“Too?”
“Smart and beautiful too.”
“Your Italian heritage is showing,” she said, “again.”
“Sorry. Men are always in trouble, no matter what they say.”
“It’s not just what they say but how they say it. But you’re not in trouble. Not yet.” She added a half smile. “By the way, I know that book on the plague is available in the States. It’s just part of an excuse to be here, but does one really need one?” She did a half turn on her boot heels. “I mean, it’s so beautiful.”
“Sure is,” I said, watching her twirl gracefully, as if she had studied ballet, and she probably had. Obviously well-to-do, the kind of woman my younger self could not have imagined dating, let alone strolling with through the streets of Florence.
“Orsanmichele,” she said, indicating a stone fortress-like building. “Let’s go in, okay?”
Inside, it was like no other church, possibly square-shaped with an off-center altar, no tall windows to illuminate the space, which was dark. The few people milling around were lost in the shadows.
“It was once a granary,” Alexandra said, and I remembered it now from my teaching, the grain market that became a church. I recognized the ornate tabernacle too, even more lavish in person, like a miniature Gothic church, white marble, inlaid with lapis and gold, built around a brightly colored painting of the Madonna.
“Andrea Orcagna,” I said. “Another great Renaissance painter and sculptor.” I moved closer to admire its intricacies while Alexandra wandered into the chapel just beside it, though she was out in a minute, clutching my arm.
“Let’s go.”
I asked about the sculpture gallery I knew was upstairs, but Alexandra said another time, anxious to leave.
“What’s wrong?” I asked when we got outside.
“Some guy bumped into me—hard—and it seemed intentional.”
I asked what he looked like, and she shrugged. “Hard to tell, it was so dark, but he was big, and he whispered Watch out, and not like Be careful—more like a warning.”
I looked back at the church, offered to go back in, but Alexandra said no.
“So he spoke English?” I said.
Another shrug, she was no longer sure, then she took my arm and led me down a side street to a café she knew.
Inside, it was quiet, with red leather banquettes and gilded sconces above the tables.
Alexandra slid into a booth and shook off her coat. She had on a cream-colored V-neck sweater, cashmere I guessed. A thin gold chain around her long neck with an oval locket resting in the hollow between her collarbones. She ordered a caffè Americano. I ordered a double espresso.
She asked why I was spending time in the library, and I said I was doing a little research.
“On what?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” I said, not ready to talk about the journal.
When she asked again, I changed the subject and told her I was an artist, a painter, something I immediately regretted, because she asked me where I showed, and I had to admit my gallery had just closed.
“You’ll get another,” she said.
“How do you know? Are you some sort of witch?”
“Could be,” she said, “but I just have a feeling about you.”
I had a feeling about her too.
We talked about New York—how it was hard but easy, the constant noise and dirt but the excitement too, like nowhere else—and school, her studies, my teaching—though she was constantly directing the conversation back to me, seemed genuinely interested. The time passed quickly and comfortably, as if I’d known her for a long time. I didn’t want it to end, but then we finished our coffees, and her mood shifted.
She stood up abruptly and announced she had to go back to her apartment, that she’d barely unpacked, an urgency in her tone far beyond the task. I offered to help but she said no, and when I proposed walking her home, she refused. The consolation prize was a quick peck on my cheek and the lingering smell of her perfume as I watched her walk away, shearling coat billowing, the sound of her bootheels growing softer until the café door closed behind her.
16
He stares through the window at the American, as he has come to call him, a kind of code name and a way to keep it impersonal. Watches the way they smile, the American and the blond, and for a moment feels something he cannot place and does not want to; feelings have never brought him anything but trouble. He drags hard on his cigarette, stifles whatever it is he has begun to feel until he feels nothing.
His cell phone buzzes. He sees the number but does not answer. He will deal with his employers later. He continues to peer through the glass, has to fight the compulsion to walk into the café and insinuate himself between the couple, get a hand on the blond’s thigh and one around the American’s throat, though it is not part of the plan—not yet. His face pounds with blood.
The blond gets up and he watches her, eyes on her legs, the way she walks, like a racehorse or one of those runway models. He considers following her, mind rife with pornographic images so that he has missed the American paying the bill and has to do a quick about-face when the American comes out, just a foot away from him.
He waits a moment, then follows, stops when he sees the American head into the cloister, knows he is going into the library, then takes up his spot outside the alleyway on a convenient set of stone steps where he can be anonymous, where he can sit and smoke and savor the thoughts of what will come next.
17
È iniziato come qualsiasi altro giorno al museo.
It started like any other day at the museum.
I was busy building new frames and repairing old ones. I kept moving the painting from one end of my worktable to the other. I was trying to avoid the relentless gaze of Leonardo’s lady. She seemed to be watching me. I finally covered her with a cloth and worked as fast as I could. I needed to be home early. Needed to buy honey for Simone’s tea. Needed to relight the fire in our cold flat.
