by Janet Pywell
‘Ah, so it wasn’t a painting you had to collect but a priceless statue that had originally belonged to Michael.’
‘It was stolen at the end of the war.’ I couldn’t bring myself to say Michael had stolen it and that Michael was a thief. ‘Europe was in a mess and a team, that he called the Monuments Men, were sent from England and America with the invading troops to preserve and record damage to the cultural sites.’
‘Yes, the Monuments Men. I believe they began in Italy, in Sicily…’
‘They went all over Europe. They tracked art stolen from France sent from Paris by train, and toward the end of the war they discovered a big repository in Germany. That was at the beginning of April, in nineteen forty-five. Their attention was so taken with this discovery that these four boys, who were in the British Army, had the opportunity to steal this treasure.’
‘Where did they steal it from?’
‘Dieter said it had been hidden by the locals.’
‘How convenient.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It sounds as if there was a war to be won and these men had time to go off treasure hunting.’
‘I am repeating what Dieter told me. Why are you so sceptical? Michael and Terry were medics. I suppose the other two were drivers. I don’t know. I didn’t ask. I just listened.
‘When I told him that Seán’s leg was in plaster Dieter said it was no accident. He knew who I was, and he stuffed the Golden Icon into my bag and grabbed my breast.’
‘Ah, the old dog fondled you?’ He nods at my breast. ‘He has taste.’
I ignore him. I tell him how I ran to the hotel and phoned Seán. ‘Barbara answered Seán’s mobile. She could barely speak. The next thing I know I hear William’s voice telling me Seán had been shot. It was the evening of Michael’s funeral,’ my voice chokes.
Raffaelle takes my hand in his and brings my fingers to his lips. ‘You still love him, cara,’ he says.
‘Who?’
‘Seán.’
‘No! I don’t.’ I snatch my hand away. ‘But I am worried Raffaelle. He was killed in a burglary. The murderer took a fake Turner that was hanging in the study. Dieter told me Maximilian is after the Golden Icon. Once he knew Michael had it and that he was trying to sell it, to pay off Seán’s debts, their fate was sealed.’
‘I hardly imagine an old man breaking into Seán’s home.’
‘He has a nephew.’ My voice sounds lame. ‘Called Ian, who imports girls from Eastern Europe to be prostitutes. He told me that Maximilian threatened Michael once before when Seán and William were small, and that he set their house alight. William has a terrible scar across his forehead that he got in the fire.’
‘So?’
‘So it means Dieter isn’t lying.’ I lean across the table. ‘Can’t you understand? He’s telling the truth. Don’t you see? It means that Maximilian will kill to get the Golden Icon.’
‘So, amore, tell me.’ Raffaelle leans forward and looks deep into my eyes. His hidden laughter is taunting me. ‘Where is the Golden Icon now?’
I hesitate.
A blackbird hops onto a gnarled wisteria branch and the murmur of radio voices comes from the kitchen. ‘I left it in a locker in the train station in Munich,’ I lie.
‘You did what?’ His words come out in a rush and he leans back in his chair.
‘I need you to believe me,’ I say truthfully. I want Raffaelle to take me seriously before I show him the evidence.
He sighs.
‘Please Raffaelle, this is important. I need you to believe what I am saying.’
My mobile phone rings from inside the villa.
There is the hoot of a horn beyond the garden gate, a squeal of brakes and a cry of angry voices.
‘Of course, I believe you.’
‘Good.’ I release my breath. I stand up and go inside the villa to get the Golden Icon. I am relieved Raffaelle believes me. It is important that he trusts what I have told him but when I am in the bedroom my mobile rings again and so I answer it.
‘Josephine? I got your message. Are you home?’ says Cesare.
‘Ciao, I got home a few hours ago. I am with Raffaelle.’
‘It is your big day on Monday,’ he says. ‘You will be singing before a panel of the most important people in Italy. At our last rehearsal you were distracted and you were taking sneaky breaths,’ he pauses.
