The Fatal Touch

by Conor Fitzgerald

  When he had finished, he said “sticky,” and walked out, leaving the wet peelings on the table.

  A few minutes later he was back.

  Speaking in a murmur, and nodding as if we had already made a covenant, he told me he could get me out of here immediately, and I did not doubt it for one moment.

  “I have a proposal that I think will resolve our problems.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Of course you do. Humans always have a choice.”

  “If I agree, how much longer do I spend in detention?”

  “The time it takes me to walk behind you and take off your handcuffs.”

  “Does it involve my artistic skills?”

  He nodded.

  “Does anyone get hurt?”

  “Definitely not.”

  I agreed.

  Farinelli brought me straight back to my place. Leaning against the wall of my living room, plastic wrapped and protected by one of my own bed sheets, were eight plywood packing cases containing as many paintings carefully attached to backboards with foam cushioning. He explained that the works were by de Chirico and Guttuso and I was to copy all eight.

  I protested of course, saying I never did direct copies of living artists. Instead of threatening me with jail again, he spoke encouragingly of the proceeds we would reap. But I understood that his motivation was revenge, pure and simple.

  He gave me two months.

  Colonel Farinelli, as you now are, I don’t know if you will be reading this someday. If you are, did you really think marking the backs of each original canvas with a matrix of pinprick points and the dots visible under UV light would escape my notice? You clearly had no idea of the care I invested in my work. Before even considering the painting itself, I examined everything about the canvas, its translucence and sizing, the gesso and the warp and weft of the fibers, the ridges and pits and imperfections and strains. You were no cleverer than Monica and her ignorant blob of ink. One of the very first things I did was to close the shutters of the room and examine the works with a tube of UV light. All it takes is a single purple dot shining in the darkness, and it is clear the canvas has been marked. And Guttuso, Colonel? Do you think I had no moral compass? An artist dedicated to resisting the fascists, the Mafia, and people like you.

  I was into the second month on my unwanted commission, splashed with Indian ink as I struggled to imitate the sexy curves of all those thighs in Swimming Party, when it struck me with total clarity that you intended to complete your revenge on Savinio, de Chirico, and Guttuso by selling to exactly the sort of buyer Guttuso despised. I warned John Nightingale about it, and all he did was wave his hands about like a pansy and deny it.

  Then, to make your revenge complete, you decided to bring us along to the meeting, all in a hotel room on Via del Tritone, and force us to watch the surrender of the paintings to the Mafia and make sure we were as compromised and hostage to fortune as you. A Sicilian-Canadian Mafia boss. Until that meeting I didn’t even know Canada had a Mafia.

  Nightingale’s job was to give the authenticity and provenance lecture which he delivered like an adolescent with a squeaky voice, as the Colonel watched smiling like a teacher proud of a gifted queer student. The buyer sat there in yellow sunglasses in a room with three other men, and nodded each time a painting was pulled out.

  Then suddenly the Colonel introduces me as a leading dealer and expert. He tells the men I am about to show them how to spot a fake, and demonstrate, almost incidentally, why these paintings were originals. I spouted nonsense about craqueleture on old paintings, which had nothing to do with these modern acrylic and ink works, then about technical flaws, cracking in supports, watermarks, and so on, and talked a lot about complementary colors, the importance of light. I got into a sort of riff on de Chirico’s use of magic shadow when I happened to glance up and see these two tinted glasses looking straight at me, and I heard myself saying that if he was properly interested in seeing what I was telling him, he needed to take off the fucking yellow glasses.

  The room froze. Farinelli’s soft fat smirk seemed to turn to marble. The only person still moving in the room was me.

  Then the boss lifts the glasses to let me look at his eyes for a moment, then, thankfully, puts them on again, and says, “Tutt’è bbonu e binirittu. Bel quàtru questo, Prufissùri. When I take off my glasses, I can’t see properly. They are adjusted for sight, do you understand?”

