“Yes, eleven and twelve.”
Sandro Botticelli, The Mystical Nativity (1501). The National Gallery, London.
“Exactly. Chapter eleven talks about the coming of a great tribulation, and mentions two witnesses—Enoch and Elias, according to St. John—who would prophesy a thousand two hundred and sixty days in the Holy City spouting thunder and fire from their mouths. Both would then be killed, and would ascend to heaven on a cloud.
“Savonarola believed that this text referred to himself and his fellow friar, Fra Domenico da Pescia, and in a curious coincidence, the two men had been prophesying for about three and a half years—approximately 1,260 days—before they were condemned to death, hanged, and burned. And in the same way, they were ‘killed’ and ‘rose to heaven on a cloud’ of smoke.”
“Not to mention breathing fire,” I added, wryly.
“Botticelli used the Apocalypse as a code through which he could talk about his teacher. Chapter twelve goes on to describe another period of three and a half years, after which an angel will descend to earth to vanquish Satan and install a thousand-year reign on earth in which true believers and martyrs will reign over the world with Jesus at their head. At the time that Botticelli painted this, he fervently believed that he was living in the period just before Christ’s new nativity.”
“He really believed that Christ would come back?” I asked, amazed.
“It’s not such a strange idea, you know. Many people in Florence were convinced it would happen around the year 1500, and although Savonarola tried to downplay this date in some of his sermons, that only made it spread more rapidly by word of mouth.
“And you know the strangest thing about this? Savonarola expected this moment of renewal to occur in about 1517 at the latest.7 For his followers, all the waiting and the constant changing of prophesied dates eventually became unbearable. The monk also had to contend with twenty of his former disciples for whom a similar wait was proving too much, and who broke off to found their own small convent, naming a certain Pietro Bernardino as the new Angelic Pope.”8
“Again the mention of an Angelic Pope!” I interjected.
“Yes, this idea of a reforming pope who would appear almost like an angel was never far from people’s minds during this time. In fact, once Savonarola and Botticelli were both dead, guess who was one of the idea’s last defenders?”
I smiled at him. “Go ahead, Doctor—surprise me.”
Fovel raised his great silvery eyebrows and wrinkled his forehead as if he were about to deliver the coup de grâce to our entire conversation. “You remember the name of the family that commissioned these three panels from Botticelli?”
“You mean the Pucci?”
“Very good. Well, Francesco Pucci, who was the great-grandson of that wedding couple—Nastagio and his betrothed—wrote a treatise titled De Regno Christi in which he predicted that before the sixteenth century was over, the Roman Curia would be abolished as a consequence of its record of sins, and that the world would see both uno nuovo ordine and uno supremo pastore.”
“The circle is complete!” I exclaimed. “Well, what happened to this young Pucci?”
“He had a very eventful life. He traveled throughout Europe. In Krakow, he met the famous English wizard and astrologer John Dee, from whom, it is said, he learned to communicate with the angels. He and Dee journeyed together as far as Prague in order to pay their respects to Rudolf II, king of Bohemia and Holy Roman emperor—the ‘Alchemist Emperor.’9 With a life like that, it’s hardly a surprise that Pucci ended up thrown into prison. Or that he met Giordano Bruno while there. Sadly, he never saw freedom again. He, too, was condemned as a heretic and burned in 1597, in the same public square in Florence where Bruno would also be burned to death three years later.”
“Wow—what a time!” I was overwhelmed.
“And what characters, too.”
We were both quiet for a few moments. Our eyes traveled back to the rich triptych of Nastagio degli Onesti, as if in that forest by the sea we might find some of the peace that was lost to Botticelli after he altered his faith. I suddenly realized that the lesson was over, and, before the Master could disappear without making plans to meet again, I tried to pin him down.
“So, Doctor, when can we meet again?”
Fovel turned his head from the panels and looked at me as if I wasn’t there.
“Meet?” he mumbled, lost.
“Yes. Should I come back this week, or is it better for you—”
He interrupted sharply. “Have you ever had to make an appointment before to see me? Let your need guide you, Javier. Let your thirst for truth bring you the next time. Do you remember what I told you about art being the doorway to other worlds?”
I nodded, puzzled.
“Learn to open those doors for yourself and you’ll have no trouble finding me. Now that’s enough!”
I wasn’t paying attention to this last piece of wisdom; I had something else I wanted to ask him.
“Can I bring someone?”
But he gave no response. As usual, without a word, he turned and left, disappearing among the museum’s visitors.
* * *
I. Literal text extract from Boccaccio’s Decameron, fifth day, eighth narration.
II. In Italian, the Dominicans were called Domine Cane, “hounds of God.”
8
* * *
THE PATH TO GLORY
The first contact I had with Marina after Christmas vacation was marred by a bad omen. Instead of waiting for my usual eight-thirty call, she had unexpectedly stopped by the reception desk of my residence hall very early to leave a hastily written note in my mailbox that said, “Javier—Don’t know if you’re back in Madrid yet, but if you are, please come find me in class. It’s urgent!”