‘I did vocalise…’
‘This is about opera. It is not just music. You need the emotion. You need to feel the sensation, and for every note - you must have intonation.’
‘I know. I…’
‘Josephine, there is no time left. On Monday you audition. I will see you there promptly at eleven. It has taken me a long time to persuade these men that you have changed and that you are not the diva you once were. I have told them you are serious. I have told them you are dedicated to your art again. Please don’t be late and please - please don’t let me down.’
‘I won’t. I’ll be there.’
‘No talking. Go home. Leave Raffaelle. You need to be alone. You need to focus. Go to your own apartment and rest your voice.’
‘Thank you, Cesare.’
‘Don’t thank me, you haven’t got the part yet.’
I take my heavy bag into the garden where Raffaelle is sipping Prosecco.
‘That was Cesare,’ I say.
‘He is very frustrated with you. Go home. Get some rest. I am going to paint. There is a piece that I want to finish. I have been painting late into the night and I am tired too.’
My bag weighs heavy in my hand. Now is not the moment to reveal the Golden Icon or to take the creased photograph from my pocket. I must do as Cesare says and focus. I will need all my energy for my audition. I must rest. I will be Tosca. I will do it for Michael. I will sing for him again.
Raffaelle walks me to the gate. ‘I am thinking that I may exhibit my work. There is a new gallery opening in Milan and they want to come and see my new collection. They have heard about my work and are very encouraging.’
‘Are you still mixing your techniques, using the principle of old Masters with surrealism and modern technology?’ He’d painted copies of Vermeer and Caravaggio’s work then added iPods and iPads in the hands of the people in the paintings. I remember one vividly: David with the Head of Goliath wearing headphones.
He laughs. ‘You remember?’
‘Of course. I like the idea.’
‘Even though I can copy old masters easily, I like to use my art to stimulate the mind not to gratify the eye, but sometimes I think my career would have been more successful if I was a forger of old masters instead of trying to do something original each time.’
‘You would miss the creativity.’ I place my hand on his cheek.
‘You don’t think forgers are creative?’
‘They wouldn’t be as talented as you.’
He smiles at me. He is almost fifty-five. His tanned face is deeply lined. ‘It would seem that we are both reviving our career after a few dormant years. Let’s hope we are successful.’ As he kisses me I see a half open packet of cigarettes hanging out of his shirt pocket.
On Sunday morning, I shower and throw clothes into the washing machine. Once my apartment is organised, I tuck the Golden Icon out of sight beside the foot pedals of my piano, and focus.
I am Tosca.
I run through my exercises, breathing techniques and concentrate on my vocalisation. I do not hurry, instead I empty my head of the past days and create energy and spirit into my being. I am born to sing. This is my life. My role. I have played Tosca more times than can I remember - all over the world - in some of the finest theatres.
But when my confidence wavers and I think of my mistakes; my past and my secret. I am nervous. So, I block my thoughts, my emotions and feelings. It was always second nature to me, and although it should be easy, I struggle because of the recent events and the emotions they have stirred in me.
It is almost five in the after
noon when I sit on the terrace and stare at the lake below. Several speedboats, a small fishing boat and two jet-skis cross on the water leaving a wash in their wake. The sky is cloudless, the air warm and a comforting aroma of garlic wafts up from the apartment below. I hear my neighbour’s hushed voices and I am comforted by their presence.
I live in an old villa at the back of the village. It is divided into four apartments with high ceilings and wide windows. My duplex apartment is upstairs. The other one beside me is rarely occupied. The owners, Alfredo and Luisa are a young couple, busy with their business and they only venture from Rome once a year, usually in September. There are two apartments on the ground floor.
My terrace is spacious and large enough for a wooden table and six chairs, two sun-beds with thick, soft mattresses and an assortment of flowers: sweet jasmine, bougainvillaea and geraniums. Below the railing I have a view of the cobbled street that leads down to the bakery, the small supermarket, and to the main square with the fountain.
