The Monster of Florence

by Magdalen Nabb

  “You see?” interrupted Marco, impatient of the Marshal’s slow reading.

  “I haven’t finished …”

  “There’s no need to read all of it, it just goes on like that. You do see what it means? The records are not clear at all. I think the picture is really genuine.”

  In the Marshal’s opinion, he was believing what he wanted to believe, but since we are all of us guilty of that he only said, “Is it mentioned at all?”

  “You mean by name? There’s no specific mention of a portrait of Anna Caterina Luisa dei Gherardini, no, but there are all these portraits listed as Portrait of an Unknown Lady as this or that mythical character. Add to that we know he painted the ladies in waiting and I know from my mother that Anna Caterina was a lady in waiting …”

  He followed the Marshal’s gaze to the painting propped on an easel. “What do you think of her?”

  “Well, I don’t know … She’s very pretty but that frock’s a bit funny.”

  “Oh, she’s not dressed as a lady of fashion of her time—she’s meant to be Flora.”

  “Ah. With all the flowers. Well, it’s very nice.”

  The face was smooth and round, the lips a deep red cupid bow. Pink and white and yellow flowers were twined through her hair and her head was tilted a little down to the left to let one shining ringlet curl over her bare shoulder. Her breast was as plump and white as a dove’s and only just touched by the coloured draperies held in place by a pale hand from which more flowers spilled.

  “There’s another almost exactly like it of Lucrezia Corsini. I went to see it yesterday. He did two of her, one almost full-length and the other to the waist like this one. Only the position of the hands changes. Anyway, now you’ve seen her—oh dear, I wish there was somewhere you could sit. I’m sorry—wait a minute …”

  Marco began pushing piles of drawing paper off a crate of some sort. The studio was full to bursting point with paper and equipment but apart from the father’s antique desk there was no furniture.

  “There, can you manage with that? I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you found time to come. I’d almost given up hope. I must have called four or five times and I’m afraid your brigadier—what’s his name again?”

  “Lorenzini.”

  “Lorenzini, that’s it. He must be sick of me calling, but you’re out all the time.”

  “I know. I meant to try and get here last week, but it’s not easy at the moment with one thing and another.” The Marshal lowered himself cautiously on to the crate, but it seemed solid enough.

  “Is it really him?” Marco perched on the edge of the cluttered desk.

  “What?”

  “That photo that was in all the papers …”

  “Oh.” The Marshal sighed. “I really don’t know …”

  “He looked violent enough, I must say. And it’s true, isn’t it, that there hasn’t been another murder since he’s been inside?”

  “Almost true. He was still free in the summer of eighty-six and eighty-seven and there were no murders then so that’s far from being proof. The papers can invent anything they feel like but we need proof.”

  “But you must have some or you wouldn’t have accused him. You know, to be honest, I find it impossible to imagine anybody doing what he did. But then, imagine somebody raping their own child. When I read that article I decided I should stop complaining about my father. Anyway, let me tell you where I got this.” He patted the book which he’d been showing the Marshal and which still lay open beside him on the desk. “I got it from Benozzetti!”

  “He’s been and gone? I thought—”

  “No, no, he’ll be here shortly. But what I didn’t want to tell you on the phone was that I went to see him first. I waited and waited and it looked to me as if he’d decided not to bother so I took my courage in both hands and followed your advice and went there. You won’t think it needed much courage, I know, when you’re spending your time with your Monster, who looks as though he’d slit your throat as soon as look at you, but even so, I was pretty nervous about it. So much depends on her.” He nodded toward the portrait of his ancestor. I’ve got to get this place properly set up. Look at that—I’m working on the computer on the floor! Luckily I’ve got a bit of work in from a firm of architects in Modena. It’s well paid enough, but it’s only draughtsman’s work really, and until I can get the money to finish setting up here, I can’t receive a client, even if I’m lucky enough to get one. So, I went there with bated breath and, do you know, he was really nice to me.”

  “Why shouldn’t he be?” The Marshal shifted a little on the hard crate, trying not to cause a landslide amongst the stack of large folders that was leaning against it.

  “Don’t worry about that stuff, it won’t break. I’m sorry about the cold in here, but I suppose my father never used the place except for storing stuff. I’ll have to buy a heater of some sort.” He was wearing three sweaters but his hands were bluish, even so. “Anyway, I don’t know why I didn’t expect him to be pleasant but I didn’t. Perhaps because you didn’t like him.”

  “He probably didn’t like me,” pointed out the Marshal, “though it struck me that although he didn’t take to me he seemed glad enough to have somebody to talk to. You were a better audience, I should imagine.”

  “Because I’m my father’s son, you mean?”

  “I didn’t mean that but you might be right.”

  “He’s an interesting character, you know.”

  “I never doubted it.”

  “Anyway, he showed me some of his own work which, to be honest, was pretty old-fashioned stuff, though well crafted. And he was restoring something that looked to me like Mantegna.”

  “And you’re sure he was restoring it?”

