by Janet Pywell
Raffaelle’s voice is soft. ‘So? Any news?’
‘No, but Carlotta seems to have good contacts.’
‘Is she optimistic?’
‘Yes.’ I don’t tell him that it is me, who isn’t.
He nods and gazes across the lake.
‘Any news on your exhibition?’ I ask.
‘I’m not sure they liked the paintings. They are from the old school. I think Van Gogh holding a mobile phone to his missing ear and a microwave beside Galileo, and a Caravaggio illuminated by spotlights, put them off,’ he smiles. ‘I think it was too surrealist for them.’
‘Or too imaginative,’ I add. ‘I like them.’
We gaze out across the lake. Since the day I returned from Germany I have avoided talking about the Golden Icon. I haven’t forgotten that Raffaelle didn’t take me seriously. Besides I now believe it is my private quest. It is up to me to find out to whom it belongs. I also want to clear Michael’s name.
So I don’t mention my trip to the Brera Art Gallery, or my anxiety at waiting for news from Padre Paolo, or the fact that I think I saw Karl Blakey in the square a few minutes ago, or even, that I felt Santiago watching me.
‘Have you heard from Glorietta?’ I ask. ‘I saw Sandra today. She was with a boy beside the fountain.’
He sips his Prosecco and looks out across the lake and seems to choose his words. ‘I spoke to Sandra, she said she hadn’t seen Glorietta. She is too busy with the rehearsals.’ He says nothing more so I prompt.
‘Who was the boy with her?’
‘Alonso, Luigi’s cousin’s son. He says the boy is impossible. He doesn’t want to study. He wants to be a shepherd and he’s happy in the hills all day surrounded by sheep.’
‘No news about how the rehearsals are going?’
‘No,’ he answers too quickly and I know he is lying to me.
It is still dark when I wake. The storm has passed and a chill wind comes in through the window. Raffaelle’s body is tucked in to mine and his arm is heavy across my stomach. I snuggle further into his embrace, he half wakes and pulls me closer. His breath is full of sweet, stale Prosecco. I kiss his lips, pull on his moustache and he smiles sleepily. I wonder what he is dreaming.
There are no curtains at the bedroom window. Across the lake lights, from the villages on the far side of the water, twinkle back at me and the moon leaves a strip of shimmering light. I pull on my cotton robe, close the bedroom door and pad downstairs in bare feet.
In the living room I remove the cloth that covers my piano. I open my travel bag and remove the photograph. I spend a few minutes studying the faces in the faded picture of the four young British soldiers and think of how destiny and fate led their paths to cross and of the opportunity and risk they all took. I lean it against the book spines on the shelf.
Outside, under the starlit sky, I brush rain puddles from the chair and place the shoe box on the table.
I sit for a while thinking.
I know I will do the right thing. This is important to me. I missed my opportunity the last time but now, things are different, I have changed.
I am no longer Tosca.
Not this time. Not ever. I must look for another opera, perhaps something less ambitious and more low-key, or maybe I should return to Germany and sing some lieder or folksongs, or record some classical pop in London or Spain. Monserrat Caballé became very popular when she sang the duet Barcelona with Freddy Mercury. Perhaps I have to rethink my opportunities. Singing is my life. I was born to sing. It is my art, my passion, my life.
I will find myself.
Eventually sunlight eases over the hillside, rippling and shining like silk, and I marvel at the hues of purples, pinks and cerise that cast multiple shadows over the mountain. The sun is warm and I open the shoe box. It is the first time I have looked at the Golden Icon since I was in the church with Padre Paolo, over two weeks ago.
I need to look at it. I need to reassure myself that this has all happened.
Michael is dead. Seán is dead.
Karl Blakey has made me afraid. I need to be reminded of the beauty of the Golden Icon; its value and my responsibility.
I think of Dieter Guzman in Munich and his voice echoes in my head.
How did Michael die?
I pull my cotton gown tighter across my breasts, lift the lid of the tattered box, curl the frayed string into a ball and lift the golden statue. The Madonna’s face is untroubled. Her downcast eyes are filled with sympathy, pain and love, and I scrutinise each feature. She knows the destiny of her son but she cannot help his fate.