Opposite me is a palazzo with a trimmed lawn and palm trees that have an air of authority over the working garden below. A tangled hosepipe lays draped over each terraced segment and tomatoes supported by bamboo canes ripen on vines and, rows of lettuces, pink radishes and cucumbers grow in neat rows.
Above, are several apartment blocks, a car park and a pathway that leads to the woods and to my favourite place, the Chiesa della Madonna dei miracoli - the Church of the Madonna of Miracles.
I often watch the tourists in the early morning heading down to the village and returning with fresh bread or croissants from the bakery. The pathway is steep, sometimes at a forty-five degree angle but steps by the wall make the walk easier.
I prop my bare feet on a chair and place the score for Tosca on my lap. My annotations in pencil are in the margin and I know that at my age this is probably my last chance but I cannot concentrate. The past few days are whirling through my mind.
I berate myself for having written to Michael but I was young and in love. My marriage to Seán had been a sham and it was Michael who had loved me more deeply than anyone, before or since. What we had was special. I must block out what happened. I must focus.
But it is Dieter’s voice that I hear constantly and cannot keep out of my mind.
Maximilian will kill to get it.
Seán is dead, Michael is dead.
What do I do with it? It was made by the Vatican, given to the Irish and stolen by British soldiers. Why did Michael steal it? How well did I really know him?
Who does it belong to now?
I must make amends for what Michael did. I don’t want him to be a thief. I must do the right thing.
What is the right thing to do?
I consider my options. In theory it belonged to Michael who wanted it to go to Seán, now they are both dead so it makes sense that it should go to Barbara so that she can pay off Seán’s debts and continue living in their home. It will inadvertently go to his children and his heirs. Should I tell Barbara? Would that be the right thing to do? But then, didn’t Seán say she was a bitch?
I tap the score with my pencil. I write in the margin: Barbara.
If it is stolen, which I know it was, then this is a police matter.
Maybe I should give it to the police. But the Chief of Police is Santiago Bareldo. He is Glorietta Bareldo’s brother and he lives in Comaso.
Santiago has always been polite to me but there have been undercurrents in his behaviour that make me uncomfortable. Glorietta is my opera rival but she was also Raffaelle’s partner for ten years before I arrived, and since they separated Santiago and Raffaelle have not remained friends. I am under no illusion to think that Santiago would help me or do me any favours. I must be careful with him. He has not become a police inspector for nothing. He has a reputation for being alert and shrewd.
I write in the margin: Santiago
On the other hand, I reason, if it was stolen during the War then there must be a legal government department who investigate these things like a modern day Monuments Men department.
I write: MM
I tap my pencil. If it was made by the Vatican then maybe it belongs to them, but would that be the Church or the State?
I write underneath: The Vatican, and underneath that, Italian government.
I fetch my laptop and Google the Golden Icon.
There are no photographs and information is scant. I find a couple of articles that tells me it went missing during the war from the St. Gertrude’s convent in 1944, presumably taken by the Nazis for Hitler’s private museum collection and never recovered. That is different to what Dieter told me. He told me that it had been smuggled to Cleves and it had been hidden by the local people to stop it from falling into the hands of the Nazi’s.
There is an article tucked away on an Irish website saying there are no photographs of the Golden Icon, and it is only a myth and a rumour, and that it does not exist but I cannot find the author’s name.
I Google the price of gold. A one kilogram gold bullion bar cost approximately thirty-four thousand euro, but the Golden Icon would be worth considerably more. I estimate it to weigh about six kilos. But I know it is priceless.
Flicking through more websites and reading more accounts in historical archives I discover an account written by an Irish historian, Seamus Donnelly from Galway. He wrote to the Irish Government in nineteen twenty-nine to insist they demanded the return of the Golden Icon from the nuns. That was ten years before World War Two started. On further investigation, I read that the nuns and the Dutch government ignored the correspondence from Ireland and Seamus Donnelly died in nineteen thirty-one.
