by Peter Watson
The next room was the factory shop. ‘With those brown eyes, I think green suits you better,’ David told her, and ordered a roll of the Verona green-earth silk.
Bess gripped his arm. ‘Oh David, what a great idea! I could make a shirt, or maybe a robe. Thank you.’ They were in public so she couldn’t kiss him. Instead, she just leaned her body into his.
Outside it was still raining, the wind driving the drops almost horizontally. They ran down the street, avoiding the puddles, towards the landing where the vaporetto stopped. They had to wait. The wind and the rain swept around them but, in the glass-walled bay, they were sheltered. Bess took out a handkerchief and wiped the rain off David’s hair and forehead. He held her arm and kissed her. From here they could see the big ocean-going ships making for the Adriatic. An oil tanker, sleek and graceful despite its industrial purpose, was making towards open waters.
‘I’ve never made love on a ship,’ said Bess. ‘I wonder what it’s like.’
‘It can be arranged,’ said David. ‘Over here!’ he shouted, waving at the tanker. ‘Over here! Don’t go without us!’
She pulled him back, laughing. ‘I’ll settle for a hotel room, on the Grand Canal. Let’s go to mass and then have an early dinner. I need a lot of time to thank you for the silk.’
They were staying at the Gritti Palace and because it was early February and the hotel far from full, they had the pick of rooms over-looking the Grand Canal. That night, after involtini di Salmone at Antico Martini, a restaurant opposite the opera house, they leaned out of their hotel window and watched the river traffic, the shifting lights and surfaces. The rich smells of cooking mingled with the damp odours of decay. The vast, dark shapes of the Palazzo Venier dei Leoni and Santa Maria della Salute on the opposite bank threw back at them the throaty roar of the vaporetti, the soft slapping of the water, and the more fleeting, secretive noises of half-heard conversations.
In bed Bess said: ‘There’s so much water here, you’d think Venice would have something in common with home – Louisiana, I mean.’ She kissed David’s shoulder with a smack. ‘But they’re quite different. Here it’s . . . shapes, sounds . . . very busy . . . the water and the stones are so loud. The language is so loud. At home our words, our scenery – everything – is much quieter. You never hear the Mississippi or the swamps. You can’t listen to the pepper fields.’ She laid her head on David’s naked chest. ‘Yet it’s just as sensual as Venice in its own way. When we make love, David, I always think of home now. Sex makes other things sensual, too. And not just the things, but the sound of their names. Redbud, hedgewood, pickerel, crawfish. The words sound different after – well, after . . .’ She drew her finger down the flesh on David’s stomach. ‘Sex is like landing on water. When you first touch down on the smooth surface, it’s as hard as glass. Then, as you slow down, as you relax, it gets softer, you scoop out more water, and you sink lower.’
Next day, they drove south to Rome, stopping off at Urbino. David used the opportunity to order some photocopies of documents he needed for his research into Leonardo’s ‘Virgin of the Rocks’. Correspondence between the Dukes of Urbino and the Malatesta in Rimini, and some other letters. It was better if he placed the order in person.
‘How’s it going?’ asked Bess, after he had spent half an hour with the librarian in the Palazzo Ducale while she had visited the house where Raphael grew up.
‘To be candid, I don’t know. I’ve established that Leonardo spent part of his missing year in Urbino. Urbino was an independent state until 1631 when it passed to the papacy. At that time some of its treasures went to Tuscany, where the last duke’s daughter was married, and some went to Rome. This makes the family papers a bit of a problem. Some of them are here and some may still be in Rome.’
‘What will they tell you?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe they will mention inventories in which works by Leonardo are referred to. I can’t prejudge, just hope.’
They arrived back in Rome in time for David to hang Bess’s silks, before dinner at Gina’s. The Lucca panel was mainly green and turquoise, the Genoan was red with yellow and crimson splashes. ‘I must say, David Colwyn,’ said Bess, squeezing his arm, which had become a favourite gesture, ‘You have brought colour into my life in more ways than one.’