  “Oh yes, he said so, and he told me about his early years in Rome when he was learning restoration from some old chap there. He kept saying things like, ‘If I’d only had a son like you,’ and stuff of that sort. A lot of artisans are that way, don’t you find? And even if they do have a son, the son usually couldn’t care less about learning a craft. No money in it these days. I felt sorry for him in a way, shut in that weird studio, seeing nobody. He seems to have no friends, no family.”

  “But it’s his own doing,” pointed out the Marshal.

  “I’m not so sure—well, in a way it is. It’s just that from one or two things he let drop I’ve an idea he’s not altogether to blame. He was put in an institution when he was nine, that’s one thing that came out—oh, he wasn’t complaining about it. On the contrary, he said he was happier there and that he’d been able to learn to draw.”

  “He was an orphan?”

  “No. Definitely not because he said he went back home to his parents—a father and stepmother, his own mother died when he was a tiny kid—when he was fourteen. I was the one who brought the subject of parents up. I still find it difficult to talk about my father without my hackles rising. What surprised me was that, even though they were friends, Benozzetti didn’t defend him.

  ‘Get away from them as soon as you can!

  That’s the thing to do. Get away.’

  “As if he’d quite forgotten my father was dead. Did you notice, when you met him, a weird scar round his ear?”

  “And a piece of the left ear missing.”

  “Of course, it’s your job to notice things … Anyway, he was ranting on about parents—he does rant, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “It would drive you nuts if you had to listen to him for any length of time. So, he went on and on until he was purple in the face and at the end he said, ‘Your father left you his studio. My father left me this!’ And he pointed at that scar. Then he went dead silent. I was pretty sure he wished he hadn’t let that out. He practically pushed me out the door after that. If you think about it, the scar, being taken away from his parents—a head injury like that might have made him—you know, odd. And it did cross my mind that maybe all those years he was in some sort of clinic. If
he blamed his father, maybe it was a road accident, something of that sort, and his father was responsible.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I can see by your face that you don’t feel any sympathy for him.”

  “No, no … It’s not—to tell you the truth, not long ago, I had a word with Dr. Biondini at the Palatine Gallery. I thought he might be able to throw a bit of light on your problem.”

  “And could he?”

  “He told me there’s no restorer in Florence by that name.”

  “By that … Benozzetti?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But surely he can’t prove that? I mean, my father knew him.”

  “I know. But that’s the point. To be specific, he said there was no restorer of that name at your father’s level. Those were more or less his words.”

  “But we know there is. We’ve both just talked to him. You’ve met him.”

  “We’ve talked to him. We don’t know that he’s a restorer.”

  “You mean you think he’s a forger!” Marco’s face reddened and he jumped away from the desk and began moving about the room, picking things up and putting them down in almost the same place. Then he stopped and looked the Marshal in the face, pushing a hand angrily through the hair that fell on his forehead.

  “I was the one to say it, wasn’t I? If it’s not stolen I’ll have to face up to the fact that it might be a forgery. I said it. D’you remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “And it’s true, only I didn’t want to face it. I still don’t want to face it because if this is a forgery it means …”

  “What does it mean, Marco? Is there something else you should have told me?”

  “What? No, of course not. It’s just that … There could have been others, couldn’t there? I mean, there wouldn’t be just this one …”

  “That’s not necessarily true.”

  “No, but … No. Oh God, I thought, I really thought I could go through with it and sell the wretched thing.” He looked at the picture now with hatred.

  “So, sell it.”

  “What?”

  “I told you I talked to Dr. Biondini. He said if you want to sell it, sell it. There’s nothing illegal about that.”

  “But you’ve practically said it’s a forgery.”

  “I don’t know whether it is or not but, apparently, provided you make no claims as to what it is no harm can come of it.”

  “But the auctioneers will make claims.”

  “Biondini says they can protect themselves. I don’t know how but I never heard of them ending up inside so you can assume it’s true. Is there a photograph?”

  “Of the painting? Yes. No … there will be. They kept it for their catalogue.”

  The Marshal said nothing, realizing that this implied a decision already taken, and Marco’s face darkened still more.

  “I don’t know. Once I’d seen Benozzetti and he seemed all right—besides, you’ve just said yourself I might as well sell it.”

  “That’s right,” the Marshal said blandly. “If you could let me have a copy of the photograph for Biondini he’d be grateful. He’s something of an expert on this painter so he’d like to see it. Just out of interest, you understand.”

  “All right. I’ll send it to you when I get it back. Don’t you think I should get him to look at the painting?”

  “That’s up to you. The auctioneers must have had it looked at already to have made their decision—though Biondini did say he’d also be interested to know who’d seen it. Someone from London, he thought it probably was.”

  He shifted his weight on the hard crate and spoke without looking the young man in the face, not wanting to embarrass him. “While our friend was letting things drop … he didn’t mention what might be in those two big safes he has there?”

  “The safes …” Marco’s mind seemed to be elsewhere. “Yes, I know what’s in them. He opened one of them while I was there.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes. It’s just stuff he works with, ground minerals—that sort of thing—for making colours.”

  “Colours …? In a safe hefty enough for a bank?”

