The Fine Art of Murder

by Tony Bulmer

  A necessarily tall-tale Signora Contessa. The baser elements of the artistic fraternity are well known for such ludicrous stories,” said the judge. “Why, only the other week I had before me, a young sculptor, trying to pass off a work he had made a few short days before, as a work of Greek antiquity. Can you imagine such impudence? I had him soundly flogged, and sent to the salt mines, where he might carve out an altogether more honest living.”

  The contessa nodded, and said, “Perhaps, then, you will like the second story of this paintings provenance signor Judge?”

  “I confess, I am fascinated to hear your story signora, I only hope this story will offer a more veracity than the last tale.”

  “This tale differs from the previous model, in a number of key respects. Machiavelli still plays a key role in the origination of the painting, in that he commissioned the work. However, it is said that the subject of the painting, rather than being an anonymous courtesan, was none other than the infamous daughter of Pope Alexander VI, Lucretzia Borgia,”

  Donna Prasseda gasped, “The whore of Babylon!”

  “It is true signora, many have equated the name of Borgia with tales of great infamy—poisonous murders of the vilest nature, incest, simony, corruption and genocide. How many of these stories are true, is quite another matter,” said the contessa.

  “Machiavelli had a long association with the court of Borgia,” said mayor Sicari. He was the Florentine ambassador to the Borgia papacy. Indeed, he was a personal friend and associate of Cesare Borgia himself.”

  “I never thought we would hear mention of the bastard son of Rodrigo Borgia in polite company,” said Donna Prassede coldly, “He was a disgrace to the world of man, a monster, a pervert, a beast in human form.”

  “He was also Lucretzia Borgia’s brother,” said the contessa.

  “Indeed he was,” gushed Don Ferannte, the excitement in his voice almost tangible. “Please continue Contessa, because if this story is true, it would increase the value of the painting considerably.”

  “The art dealer who sold my beloved Lorenzo the painting told him that Machiavelli tricked the artist Leonardo Da Vinci into painting the picture, telling him that the painting was a present for Cesare Borgia.”

  “How revolting!” interrupted Donna Prassede, “It is well known that Cesare, and Lucretzia Borgia had a relationship, of the most sinful and revolting nature.”

  “I find this eventuality highly unlikely,” said judge Poveglia dryly. “Cesare Borgia fled to Spain in disgrace, after the fall of his fathers papacy.”

  “As I understand it, the painting was never given to Cesare Borgia,” said the contessa. “Machiavelli kept the painting for himself, and when he died some years later, it was sold on the open market, as was much of his estate.”

  “The explanation fits,” said Don Ferrante with great excitement. See the painting bears the name Lucretzia!”

  “Many bear the name Lucretzia,” said judge, and you forget that whilst the frame might be authentic, the painting within could have been substituted.”

  “Now that the Contessa mentions it, I can see that the hand of da Vinci is quite evident in this work, do you not agree my dear Judge?”

  “I agree that there is a rogue on every street corner, and where matters of art and money are concerned you will encounter an entire gallery of rogues,” said the judge.

  “The work of the early Florentine school is quite out of fashion these days of course,” said Mayor Sicari. “And whilst da Vinci made something of a name for himself during his day, it is generally agreed that other artists of the time, such as Michelangelo for example, contributed rather more to the annals of artistic posterity than da Vinci. Indeed, he left such an inferior legacy, that he will no doubt disappear into obscurity a few short years from now.”

  Such wisdom had many at the table nodding their heads in agreement. A murmur of consensus bubbled amongst the assembled company, as they exchanged views on not only the judge’s shrewdness but the mayors talent for historical context. And as the conversation grew louder, the servants entered the room with steaming platters of food.

  The contessa had planned the banquet in the grand style. First there was zuppa pavese a rich broth containing bread and eggs, in keeping with the traditions of the season. Next there was Cason Sei, Ravioli, filled with sausage butter and Grana Padano, a slow ripened cheese made by made by Cistercian monks from the Chiaravalle Abbey. Then came a fish dish: Baked Bass on sliced onions and tomatoes, with fresh lemons from the garden.

