by Iain Pears
‘Meaning?’
‘You weren’t here earlier? Evidently not. He’s gone and resigned. Said he’s decided to take early retirement and go to live in his house in Tuscany. A bit of a shock, all things considered. As you no doubt know, everything in this place is done through patronage. My job, for instance, came through the assistance of Enrico Spello and I’m seen very much as his protégé.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ Bottando enquired, a little taken aback by the news. ‘I mean, Spello is next in line.’
The restorer shook his head matter of factly. ‘Not any more, he isn’t. Because Tommaso at the same time appointed Ferraro as his successor and official deputy.’
‘Goodness,’ said Bottando mildly as he considered the implications. ‘I thought he couldn’t stand Ferraro. What prompted this?’
‘Perhaps he’s sick of being disliked. Maybe he’s human after all. Besides, he’s gigantically rich, so why crack your head working? He does dislike Ferraro, but evidently he dislikes Spello more. You can never tell with him; it’s difficult to penetrate the façade. Besides, the only way people will look on his passing with regret is to make sure his successor is even more unpleasant than he is. You see why I’m heading for my fifth drink of the evening?’
Bottando nodded sagely. ‘I think so,’ he replied.
‘You think so? Well, let me show you, so there’s no mistake.’ Manzoni leant forward and poked Bottando in the chest. ‘Ferraro is a little rat, right? Spello will be his main rival. So he wants to chop Spello down to size, whittle away at his support. He can’t attack Spello himself, as he’s got tenure. So how will he get at him? Through me, that’s how.’ He now poked himself on the chest to emphasise the point, then turned and gesticulated at the new deputy director, coming through the tall oak doors on the far side of the room.
‘Look at him. He has the air of triumph on his face, don’t you think? A man who has just conquered all. An air of vulgar triumph.’
‘Are you sure the appointment will go through? After all, it’s not in Tommaso’s personal gift.’ So far, Bottando was finding the conversation decidedly upsetting. He had, on the whole, relatively few dealings with the museum. Although he never felt entirely comfortable with Tommaso, the two had at least worked out a modus vivendi so that life did not become too onerous. He doubted that Ferraro would be quite so easy.
Manzoni nodded, his aggressive mood swiftly fading into one of lugubrious resignation. ‘A few months back the succession would have been close. Spello would have been the inside candidate; the reconciler, someone everybody could work with. Then, of course, Tommaso pulls off his coup de théâtre with that Raphael and everyone in government thinks he’s the greatest thing since sliced salami. Whoever he supports will walk it now.’
The restorer looked extremely upset, and stared at his again empty glass. Then, without a further word, he shambled off in the direction of the drinks trolley. Bottando breathed a sigh of relief; sympathetic though he felt, he had other things to worry about at the moment.
But Tommaso wasn’t around; that he realised as he surveyed the room in search of him. In one corner he saw Spello, and could tell by the man’s slightly stooped shoulders that he was feeling very disappointed, and probably angry as well. He sympathised, but wasn’t in the mood to listen to another outburst of indignation, no matter how justifiable. In another corner he spotted Jonathan Argyll and Sir Edward Byrnes. He was momentarily surprised that either should be there, and that such an evidently amiable conversation could take place, but then remembered Flavia mentioning Argyll’s fellowship. There is nothing like a little money to soothe the passions. They, at least, seemed in a good mood, but he felt disinclined to talk to anyone even remotely connected with that Raphael. So, he spent the next ten minutes being talked at by some connoisseur and critic, while mainly keeping his eyes open, waiting for Tommaso’s reappearance.
Eventually the door swung open, revealing a cameo of Tommaso shaking hands with the senior American and evidently bidding him farewell. The gracious look on his face suggested he’d got his cheque. Bottando waited for the right moment to go up and ruin his evening. He didn’t want another public explosion on his hands.