  Then he waves his hand around the room at the other guys standing there, and adds, “I’ve spent my whole life hiding my weaknesses, now they know I can’t see properly.”

  It was not much of a witticism, but everyone laughed, even me, I’m sorry to admit. Then he asked me if I would give him a solemn pledge that the works were authentic. I gave him a solemn pledge, and he put his arm around me again, told me not to worry, that my services had been much appreciated, that he had forgotten all about the glasses incident. The only reason you and your friends here would have to worry, Prufissùri, was if these turned out not to be the originals. But I don’t imagine you just stood here for an hour making a joke of a man like me in front of his men.

  They took out a suitcase full of used bills, mostly 20,000–lira notes. Then they stood there making sure Nightingale and I got as much as the Colonel, which I had not been expecting, and we were sent our separate ways. Nightingale never mentioned it to me again, and the Colonel never came to claim back the share I got.

  Oh, I almost forgot the proof that they were not originals.

  Measure the shadow cast by the cube in the foreground of the de Chirico. It will be precisely 2.84 cm, which is 2 mm longer than the original. I’ll leave the fun of finding the extra shadow lengths in the other de Chirico works. In each case, I have added between 1 and 2 mm.

  As for the Guttuso, I sort of drew my inspiration from Monica with her little extra dot, but more than that, I drew my inspiration from Farinelli himself. Shine a bright light on the front of the painting, I recommend using a halogen or a projector lamp. See those tiny pinpricks of light coming out the back? Join them up with a pencil top left, middle, bottom, a bar across, then another tiny point of light. Continue, until you see my initials HT. I like the wordplay. Pinpricks for Mafia pricks. As for the Guttusos, they’re back with their rightful owners. Farinelli, Nightingale, and I knowingly sold the Mafia eight fakes. Personally, I feel good about it.

  Chapter 20

  “It’s an interesting concept, and one that I would never have subscribed to but I am glad they persuaded me,” said the Colonel. “Red currants in what is essentially a carbonara sauce. It ought not to work, and yet, and yet. The tang of the fruits offsets the smokiness of the bacon and the creaminess of the egg and parmesan. If I have any complaints it was that it was too little.” He swiped a piece of bread across the center of his plate, leaving a clean white track, then pulled out a sheaf of papers from a briefcase set on the empty chair beside him. “Here. It’s the preliminary autopsy report.”

  Blume set aside his glass of water and took the papers.

  “You don’t need to read it,” said the Colonel, placing a piece of pink bread in his mouth with one hand and reaching into the bread basket with the other. “It concludes that it cannot be shown that Treacy was deliberately killed, and comes down on the side of unlikely. The death was probably accidental. No murder, which should get rid of any lingering doubts you had about this being a matter for your squad. The magistrate’s not interested in any murder inquiry. You know Buoncompagno has a personal backlog of eight hundred and twenty-three cases?”

  As the Colonel sponged up more sauce from his plate, Blume scanned the report.

  Alcohol intoxication is determined to have impaired muscular reflexes and increased the vulnerability of the brain stem to concussive trauma . . . Stretching of vital nerve cells caused apnea, which is determined as cause of death (see . . .

  “Can I offer you some mature ricotta?” asked the Colonel. Blume shook his head and waved the report at hi
m without looking up.

  “To eat alone is to lead the life of a wolf,” said the Colonel. “I wish you would keep me company.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Blume, reading and not really listening. So far the pathologist had not made any arguments against a possible violent attack.

  The examination revealed clear signs of a contercoup type of contusion with damage being concentrated in the frontal and temporal poles, diametrically opposite the impact point in a manner consistent with a backwards fall. The severe lacerations strongly suggest negative suction pressures and contercoup force, increasing the possibility of the injuries described in the foregoing as having being caused by a fall rather than a coup or blow.

  “Its conclusions are not binding and it leaves open plenty of possibilities,” said Blume.

