by Noah Charney
It’s time, thought Coffin, as he tucked his phone into his inside breast jacket pocket. Here I am, at last. He stopped moving, as his eyes ran over the shimmering fluorescent sight stretched out before him. He cleared his throat, before he spoke.
“Ten chocolate truffles, please, and two chocolate éclairs.”
“Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio was born in the town of Caravaggio, near Milan, in 1571. Yes, Fiona, Milan is where Prada comes from. Now are there any real questions, you sinking bollards?”
Professor Simon Barrow wielded his enthusiasm before a group of his bemused, disaffected, tragically hip, apathetic survey students in a green-velvet-walled room of the National Gallery in London. At least, that was how he thought of them. Thirty-three numbskulls and one professor.
“Apprenticed in 1584 to Milanese painter Simone Peterzano…no, you don’t need to spell the name correctly to receive full credit, Manolo…he moved to Rome in 1588, and worked in the studio of Cavaliere d’Arpino, as a specialist in painting fruit and flowers. In the 1590s, Caravaggio found patronage with wealthy and influential and flamingly homosexual orgiastic cardinals, not that there is anything wrong with that, if that is your cup of tea, including Cardinal Del Monte, his greatest sponsor.
“With the help of his patrons, Caravaggio began to receive important commissions from churches. But his highly naturalistic style, and radical interpretation of the biblical scenes depicted, resulted in the rejection of many of his altarpieces as ‘indecorous,’ which basically means that they didn’t look the way the commissioners were expecting them to. These rejections proved financially lucrative, as private buyers snatched up Caravaggio’s wildly popular paintings for more money than the churches were offering.”
Barrow pranced back and forth in front of a row of dark chiaroscuro oil paintings, all by the artist in question.
“Caravaggio’s life was punctuated by encounters with the police, violence, and drama. He not only did not have pupils, unlike most artists of his time, but he threatened to kill those who emulated his style. In May of 1606, Caravaggio killed an opponent in a duel, ostensibly over a game of tennis, although it is more likely a territorial fight between two rival street gangs, of which Caravaggio was a pugnacious member.” Barrow now displayed inept fencing postures to illustrate his story. Some students giggled but none turned away their attentions. “He was wounded badly in the swordplay involved and fled Rome to avoid prosecution for murder. He worked in Naples, until he was imprisoned for quarreling with a supervisor. He escaped prison and spent time in Malta before moving to Sicily in 1608. When he returned to Naples in 1609, he was attacked by hired thugs and disfigured, his face cut up beyond recognition.
“Expecting a papal pardon for his homicide of 1606, Caravaggio left Naples in June of 1610, only to be arrested, mistakenly, at Port’Ercole…yes, bad luck indeed, although throughout it seems as though he was asking for it. Caravaggio once threatened to kill a waiter at his favorite neighborhood bar because he didn’t like the way his artichokes were boiled, so he’s not the most sympathetic of characters. He was released after this arrest. But while he’d been detained, his only earthly possessions remained on the boat on which he’d been traveling. The boat and his possessions, including some paintings, were now several days’ journey farther along. Caravaggio set off on foot to retrieve his belongings but contracted a malignant fever en route and died, never knowing that his pardon had come through, only a short time before.”
Barrow was lost in the story, his face ever redder, his back-and-forth pace quickening, spinning often to gesticulate wildly at the paintings on the wall behind him.
“He should not be pitied, however…so wipe that tearful look off your face, Nadja…as his lifetime of confrontation was self-inflicted and cultivated by his personality. Caravaggio’s creed was inscribed on the hilt of his sword, which he carried, though it was illegal to do so: ‘Without hope, without fear.’ Rather, as you tempestuous teenagers might say, ‘bad-ass,’ is it not? Though his life was tumultuous, and his art shocking, he was one of the most revolutionary, influential painters in the history of art.”
Barrow had not, at first, noticed that the three dark-suited men now stood at the back of the room in the National Gallery, waiting. They now caught his attention, and his discourse slowed to a halt.