He was staring idly around him, uncertain about what to do, and the indecision lost him his chance to catch the director on his own and escape home early. Ferraro had also materialised at the doorway and had engaged the man in an earnest conversation. Even at a distance of many metres, Bottando could see the expression of benign good humour drain out of the director’s face like water out of an unplugged bath. It would be an exaggeration to say that he turned green, but a sickly shade of off-white was well within the bounds of accuracy. Ferraro, in contrast, looked in control of himself but decidedly grim.
He was spared the trouble of having to go over and find out what was so evidently distressing to both men. Tommaso walked swiftly over to him, the air of effortless grace still present in his every step despite the look of concern on his face. Perhaps he hadn’t got the money after all?
‘General. I’m glad to see you,’ he said shortly, missing out, for once, the elaborate courtesies he habitually employed. ‘Could you come with me, please. I’ve just had a piece of shocking news.’
The director set off at a fast clip through the museum, along the entrance hall and up the stairs. Bottando puffed along to keep up. ‘What is the matter?’ he asked, but got no reply. Tommaso looked as though he had just seen a ghost. Ferraro was unusually silent as well.
There was no need for complex explanations. As they opened the door and went into one of the smaller galleries on the second floor, it was immediately clear what the matter was.
‘Mother of God,’ said Bottando quietly.
The frame of the Raphael was still there, badly charred in its upper parts, but nobody could ever have suspected that the few blackened threads and dark congealed liquid that hung loosely from it had been, until very recently, the most expensive and treasured painting in the world.
Four or five square inches of the bottom right-hand side, Bottando estimated, had been untouched by the fire, which had reduced the rest of the canvas to charred rubbish. The smell of burning oil, wood, and material, still hung in the air, and wisps of smoke rose from the few pieces of cloth that had not been entirely consumed. Above the picture, the wallpaper was badly charred, and had evidently come close to catching fire as well. Bottando found time to be thankful the museum had not decorated the room with padded silk, as they occasionally did. If they had, the whole building would have been ablaze by now.
None of the three said anything at all, but simply looked. Bottando saw very grave difficulties, Tommaso the ruin of his reputation, Ferraro the end of his ambitions. ‘No,’ said Tommaso, and that was all. For the first time, Bottando felt sorry for the man.
Memory of his occupation reasserted itself. ‘Who found it?’ he asked quietly.
‘I did,’ said Ferraro. ‘Just now. I came back down immediately to tell the director and found him by the door.’
‘What were you doing in here?’
‘I was going up to my office to get a packet of cigarettes. And I saw smoke coming from under the door. I knew something was wrong the moment I smelt it.’
‘Why?’
‘No fire alarm. It’s very sensitive. We turned it off for the rooms where the party was being held, but it should have been on for every other room.’
Bottando grunted and looked around. It required no great genius to see what had happened. He crouched down by an aerosol tin on the floor, not touching it. Engine starter. Highgrade petrol you squirt into carburettors to start the car on cold days. Spray the picture, push a lit match against it, leave and shut the door behind you. The fuel lit up the dry but still inflammable paint on the canvas, and the whole thing was burnt away within minutes. He looked at the picture once more. Someone right-handed, he guessed. He seemed to have sprayed in an arc from bottom left to top right. Hence the relative lack of damage in the bottom right-
hand corner. He lightly and cautiously touched the remains hanging in the frame. Still warm.
He sighed, and turned to Ferraro.
‘Close this door and put a guard on it. Go downstairs, tell them the party’s over but no one is to leave. Don’t say what’s happened. We’ve enough to do at the moment without worrying about the press. I will phone for reinforcements. Perhaps we can use your office, director?’
Bottando spent another three hours there, dealing with the more stratospheric consequences of the evening’s events. Phoning his colleagues in other departments, informing the arts minister, mustering his forces. He occupied the desk, while Tommaso fretted around, summoning assistants and public relations officials to draft a release to give to the press. Despite Bottando’s strictures, they had already sensed something had happened, and they would have to be told sooner or later.