  The Colonel tipped half a glass of red wine into his mouth. “Did you look at those ethanol readings? It is a miracle he was able to walk at all. His medical records show that he had liver cancer, heart disease, and had already suffered two strokes. His colon wasn’t in great shape either. According to this, it was unlikely that he was struck on the head by any blunt object. We are verging on a death by natural causes, though an open verdict is probably the best way to go here. We shall see. Maybe a guilty party will emerge from the woodwork. By the way, you can keep that, it’s a copy. One should always make copies of important documents.”

  Blume drummed his fingers on the table. Apart from one table where two ministerial bag-carriers in bright white shirts and bright silk ties were finishing up, the only people left from the lunchtime crowd were himself and the Colonel. The waiter-owner was in the kitchen talking to the cook.

  “It was the wife who made this,” said the Colonel.

  “Whose wife?”

  “Vito’s wife in the kitchen. She also made the strozzapreti with giant shrimp and baked ham.” The Colonel opened the briefcase beside him. “Now—are you going to keep that report?”

  “Yes. I may as well.”

  The Colonel said, “By the way, a funny thing happened during the autopsy. You go to autopsies?”

  “Not as often as I would like,” said Blume.

  “Personally, I don’t mind them. But Buoncompagno. You’d think after all these years as a magistrate he’d be used to it. Anyhow, we get there, and Buoncompagno starts cursing saying he’d forgotten to bring his jar of Vicks. He tells me he rubs some under his nose to keep the bad smells at bay. Well, as it happens, I have a small tube of camphor ointment I use for my back, so I kindly offered him some. But I neglected to mention how strong it was. This stuff goes right into the muscle. You should have seen Buoncompagno, standing there, eyes flaming red, streaming tears, blowing his nose, the pathologist asking him if—get this—if, if Treacy had been his friend!”

  The Colonel’s own face was streaming with tears of laughter as he remembered this.

  “And the more he rubbed his face, the more it burned. In the end he had to leave.” The Colonel began to calm down. “Well, you had to be there, I suppose. But you’d have enjoyed it. I know what you think of Buoncompagno, of course. And you’re right. A clown of a man. A weathervane.”

  He peered into his open briefcase, and said, “Enough. I have already been in contact with some people, and I think we can get a good sum for those seven drawings and two paintings. I think that if we stagger the sales of the paintings we found in his apartment over, say, two years, we can earn three hundred thousand. That’s net. The gross will be closer to four hundred and fifty, but then there are the expenses and commissions and the cost of putting clear blue water between ourselves and the sale. Split fifty-fifty gives you one hundred and fifty thousand, payable over two years, that’s a bonus of seventy-five thousand this year, same again next. How does that sound?”

  “Appetizing,” said Blume, and sipped his water.

  “You’ll see. Once you get into the spending bit, you’ll love it. Do you need any help in setting up a bank account? I know someone who operates out of Lugano. You know that thing about the Swiss not paying interest on deposits? Not true. Well, technically it is true, but the bank will open a money market fund for you, which is like having interest on the deposits. We can talk about that later. First income within two months, so you need to set up the account soon. Have you got around twenty-five thousand to open an account?”

  “No.”

  “Never mind. Call this guy.” Farinelli gave Blume a business card. “Get the account open soon. We don’t want the money to enter Italy at any point.”

  “Great,” said Blume. He pocketed the card.

  “Oh, wait. I think I gave you the wrong card. What’s the name on that?”

  Blume pulled out the card and read it: “Claudio Neri, Dottore commercialista.”

  “No, that’s the right one,” said the Colonel. “He’s the man you want. This works on the basis of trust, Commissioner. Which is why I am feeling very worried about what happened to Treacy’s manuscript. In the form of several notebooks, I believe.”

  Blume widened his eyes as if in surprise.

  “I specifically asked you to give them to me. I presumed you would have them photocopied and read them at your leisure, and it was never my intention to deprive you of that pleasure. But you removed them and said nothing, then tried to hide them from me. Why would you do that?”