They had brought a small piece of Venetian silk back for Gina also, and she was delighted. In return they were treated to her best wine, a Rosso Tapino. Its fruity softness made David relaxed enough at dinner to voice his concern about Ned. He described to Bess their evening at the theatre, when he told his son about her.
She laughed. ‘Too good-looking for you? I hope you don’t believe that!’ She cupped her hand over his mouth, just as she had done on the vaporetto out to Burano. Again he kissed her palm.
Then he said, ‘But what do you think, Bess? Ned’s so inconsistent. He’s so moody – sometimes he just goes off on inner journeys, all by himself, when no one can get to him. But the thing I’m most worried about is this need of his to pretend. I can’t expect him to be wholly in favour of a man who’s gone off with his mother, but why should Ned pretend that Michael Greener is something he is not?’
‘He’s trying to protect you, as you said.’
‘But it’s out of character. For Ned, I mean. He’s so realistic in all other ways. Brutally so at times. Remember that comment about “dead men’s shoes”? He was right.’
She slipped her hand in his. Since their two dinners at the Veau d’Or in New York, they preferred to sit side by side in restaurants. ‘If you’re really worried, David, there is someone I know in London, an American psychiatrist –’
He stopped her, briefly squeezing her wrist.
‘Listen to me!’ she said softly. ‘And don’t be so old-fashioned. If Ned is disturbed by your divorce from Sarah, that’s nothing to be ashamed of. He may even be heading for a depression. You’d be the last person to recognize that.’
But David shook his head. ‘Ned can be so cheerful. He can’t be depressed at the same time.’
‘Garbage! Jokes can be just as much a defence mechanism as anything else – you know that. And what do all those moody silences mean?’
David said nothing. She squeezed his arm.
‘Look, my friend’s name is Tony Wilde. He’s professor of psychiatry at St Matthew’s Hospital, with private rooms somewhere in Upper Wimpole Street. I won’t force him on you but I can recommend him. You’ll get no mumbo-jumbo. I used to know him at Columbia – where he still teaches one week a month by the way – and if you do decide to go see him, give him my love.’
‘And talking of love,’ she said, ‘let’s go back to the flat. I shan’t see you again until New York. The big sale.’
But David made no move.
‘Bess, after the encyclical, after Thomas goes public, how long will it take do you think? For me to be divorced, I mean?’
‘Well, as I understand it, as from this month you’ve been separated officially from Sarah for two years, so under British law you can be divorced – right?’
He nodded. ‘I expect to hear from her any day now.’
‘So you’ve already filled the first requirement. Your case can go straight to the tribunal.’
‘But there’s bound to be a rush of cases. It could take months. Years.’
‘Mmm.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘If that does happen, I shall have to pull a few strings. I don’t know about you but I sure can’t wait that long.’
Chapter Seven
José Sandoz had not been a security guard at the Getty Museum in Malibu for very long and he had a lot to learn – not just security matters but about the layout of the gallery. It would come, though. He was a fast learner. And it was a good job for him, not too hard physically, the money was fair and, since he shared his house with four other Puerto Ricans who all had jobs and were paying for their rooms, he didn’t have to spend much on his keep and always had money in his pocket.
The one problem he did have, though, was rem
embering the names of these damn painters. What sort of a name was Van Rijn or Breughel? Was that right even? Or Wtewael, or Cuyp? Or Caravaggio – that was one of the worst. He knew the painting, alright. It was the new one bought from the Pope. It was two rooms away, the edge of his territory. He decided to have a look at it again, to check that he had got the spelling right. It was early morning, and the museum was deserted. He walked slowly into the neighbouring room, past the Goya y Lucientes – that was a name he could pronounce. He entered the next gallery, longer and better lit, which contained the –
He stopped, appalled. No! Sweet Jesu, not this soon in his career at the museum! It must be an illusion – after all, no man in his right mind would do such a thing!