I had only a few francs left. Barely enough to get through the week. I knew Simone would not let me touch the money we had set aside for the baby. I swallowed my pride. I asked my boss for a small advance on my pay. He refused. I wanted to shout in his face. Wanted to strangle him. But I controlled myself for I needed the job. Now more than ever.
At lunchtime I went outside. It was cold but I needed the air. I ate the slice of bread and jam Simone had packed for me. But my stomach still felt empty.
It was then I noticed him. A man I had seen the day before. A flamboyant creature in cape and hat. An uomo effeminate.
I turned my back on him. Kept my head down. But could hear him coming closer. His silver cane tapping on the path. Until his shadow fell across me.
I looked up and scowled. Closed my smaller eye. A look I used to keep people away and it usually worked. But not this time.
He stopped in front of me. But I did not acknowledge him. He extended a hand with long spidery fingers. I ignored it.
He started to speak. I thought I detected an accent. Something cultivated and smooth like velvet. I had an ear for such things as I had worked hard to eliminate my own Italian accent. He said he was from Uruguay. In South America. Smiled exposing long yellowed teeth. His gums receding.
I looked away but it did not deter him.
He told me his name was Valfiero. The Marquis Eduardo de Valfiero. He repeated the name several times. Then sat down beside me. Opened a bag and took out an apple and a pain au chocolat and offered them to me saying he was not hungry.
I tried to resist but my stomach growled. I took them and ate hungrily. He prattled on about his noble birth and his friends. Said they were the most celebrated art dealers of the day. And that he had come to Paris to buy and sell art. I was interested but tried hard not to show it.
He asked if I worked in the museum. It was o
bvious. I was wearing my workman’s tunic with the museum emblem. I nodded. But I did not tell him that it was a part-time job. Or that I worried I might be fired.
He asked if it was interesting work. I told him it was not his business. I stood and he dared to stop me with his spidery hand on my arm.
He said he had an offer for me. Something lucrative. I pulled out of his grip. Insisted I had to get back to work. But he continued to speak. Asked me if we could meet after work. I said no. All I could think of was Simone in our cold flat. Of the logs in the fire that would need replacing. I walked away fast. But he followed. The whole time he asked questions. What they paid me at the museum? Did I enjoy my work?
I did not answer.
He called after me. Offered a drink. More food. Insisted I hear his offer.
I stopped. Faced him.
He looked at me and smiled. Said he could offer me more money than I could earn at the museum in a lifetime.
I stared at him. Said nothing.
He reached inside his coat. Took out a small silver case. Handed me a card on heavy cream-colored stock. Then he turned and I watched him walk away. His cane ticking along the path. His cape swirling around him like a cloud of black ink.
I looked at the card. His name and address printed in an elaborate cursive script. I considered ripping it to shreds. But I slid it into my tunic pocket. I doubted I would ever see him again.
18
The restaurant was even noisier and smokier at dinner then it had been at lunch—and Quattrocchi was late. I scrolled through my emails. None from him. One from my university chair about meetings I’d be missing. I concocted an excuse: In Florence seeing art I’m teaching next semester. Making notes that I hope will turn into a paper. Look forward to showing you for your expert eye. A little ass-kissing never hurt.
I ordered the minestrone soup again and thought back to what I had just read. Valfiero. I knew the name well from my years of research—the mysterious con man who some believed had been the mastermind behind the theft of the Mona Lisa. I could picture him now, sharp-featured and with a limp, seducing my great-grandfather with the promise of gold. I wanted to know more, what he was offering, and would have kept reading had the library not closed.
I checked the time, almost eight thirty. Had I gotten it wrong, pushed Quattrocchi too hard last time with all my questions? I thought we’d ended on a cordial note, and it had been his idea to meet again.
I scanned the room. A girl at the next table, a student I recognized from the other day, returned my gaze.
“Ma scusi, stavo qui l’altro giorno e…”
“Sì, sì. I remember,” she said.
“Posso chiedere?”
“I speak English,” she said.
“Oh, great. The man I was with the other—”
“Professore Quattrocchi.”
“Right. I was supposed to meet him tonight. Have you seen him?”
“No,” she said, “but my class with him is not until tomorrow.”
The boy beside her spoke up. “The professore missed class today.”
“Do you know if he’s ill?”
The boy shrugged.
I checked my emails again. None from Quattrocchi.
I finished the soup, ordered a slice of very good olive-oil cake, took my time eating it, then sipped an espresso, thinking of Alexandra Greene, how we’d hit it off so well, at least I’d thought so, then her sudden departure. Maybe it was true that she needed to unpack. Or maybe an excuse to break away because she’d felt us moving toward something too quickly? I liked that explanation better, and I was not ready to give up.
Outside, it was dark, lots of people strolling despite the chill, but I was tired, ready to call it a day. I tried calling Quattrocchi for the second time and once again got his voicemail. I was just putting my phone away when I bumped into a man, or had he bumped into me?
