Stolen Beginnings

by Susan Lewis

  ‘Signora Evans?’

  Both Marian and Bronwen looked up, squinting through their sunglasses, and Marian almost gulped when she saw the face of the man standing over them.

  ‘Er, Signor Rambaldi?’ Bronwen stammered, equally overcome by his magnificent looks. Stumbling to her feet, she held out her hand. ‘I am very pleaSed to meet you. This is my secretary, Marian Deacon, I hope you don’t mind if she sits in on the interview.’

  ‘Not in the least.’ And as he smiled Marian felt as though she were sinking in the compelling depths of his black eyes. ‘It is very hot here, no?’ he said, turning back to Bronwen, whose pale skin had already turned to an angry pink. ‘Maybe you would like to come to my studio, there it is a little cooler, I hope.’

  Bronwen snatched up her bag. ‘What a wonderful idea,’ she said, delving into her purse for the several thousand lire needed to tip their waiter.

  ‘It is not far from here,’ he told them, and as he glanced at Marian she was again affected by his overwhelming charisma.

  ‘I wouldn’t care if it was as far away as Venice,’ Bronwen said. ‘Anything to get out of this sun.’

  Laughing, he stood aside to let them out from the table, then guided them through the crowds in the direction of the Palazzo Torrigiani.

  In less than ten minutes they were in his studio, gazing wide-eyed at his remarkable paintings and drawings of details taken from fifteenth-century paintings.

  ‘Did you do all these?’ Marian asked, looking up from an easel that was supporting a charcoal sketch of Andrea del Sarto’s Charity.

  ‘Some,’ he answered, opening the window and pushing back the shutters. ‘Some were done by my students.’

  Marian and Bronwen exchanged looks, but as he turned round Marian moved on to study a Leonardo Madonna.

  ‘Are any of them Olivia’s work?’ Bronwen asked nonchalantly.

  He laughed and shook his head. ‘No. Once I have her work here, but now I have removed it.’

  ‘Oh?’

  As he answered he sat on the window ledge, then waved his arm in a gesture that told them to make themselves comfortable on what little furniture there was. ‘You understand, in the five years since Olivia was here I have many students. I cannot hang all their work, so I change things around each few months.’

  ‘Of course.’ Bronwen slipped her bag from her shoulder and settled on the arm of the voluminous chair that Marian had chosen. Marian had intended to perch on the edge of it, but had found herself sinking further and further to the ground so that now her head was on a level with Bronwen’s legs. She had never felt quite so absurd, especially since she was still wearing her hat.

  ‘Can I get you something to drink?’ Sergio offered. ‘I have fresh mango juice if you would like it.’

  ‘Sounds delicious,’ Bronwen answered. Incapable of stopping herself, she watched him as he walked out to the kitchen. ‘Have you ever seen such a gorgeous man?’ she whispered, turning to Marian. Then her eyebrows arched in astonishment. ‘Heavens above, cariad, what on earth are you doing down there?’

  ‘I think the springs have gone,’ Marian answered, ‘you wouldn’t like to give me a hand out, would you, while he’s not looking?’

  Trying to smother her laughter, Bronwen took Marian’s hands and hauled her out of the chair. ‘Sit on the other arm,’ she told her, ‘and listen carefully from now on, because I’m feeling decidedly awful and he’s our only real contact here in Florence.’

  ‘Will do,’ Marian nodded, as she balanced on the arm of the chair.

  When Sergio came back with the drinks he gave Marian a look of surprise, then smiled mournfully. ‘I am sorry. The chair, she is broken. Are you comfortable there?’

  ‘Oh yes, very,’ Marian assured him, then thanked him for the mango juice.

  ‘So you would like me to tell you what I know about Olivia,’ he said, resuming his position at the window. Both Marian and Bronwen were thinking the same thing – that with the light behind him it was impossible to see his face. And both wondered if that was his intention. ‘Where would you like me to begin?’

  ‘Why not start with what she was like as a student?’ Bronwen suggested. ‘I mean, was she a good artist?’

  ‘She was not outstanding, no. Though I think in America they thought so.’

  ‘Was she disciplined?’