It was some time before the policeman and the director had time to talk. Tommaso was sitting listlessly on the ornate nineteenth-century sofa, staring at a Flemish painting on the opposite wall as though he’d suddenly discovered it was a personal enemy.
‘Do you have any idea why the fire alarm didn’t work?’ the policeman asked him.
‘The usual reasons, I imagine,’ Tommaso replied with a barely concealed groan. ‘The electrical system in this place is a menace. Hasn’t been changed since the 1940s. We’re lucky the entire museum hasn’t burnt down. That’s why I submitted the proposal to have the place rewired to the security committee. It’s a pity Spello vetoed it.’
‘Hmm,’ replied Bottando non-committally. He picked up the double implication clearly. Spello had made this attack possible by stopping the proposal. Secondly, it wouldn’t take much manoeuvring to divert any blame for the destruction from the director to the committee.
That would have to be dealt with later. He concentrated instead on the matter at hand. ‘How often does the thing shut down?’
‘Constantly. Well, about once a week. The last time was in the evening a couple of days ago. Ferraro was still here, fortunately. He had to pull all the fuses out to stop the entire building burning down. The guards had gone off to the bar, as usual. It really is like trying to run a madhouse in here, at times,’ he added with some considerable despair. Bottando sympathised. He could imagine.
‘Anyway,’ the director continued, ‘that, indirectly, was the point of this party. I persuaded those Americans to hand over a donation that was going to rewire the entire building. Thus overcoming Spello’s prejudices about modernisation.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Shutting the stable after the horse has bolted, if you like. I imagine they’ll cancel the cheque.’
‘Was this problem generally known?’
‘Oh yes. The bell going off at random all the time is not the sort of thing you can keep secret. Oh. I see what you mean. This indicates it was done by someone inside the museum, you think?’
Bottando shrugged. ‘Not necessarily. But I think we should go and have a look at that fuse box. Could you show me where it is?’
A few minutes and several flights of stairs later, they were standing in the basement. ‘There you are,’ said Tommaso. He opened the gigantic, rusty box on the wall. Inside was line upon line of heavy ceramic fuses. He searched around, pulled one out, looked at it, and handed it to Bottando. ‘Thought so. Blown again,’ he commented.
Bottando held it up to the light and looked, a favourite theory evaporating as he did so. No one had removed the fuse, no one had cut any wires. It had just burnt through of its own accord. Only in Italy, he thought to himself, would things be done in such a ramshackle fashion. He found himself beginning to have more sympathy with Tommaso’s reformist efforts. Tactful, he wasn’t. But no one could say there wasn’t a job to be done here.
In such a conciliatory spirit, once back in the director’s office, the General tentatively began to raise the subject that had brought him to the party in the first place.
‘There are one or two aspects of all this I thought it would be best to discuss with you alone. It might take some of the sting out of this appalling evening.’
The director placed the tips of his fingers together, and peered at him enquiringly. He didn’t appear to believe anything could do that.
‘I don’t think your loss today was as grievous as it seems,’ Bottando continued.
The director grimaced and shook his head. ‘I assure you, the painting is beyond repair. Or perhaps you don’t find the loss of one of the greatest triumphs of Italian art grievous?’
A bit pompous, thought Bottando uncharitably. Still, he has had a bad day. ‘A triumph, certainly. But not of Italian art. I think it was a forgery.’
Tommaso snorted. ‘Oh, General, not this obsession of yours again. I’ve already told you it’s impossible. You know as well as I do the tests that picture went through. It passed them all with flying colours. And every scholar in the field pronounced it to be a Raphael.’
‘Experts can be wrong. Every scholar in the world in the 1930s said the Supper at Emmaus was by Vermeer. They only discovered it was painted by Van Meegeren when he confessed to avoid being hanged for collaboration with the Nazis.’
‘The fake Vermeers were detected easily when they were examined scientifically,’ Tommaso objected. ‘And techniques have improved immeasurably since the 1940s.’
‘So, no doubt, have the forgers’. But this is neither here nor there. The evidence we have is circumstantial, but worrying enough.’
