by Tim Parks
To Stanley Albertini
My dear Stan,
I do hope this missive finds you. I remember Antonella telling me you were staying at the Piccolo Hotel.
How strange life is, no? Once again I have been arrested for murder. I wonder if I’m fated, or if some evil spirit moves in my vicinity, commits crimes and arranges for me to carry the can. I just wanted to ask you as you seemed to be getting on so well with Massimina recently. I know you went out for a drink with her and Mauro a couple of times. It’s not possible, is it, searching hard in your memory, that you could find some clue as to where she might be? I don’t know why I write this, since of course Anto will already have asked, but there you are. A control obsession, no doubt.
How long are you planning to stay in Verona now? Perhaps you have already departed. Have the police finally come up with anything on Forbes? Again allow me to thank you for looking after me when I fainted on you in the church attic that morning. Un apostolo del soccorso, no less! You know I still can’t remember how I got down the stairs. No recollection at all. Very strange. The French tourists must have thought we were ghosts.
Let me know your news, if you can. I’m afraid it’s rather lonely here.
Your old pal,
Morris
However, Carla, one aspect of these recent months is how I have never been allowed to get myself properly scalded by one hot potato before another is tossed at me. One moment I was elated about the progress of the show, the next anxious for my daughter, the next unsettled by vague talk of police and missing paedophiles. In short, a couple of days later I had just concluded a fruitful discussion with Zolla about the local paintings that we had decided to bring in alongside the international masterpieces, to give the show Veronese roots as it were, when Mariella, Zolla’s rather sweet secretary, tells me Volpi wants to see me in his office. I was glad. It was time the old bitterness between us was cleared up once and for all.
Here then is the crucial conversation on which, or rather (this is important) on Volpi’s preliminary notes for which, my police persecutors base so much of their case. As you will see, those notes do not at all match what actually took place between us.
It’s true that Volpi started by telling me he wanted me out of the building that minute and for good. So his intention was as indicated in those notes. However, far from leaving I sat myself down, uninvited, on a sumptuous swivel chair, confronting him across his preposterously large desk.
What on earth could be the problem, I asked him?
Volpi, as was his way, tried to use his obscene bulk and a sort of unfocused intemperance, to intimidate me, sprawling backward on his chair and pushing up his mountainous paunch.
After a few moments’ awkward silence I pointed out that the success of the museum in the immediate future was not unconnected with the Duckworth Foundation. There were four paintings to restore for the show, work that I had pledged to pay for.
Volpi had a strange way of playing with his lips, as if it helped him to think, pouting and popping and puffing. Suddenly he hauled himself up, planted his plump elbows on the desk and made me an offer. My name, he said, would appear as co-curator and sponsor for the show, I would get the credit; in return, however, I must agree to have nothing more to do with the practical organisation of the event and to keep away from Castelvecchio until the show itself opened. He pointed out that I had never been formally invited to curate the show and had no contract to do so.
I had no idea how to respond to this provocation. Playing for time, I pointed out that a number of canvases from my own private collection would be in show and I wished to have a say in their arrangement. A Gentileschi, two Sickerts and an anonymous baroque Jezebel Defenestrated. If there was no contract, I said, it was because I had generously foregone any fee. I hesitated. At the very least he owed me an explanation for his extraordinary animosity in my regard.
‘Delving into one of the institution’s computers is not acceptable,’ he said bluntly. ‘You are poison, Duckworth. You have been writing behind our backs and in our names to important representatives of foreign museums.’
Zolla had protested that I must have illegally accessed his email to get hold of the addresses of the people responsible for lending us the paintings. Naturally, it took me no more than a minute to refute such a mad accusation. I explained that I had long had a friendship with a member of staff at the Fitzwilliam, a museum in Cambridge, England, and this man had forwarded to me a round-robin email that Zolla had sent to all the museums involved in our requests; he, the Fitzwilliam friend, wanted to know whether this was the show I had mentioned to him when recently in Cambridge to visit my alma mater. It was true that, having come into possession of these addresses, I had then taken the liberty of sending on some supplementary explanation of the show to the various museums rights’ departments, but I did this only after long discussion with Zolla. ‘With all respect, Dottore,’ I wound up, ‘it seems to me that our Angelo is a little . . .’—I hesitated—‘sometimes a little . . .’