  ‘On occasions. Sometimes her mind – her mind was not always with what she was doing.’

  ‘Would that be because she was taking drugs, or because she was maybe not as devoted to art as she made out?’

  ‘A little of both, I think. But no, it would have been the drugs. It was very sad, she took heroin, you know.’

  Bronwen nodded. ‘Can you tell us something about her class life? Who her friends were, where she went in the evenings – that sort of thing?’

  ‘The class life you will be welcome to see for yourself if you care to visit the Accademia,’ he answered. ‘As for her friends, she had many. They were mostly American, I believe. I can find in the records who they were, maybe they can help you to know where they go in the evenings.’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ Bronwen smiled, ‘it’ll be very helpful.’ She put a hand to her mouth to stifle a yawn. ‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised, ‘it’s the heat. We’ll be visiting the village where the American boy dropped her off while we’re here,’ she went on. ‘Do you know it at all?’

  ‘Paesetto di Pittore? Not well, I am afraid.’

  ‘So you haven’t got any idea why Olivia went there?’

  Sergio shrugged, and Marian turned to Bronwen. It was quite unlike Bronwen to put answers into the mouths of her interviewees, especially negative ones.

  Bronwen took a gulp of air and continued. ‘Can you paint us a picture of Olivia – in words, I mean; what she was like when she was in Florence, how she looked, how she behaved.’

  ‘Ah ha,’ he laughed, ‘I am not so good with the words, but I will try. She was very, how you say, statuesque? Yes, that is the word. Tall and upright, and her eyes often had the appearance of being alert, but that was the drugs. When she was coming down, as they say, then her eyes were . . . they were not so good to look at. She had blonde hair, very fine, and her face was very beautiful. Though sometimes not so beautiful, but again that was the drugs. But when she took the drugs, afterwards she was filled with life and energy. All the students wanted to be her friend. She was a little crazy and they like that.’

  ‘Crazy? How do you mean?’ Bronwen’s voice was thin, and when Marian turned to look at her she saw that she had turned a peculiar colour.

  ‘I mean crazy, like students are sometimes. She would do extraordinary things to her paintings, sometimes blasphemous things.’

  ‘Blasphemous? In what way?’

  ‘I would not like to tell you. After all, I am a Catholic and it was a profanity that I think is now best forgotten.’

  ‘I understand,’ Bronwen answered, then suddenly she lurched forward, clutching her stomach. ‘I’m sorry,’ she gasped, ‘but can I use your bathroom, I’m feeling a little . . .’

  ‘But of course.’ Sergio was immediately on his feet, and taking her by the shoulders, he guided her into an adjoining room.

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ she heard Bronwen mumbling, then a door slammed and Sergio came back into the studio.

  ‘It is probably the heat,’ he told Marian. ‘She should be sensible, like you, and wear a hat.’

  Marian smiled, then gazed awkwardly about the room. She wasn’t sure if this was some ploy of Bronwen’s, but she really had looked strange, and if she was ill, then perhaps she had better continue the interview alone. She asked Sergio if he had any objections.

  ‘Not at all,’ he answered, moving back to the window.

  ‘The blasphemous paintings,’ Marian reminded him. ‘Why do you think she did it?’

  ‘Again the drugs.’ He paused. ‘But that is too simple an answer. It was as if she wanted to paint something from her soul – to exorcise it, you underst
and?’

  Marian nodded.

  ‘I believe she was disturbed in some way. I cannot say how, but that is my opinion.’

  ‘Disturbed by something that had happened in New York, perhaps?’

  ‘Maybe. Yes, I think so.’

  Marian knew that if Art Douglas’s suspicions were right, and Sergio Rambaldi did know something about what had happened in New York, then she was approaching dangerous territory, so she smiled stupidly and said, ‘I wonder what it was. Perhaps she had a boyfriend over there and wanted to get back to him.’

  ‘It could have been that.’

  Marian shook her head. ‘No, that wouldn’t account for the blasphemy in her paintings, would it?’

  ‘It might, if he had broken her heart. Maybe she was feeling God had deserted her. A lot of people feel such anger when a lover lets them down.’

