“He’ll be paid well enough,” Valfierno assured him. “You both will. I will arrange lodging at Madame Charneau’s house for the two of you. It’ll make the planning easier.”
The Italian looked out across the river at a passing barge as it slipped beneath the bridge on its way downstream.
“Answer me this,” Peruggia began without looking at Valfierno. “Émile and the young woman…”
“Julia.”
“They told me they were brother and sister, but I know they’re not. I’ve seen the way they act together. Like an old married couple. Why did they lie to me?”
“Signore,” Valfierno said, “you must understand, they were only trying to be discreet. They had no idea whether or not you were the right men for the job.”
Peruggia considered this, nodding slightly. “So there will be no more lies?”
“You have my word as a gentleman,” Valfierno assured him.
Peruggia slowly turned to Valfierno, staring intently into his eyes. “I will help you, signore, for one reason and one reason only, to restore the honor of my country. But I warn you, if I thought for even a moment that you were trying to trick me…” The words hung in the air like a dangling sword.
Valfierno felt a momentary tingle of fear, but he looked the man squarely in the eyes.
“Have no concerns, my friend.” He extended his hand. “You will return La Gioconda to its rightful owners, the people of Italy. You will be received as a hero.”
Peruggia’s eyes narrowed with intensity. “Per Italia,” he intoned solemnly as he took Valfierno’s hand.
“Indeed,” Valfierno said, struggling to match the force of the man’s grip. “Per Italia.”
* * *
The dull, dirty white blanket of clouds brooding over Paris dimmed the light filtering through the great arched skylights of the Gare d’Orsay. Below, hundreds of travelers bustled to and fro: elegant Parisian men in stovepipe hats walked stiffly in their tight black suits; women shuffled along in bell-shaped dresses topped with tight-waisted jackets, their circular hats perched on blossoms of swept-up hair; porters followed them, struggling with cases and huge hatboxes. Working-class men in berets, wearing worn, baggy blue jackets, some alone, some leading their doughty wives and gaggles of children, struggled with their cardboard suitcases in search of the correct platform.
While Émile waited at the bottom of the electrically powered luggage ramp to oversee the loading of Valfierno’s bags onto the waiting train, Valfierno and Julia sat at a table in a small café on the upper level.
Valfierno took a sip of his café noir and said, “You probably wish that you were returning to the United States yourself.”
Julia took a bite of a brioche à tête.
“I’ve already seen it.” She shrugged. “Besides, I like it here. I feel like I belong.”
“It’s the way most people feel when they arrive in Paris: as if they are coming home for the first time.”
They sat in silence for a moment, Valfierno sipping his drink, Julia taking another bite.
“Émile doesn’t seem to like me very much,” she finally said in an offhand manner.
“He doesn’t make friends easily,” said Valfierno. “And, to be candid, I think you work very hard at trying to annoy him.”
“But I’m just having a bit of fun. Doesn’t he have a sense of humor?”
“He’s always been very serious, has been since he was a young boy.”
“So, how did you find him in the first place anyway?”
Valfierno eyed her suspiciously.
“I promise I won’t make fun of him,” she added.
He smiled and related the story of his close brush with death at the hands of the street apaches, and Émile’s timely rescue—leaving out Madame Laroche and her jealous husband.
“Goodness,” she said, “that was a bit of luck. And you never found out anything about his background?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“So tell me.”
Valfierno hesitated again.
“I won’t tease him no matter what you tell me. I promise.”
“There’s nothing to tease about,” said Valfierno.
“Well?” Julia prompted.
“I’ll tell you what I know,” he said, leaning toward her, “but only in hopes that it will perhaps give you a better understanding of the boy.”
“Absolutely. I can be very understanding.” At Valfierno’s skeptical look she added, “When I want to be.”
Valfierno glanced up at the ornate golden clock on the arched translucent glass wall at the end of the terminus. Satisfied there still was time, he turned his attention back to Julia.
“When I first found him, or perhaps I should say, when he found me, he was a very quiet boy. He hardly spoke at all and indeed didn’t seem to remember anything from his life before he started living on the street. I didn’t press him. But he was plagued by bad dreams. He would wake me up in the middle of the night screaming. He often called out a name: ‘Madeleine, Madeleine!’ I would ask him about his dreams the next morning, but he would never respond. I’m not even sure he remembered them.
“I shared my concerns with Madame Charneau, and she remembered a tragic incident from a few years before. A family of four—mother, father, boy of eight or nine, and his sister of seven—were picnicking on the banks of the Seine north of Paris. The river was swollen with recent rain and it was late in the season so there was no one else about. It seems that the parents went for a walk and left the boy to watch over his sister. The two children were apparently climbing on a large tree jutting out over the water when the girl fell in. The boy tried to reach her, but the strong current must have quickly pulled her away. The parents returned to find the boy frantically pacing up and down the bank calling her name, but the girl was nowhere to be seen. Her body was never found, lost forever in the winding downstream channels of the river.”
“That’s terrible,” Julia said.