My heart lurches.
The simplicity and detail is magnificent.
Sunlight catches its golden glow, yet it is cold against my fingers, and I trace the base underneath and read the papal seal.
Research has led me round in a small circle. I have discovered that the Vatican was concerned about the situation in Ireland. Pope Pius VIII signed his approval but it was the Cardinal and his wealthy merchant friends who really wanted the support of the Catholics. The Golden Icon was sculptured by an Italian goldsmith, Miguel Brindisi, a Spanish-Italian who lived in Rome and who had studied Michaelangelo’s The Madonna of Bruges. That is as far as I could get with my research.
I am relying on information from Padre Paolo, and his contact Padre Stefano and I need it urgently. Perhaps I should telephone him and remind–
‘Madre de dio.’
I turn quickly. I have been so engrossed in the Golden Icon that I haven’t heard Raffaelle’s footsteps, only his exclamation behind me. He stands in boxer shorts and bare feet, and holds out his hand.
‘What is this?’
‘The Golden Icon,’ I reply. The seconds stretch into minutes until I press the statue into his palms making sure not to drop it.
His eyes screw up and he examines every detail as I have done. He has the eye of a painter and of an artist. His fingers trace the contours of the Madonna’s face, the folds in her skirt, her hands, and eventually the face and legs of baby Jesus. He exhales loudly and his moustache vibrates.
‘Is this a Cellini? No, no it is not ornate enough and it is a little later after 1550. Perhaps it is one of his pupils, in 1700 or maybe even 1800?’
‘Cellini?’
‘One of Italy’s finest goldsmiths but he was also a sculptor and painter. He studied with Florence’s famous goldsmiths. You must have heard of the Cellini Salt Cellar that he made for King Francis the first of France? They call him the Mona Lisa of Sculpture. It says on the base here 1829, perhaps it is a Miguel Brindisi?’
‘It is.’
He looks at me. ‘Why did you tell me you left it in a locker in Munich?’
‘You didn’t believe me when I came back from Germany and I was angry.’
‘But - but this is priceless.’ He sits and folds his arms.
Inside the kitchen I prepare rich, dark coffee and heat milk. The aroma fills the kitchen and floods though the apartment. Out of the back window I look up the valley where a new development of four burgundy-coloured villas are juxtaposed between several older palazzos and an apartment block. Bulldozers have made a clearing through the trees where a cluster of new homes will be built with a swimming pool and lake view. Beside them a narrow path from the car park leads through the forest, to where the old church of the Madonna of the Miracles is hidden, the Chiesa della Madonna dei miracoli, undiscovered like a hidden jewel. It’s like the Golden Icon tranquil and calm.
I place cups, coffee, bread, honey and butter on a tray and slices of fresh oranges and carry it outside.
Raffaelle watches me. Birds are chattering, there’s the hum of morning traffic, the slam of a dustbin lid, and the barking of a dog.
He spoons sugar into his mug. His dark eyes, lit by sunlight, make him look young, happy and excited.
‘You’ve had it for two weeks and never told me?’ he laughs.
‘Yes.’
‘Cara, this is fantastic.’ His voice is low and urgent. ‘This wil
l change our lives. We will be free. We can move to Florence. We will be wealthy.’ He waves his arms. He is warming to his theme. ‘It is what we have always wanted, no? It will be a new beginning for us. We can revive our careers. We will be in Florence amongst the greatest artists and singers.
‘I will not have to give lessons to students. I can be with those who want to learn, whose passion in life is art, instead of putting up with silly children in Como who have no appreciation of beauty.
‘We can buy a house overlooking the river. It will have a room where you can sing and you can perform all the great operas. You will be appreciated and adored by all your fans again, and I will buy you a Steinway.’ I want to touch the laughter lines around his crinkled eyes. ‘And my art will be appreciated. I will have exhibitions. All the artists will be there,’ he laughs. ‘They will be jealous of my success and envious of my achievements just as they were laughing at my failure. They will embrace me. Raffaelle Peverelli the most interesting and adventurous artist. You will sing and I will paint.’