  Marian’s eyes grew large with feigned excitement. ‘Perhaps that’s it. It would make an interesting turn for the film, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I’m sure it would,’ Sergio laughed. ‘And with all the boyfriends she had here in Florence, maybe she was, how you say, on the rebound.’

  ‘She had a lot of boyfriends here, you say?’

  ‘Oh, very many. As I say, she was very beautiful. And exciting.’

  ‘I wonder where she is now,’ Marian mused. When he didn’t answer she made a pretence of pulling herself back to the present. ‘Are there any incidents you can think of that might make for a good scene for the film?’

  As Sergio searched his memory Marian wished she could see his face, but the sun was dazzling her eyes, making it impossible. But as he answered she could hear the laughter in his voice, and she listened intently as he told her about the night Olivia had come to his studio and told him she could not make love with him.

  ‘Had you asked her if she would?’ she enquired, then blushed as she realised the impertinence of the question. She started to apologise, but he interrupted.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I had,’ he admitted. ‘You see, I too was a little in love with Olivia. She had a very magnetic personality. Maybe that is another scene for your film, the time that I ask her to come to me. It happened in the Casa Buonarotti, while we were making sketches from Michelangelo’s Battle of the Lapiths and Centaurs. She was watching my hand as it moved over the paper, then she touched it and held it. Then she tell me that she is in love with me. I tell her that students often think that way about their tutor, but she insist that for her it is different. I am a man, you understand, it is not always easy to resist a woman, especially a woman like Olivia. I say to her that I would like to make love to her, and then we continue to sketch. It was two days after that she came to this apartment and said she could not do it. The lady who is like my wife was here, but she is used to students behaving like that with me. It is immodest of me to say so, but it does happen often.’

  Immodest or not, Marian was thinking, it’s hardly surprising. ‘Does the lady, your wife, know that you asked Olivia?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then wouldn’t it make things a little awkward for you if we were to put that in the film?’

  ‘Of course. But we will say that it is fiction to enrich the film, no?’

  Marian’s face broke into a smile as she nodded. ‘When you next saw Olivia, was it . . . ?’

  ‘I did not see her again,’ he interrupted. ‘Very soon after, I think one or two days, she disappeared.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Marian said pensively. Then, ‘Did you know that her father received a note telling him Olivia was alive?’

  ‘Yes. I read it in the newspaper.’

  ‘It was signed by someone with the initial A. Did you know any of her boyfriends? Did any of them have the initial A?’

  Again Sergio laughed. ‘It is a difficult question because many men have the initial A. Maybe when you go through the records of that year you can check to see.’

  They both turned as the door opened and Bronwen came in, looking pale and drained. ‘I do apologise,’ she said to Sergio, ‘it must be the heat.’

  ‘I am sure,’ he smiled. ‘Can I get you something?’

  ‘No, no, I’m feeling much better now. If you just carry on, I’ll join in where I can.’

  Sergio turned back to Marian. ‘We were speaking of Olivia’s boyfriends,’ he said, ‘and the initial A. Have you considered that the A may stand for a woman’s name?’

  As that had never occurred to her, Marian looked at Bronwen. ‘It is something we have discussed,’ Bronwen answered, ‘but the handwriting has been analysed by experts and all concerned believe it to be a man’s.’

  Sergio nodded. ‘But maybe you should not rule out the possibility it is a woman.’

  Though Marian still couldn’t see his face, she knew his eyes were fixed on Bronwen, and for no accountable reason she had the feeling that he was trying to lead her along the wrong track.

  ‘We are none of us keen to rule out anything,’ she told him, ‘but the note is something we won’t be putting into the film. It is too vague.’

  ‘I see.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I have soon to be back at the Accademia, so unless there is something else you would like to ask me . . .’

  ‘Only about when Olivia first arrived in Florence,’ Bronwen interrupted. She looked at Marian. ‘Unless you have already covered that?’

  Marian shook her head.

  ‘Did she come alone?’ Bronwen asked, turning back to Sergio.

  ‘As far as I know.’

  ‘Did she seem happy to be here?’

  ‘All I can say is that when she came to me, after the summer term already begins, she was very famous in America and I think she did not really want to be here.’

  ‘Because of her fame, you mean?’

  ‘I would say so.’