“The distraught mother drowned herself a week later at the same spot, or perhaps she was trying to find her child—who can ever know? The father vanished soon after, though there was a report that he was seen traveling alone through Marseilles a month later. No one knew what happened to the boy. He simply disappeared.”
Valfierno paused. He looked up from his coffee to Julia. “The boy’s name was Émile.”
“And his sister’s name,” Julia said slowly, “was Madeleine.”
Valfierno took a sip of his coffee.
Julia sat back in her chair. “That would certainly explain why he doesn’t like water.”
At this moment, Émile appeared through the crowd and hurried up to the table.
“We’d better go down,” he said. “The baggage is loaded.”
“Well,” said Valfierno, placing some coins on the table and rising to his feet, “it would seem the time has come.”
Steam escaped from the engine of the polished wood-paneled train as they reached the steps of the carriage.
“The plan is sound,” Valfierno said. “Our Italian friend imagines himself part of a crusade. This brings out his talent for focusing on the details of the operation to the point of obsession. Do as he says, but only until you have the painting safely in your possession.”
“I still think I would be of more use on the inside,” Julia said, “where the action will be.”
“Keep your voice down,” Émile warned, looking around the platform.
Valfierno gently touched her cheek. “My dear Julia, we’ve discussed all this before. Think of yourself as a cog in a machine.”
“Cogs have no fun at all,” she pouted.
Valfierno moved close to her, lowering his voice. “Your part perhaps is the most important of all. It is essential that the object our Italian friend keeps in his possession is a copy, and more important, that he believes with all his heart that it’s the real thing.”
“That part will be easy,” Julia said.
“Your confidence is
admirable,” Valfierno continued, “but I fear that he is not as predictable as he may seem at times. Take nothing for granted.”
“All aboard for Le Havre!” cried out the conductor as jets of white vapor hissed out of the train’s steam engine.
“Émile.” Valfierno looked the young man squarely in the eyes and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m counting on you. And I have no doubt in my mind that you’re the best man for the job.”
“Don’t worry,” Émile said confidently. “Everything will go according to plan.”
“I hope it will,” said Valfierno, “but remember, a plan is only a road map. The important thing is to reach the destination regardless of the obstacles.”
Émile nodded, a little less sure of himself now.
Valfierno kissed Julia on one cheek and, as he moved around to kiss the other, he whispered in her ear, “Keep an eye on him for me, will you?”
Julia smiled conspiratorially as Valfierno pulled away and climbed the steps into the car.
The train jerked forward, clattering into life.
“Wish me luck!” Valfierno called out over the increasing racket.
“Bon voyage!” Julia shouted as she waved frantically.
“Bonne chance,” said Émile.
“So,” Julia said to Émile as the train disappeared into its own cloud of steam, “do you really think everything will go smoothly?”
“Of course,” said Émile, “as long as you do what you’re supposed to do.”
“Don’t I always?” said Julia with a smile.
And then, before Émile could do anything about it, she stepped forward on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. He drew back, astonished, his hand reflexively going to his face.
“Why did you do that?” he said.
Julia shrugged, a playful smile on her lips.
“I just think we should be friends,” she said casually.
She turned on her heels and sashayed toward the platform steps, pausing only for a brief backward glance.
Émile watched her for a moment, a puzzled expression on his face. Then he patted his pocket. Feeling the reassuring bulk of his watch, he allowed himself a relieved smile before following her.
* * *
Valfierno settled back into the plush seat of his private compartment. In a little more than a week, he would begin perhaps the most difficult part of the entire operation. He would have to convince not one, but six American captains of industry to each spend a small fortune on a treasure they would never be able to display to anyone else in the world. He had done it many times before, of course, but never on this scale.
He ran through the names in his mind. There were plenty to choose from. He had dealt with them all before and for the most part he would be welcomed. Except perhaps by Mr. Joshua Hart of Newport, Rhode Island. There could be some resistance there.
He ran down the list of the candidates again, thinking about the best way to approach each one. But, as he did, something else kept intruding into his thoughts. He tried to focus but found it difficult. As the train left behind the sprawl of Paris, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a single white silk glove. He wasn’t sure why he had bothered to bring it. Ridiculous really.
Shaking himself from his reverie, he replaced it and leaned back into the seat to try to sleep.
Chapter 18
“A panel of cottonwood, seventy-seven by fifty-three centimeters, supported by strips of wood on the back.”
Diego addressed Émile, Julia, and Peruggia in his cramped basement studio on rue Serpente. He had the air of an impatient professor not particularly eager to share his superior knowledge with his class. He sat on a stool before his easel, which supported the copy of La Joconde he had first shown them in the Tuileries. For further illustration, a series of panels in varying degrees of completion lay on a table next to him.
“So it can’t be rolled up,” Julia commented.
Émile gave a disapproving grunt, but Diego smiled.
“No, mi querida, it cannot be rolled up.”
Julia turned to Émile. “What?” she challenged him. “I was just thinking out loud.”
“Is that what you call it?” Émile said.
“I thought we were going to be friends,” said Julia sarcastically.