Our receptionist, Toni, had seen her leave the note and had noticed—not without a certain amount of curiosity—that the young woman who left it seemed very nervous. Even though I knew Marina’s small rounded handwriting well, I asked Toni to describe her, in case somehow the whole thing might be a joke, or some kind of mistake.
“Well, let’s see, she was blond and quite thin, with light eyes and about your height.”
That was Marina.
Toni was looking at me, concerned. “Javier? Is everything okay?”
To all the students in our building, Toni was like a second mother. She knew everything about us—when we came in, when we went out, who called us, when we were in love or in trouble over our grades. I didn’t know what to say, I just looked at her. Then I ran nervously up to my room to grab my notebook and coat, and, without stopping for breakfast, raced up the tree-lined Avenida de Gregorio del Amo to the Department of Pharmacology.
Normally, Marina would have spent the last two hours in her department library, waiting for the start of morning classes. So why did she want me to meet her in class?
I got to the main Pharmacology Department building—an imposing but characterless edifice of brick and concrete—just five minutes before classes were due to start. I found Marina sitting in the back row of her lecture hall with a dazed look on her face. You could tell from one look at her that something bad had happened. She was curled up at a desk without a speck of makeup, wearing a man’s turtleneck sweater several sizes too large, her hair pulled up into a hasty ponytail. What really stood out were the dark bags under her eyes announcing that she hadn’t slept a wink the night before.
“Thanks for coming, Javier,” she said flatly, no hint of a smile. “How was your vacation?”
I said nothing—she didn’t give me a chance. She got up.
“Please, let’s get out of here.”
In one movement, she scooped her things into her big shoulder bag and wrapped her wool coat around her. I followed her out of the building, afraid to hear what was coming. All I wanted was to get outside with her and away from people and to find out what the hell was going on. If things were as serious as they looked, I figured it would be better to get
away from campus and find some privacy. So, weighed down by a heavy silence, we started walking up along Avenida Complutense. Finally she spoke.
“I don’t know how to say this, Javier . . .” the words tumbled out as if she’d desperately needed to say this to me and had finally mustered the energy. “You’ve got to stop meeting with that guy!”
I stared at her, completely taken aback.
“Last night . . .” she began, but immediately had to stop to catch her breath. She grabbed my arm and, while she dragged me along, she pulled herself together and continued. “Last night this man showed up at my house. At my front door. My parents were away, which is just as well; it spared them a nasty shock.” All of this came out in a rush.
“Wait,” I said, “you opened your door to a stranger?”
“Yes, I know, but . . . it’s just . . . he showed up at about quarter to nine, perfectly polite, and said he had something important to tell me. He mentioned your name. It wasn’t that late, and my sister was in the house, so I let him in. I made him coffee. But it wasn’t what he did that was scary; it’s what he said!”
I still didn’t know what to think. “What did he say?”
“That’s the thing, Javier. He wanted to talk about you. He knows you, knows what you’re studying. Most of all, he knows about your visits to the Prado. He told me that he’s been watching us! He knew all about which papers I got from the newspaper archive, about your meeting with Lucia Bosè—he even told me things he knew about the day we went out to El Escorial to look at that book of prophecies!”
“The New Apocalypse,” I added automatically.
“Yes—that one.” She kept on walking. “I don’t know exactly what you’re up to, Javier, but he asked me to persuade you to stop, to drop it; all of it. For your own good.”
“Drop all of what? What am I supposed to drop?” I asked her, shaken, my voice shrill.
“Stop seeing that . . . ghost, at the Prado. Or whatever or whoever he is. He said not to trust him. And most of all, he said to stop going around stirring things up that don’t concern you. Just stop, stop, stop! You get it?”
“But if I—”
“Javier!” Marina pulled away from me and turned to look straight into my eyes, very grave. “This guy was really serious, I swear. He didn’t . . . he didn’t actually threaten me, but you have to believe me, he came very close. I could see it in his face; his expression was ominous. He scared me.”
“But . . . did he say who he was?” I tried.
“No, he didn’t!” she cried. “All he said was that he was some kind of art expert, and that even if we didn’t mean to, our questions at El Escorial had put an important investigation in danger.”
“Aha!” Suddenly, as if someone had just switched on a light, I thought I understood what all this was about. “He must be the guy who was there at El Escorial before us! The one who also went to look at the Amadeo book! That’s how he knows about us!”
Marina’s face darkened. “Yeah, Javier, I thought of that, too, but what difference does it make? The bad part is that he went to the trouble of checking us out. He followed us, don’t you get it? For whatever reason, the stuff that you’re doing bothers him, and his visit the other night was a warning. It was so . . . creepy!”
A nervous smile found its way to my lips. “So that’s all he wants? Just for me to forget about Fovel? And not to ask questions about . . . about art? Is that it?”
“Damn it, Javier! It’s not a joke!”
Marina’s lips were trembling as she spoke. “Look, I didn’t sleep all night last night because of that guy, see what I look like? I came over to the department as early as I could this morning because at least here I’m surrounded by people and I don’t think he’d dare try anything. I even told my sister to get out of the house right away, in case he decides to come back.”