“Sorry,” I said, seeing my own reflection in his dark sunglasses, the cigarette clamped between his lips. The guy turned away without a word. “Hey, you’re excused,” I called after him, but he was already disappearing into a crowd, his cigarette smoke mixing with the exhaust fumes that clouded the air.
19
Two long flights of stairs, then two shorter ones, Alexandra insisting we walk rather than take the elevator. I was a bit breathless, obviously missing my daily workouts. We reached the landing, and the Uffizi’s second-floor hallway unfurled like a treasure chest—a long rectangle lined with figural sculpture, a wall of windows splashing the space with light, a carved wood ceiling ornately painted, the overall effect almost dizzying—or was it the four flights of stairs?
A half hour ago, I’d shown up at the library, psyched to read, but it had been closed by a strike—a handwritten sign on the research room door stating the hours, 9.00 to 16.00. Civilized but odd, a few scholars, including the usual two and me, standing around in various states of annoyance, until Alexandra showed up and suggested we hit the Uffizi, a surprise invitation but a good one.
“Uffizi,” I said, “Italian for ‘offices.’”
“I never realized that,” she said.
“Designed by the artist Vasari to house the offices of the Medici family.”
“I love how you have these facts at your fingertips,” Alexandra said, then took the lead, heading into a gallery with two large paintings of the Madonna Enthroned. I knew them both from teaching, and Alexandra was impressed when I identified the artists from across the room.
“Cimabue and Duccio,” I said, thoughts of hiding the journal in the box of Duccio notes in my mind, still worrying someone might find it.
“Something wrong?” she asked.
“Just overwhelmed by the art,” I said, and I was. The medieval paintings had obviously been taken out of churches, some with ragged panel edges, others with frames that had clearly been part of something else. The word theft slipped into my mind, and I pictured my great-grandfather with the Mona Lisa hidden under his shirt.
Alexandra said she’d had enough of early Christianity and headed down the hall. I followed her to a room filled with paintings by the Renaissance master Sandro Botticelli.
“Amazing,” I said, struck by a mural-sized painting that I was trying to see over the heads of a Japanese tour group, the leader wearing a headset, the group of at least thirty also with headsets, which sounded like a field of crickets.
I dipped in front, and Alexandra followed.
“La Primavera,” I said.
“Spring,” she said.
“Botticelli embracing a pagan subject from ancient Greek and Roman mythology—Venus inviting us into her garden.”
“I’m in!” Alexandra said, and I thought she could easily slide into the painting, take her place beside the three Graces, and dance along with them. Her blond hair was down today, loose on her shoulders, an ideal subject for Botticelli.
“Is that Mars beside them?” she asked.
“No, that’s Mercury, god of spring, clearing the winter clouds away.”
Alexandra gave me a look, then headed into the next room—more Botticelli, his most famous painting, The Birth of Venus, the goddess on the half shell, as beguiling as any woman in the history of art, though I thought Alexandra could give her a run for her money.
It was hard to tear myself away, but I was glad I did when we came into the next room where the lights were dim and Leonardo’s unfinished masterpiece, The Adoration of the Magi, hung on the center wall. I’d seen the painting in reproduction, but nothing had prepared me for this, half the painting just drawing on canvas, Leonardo’s hand totally visible. The Madonna in the center was little more than a line drawing, a beautiful ghost, the figures around her in various stages of finish or not at all, the combination riveting. It was as if I could see Leonardo thinking, making decisions as he worked. In the background, a lone tree was completely painted whil
e the landscape and action around it—walls, horses, and hills—were just sketched in.
“What do you think?” Alexandra asked.
“That it might be the most beautiful painting I’ve ever seen,” I said, my eyes tracing charcoal and brushwork, feeling all the emotion packed into half-finished faces. It felt as if Leonardo were speaking to me across time, drawing me into his world and into the past.
“It’s too bad he didn’t finish it,” Alexandra said.
“I’m glad he didn’t,” I said, a part of me thinking it was intentional, that Leonardo had been brilliant enough to stop painting at this incredible moment, when things were still coming together. The journal played in my mind, Vincent at his worktable in the Louvre, constructing a frame for the Mona Lisa, and for the first time, I could really imagine how it must have felt—the power Leonardo had to lure you in, to make you part of his living, breathing artworks. “I love seeing the artist’s hand at work.”
“The artist’s hand,” Alexandra repeated, taking hold of my mine impulsively or unconsciously, I didn’t care which, a small jolt of electricity at her touch.
She led me down the stairs, but I would have followed her anywhere.
At the bottom, I felt something, stopped, and turned.
“What is it?” she asked.
For a moment, I’d felt as if someone was following me, but of course, there were people everywhere. “Nothing,” I said and shook it off.
We cut through rooms of Mannerist painters—Pontormo and Bronzino—artists known for overstatement and embellishment, Parmigianino’s wildly exaggerated Madonna with the Long Neck, where I might have lingered, but Alexandra was already heading into another room, where she finally stopped, and I joined her.
Two women held the general down. One of them drew a blade through his neck, blood spilling over the side of the bed.
The Last Mona Lisa Page 7