“It’s small enough,” Peruggia said. “We’ll get it out of there, don’t worry.”
“If you are all quite finished…” Diego said before turning the panel over. “On the back—”
“So what size is this one?” Émile said, interrupting him.
Diego gave him a sharp look. “It is the correct size.”
“I thought copies had to be larger or smaller.”
“Those are the museum’s rules, yes,” Diego said, taking a Gauloise from a box on the table and lighting it, “that is, if rules are something that you pay attention to.”
Émile bristled at the unspoken challenge. “Rules?” he said, glancing quickly at Julia. “No, I never pay any attention to them myself.”
“A real Cimarrone, eh,” Diego said, referring to the old Spanish name for a wild mustang.
“If you like,” said Émile, as if he knew what the word meant.
Diego snorted a slight chuckle as he returned his attention to the panel.
“This particular copy is my master, so to speak. I spent a great deal of time sitting in front of the original—before it was put inside that awful box, of course.”
“And no one ever challenged you for having the same-size panel?” asked Peruggia.
“Oh, they challenged me all right,” said Diego with a sly smile, “but all I had to do was produce this.” He picked up a tailor’s cloth measuring tape from the table. “A young lady of my acquaintance was kind enough to cut a segment from another tape and sew it into the start of this one. I would simply place it against the edge of the panel to prove that it was in fact smaller.”
“Very clever,” said Julia.
Diego shrugged.
“And all the copies you’ve done so far,” began Émile, “are of this quality?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Diego. “They’re good, but not that good.”
“But the new ones will be perfect, right?” Émile persisted.
“And what do you think?” Diego snapped, his level of irritation growing with each question. “Now, if I may be permitted to continue, it is vital to remember that the rear of the panel is just as important as the front.”
He indicated a light-colored strip of wood vertically attached just left of center at the upper edge of the panel. A bow tie–shaped piece had been added crosswise for reinforcement.
“This dovetail was inserted into the wood to repair a crack caused by some imbecile in the last century when he removed the original frame.”
The repair reminded Julia of a small crucifix.
“How did you ever manage to see the back of it?” she asked, clearly impressed.
“It wasn’t so difficult,” Diego began, playing to Julia’s wide-eyed interest. “I was able to briefly visit the photographer’s studio when it was being photographed. One of the assistants owed me some money, and so he let me examine it briefly. I thought it would add a nice touch, even though not one in a thousand people would know about it.”
“Maybe this assistant could be helpful,” Julia suggested to the group.
“We shouldn’t change the plan now,” said Peruggia.
Émile also bristled at this. “The last thing we need is another—”
“He might have been helpful,” Diego interrupted, “but it turned out that he owed money to a lot of people. And not all of them were as forgiving as me. They fished his body out of the river. Apparently he’d forgotten that he couldn’t swim.”
Diego smiled sardonically at Émile as if he would appreciate this bit of gallows humor. Julia felt a pang of empathy as Émile made a weak attempt at a shared smile.
Diego turned the painting over to the front side and replaced it on the easel, then picked
up a blank panel. “Preparation is everything. To keep moisture from the wood, it’s first coated on both sides with gesso.” Balancing the panel on one knee, he picked up a sticky glass container half full of the dark liquid. “It’s made from animal hide. It also acts as a primer for the oil paint.”
“How will you make it look like it’s hundreds of years old?” asked Julia.
“Five hundred years, in fact,” Diego replied. “And don’t forget, it’s been covered with various layers of varnish over the centuries in attempts to preserve it. But, as in most things, there’s a trick to it. I use two layers of lacquer and allow each to dry at a different temperature. This causes crazing on the surface, craquelure, as it’s called. Only by comparing each and every hairlike fissure with the original could one tell that they don’t exactly match.”
“The marquis told me once that forgers always leave a tiny mark somewhere on the painting,” said Julia. “Where’s yours?”
“I do not indulge in such childish games,” Diego said, a smug smile forming on his face. “No one looking at this image would ever find the slightest alteration.”
“But how long will all this take?” asked Peruggia brusquely.
“Capturing the genius of a master cannot be rushed. Even by another master.”
Diego pointed this last comment directly to Julia. Her attempt to maintain her equanimity was betrayed by a slight flushing of the face.
Soon afterward, Peruggia grew restless and left. His departure put an end to the formal demonstration and Émile drifted off to casually peruse the various canvases strewn about the room. Only Julia still seemed interested, pressing the painter with questions. Diego motioned for her to come closer to the master copy.
“The background is most important,” he said, enjoying her attention, “an otherworldly landscape neither real nor imagined. And the lady herself, serenely posed without a care in the world. She sits with her body contrapposto, turned slightly away from the observer, but her head turns toward us, as if we have caught her in the middle of some forbidden thought.” As he said this, Diego turned to Julia for emphasis, gratified to see that she was hanging on his every word. “Her mouth,” he continued. “Is that a smile, the picture of contentment, or are her lips tightly pursed, keeping some profound secret that has endowed her with scandalous or even dangerous knowledge that no one else possesses?”
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