‘How will we do this?’ I ask.
‘It’s simple. We will sell this. It is worth a fortune.’ He holds it out in front of me. ‘This is a replica of the marble statue by Michaelangelo, the Madonna of Bruges that he sculptured around 1500. It was notable for being the only sculpture to leave Italy during Michaelangelo’s lifetime. Several hundred years later Napoleon ordered it to be packed up and sent to France. It was returned and then when the Nazis began smuggling all the artwork to Germany a group of men, during the war, tracked the stolen art and they recovered works by Rembrandt, Vermeer and Da Vinci. I believe that Comando Carabinieri per la Tutela del Patrimonio Culturale, is a result of this.’
‘Yes, the Italian Art Squad,’ I agree. ‘So, they must know about the Golden Icon and they must be looking for it too?’
‘It is one of the biggest police departments in the world set up to counter art and antique thefts.’ He strokes his moustache thoughtfully.
‘I Googled it on the internet. Would they know about the Golden Icon?’ I insist, ‘I spoke to a professor at Milan University. I even went to the Brera Gallery and spoke to the curator, but there is no information about the Golden Icon, all the records seem to indicate that if it did exist then it was destroyed or went missing during the war. Presumably stolen from a convent in Holland.’
‘It has been stolen but now it belongs to us. Will we begin a new future? We can begin again in Florence.’
‘And what about your villa here in Comaso?’
‘You know that I cannot sell it. That was the terms and conditions in my uncle’s Will when he left it to me, he said it must be passed on to my eldest son.’
‘Alberto?’
‘Sí, Alberto will inherit it but I have left a condition in my Will that his mother may not live in it.’
‘And your daughter?’
He shrugs. ‘She will have to marry well or continue living with her mother in Bergamo.’ He reaches for my fingers and places them to his lips. ‘Will we go to Florence?’
After his sensual kiss I cannot pretend I am not tempted by the idea.
‘It does not belong to us,’ I whisper.
‘The villa? We have spoken about this before. Alberto must inherit it.’
‘I mean, the Golden Icon.’
‘Of course it belongs to you. It is here on your table, no?’
‘But it is not mine.’
‘So who does it belong to?’
‘I have to find out.’
‘You said, you went to Munich to get it for Seán, but Seán is dead. So it is yours.’
I flinch. ‘What about Barbara? Or Michael’s heirs?’
‘It doesn’t belong to Barbara,’ he says. ‘You say, Michael stole it during the war. He was a thief.’
I swallow the surge of anger that swells in me, and speak slowly and deliberately. ‘I must find out who it belongs to.’
‘Listen to me. It is one of those pieces of art that belongs to the person in whose possession it rests. There are many dealers and collectors throughout the world. Please don’t assume that each piece they buy and sell is paid for legally or even at the right price. Sometimes it is not paid for at all. It is stolen to order. A sculpture like this can never be owned. It is a work of art to be exhibited. If we don’t sell it, someone else will. Who do you think owns it, if it’s not you?’
‘The Church?’
‘Blah! The Church?’
‘The Vatican.’
‘The Church is too wealthy, besides they would lock it away inside the Vatican and no-one would see it again.’
‘According to Dieter it was made in Rome and then sent to fund an Irish rebellion against the British. Dieter mentioned the Catholic Relief Act, so I Googled it and it said that this Act disenfranchised the minor landholders of Ireland. This Act meant it raised, fivefold, the economic qualifications for voting…’
‘So?’
‘The Vatican wanted the support of the Catholics. They were ready to fund a rebellion in 1828 so they would be able to rely on them in the future. So maybe it belongs to the Irish people,’ I say. ‘It was made for them.’
Raffaelle looks doubtful. ‘Maybe it was created to fund their revolution but it didn’t happen, and the icon came back to Europe. Now it belongs here in Italy.’
I smile at his simplistic logic. ‘Maybe it does belong to Barbara and the children. It will pay Seán’s debts. Perhaps I should contact her?’