  “Oh yes, it’s very valuable stuff. He showed me some lapis lazuli, that’s what was always used for the Virgin’s cloak, the most expensive blue in the world.”

  “Ah. And did he open the other safe, too?”

  “No, but that’s where he keeps his paintings—not his own, the ones he buys; he’s spent everything he earned in a lifetime on paintings. Well, you can see he has nothing else. He said—this sounds weird but I suppose it might be true—that he had an Etruscan bronze packed in a metal crate and buried behind the studio. There’s a bit of a garden there.”

  “Mmph.”

  “You don’t believe it? But remember the floor. He’s on the ground floor and in nineteen sixty-six he lost a fortune. What wasn’t damaged in the studio was destroyed in the vaults of a bank in safe deposit boxes. He hadn’t declared or insured the contents—that’s him!”

  The Marshal got up stiffly from his crate and waited hat in hand for Benozzetti’s entrance. He didn’t intend to stay long. There was no doubt in his mind that Benozzetti would tell Marco more than he would tell him. Even so, he was curious to see the man outside of his lair, in a more mundane setting. Not to mention watching his face as he looked at the portrait. Whether Benozzetti would be equally eager to see the Marshal again was another matter. Oddly enough, it seemed as if he were delighted.

  “Well, well! The knowledgeable Marshal! So we’re to have your opinion, too. Perfect!”

  And there wasn’t a trace of irony in his voice. They shook hands without the Marshal opening his mouth. Benozzetti seemed bigger and more impressive than ever—perhaps because the room was small—and more elegant than ever, perhaps in contrast to Marco in his layers of shabby sweaters. Remembering the deathly cold in that great studio, the Marshal decided there was no danger of his suffering from the cellar-like chill in this windowless room.

  As imperceptibly as he could manage, the Marshal stepped back from the waft of perfume the man carried with him, a vain attempt in such a small space. He never took his gaze from Benozzetti’s face and was fascinated to see that though he was directly in front of the painting he didn’t once look at it. There might have been a blank space where the easel stood and the glittering eyes slid around it in search of something else to fix on. They fixed on a photograph in a silver frame on the wall beyond the easel and he walked past the painting to look.

  “Ha! Do you know who the man on your father’s left is?”

  Marco went closer. “No. I know the senator but not that man.”

  “He’s a famous London dealer. Very famous. I’ve done a great deal of business with him myself.”

  “I never met him. I didn’t live with my father, so—I’m sorry there’s nowhere to sit.”

  But Benozzetti was clearly in no mood for sitting. He shifted jerkily about the room, looking at drawings, boxes of inks, the computer.

  “You need money. You must set up this studio properly. In a suitable style for receiving clients. This won’t do.”

  He waved a manicured hand at the general mess.

  In his left hand he was carrying a hat, the old-fashioned sort that men had worn in the forties and fifties but which nobody wore now. It looked new and expensive and exactly matched his heavy dark-blue overcoat. He was, of course, old fashioned in everything, as much in his ideas as in his clothes.

  Marco pushed a hand into the pocket of his jeans and reddened a little.

  “It’s what I intend to do. That is, if I can sell this painting.”

  “Sell it.”

  “You think it’s genuine?”

  “Of course it’s genuine. Your father was slightly less of a fool than others of his kind. It’s a good painting. Sell. Sell. What does the Marshal here think you should do?”

  “He says sell.”

  “There you are then! It’s an excellent painting. The Marche
se Anna Caterina Luisa dei Gherardini as Flora. It’s perfect. Sell. You need the money.”

  He looked feverish, the Marshal thought, and too agitated to be confined in one room. There was nothing left for him to fix his snake’s eyes on except the Marshal or the painting.

  “I have to leave. I have a great deal to do.”

  “Of course.” Marco moved to open the door for him. “The auction—”

  “I’ll be there.”

  He left without saying goodbye to the Marshal, agitation having overcome his manners. The Marshal stood quietly where he was, watching. He noticed that Benozzetti put on his hat well before he was out the door and that he pulled it slightly to the left, covering part of the scar tissue and casting a shadow over the damaged ear. Perhaps not just old fashioned, then.

  He also noticed, though he made no comment on it to Marco as he in his turn took leave, that Benozzetti had not once mentioned the name of Antonio Franchi, and not once had he looked at the painting.

  “Oh, Salva, no!”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “But at Christmas!”

  “It’s not my fault and I don’t see the use in talking about it.”

  “You don’t see the use in talking about it? The first time since the day we met that we’ve been separated at Christmas? Even when I was still down home and you were here? And you don’t see the use in talking about it?”

  Teresa had every intention of talking about it, and at length. The boys were out doing a little secret Christmas shopping in the square. That was a strategic mistake on his part. He should have made his announcement when they were in, because she disapproved of quarrelling in front of the children. But then, he hadn’t been expecting a quarrel. He’d been expecting sympathy and couldn’t for the life of him understand what he’d done to deserve all this anger.

  “Why can’t somebody else take your place? Somebody who has their family here and won’t be alone?”