get her attention.” He shut his apartment door.