‘An artwork as beautiful as this should not be used as a pawn to pay for a greedy builder’s empire. It needs to be appreciated and to be seen. It has lain hidden for generations and it must be on show. We must sell it.’
‘Barbara could sell it and it would go to a museum in Ireland,’ I argue.
‘It belongs in Italy. Here in my country if you obtain artwork you can keep it.’
‘Only if you obtain it legally,’ I say and he looks surprised. ‘I have spent two weeks looking for information. I Googled it. In America, for example, the stolen artwork returns to the original owners even if the new owner obtained it legally, but I didn’t get this legally.’
‘But it is still yours,’ he counters.
‘What about William?’
‘Who?’
‘Seán’s brother, William. He is Michael’s other son. It did belong to Michael.’
‘No, no, no, Michael stole it. It belongs to whoever possesses it.’ He holds his arms wide. ‘Be reasonable.’
‘It does not belong to us. That would be stealing.’
‘It is not stealing.’
I hold up my palm. ‘Perhaps we should give it…?’
‘Give? Why give it? There are many museums or collectors who would pay a handsome price for a rarity such as this. This is priceless, cara. This is something so special it must be on show and appreciated. We can sell it! Why are you so stubborn?’
‘It is not mine to sell.’ My voice rises. I move to the corner of my terrace where I can look down onto the street below. The smell of freshly baking bread wafts up from the bakery below.
Raffaelle stands behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. He kisses my ear and I lean back against him, feeling his warmth, security and love. ‘You and me,’ he whispers, ‘in Florence. The most beautiful city in the world. We can live our dream together. I will get a divorce and we can marry.’
I feel my body stiffen and I turn from his embrace. ‘I must wait and see what Padre Paolo says.’
‘Padre Paolo?’
‘Yes, I took the icon to him. He said he has a friend in the Vatican, Padre Stefano. He has been away but he is due back this weekend. He said he will help me find out who it belongs to.’
‘You showed the Golden Icon to Padre Paolo and not to me? I can’t believe you would do that.’ He moves away. ‘How could you do that? You trust Padre Paolo more than you trust me?’
‘He was the only person I could think of…’
‘The only person?’
‘Yes.’
‘It is not about art. It’s about the church.’
‘But you cannot trust Padre Paolo,’ he says, ‘he and Santiago are best friends. I don’t believe you have been so stupid!’ He turns his back to me and walks away.
‘He is a man of God,’ I argue.
Raffaelle laughs cynically. ‘If Padre Paolo knows about the Golden Icon then believe me, the chief of police knows too. Did you not know that Paolo and Santiago went to school together, and that they feed information one to the other? That’s how Santiago controls the area and knows what’s going on. Did you not know that?’
I shake my head.
‘Even the confessional isn’t safe.’ He runs his hand through his hair and turns to me. ‘I don’t believe this. It’s just a matter of time until that police inspector comes knocking on your door. Santiago will want the Golden Icon. He will make it a police matter. He will come for it.’
I think of Santiago in the square. We both look over to the table to where the golden Madonna and her son glistens in the sunlight.
‘It is stolen,’ he says. ‘It is a crime. You could be arrested. Imagine the newspapers. The headlines. You could go to prison.’
I grip the terrace railing and close my eyes. He is right. Not only do I not have the role of Tosca but I could be arrested for having stolen property; a valuable golden statue.
What am I thinking? What was Michael thinking?
Why haven’t the police in Dublin who have been searching through Seán’s documents found my letter? Have they evidence of my flight to Munich? They must wonder why I went there. What would I say?
My career may no longer be at its pinnacle but Seán was right. The press would still be interested in my downfall.
Had it been Karl Blakey in the village or was I mistaken?
I am suffocating. Although it is early, it is suddenly very warm. There is no air and I tug my cotton gown apart to feel a breeze on my chest. My mouth is dry and a trickle of perspiration meanders to my waist. I reach to wipe it with my fingers and I glance into the street below.
Looking up at me is Karl Blakey.
I gasp.