“To the next room, you children of the corn! Come on now. There will be plenty of time to download illegal music later on, while you’re rolling doobies and watching the television. Nuggets, my children! I have nuggets of knowledge, fragments of wisdom that, when amassed, run the risk of rendering you intelligent. I have them to give to you, for the modest sum of your educational fees and attention. But I suppose that sniffing glue and breasts is a more interesting pastime.”
All of Barrow’s students were paying full attention, but this did not seem to dampen his momentum. They came to a stop in front of a large painting that stretched the length of a wall, with two figures in it, painted life-size.
“Fifteen thirty-four. This is The Ambassadors by Hans Holbein. Had any of you goobers done the reading, you would know that. But that’s like asking a monkey to stop picking his nose and write Hamlet. Nathan Donne, are you paying attention!?
“Paintings hold secrets. Why do we study art? Or rather, I should ask, why do I talk art at you, under the dismaying misapprehension that anything I say is absorbed? Because I firmly believe that universal truths about the human condition are embedded into great works of art. Whether or not the artist is aware, these are painted passions. History: political, social, artistic, literary, religious, philosophical, psychological, emotional…it’s all in there. You want love and sex and death? Hell, that’s all there is in these paintings! The secrets are caught like beasts in a tar pit, struggling to get out, leaning out to you, the viewers, the students, like buried treasure with the glint of gold just beckoning below the surface. So, you turkeys, take the hand that reaches out to you!”
A voice from the crowd of students called out: “We are listening! Start teaching us something already!”
“Right. Holbein was the court painter to King Henry VIII of England, the fat one with all the wives. Know why he was a fatty? He had a horrible skin disease the name of which I can’t recall, that resulted in nasty scabby things on his legs that made it painful for him to walk. So he had to be carried about, and this lack of exercise caused him to, shall we say, aggrandize. But that’s as may be. Holbein was Flemish, as you’ll recall, if I’m exceedingly lucky, from past classes on Northern Renaissance painting, so this style should not be unfamiliar. Remember van Eyck? Well this painting, too, is full of disguised symbolism!”
They’re still at the back of the room, Barrow noted, but they haven’t moved. They’re just standing there. What the hell do they want now? Shit shit shit shit shit.
“This painting was commissioned by the two gentlemen portrayed on either side of this two-tiered table full of strange instruments and implements. The fellow on the left was the French political ambassador, and this gentleman on the right was the French religious ambassador, close friends representing France at Henry’s court in England. This is, at first glance, a double portrait to commemorate a friendship. But there is much more that is hidden. Look deeper.
“The table at the center of the painting has two tiers. The top tier contains instruments for measuring the heavens: an astrolabe, celestial globe, telescope, and so on. The lower tier contains terrestrial instruments, both of music and of measurement. A terrestrial globe, a piece of music, and what is this bulbous instrument? Yes, Cathal, thank you for your contribution. It is, indeed, a lute. So, the painting is divided into celestial and terrestrial, Heaven and Earth. But that’s not the true subject of the painting. That’s merely the means of conveyance. Come up close to the painting, and look at the strings of the lute. See? One of the strings is broken. If you played this lute, it would sound off, discordant. Therefore, there is discord on the terrestrial realm. See where I’m going?”
/> A shout came from the crowd: “No.”
“Right, well, shut up then. Discord on Earth, peace in the Heavens. We need another clue, maybe. Here it is. This piece of music displayed has been identified as a composition by Martin Luther. Urska, would you care to guess at the subject of this painting, based on the aforementioned clues?”
Urska stared at the painting. She has the loveliest eyes, thought Barrow. Then his glance swung to the back of the room. Shit.
Urska spoke. “Didn’t Henry VIII break from the Catholic church and start the Church of England, or something? So, like, maybe because Luther was breaking from the Catholic church, too, around the same time, then the painting is about the discord on Earth over little details about Christianity, but in the Heavens everything is still okay? The problem is the interpretation of Christianity on Earth.”