  As the courses came and went, all were in agreement that the quality of food and artful presentation were with out equal at any table in Milan. But the courses kept on coming, next was Ossobuco d’agnello, delicious slices of crosscut lamb shank braised with white wine and garnished with Gremolata and fresh mint. Lodvico Setalla, a gourmet of some repute, swore that it was the juiciest, most tender lamb that he had ever tasted in his eighty years of dining.

  By now the company had become mellow with wine and a surfeit of good food and once a dessert of torta sbrisolona made from almonds, butter, and grated orange zest, was served, even Don Rodrigo, a man of great appetites found himself sinking back in his chair, a martyr to his expanding waistline.

  Then, as the gentlemen enjoyed a reviving glass of Amaro, as a digestif, the talk drew once again to the subject of the contessa’s mysterious painting, and how it might have found it’s way from the hand that created it, into the arms of a dealer of the fine arts.

  Don Abondio listened to the conversation, the words of scripture boiling within him. Despite his long years of training and experience as a priest, his feelings of doubt, resentment and fear had never been stronger. Listening to the petty thoughts and prejudices of the very wealthy, filled him with feelings of jealousy and loathing. Loathing for them and loathing for him self, for hating them and their privileged lives. But more than this, he pitied their weakness, for wealthy though they were, they depended upon him and his ministrations, to deliver them from their unredeemable sin. He knew he was doomed too of course—doomed to wear a priests robes for the rest of his natural days. But what choice was there? The life of a priest offered little opportunity for advancement, and the only alternative was a slide downwards into the plague filled slums on the bad side of town. What future could a dishonored priest hope to have?

  Knowing his life had come quite as far as it was ever going to, Don Abondio realized that for him the only future was the abyss, for heaven could never open its hallowed gates, while his soul harbored such sinful thoughts. Don Rodrigo was right, curse him, in vino veritas. There was no escaping the truth, even when it came from the lips of a drunkard. Don Abondio knew that God would never forgive his lust for gold. The words of Matthew haunted him: No one can serve two masters, for either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and money. The lines of scripture doomed him, and fighting against his own perverted nature could do no good. He could not resist his ceaseless yearning to be wealthy.

  But for the priest, his problems were worse, far worse, than his selfish and sinful attachment to gold. He craved much more than gold alone—he desired the sins of the flesh. And to his eternal shame, he knew that in his heart he had already committed the sin of adultery with his hostess the countess. Even though he had not laid a finger upon her, or breathed word of intentions, his lustful thoughts alone were enough to damn him.

  The priest cringed back in his chair, filled with thoughts of shame and self-loathing—that his gracious hostess should ever discover these immoral desires— the thought filled him with horror. How could such thoughts ever be reconciled with, not only the teachings of faith but the demands of the Lord God above? No one could ever find out. He would have to live with the terror of sin and prey for forgiveness. But with each passing day the sinful and immoral yearnings grew ever stronger. Surely his immoral soul was beyond redemption?

  Then there was the painting. As soon
as he had seen the portrait of the lady Lucretzia, its resemblance to the countess had been as apparent as its air of sin. Donna Prassede had been quite right to judge the painting as depraved. It exuded lustfulness. But it was this very quality that made Don Abondio desire the painting almost as much as he did its mistress. As he sat sipping Amaro, his face cast in a mask of social nicety, the priest could think only of what it would be like to possess the painting—have it in his chamber. The power of forbidden delight raged through him, bringing with it new feelings of tortured guilt. He would prey, he would prostrate himself—he would beg forgiveness, he would… Distracted, he suddenly realized that the assembled company had abandoned their lively chatter. Everyone in the room on their feet now, drawn inexorably towards the window terrace that looked into the street and outwards over the city and the black hills beyond.

  “The city it burns!” called a voice.