‘And what, pray, is your evidence?’
Bottando reminded him about the letter found by Argyll in the country-house muniments room. The director interrupted. ‘But this is no less feeble now than before. You surely don’t expect the entire academic community to change its mind on the basis of that?’
‘Indeed not. As you say, on its own the letter amounts to very little. However, earlier today, my assistant found something a bit more convincing, hence my telephone call from Zurich to that infuriatingly obstructive secretary of yours.’
He briefly told the director about the hunt for Morneau, the safe deposit box and their discovery.
That clearly rattled Tommaso. He walked across to a shelf of leather-bound books, swung it open and took out a bottle. He poured some golden liquid into two glasses and handed one to Bottando. He swilled it around and rubbed his face with his free hand. All his pomposity had evaporated again.
‘If I understand you correctly, your argument hinges only on those date stamps in that passport? Someone else could have put those drawings in the safe deposit after the painting was splashed over every magazine and newspaper in the country?’
Bottando dipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘Yes. I told you it was circumstantial. But we now have two fragments pointing at the same thing.’
‘I really don’t believe this,’ the director said eventually. ‘And if it was true, why would anyone bother to destroy the painting? I mean,’ he said defiantly, ‘it’s obvious why this happened, isn’t it?’
Bottando gazed at him enquiringly.
‘This was an attack on me, clearly. Only today I said I was retiring, and that Ferraro would succeed. Destroying the picture was a retaliation, to make me look a fool. It only makes sense if the picture was genuine. I know I’m not popular here.’
He paused. Bottando wondered whether he was expected to demur and reassure the director on that score. But he decided even Tommaso wasn’t that vain, so he kept quiet.
‘Everybody has always resented what I’ve tried to do, tried to stop every improvement I’ve introduced. Ferraro is the only one here who’s given me any support at all. The only one who doesn’t live somewhere back in the 1920s.’
‘Hence the preference for him over Spello?’
‘Yes. I like Spello, and I don’t like Ferraro much. But the future of the museum is at stake, and I could see no room for personal preference.’ Again, just a shade of the old pomposity peeked through his suddenly energetic explanations.
‘Spello is a good deputy, but the director
has to fight with the ministries, squeeze money out of donors. I decided that only Ferraro could do it. He’s not an easy man, I admit, but he’s the best possible choice I had. And there are a lot of people who’d be prepared to stop me and him. At any cost.’
It was a legitimate interpretation, Bottando conceded. ‘But,’ he objected, ‘I find it difficult to see how anyone who’d worked in a museum all their life could ever bring themselves to such an act of vandalism.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ Tommaso snorted. ‘I said this was a madhouse and I meant it. But don’t you get the point of what I’m saying?’ he continued intensely, staring at the policeman and leaning forward on his chair in an effort to convince him. ‘If that picture was a fake, why destroy it? It would be much better to leave it and have the fraud discovered.’
Bottando smiled and shifted his conversational rudder a little to the right. ‘If that painting was a fake, everyone was fooled by it, not just you. If Italy hadn’t bought it, the Getty would have. Or someone else. The psychology of its appearance was just right, so no one thought to doubt it. All the evidence suggested there should be a picture under that Mantini. Byrnes produces it. It was like a fairy tale. Everyone wanted to believe it. Perhaps even the man who burnt it believed it was genuine.’
Tommaso smiled wanly. ‘But it was us who paid out the money. The fact that others would have done so, given the chance, is a relatively small compensation, compared to the damage to my reputation.’
There was little else Bottando wanted to discuss, so he got up and made his way to the door. He was tired as well. ‘Tell me,’ he said casually as he was leaving, ‘why did you decide to quit? I confess I was very surprised.’
‘So was everybody. I enjoyed seeing their faces when the announcement went out. Too much of the ambitious careerist, they thought. But I’ve had enough of this job and I don’t need the money. All administration and backbiting. It needs a younger man.’ Tommaso smiled curiously.