Volpi raised a caterpillar eyebrow. ‘A little . . . ?’
I said nothing.
‘Erratic?’ he suggested.
‘I just wish he had raised the matter with me before complaining to you. With me he’s been acting as if all was well. Frankly, I don’t understand. There seems to be a lack of trust, and a lack of sincerity. Perhaps we should call him in here now.’
Volpi then leaned forward across the desk and, popping his lips again, asked me why I thought Zolla had been weeping in his office that day.
I told him I had no idea and that I didn’t concern myself with matters that were none of my business. I was only interested in the show.
He looked at me. ‘Signor Duckworth,’ he began, but I suddenly found myself interrupting to say that what I had thought intriguing that morning was the panel on the wall, which I hadn’t noticed before, about the Bianchi scourging themselves on their pilgrimages.
Volpi grunted and sat back. The panel was still there, on the right as one came in the door, and we both turned to look at it.
‘What exactly did these Bianchi do?’ I asked.
Now he laughed. ‘Mice also,’ he said, ‘have a great ability to change direction when being chased, Signor Duckworth.’
When I refused to respond to such a pathetic provocation, he said: ‘The Bianchi were a religious confraternity. On their pilgrimages, they dropped the stoles from their backs, so that they hung on the cord round their waists, then whipped themselves repeatedly with . . .’—he hesitated, smiled, then opened a drawer and with evident relish pulled out what looked like a black stick about eighteen inches long with half a dozen barbed leather lashes attached to one end—‘something like this.’ Raising his eyes and flaunting a fat smile he lifted his hand abruptly to his shoulder so that the lashes fell down on his back where they presumably made contact with his damp shirt.
‘Ah,’ he sighed.
I honestly didn’t know what to say. Either the scourge was a museum piece, in which case it had no place in his desk, or it was something modern, of the variety I can only presume people purchase from shops dedicated to the enhancement of erotic pleasure. Why was Volpi showing this to me? Was it an invitation of some kind?
‘Fascinating,’ I finally agreed. To cover my embarrassment, I remarked how interesting it was that the official Church had entirely discontinued this penitential practice.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ he said drily. Then very abruptly he demanded: ‘Signor Duckworth, why were you in the museum storerooms without permission? How do I know you are not planning to, er, supplement your personal art collection from ours?’
This again indicated such an extraordinary lack of trust that I could only put it down to the man’s being raised in Naples. I explained to him that, as agreed with Zolla, I would soon be collecting, for the show, a painting of San Bartolomeo (flayed) from a church in the village of San Briccio. It was precisely to avoid anyone’s imagining that I was appropriat
ing the painting for myself that I had organised with Zolla that we would house the work in the storeroom here in Castelvecchio. ‘I had not realised I needed permission to check the conditions down there,’ I concluded.
Volpi watched me. In retrospect, I realise he must have feared I had stumbled on some kind of activity going on in the storeroom. Why else would he have been willing to recognise me as co-curator so long as I stayed away from the museum?
‘It appears communications between yourself and Zolla are not what they might be,’ I threw in.
He didn’t answer. So then I said I needed his advice about San Bartolomeo. Here things get a trifle complicated, and again you will have to bear with me. I had been alerted as to the existence of this painting and its possible suitability for the show by the young Libyan woman Samira Al Zuwaid, who presently works in the archive of the Cultural Heritage Department. I should say for the record that I was familiar with Signorina Al Zuwaid because she previously did an internship with Fratelli Trevisan. As you know, Carla, I have always had a policy of employing immigrants where possible since I feel I share with them a common and thorny destiny here in Italy. However, rumours that I have been having an affair with Signorína Al Zuwaid are ridiculous and frankly more damaging to her than to me. On her suggestion, then, I had gone—with my son (if someone is eager to check up on all these facts)—to look at this and other paintings. But the priest at San Briccio pretended he knew nothing of the canvas and it was only my perseverance that eventually allowed me to discover it, unbeknown to the priest, in a church that had fallen into disuse. I had explained all this to Zolla and now I explained it again to Volpi and asked him for guidance. My plan, I said, was to send a team to remove the painting, if possible without saying anything to the priest, since very likely the cleric was hiding the picture with the intention of selling it, one of the more common if less opprobrious of the priesthood’s vices.