  “The flames fan the carnival grounds!”

  Don Abondio raised himself unsteadily, his head swirling from the effects of guilt and strong drink. As he rose to his feet, the candlelit room seemed to swirl around him, as if he were descending downwards into the very pit of hell itself. Clutching at the dinner table to steady him self, Don Abondio realized he was clutching tightly the crucifix that hung around his neck, as though it would provide protection from impending damnation.

  As Don Abondio reached the window, his eyes strained against the darkness. The starlit night swirled menacingly. Then, as he peered harder against the distant roof top silhouettes he saw it—the unmistakable glow of a giant conflagration.

  Then, from the street the sound of voices, again.

  “Come at once my Lord.”

  “The people need you assurance!”

  Below: two night watchmen, peering up from the street, one with a dim lamp the other with a spear. Even in the darkness they looked scruffy and malnourished—they belonged to the lower orders, of that there was no doubt. And by their words, they had come as messengers for mayor Sicari himself.

  “The miasma my Lord, upon my word it has returned!”

  “What is happening?” blurted Don Abondio

  “Nothing. A needless panic,” said Mayor Sicari smoothly.

  “It is as I predicted,” wailed Lodvico Setalla. “The Angel of Death is upon us, and he brings with him the curse of the plague!”

  “Surely this cannot be—a mistake brought on by superstitious panic?” said Don Abondio his voice rising fearfully.

  Nobody answered.

  A pall of finality hung over the gathering.

  Donna Prassede was the first to make her excuses. She said the hour was drawing late and indeed it was, though not so late that her departure passed without comment. Her husband Don Ferrante was less than his ebullient self upon their departure, saying quietly he would look to the stars for felicitous portents.

  The stony faces that greeted this news showed little hope that such astromancy would bring salvation from the black threat that hung over them, like scythe of Death himself.

  As they watched Donna Prassede and her husband departing in their carriage, the remaining guests were quick to request their cloaks. Then one by one they left. The countess stood in the lobby of her grand home, wishing goodbye to each of her guests in turn. By her side stood Don Abondio, his countenance resolute against the dark threat that had come upon them so suddenly.

  When at last, the final guests had departed, the contessa felt compelled to touch the hand of the priest, and thank him sincerely, for his help in such difficult times.

  The priest bowed his head, uttering only the softest most reassuring of platitudes by way of reply.

  But the contessa grasped his hand and held it tight, “If anything should happen to me Don Abondio, promise me you will minister to me, anoint me offer me absolution that I might pass into heaven and be with my husband for all eternity.”

  Don Abondio gave her a weak, uncertain look, feeling uncomfortable that this creature he could never possess, was holding his hand in such an intimate fashion.

  “Promise me,” said the contessa again.

  The priest nodded slowly, “I promise,” he said.

  “Thank you she said,” then kissed him quickly on the cheek.

  The priests eyes widened, he took a step back.

  The clatter of servants rose up from the pantry as they finished their tasks for the evening. All else was silent, save for the distant bark of a dog, mournful in the night.

  “It is okay,” she said, “everything is okay.”

  The priest stood trembling for a long moment, then moved forward quickly and kissed her.

  THE FINE ART OF MURDER 20

  When, as a young priest, Don Abondio first encountered the curse of the plague, he carried out his ministrations without fear. Believing, as he tended to the needs of the sick and dying, that the merciful hand of God, and the power of prayer would shield him from infection. Then, when he sickened himself, he realized that he would receive no special treatment from his Lord and Savior, so he retreated into the privacy of his chamber and waited for the certain end.

  First came the chills, a malaise so ordinary it scarcely seemed a threat. Such a gentle subterfuge was part of the contagions power, keeping the host alive, so that it might disperse its cursed legacy as widely as possible, infecting the victims friends, family, and neighbors, spreading house to house, street to street, neighborhood to neighborhood, until the whole city was within its unholy grip.