Barrow smiled. “You’re, like, absolutely right. Well done! You get a cookie. That is exactly the subject of this painting. But before you all waddle off to eat fast food and smoke those doobies, there is one other trick to this painting. I want you all to look at this white squiggly blurry shape painted below the table, at the bottom center of the painting. Doesn’t look like much of anything, does it? Now, I want you all to walk to your right, to the painting’s left, and keep your eyes locked on that white shape there.”
The mass of students slowly shifted to their right, curling toward the wall alongside the large painting, eyes focused on the amorphous white mass painted at the bottom center. The formless form at the bottom of the painting slowly morphed—into a perfectly shaped white skull.
“Holy shit,” said Nathan, amid a sea of similar exclamations. “That is so damn cool.”
“Holy shit, indeed. Eloquently put. This is a little trick called anamorphosis. Holbein is particularly clever, as he toys with the fact that his name means “hollow bone” or “skull.” Anamorphosis is a mathematical painter’s trick, in which a form is painted in such a way that it may only be seen clearly from one extreme angle. This white blob turns into a perfectly proportioned skull. It is thought that this painting was displayed in a narrow hallway, so it would be approached from the left, an angle from which the skull looks formless. As you walk in front of the painting, then turn back toward it, you can see the skull. It is a memento mori, remembrance that you will die, so you should be good and religious and stuff. So the path of walking past this painting mirrors one’s lifespan. Initially death is not considered, but near the end of one’s life, death’s-head is just over your shoulder, staring at you from behind…”
Barrow interrupted himself, as he saw the three suited men break from their station at the back of the room, and walk toward him.
“Uh, I think that’s enough for today, students…turkeys. I…we’ll see you next, whenever.”
The students wandered off. Barrow inhaled deeply and took a step toward the three men.
“Gentlemen,” he exhaled, “how may I…”
“It’s just this,” said one of them. Barrow was not sure which. An envelope was held out to him. “For you.”
Barrow looked down at the plump envelope. He swallowed. “If this is a severed hand, I’ll be very disappointed.” They did not smile.
He looked from the faces of the men back down to the envelope. He took it in his reddened, moist hands and pulled open its lips. It was stuffed full of bristling twenty-pound notes. Barrow quick-shut the envelope, and his eyes. He took a deep breath.
“Thank you, gentlemen.”
“With warmest regards and thanks from our mutual employer.” They turned and slowly walked away. Barrow looked around the room and shoved the envelope into his inside breast pocket. No one had seen. He pressed the bulge over his heart with his hand.
Barrow looked over his shoulder at The Ambassadors behind him. The skull seemed to stare back. What the hell are you looking at? Barrow thought. He turned away from the painting and moved toward the exit.
Barrow wore his smile like a crown of thorns.
CHAPTER 31
Irma looked up at Harry. He hadn’t heard. Then she looked to the phone, as it rang a second time, then to Harry, then back to the phone, then to her plate of shepherd’s pie, then to the phone again. She lurched her way out of her chair and shuffled to it.
“Hello? That’s right. One moment please, luv.” She cupped the phone to her copious breast. “Harry, luv, it’s for you.”
Harry craned his eyes free from their gaze out the window into the sunset evening and looked long toward his smiling wife. He took the phone. “Yuh. That’s right. What…who is this? How did you get this…But, I…right. Is that so? Hmmm. But…” Then just the dial tone.
“Wrong number?” Irma smiled. Harry didn’t respond.
“I’ll be in the living room,” she continued, as she rolled out of the kitchen.
Ten minutes later, Harry had his coat perched through his left arm, the rest of it dragging along the floor behind him. He tripped over his right sleeve halfway through the living room, where Irma was watching Coronation Street and eating salt-and-vinegar crisps. The right corner of her crisped lip rose ever so slightly, as Harry stopped between her and the television.
“So, I get this call from an anonymous source, no idea how he got the number or knows about the case, and he says that he’s seen something that we should see, we being me, and I’m going out.” Harry paused. “You don’t look very impressed.”
“I’m just wondering who this fellow was, phoning you up out of the blue like that, and telling you this. Is there some reward?”