Pertinently, Volpi pointed out that it would not be possible to use the museum’s regular removal organisation since they would require complete documentation in advance, thus giving the priest all the time in the world to have San Bartolomeo disappear, skin and bone, for good. He asked how many people would be required to remove the painting. I told him three. There was the problem of a narrow wooden staircase with rotten steps. The painting would have to be lowered with a rope.
‘Do it yourself,’ he said.
I was astonished.
‘Obviously, you will need to go with someone from the Cultural Heritage Department,’ he said, ‘but it must also be someone who can guarantee maximum confidentiality.’ He tipped his face to the ceiling and stroked his jowls reflectively with fat fingertips. I had the impression that it was a pleasure for him to think about little problems like this and I must say that for the first time my heart began to warm to him. ‘Since Signorina Al Zuwaid already knows about the painting,’ he decided, ‘perhaps she could be present.’
‘It will take three people,’ I reminded him. ‘At least two men.’
‘Take her brother,’ he said at once.
I appreciate that in retrospect this conversation hardly seems credible. Why didn’t Volpi suggest someone from the museum, someone with the required expertise? Moving heavy old paintings can be a tricky task. As for this brother of Signorina Al Zuwaid, Tarik he is called, I was aware of his existence, in part because his sister had mentioned him when she was working as my intern, but also because quite recently, when I had spoken of getting a Moslem, or at least an Arab, to comment on some of the biblical paintings we were planning to exhibit, Volpi had proposed that we invite Tarik. Quite how a museum director might have got to know two Libyan immigrants I really have no idea and certainly didn’t think about it at the time. I presumed that his dealings with the Heritage Department inevitably led to his meeting Signorina Al Zuwaid from time to time. In any event, when he said ‘Take her brother’, I was so delighted that we were finding common ground in these arrangements and that he had stopped talking about breaking off our relationship, that I immediately said OK.
The conversation had thus been turned on its head. Walking into Volpi’s office I had been confronted by a man determined to be rid of me (as indicated in his preliminary notes); now I was walking out with an understanding that I would secure a painting for the show that we both believed to be at risk and bring it to the storeroom beneath the museum, whence it would go to a restorer as soon as possible. What’s more, I had a very strong impression that Volpi was now intending to draw me in to whatever was secret in the museum, rather than keep me out. Some balance of power had shifted and I, rather than Zolla, who was my real enemy, and who he now understood had lied about me, was to be the privileged one.
‘How soon do you think you can get the painting?’ he asked, ‘Because the restoration work will have to be scheduled at once. Also, it’s important to know when you’ll be accessing the storeroom so someone can be there to receive the painting.’
We talked about it. I was feeling elated. He reflected very reasonably that the only time one could be sure that the priest would not interrupt would be when the man was saying Mass in the village’s new church. I thus suggested I pick up the painting the following Sunday morning.
‘Sometime you and I should explore the storeroom together, Signor Duckworth,’ Volpi told me, offering his hand as I stood to leave. At the time I felt absolutely sure that he meant it.
To Professor Zolla
Dear Angelo,
How are you and all my friends at Castelvecchio holding up? It must be hard for you all to carry on normally in these distressing circumstances.
You will also be aware of my arrest. I am not allowed to see newspapers or television here but no doubt they are full of lurid speculation in my regard. I did not, as I’m sure you understand, do the deed. Indeed, I write this letter to appeal to you from the bottom of my heart to do all you can to find out who is responsible. I did wonder if perhaps the two Libyans, Samira and Tarik Al Zuwaid, might not be involved. They seemed extremely wary of coming into Castelvecchio when we brought San Bartolomeo that morning; they spoke of having had ‘a rough night’ and suddenly invented a lunch appointment they couldn’t miss.