  When finally it arrived, death came quick, it came ugly, and it came without mercy. As the contagion progressed, the biting chills were replaced by a hellish, baking fever, which gave way to cramps, and convulsions of the most frightening kind. Then, at the height of the sickness, there came the contusions and swellings, bulging and bursting, as blood and bile and gore, oozed and spurted from every bodily orifice.

  And so it was, that the plague took Don Abondio in its cursed grip. He endured the endless fever and the tortuous pain eating into every part of his body. He endured the terrible swellings and livid discolorations of his flesh, as the affliction spread, tormenting him, for endless days and nights. In the looking glass, he saw a face he scarcely recognized. He stared in horror, watching as his eyeballs bulged and turned yellow, as though they would surely burst out of his skull. He cried with despair, as his body took on a hideous transformation, his living flesh rippling and pustulating, as though torn asunder, by a thousand writhing demons. Then, on the seventh day, exhausted and as close to death as he imagined it was possible to be, the fever subsided.

  So very few survived the grip of the pestilence. At first it seemed like a guilty miracle, an answer to his fevered prayers. But that was just not possible. The plague had spared his life, but it had taken his faith. The days of endless torment had turned his prayers into curses, and after, laying weak and drained on his tortured sheets, Don Abondio knew only one thing—God had forsaken him—consigning him to a lifetime of earthly damnation, and beyond that, an eternity in the yawning chasm of hellfire.

  The curse had to remain secret.

  With his housekeeper dead in the kitchen, the subterfuge was easier than he anticipated. In the slow, anemic weeks of recovery that followed, he realized that his secret curse was also a secret blessing. Because now, no matter how many times he encountered the plagues victims, he could no longer get sick himself.

  And now, once again, a new epidemic had arrived—even darker and more virulent than the last. In the market square, there had been talk of anointers from foreign armies, knowingly infecting the populace. Some hotheads had blamed the carnival folk and gypsies, burning their tents and wagons in retribution. Others swore they had witnessed a dark miasma sweeping in from the hills, striking down all who came into contact—punishing them for their lack of piety.

  The only thing that Don Abondio knew was that there was nothing he could do to save any of his parish from the merciless fate that awaited them. He applied words of hollow comfort, and a cold, moist, cloth
to fevered brows. He anointed the sick and provided absolution for the dying. The grim work was made ever harder for Don Abondio, because he knew, as he dispensed his ministrations, that God had deserted the whole of mankind. In the face of such hard realities it seemed of little consequence that he should be refunded to the fullest extent possible, for the ugly and brutal work in which he was engaged.

  Man cannot live by bread alone.

  How long had it been since Contessa Manzoni’s celebratory feast? It seemed like many weeks, but in truth it was only a few short days. And already, many of the distinguished guests had fallen victim to the plague. The wealthy drunkard Don Rodrigo had been the first to go. His cursed houseboy had rushed around to the rectory to break the news, but by the time Don Abondio arrived to administer absolution, the master of the house was dead and his villa had been stripped of valuables. Under the circumstances empty words would have offered little comfort, so Don Abondio departed hastily, without further ceremony.

  Lodvico Setalla the surgeon, due to his advanced years and regular contact with the sick had been the next to die. An end so quick it must have offered much comfort to his distinguished family, had not they too been afflicted by the contagion. Fortunately, their generosity was great, and with his pockets heavy with gold, Don Abondio left them to their certain fate, hollow reassurances of salvation ringing on his lips.

  Within a few short days the rest of the dinner guests were dead or dying too, their great wealth and privilege no protection against the hellish fate that awaited them. In fact, as the rapid-beating wings of death approached, Don Abondio was amazed at how quickly the prim manners of society evaporated.

  Donna Prassede and her husband Don Ferrante were the next to call the priest to their home, in the hope that a generous consideration would guarantee a reading of the sacrament of Penance, followed by Extreme Unction, and dignified burial in sacred ground. There was little chance of that, thought Don Abondio. But he kept his thoughts silent.