  ‘I wonder why she came, then?’ Bronwen said, giving Marian a bemused look. Then suddenly her face paled again, and she clenched her bottom lip between her teeth.

  ‘All I know is that she applied, late, but in the usual way. I confess before she came I had not heard of her, but now, of course, everyone in Italy has heard of her.’

  ‘But I thought Rubin Meyer had told you about her?’ Marian blurted out. Immediately her mouth snapped shut, and she couldn’t believe she had said it.

  Sergio smiled. ‘Rubin Meyer? I do not know Rubin Meyer. Does he say that he knows me?’

  ‘No, no,’ Marian assured him. ‘But I expect a man in his position must have heard of you. I just thought that he might have recommended Olivia to you – I mean, you to Olivia.’ She was thrashing wildly about in her mind. Did the others know that it had been Meyer’s suggestion that Olivia should go to Florence, or was it something Art Douglas had told her? Whichever it was, Sergio had denied knowing Rubin Meyer, just as Rubin Meyer, when they’d interviewed him, had claimed not to know Sergio. That was it, he had said that he didn’t know Sergio, but that naturally he had heard of him by reputation, and that was why he had recommended to Frank Hastings that Olivia should study under him for a time. So the others did know. However, Art Douglas had said that he was certain these two men were in some way involved in what had happened to Olivia – if they were not the very perpetrators of it.

  She knew she was in grave danger of betraying both herself and Art Douglas, and as she had made a pact with herself not even to think about it, she threw out her hands and laughed. ‘I’ve got things a bit muddled. Forgive me, I was thinking of something else.’ She groaned inwardly as she realised she was only making things worse.

  But as Sergio got to his feet she saw from his relaxed expression that he was in no way perturbed by what she had said, and she gave an audible sigh of relief. She watched him as he put a hand on Bronwen’s shoulder and his face broke into a smile of sympathy. ‘You should go back to your hotel,’ he said kindly.

  ‘Yes,’ Bronwen mumbled, ‘yes, I think you’re right. Thank you very much for seeing us. You’ve been a great help.’ She looked to Marian for confirmation and Marian nodded
.

  As he walked them to the door, Sergio said, ‘I have your name, it is Bronwen Evans.’ Then turning to Marian he said, ‘But I am afraid I have forgotten yours.’

  Marian looked up into his face. He was smiling urbanely, and as the smile washed over her it brought a spot of colour to each cheek.

  ‘Marian Deacon,’ she told him.

  He nodded. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Marian . . .’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Bronwen gasped when they were out on the street. ‘A man like that, and I have to go and chuck up in his bathroom. But I do feel terrible, cariad, I really do.’

  ‘Yes, you look pretty dreadful,’ Marian informed her. ‘Come on, let’s get you out of this heat as quickly as we can.’

  But their progress was slow as Bronwen was continuously engulfed by dizziness. ‘You’ll have to type all this up on your own tonight, Marian, do you mind?’ She howled as she was gripped by another wave of pain. ‘What was all that about Rubin Meyer?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ Marian said as she took Bronwen’s arm and walked her a little further down the street. ‘I just got confused, that was all.’

  ‘I think I’m in love with that man,’ Bronwen gasped. ‘What do you reckon he thinks of me?’

  ‘Depends what a mess you made of his bathroom.’

  ‘Oh, don’t make me laugh,’ Bronwen groaned . . .

  From the window of his studio Sergio watched them until they disappeared round the corner. Then he walked into the bedroom and picked up the phone.

  He didn’t have long to wait before the connection was made and a sing-song voice came over the line saying, ‘Meyer’s Gallery.’

  ‘Put me onto Rubin Meyer,’ he said.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s out right now. Can I take a message?’

  Sergio thought for a moment, then said, ‘Tell him to contact the bottega.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, can you spell that, please.’

  ‘The bottega,’ Sergio repeated, and hung up.

  Frank Hastings’ office was situated in the south wing of the penthouse suite at 55 Water Street, downtown Manhattan. His company occupied floors fifty-five to fifty-nine. They’d moved to this address three years ago from the corner of Wall Street and Broadway – the financial district of New York had well and truly broken its boundaries.