It was no illusion. A wild slash had been dug into the Caravaggio canvas about three quarters of the way across. It went right through the body of Christ and on past the legs of the man who was holding him. Already the canvas had begun to peel apart, exposing the wall behind. Sandoz was utterly alone. He did remember now that there had been three men in this room about a quarter of an hour before. Could it have been they? At least he would be able to give the police their description. Trembling, he reached into his pocket, took out his radio transmitter and called his chief.
Sandoz did give the police the descriptions but before the police could act upon them a report in the next day’s Los Angeles Times pinpointed those responsible for the crime. The paper’s night desk had been tipped off.
The report was headlined: ‘Mafia hoods slash painting – mars Vatican sale’, and underneath it ran, ‘A painting worth more than forty-two million dollars by the seventeenth-century Italian master, Caravaggio, on show at the Getty Museum in Malibu, was seriously damaged yesterday by a knife cut nearly twenty-nine inches long.
‘No one saw the attack on the painting but underworld sources say that rumours about such an attack have been circulating for some days. These sources claim the culprits are members of a small band of illegal Italian immigrants forced to flee Sicily some months ago, when His Holiness Pope Thomas sold the very same Caravaggio painting and with the money set up an informants’ fund. This has proved so effective that many arrests have been made and numerous mobsters have had to leave the island.
‘Using traditional links between Sicily and the American Mafia, these Italian mafiosi have managed to enter America and, in most cases, have been incorporated into existing mob outfits.
‘Narcotics squad officers at Los Angeles Police Department say they believe Sicilians are responsible for much of the current upsurge in drug abuse in the state. There are also reports that protection rackets are in operation at two airports in California. Some officials claim that the recent crash on take-off of a small jet at Mendocino airport was the work of Sicilian underworld figures who were putting pressure on the airport management to accept their terms.
‘Now, however, Mafia sources are openly admitting responsibility for the attack on the Caravaggio. This action protests the impending sale in New York of Vatican treasures, due to take place the day after tomorrow. Warnings of their opposition to such sales have already been made, they claim, and have been ignored.
‘Museum staff say that the picture can be repaired but that it will take months.
‘A spokesperson for the Holy See in Rome expressed horror at the attack but said that it would not affect the sale. The press officer for Hamilton’s, the auction house handling the sale, who also spoke on behalf of Cardinal Rich of New York, in whose cathedral the sale will take place, said that the auction will go ahead as planned.’
This report, which was syndicated around the world, filled David with alarm. The Mafia had been very cunning, he thought. Guessing, rightly, that security at St Patrick’s would be very tight, they had aimed at a softer target – and in doing so had brought home to prospective buyers of the Vatican treasures that no museum was safe from Mafia attention. The timing was diabolically perfect, too. It was too late to issue convincing reassurances, and yet, with forty-eight hours still to go, there was time for paranoia to develop and for the sale to be badly affected.
On the other hand, people are morbid as well as curious and so, despite the fact that the slashed Caravaggio was not among the pictures on show, hundreds who had not yet been to see the works of art in St Patrick’s now hurried to do so.
Thomas also showed his mettle once more. When he learned of the attack, he replied: ‘Mr Getty didn’t make his millions without one or two setbacks. The same applies to our venture.’
Meanwhile, during the last days before the sale, David was frantically busy seeing the last few ‘autocrats’ on the list produced by Betsy. Her list had been fourteen strong and ranged from the boss of a drinks company in Canada, through a defence company in Washington to a shipping conglomerate in Florida. With two days to the sale to go, David had only one firm still to see, the defence giant in a Washington suburb. Like all the others on his list, it was a one-man band, in this case the brainchild of a certain Red Wilkie, a fireball of a character who was an ex-Hollywood stunt man turned tycoon. David had sent to Wilkie, as he had sent to everyone on Betsy’s list, a general outline of his proposal. Then, when he visited the men in person, he would use a more tailored approach.
David was shown into an office and told by an aide that both Wilkie and his secretary were not yet back from a demonstration of some new army equipment at a proving ground in Maryland. They wouldn’t be long – the helicopter was already airborne and would fly straight to the landing pad right outside the offices. Half an hour at the most. The aide handed David some coffee.