Meantime, are you proceeding with arrangements for the show? I hope it hasn’t been called off. I can imagine one’s first reaction in such circumstances is just to say, a show on murder, forget it. Yet, as you know, art is never more appropriate than when close to reality. Have you taken a look at San Bartolomeo yet? What do you think? Quality? Condition? Extent of restoration required? If you are in doubt about anything, I have every aspect of the show very clearly in my head. When other thoughts oppress me here between these narrow walls, I let my mind wander, and indeed wonder, over those fantastic images, moving in my imagination through the exhibition rooms, observing the excitement of visitors from all over the globe as they see how the old masters understood the marriage of terror and spectacle.
With my warmest regards,
Morris
So much then, Carla, for the situation at Castelvecchio. Here, hour by hour, is the fatal day of Sunday 29 April.
Antonella and I rose early, shortly after six, she to spend some time in quiet prayer, I to sit and meditate in The Art Room where I love to commune with my paintings and reflect on the many tumultuous circumstances of life that they so beautifully express. We dressed for church and then, observing the Eucharistic fast obviously, as is our wont, set out to walk across Piazza Bra to San Nicoló. It was now around seven-forty and it would be hard to express the charm of the piazza in that moment, the air still fresh, but not too cool to sit out, the morning blissfully calm, yet full of airy promise, the cobbles, stone and stucco so decorous and settled in time, yet truly alive and present now, echoing to footsteps, young and old, brisk and plodding, the jingle of bicycles, the clattering of early morning crockery in a dozen delightful cafés. Forgive me this purple prose, Carla, but I mean, would I really have been able to notice these things if I had just carried o
ut a brutal murder? I think not.
Arm in arm, my wife and I proceeded to early Mass at San Nicolò where to our amazement and consternation Don Lorenzo did not appear. We had been coming to San Nicolò for nigh on thirty years and this must have been the first time that Don Lorenzo was not present to say Mass. The few good folk who attend early service sat in attitudes of prayer, then when the delay became significant began to exchange whispers of concern. Only after half an hour or so did his perpetua turn up to explain that the good Don had been taken to hospital in the early hours after some kind of collapse.
Obliged to leave San Nicolò without partaking of the host, my wife found a taxi and rushed off to visit the sick man. I promised I would visit in the afternoon, after my mission to San Briccio. It was thus around nine when I arrived at the Al Zuwaids’ apartment in San Zeno. Since I was early, I accepted their offer of a coffee; they had had a late night they said, an ordinary thing for such young folk, I suppose, and had only just dragged themselves out of bed. In fact, they were not yet properly dressed.
After some discussion of the logistics of our mission, we left the apartment around ten. We drove to the Trevisan headquarters where I exchanged the Alfa Romeo for a company van; then Tarik drove us out to San Briccio. As we arrived in the village it was evident from the cars double-parked outside the new church and blocking all but one lane of the main road that Mass was under way.
A few minutes later we parked ourselves, or tried to, in the small square outside the now disused and deconsecrated Santa Chíara in Ecstasy and here ran into an unexpected problem. The fact is I always reckon without the Italian love of Sunday sporting events. Not only were a group of cyclists showing off their shiny machinery and embarrassingly elastic outfits as they assembled in the space outside the church, but another, larger rabble had gathered for the annual Palo della Cuccagna contest in the laghetto. They had already erected the pole, or rather tree trunk, a good six metres of it, coated it in an ugly orangey soap and planted in I don’t know what slimy mud in the middle of the filthy pond. Already the local hunks were stripping to their tattoos to swim out and scale it. This would all have been excellent fun of course—a deafeningly loud PA system was making ironic dialect announcements and there was a smell of sausages in the air—if it hadn’t meant that we had to park fifty metres away from our goal and then positively muscle our way through the mob to the church door where a trickle of water was gurgling steadily over the ancient flagstones. However, since we were doing nothing wrong and indeed operating on the express and explicit instructions of a local museum director, I decided to go ahead anyway.