  Blume considered denial, but it suddenly seemed like so much time-wasting.

  “If we are working on a relationship of trust, why did you have me tailed last night?”

  “That was after.” The Colonel reached over to the next table, and lifted the menu.

  “After what?”

  “After you lied to me, and after I had Treacy’s place taken apart by a team. He was writing a book. I know this. The manuscript is not there. You were in there before me and now you have been seen with manuscripts.”

  “Maybe these notebooks or manuscripts or whatever they are don’t exist except in your mind.”

  “You handed them over to a functionary from the US Embassy, which was a bad move and narrows my options. I am presuming you copied them first.”

  “Let me give you another thought to turn over in your mind as you choose dessert. Your men never saw the notebooks in my possession. All they saw was a functionary from the embassy with what seemed like notebooks leave my house and head straight for the embassy.”

  “Am I supposed to think a US government employee agreed to run a decoy for you?”

  “Keep your mind open to the possibility, Colonel. The Americans may or may not have Treacy’s notebooks. It’s fun to keep you guessing.”

  An apple-shaped man with glossy cheeks approached the table, and the Colonel waved him away impatiently. “Not now, Vito. Thanks to the Commissioner here I have completely lost my appetite. Just bring me a coffee, a vinsanto, and a few cantuccio biscuits.”

  To Blume he said, “What’s your game, here? You want a bigger cut, is that it?”

  “Maybe,” said Blume. “Remind me why the notebooks are so important.”

  “Have you read them?”

  “Yes. They are interesting. They’ll make a good book, someday.”

  “I told you,” said the Colonel. “Treacy is liable to have made discomforting allegations regarding the years 1978 to 1982. It would be useful for me to see these. It’s old politics, and no one’s very interested any more, but it’s still my job to deal with these things, just as younger people than me are dealing with more current matters of national security.”

  Blume nodded as if in approval. “Exactly. And that is almost word for word the argument put forward by the US Embassy. Old stuff, no one cares but it would be nice not to give it a new airing. Now, as far as I can make out, you and the US Embassy have always been on the same side. Broadly speaking.”

  The Colonel stared across the table. “Yes, we have. They will be pleased to see the manuscript go unpublished. Meanwhile, there may be some other details that affect me personally that I should like to know about. Perhaps you
have already come across them?”

  “I couldn’t say. Unless you are referring to the Mafia, or the Moro kidnapping, or, let me see . . . actually, you do crop up a lot.”

  The Colonel’s coffee, fortified wine, and almond biscuits arrived. He ripped open two sachets of sugar and poured them into the cup, stirred, and said, “A redacted version. That’s what you are planning on giving me.” He inserted a biscuit sideways into his mouth. “Sun Tzu tells us that the converted spy must be treated with the utmost liberality,” he said. “I thought that’s what I was doing with you. But you’re not converted, are you? I’ll give you seventy percent of what we get from the sale of Treacy’s paintings.”

  “I am not a spy either,” said Blume.

  “No, maybe not. And another thing, I think you accepted my art deal too readily. If you were that venal, I’d have heard about it. So all I can think is that you are trying to double-cross me.”

  “On whose behalf ?” asked Blume.

  “That’s the part I can’t figure out,” said the Colonel, licking his glistening thumb. “Cui bono?”

  “Maybe I am working for the good of the State,” said Blume.

  The Colonel laughed good-naturedly. “I don’t mind this standoff with you. It’s rejuvenating. But let’s not make it last any longer than it has to.”

  “The paintings taken from Treacy’s place—where are they now?”

  “Merely to demonstrate goodwill, I can tell you they are in storage at the Carabiniere Art Forgery and Heritage Division. As safe as possible. All mixed up with stuff from the gallery and items of evidence necessary for the investigations. A logistical nightmare. It’s impossible to keep track of these things. The place is run by kids with computers now. They’re no match for the old guard. It’s as if I had them in my hand.”