Twenty-four minutes later, the helicopter clattered into earshot and David watched from the window as it approached the large white ‘H’ emblazoned on the lawn outside the Wilkie offices.
When he strode in, followed now by two secretaries, Wilkie boomed at David, ‘Come in, Mr Colwyn, come right on in.’ He folded his six feet four inches behind his desk and offered David a cigar, waving him to a leather sofa. ‘I liked your brochure. You said you’d bring some art work. Have you got it?’ David took out a number of sheets of paper and photographs. He had had them produced, in strictest confidence, by some of the best graphic designers in London.
Wilkie lit a cigar and examined the papers. ‘Great,’ he said. ‘Great. How much do you say this will cost me?’
‘Two hundred million, give or take.’
‘A lot of money to waste on a logo.’
‘Except that it’s not wasted. You probably spend half that on advertising each year. What’s more, whenever you want, you can sell and get your money back. Plus interest.’
Wilkie smoked his cigar. He was obviously taken with the idea. It was revealing, David thought, how many of these tycoons wanted to be more than just rich, wanted to be taken seriously as men of culture. All the businessmen on Betsy’s list were Roman Catholics. In every case David had had his graphics people adapt Michelangelo’s ‘Pietà’ to the company’s logo. His idea was to tap some of the enormous profits that had been made in Wall Street and in the City of London recently, by persuading large firms to bid at the Vatican sale. He had, in his tour of the fourteen companies, pointed to three advantages. In the first place there was the enormous publicity associated with buying this or that Vatican treasure and the good cause it was associated with. Second, there was the continued publicity value of owning a great work which could go on display anywhere as free advertising for the company concerned. And third there was the prestige to be derived from use of the image in the company’s logo. This was the graphic work he had brought with him.
Wilkie looked up. ‘So what do you want from me?’
‘Either come to the sale tomorrow night, and bid for yourself. Or give me a bid to make on your behalf. I guarantee that you won’t have to pay more than is necessary.’
‘How many people like me have you seen?’
‘A few. About a dozen.’
‘Who exactly?’
‘Come tomorrow night and find out
yourself. They are all Catholics, all devout. They all run their companies as you do, by themselves. That’s why I’ve chosen each one of you. A board would take six months to consider an idea like this. And still get it wrong.’
Wilkie chuckled. ‘Too right.’ He tapped ash from his cigar. ‘Look, Mr Colwyn, I’m not going to give you a bid. You seem a nice enough guy but you’re still new to me. But I just might come tomorrow. I’ve never been to one of these big deal auctions. I’ve got some friends in the business, though. All right if I ask them what they think of your scheme?’
‘Sure, but they’ll say yes, whatever they think.’
‘Oh! Why’s that?’
‘If a company doesn’t buy it, a museum almost certainly will. Dealers don’t want that. Dealers profit from the movement of pictures and other art works. Once something goes into a museum it hardly ever comes out.’
‘So you’re saying I have to make up my own mind, uh?’
‘I’m saying you always do. That’s why you are on my list.’
‘Why didn’t you come before, give me more chance to think it over?’
‘I would have done but you were always busy. That’s one of the problems of being a one-man band. It’s taken me weeks just to see fourteen people. Someone had to be last.’
Wilkie thumped his desk. ‘Who else will be bidding? Give me some idea, goddammit!’
David had absolutely no intention of telling Wilkie who his rivals were. He wanted him in the cathedral. Once there, David was sure some of the men he had seen would be unable not to bid.
He gathered up his things, ready to leave. ‘Let’s just say, Mr Wilkie, that if you don’t come tomorrow night, you just might regret it. This is, after all, a chance to break new ground. Think of it. A patron of the arts, a strong supporter of charity work and the pleasure and prestige of owning something that is unique and irreplaceable. There are those who might say there is something especially poignant in a weapons company, whose business is destruction, having as its mark perhaps the greatest symbol of love the world has ever known.’