“No.”
“Then why would he tell you?”
“Why shouldn’t he?”
“But why should he?”
Harry scowled. “Come on, Irma, maybe he’s just a good Samaritan. There are plenty of…”
”…But didn’t you keep this out of the paper, to protect the museum?”
“Yes. What about it?” Harry was struggling to shrug his right sleeve over his right arm, but it resisted. Then he realized that he was standing on the tail of his coat.
“How was he to know about it?” Irma scraped her plate and ran water across it in the sink beneath the dry yellow fluorescent light that clung to the glowing underside of the cupboards, like a radioactive centipede.
“About what?” Harry had extricated his sleeve from beneath his heel and now was having difficulty with the coat’s shimmering coffee-colored lining, which hung, a corner ripped out and dragging on the linoleum floor.
“He must have been involved in the investigation, if he knew about it and it was confidential.”
Harry’s mustache wiggled, as he glared in Irma’s general direction, though not at her.
“And I don’t like you going out at night by yourself.”
“Well, you’re not coming.”
“I don’t want to come. But why can’t you take someone with you?”
Harry looked hurt. His eyes told.
Irma looked away. “Can’t you at least wait until…”
Harry spun dramatically, swirling the tail of his coat, now tattered, and brushed through the front door. A moment later, his mustache poked back through the door, followed immediately by the rest of his head.
“You may be right, but I don’t have to like it,” he said, before finally effecting egress.
Out in the street, the sour smell of food wrappers and blackened dust and cigarette ends and fish oil radiated up from the still-wet ground, dappled in the smoldering tobacco burn of remaining sunlight. The rain had stopped for the moment, but he was halfway down the block before Harry realized that he’d forgotten his umbrella. I’ll be damned if I’m going back in there for it, he thought, as he approached the bus stop.
It would have made far more sense for Harry Wickenden to have taken a cab, but so many years of repeated movements had rendered them automatic. Every morning at 7:20, Harry turned right out of his building and walked to the corner, then turned left for another hundred or so meters, until he reached the bus s
top. There were two buses, the 45 and the 29, which would take Harry to his office at New Scotland Yard. But no matter which came first, he always took the 45. Now that Harry was leaving from his home at—he checked his ten-pound gold Rolex watch, 7:45 in the evening, and was not destined for the office, he wasn’t quite sure what to do. The 111, like some hunch-backed fire truck, arrived and he boarded.
Harry had a way of boarding buses. The short black man, or was he Indian, thought Harry, did not look at him, but just stood, ticket machine hung and slung before him, in that dark blue woolly sweater. Harry paid him no mind and immediately mounted the precipitous torqued staircase along the bus’s inside hindquarters. On his way up, the bus started to move, and he was pressed against the wall, the curling metal handle at the small of his back. At the top of the stairs, he bent his knees against the push-back and walked all the way to the front.
Harry sought the front left top-deck seat. He had once forcibly removed a five-year-old boy from that seat in order to claim it. He particularly liked the seat during rainstorms. The slashing lashes of water against the window, Harry warm and dry within, reminded him of a favorite memory:
Harry, perhaps seven or nine, sat on the gray-carpeted floor, between his mother’s ankles, as she sat in the chair above him, his back to her. He stared out the window at an overzealous drainpipe that shuddered out water from the roof above and created a miniature waterfall, just for him, amidst the reverberant rainfall outside, as his mother rolled her fingers through his wheaty hair, along the measure of his scalp, and the sound of the rain, like a million teardrops on the thick glass, and everything was beautiful.
Harry emerged from the moist-leathery bus and stepped onto the pavement. He hailed a cab. The brakes squealed. He got in.
Fifteen minutes later, Harry was standing in a valley of warehouses that looked like dormant moths crouched in neat rows beneath the cotton-mouth sky. As far as he could see in either direction, the identical red-doored, dull gray structures rippled into the distance. A grumble from above the clutch of clouds made Harry wish he’d brought his umbrella. He buttoned his dilapidated trench coat across his Buddha-like belly.