I fear I have come to a dead end until I trawl a Dutch newspaper and find an article in nineteen thirty-nine, stating Cardinal Giuseppe, on behalf of the Cellite Sisters, denied the Golden Icon was in the convent.
In the margin, I add Irish government to my list. Then Dutch government with a question mark.
Clara Fey, was born eighteen fifteen and died eighteen ninety-four, she started the Cellite Sisters with a few friends but it tells me nothing about the Golden Icon. I remember Dieter’s story that a young orphan girl stole the Golden Icon from her Cardinal Uncle, and escaped from Ireland. And, I believe, that if this convent also acted as a hospital, it may be where the young girl died of Typhus. I don’t know her name and I make a note to find out more, perhaps in historical archives or there may be an official record in the convent.
A few hours later I am still sitting on my terrace with the same question revolving in my head, round and round like a twirling baton; it goes up in the air and is tossed around and my logic fails me. I am getting nowhere.
Who does it belong to? I tap my pencil.
Michael, I think, why did you get into this mess? Was it for money? Are you really a thief? Are you just as greedy as your son and I never realised?
I look at my watch.
There may be one man who can help me.
I dress quickly, pick up my travel bag, lock the downstairs wooden communal door behind me and step into the street. The back steps lead down a narrow stone passageway directly to the quay, so I can avoid the fountain square where the locals and tourists gather in the early evening for a chilled glass of Prosecco.
Traffic is backed up on the main bend, and horns are hooting furiously. I dodge the cars and motorbikes, all heading south back to Milan. I hurry past the moored fishing boats, stepping over nets laid out in the sun and head toward the church.
Evening mass has ended and the congregation are making their way outside. The older widowed women still dress in black, young children rush into the sunlight, and couples nod and smile to neighbours.
Mayor Angelo, shakes my hand, and when he turns away I ask his wife. ‘How is Angelo feeling? Is he still off the alcohol?’
‘Yes, and he’s feeling much better for it,’ she replies. Their children are running around and she calls them to her.
Santé from the Farmacia grabs my elbow. ‘Good l
uck for tomorrow,’ she whispers.
Ingrid, wife of Dimitri, the village butcher smiles across the pews and waves. I raise my hand mouthing I will see her next week.
Paulino the young beauty therapist admonishes me. ‘You forgot your appointment with me last Friday,’ she complains. ‘It was one of my busiest days.’
‘I’m sorry, Paulino. I promise it won’t happen again.’
‘It’s not like you,’ she replies, then she is gone, sucked up in the crowd leaving church.
The aisle is empty. At the altar I pause to look at the Madonna, I bless myself and turn at the sound of a door opening.
‘Padre Paolo?’
‘Josephine.’ He kisses me on both cheeks. He is dressed in his robes. ‘How lovely to see you.’
‘I need to speak to you, Padre.’ My voice is tired and husky.
‘Should you not be at home resting for tomorrow?’
‘I’m flattered you remember my audition.’
His brown eyes narrow in concern and he smiles generously. ‘Come, let’s sit here. You look tired.’ He takes me gently by the elbow and leads me to a pew a few rows from the front. ‘Is this comfortable or would you prefer the confessional?’
‘No. That won’t be necessary. Here is fine.’ I clear my throat.
We sit for a few minutes silently. Patience is his virtue for it gives me time to think before I speak and I try to form my words carefully. ‘Padre, have you ever heard of a Golden Icon?’
He blinks his eyelashes that are long and fair, then he stares into the distance. Not at the stained glass window behind the altar or at the Madonna in front of us but at the wooden lectern from where he speaks to the congregation.
‘In what respect?’
‘A Golden Icon that was made by the Vatican back in the eighteen hundreds to finance an Irish Rebellion against the English.’
‘Is it important?’
‘I wondered if there was some way I could find out?’
‘It would perhaps be in the Vatican archives.’
‘It would?’
‘Of course. I believe all finances and treasures are recorded and itemised.’