I tried a calm tone. “Marina, don’t. Don’t get so worked up.” Gently, I pulled aside an unruly strand of hair that had fallen in her face. “He’s probably just some idiot, some art geek with an obsession. He saw your address in the register at El Escorial, and thought he’d try to intimidate you. That’s all. I really don’t think—”
“He’s been in my house, Javier. He was standing right in front of me!”
“Okay, okay.” I hesitated. Marina was really scared. “Maybe if we call the police—
“And tell them what, Javier? That some . . . historian doesn’t want us to look at a book he’s interested in? That he had a cup of coffee at my house and left without doing anything? For God’s sake, Javi!”
Marina was breathing heavily and squeezing her fists so tight that her knuckles showed white. For a long while neither of us spoke. The last thing I wanted to do was make her angry.
We started walking again, all the way to the edge of the campus, near the La Coruña road, navigating our way between the frozen puddles. Then the first warm sun of the winter appeared, and, somewhat mollified, we found ourselves drifting toward the shops of Moncloa. We were missing our first classes of the semester, but that wasn’t the main thing on either of our minds at that moment. I put my arm around her shoulders for reassurance, and we walked like that for a spell.
It wasn’t until we found ourselves in front of the rather staid window display of the Fondo de Cultura Económica bookstore that I dared speak again, thinking that maybe revisiting what had happened would make it less frightening.
“What I don’t get, Marina, is why you felt so threatened by him. After all, he was polite, civil, and he did leave, right? Basically, all that happened is that your ‘Mister X’ suggested it would be better if I didn’t go and see this other guy who, after all, I don’t know very well anyway, right? That’s all it is.”
It felt like a whole week went by before she finally responded. Her eyes wandered slowly over the books in the window as if it was her mission in life to check every book on display in every store. Finally, wearing the saddest expression I’d ever seen on her, her reflection found mine in the window.
“Joke if you want, Javier, but there’s something else,” she said, very reluctantly.
“What do you mean?”
“He talked for a long time about death. Just him, like a monologue. I don’t know why, but he seemed obsessed with it.”
“You said he never threatened you!”
“He didn’t!” she cut me off. “He was talking about death in the abstract, as an idea. He kept saying something about how it was of great virtue to prepare for a good death. Oh, yes—he also said that we had to learn to ‘go unburdened.’ To go without luggage, like the ancients, that kind of thing. It was really strange. And really spooky . . .”
I saw that recalling the visit was actually shaking her up, so I took a chance and hugged her close, hoping that would calm her down. It was the first time our bodies had touched like that, and the feeling was powerful—we were swept up in it and stayed close like that for some time. It was impossible to say how long, I wished it would never end. I reached up and gently buried my hand in her hair. “Don’t worry. It’s over now.”
“He just kept on talking about death. So weird!” she repeated, oblivious to my gesture, as if she just couldn’t let go of the memory.
“Why would he say all that?”
“I don’t know, Javier!” The embrace evaporated and she slid out of my arms before I knew what was happening. “The one thing he was very clear about was that you should keep away from your so-called Master of the Prado. He’s exposing you to theories that are wrong, false, to ideas that are full of traps. He scared me, Javier. He really scared me!”
Her eyes filled now with tears.
“This is crazy,” I said softly, with all the calm I could muster. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Oh!” she started. “Before he left, he gave me this for you.”
She wiped her eyes and, still shaking, rummaged in her purse. Pulling out some pages folded in half, she proceeded to wave them in my face. There seemed to be three or f
our photocopied sheets with an intricate decorative border. I thought I saw an Egyptian mummy, but dismissed the idea right away.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a key.”
“But to what?”
“He said, ‘This is a key to the glory.’ He urged you to reflect on this with an open heart, ‘putting aside your pernicious beliefs.’ ”
Fascinated, I took a look at them. They were copies of pages from a very old magazine, La Ilustración de Madrid, and on one of them there was actually a picture of a dried blackened cadaver accompanied by an inscription that suddenly made this an extraordinarily rare document: “The Emperor Charles V, copied from life, 1871.”
“What are you going to do with it?” asked Marina, lifting her eyes from the macabre picture and watching my sudden interest with a mixture of wariness and fear.
The Emperor Charles V, copied from life, 1871.
“Take his advice, of course!” I smiled now. “Staying away from evil is always a good idea, right?”
“So you’ll forget about all this?”
“I can’t, Marina.” I grabbed her shoulders and spun her away from the bookstore window. “Especially now that it just got so interesting.”
Unfortunately, that connection I’d felt a few minutes before had now vanished.
9
* * *
TITIAN’S SECRET
I didn’t so much read those pages as devour them.
But first I took Marina to her Aunt Esther’s and made up some story to persuade her to take Marina and her sister for the night. Though it was late, I desperately wanted to sit down and study my new find. I was doubly impatient—first, I was very interested in the contents of the pages, and second, I suspected that they held the key to some path, some signal that would tell me who this Mister X was who had so unnerved Marina.
The Master of the Prado Page 11