“Well, the part about talking with wolves and other animals still seems a lot more plausible than the bishop giving back the money,” said Berlinghiero. “Did the monks tell you anything else about the Saint or about what they wanted to see in the painting?”
“They said that we need to tell the story of the Saint. They wanted to emphasize that this was a very Holy man who gave his life to God and lived a pure life that emulated the Savior.”
Berlinghiero sat back, crossed his arms, nodded his head a few times, and asked, “Given that, what are your thoughts?”
“Well,” replied Bonaventura, “I am not exactly sure. There are about twelve scenes that I could paint about the Saint’s life. I was thinking of placing a large image of Saint Francis in the center of the painting surrounded by the various stories. The problem I have is that I think twelve stories may be too many. What do you think, Father?”
Berlinghiero crossed his hands behind his head and looked at the dark wooden beams and plaster on the ceiling of the workshop. He thought quietly for a few moments, taking in what his son had said. There was never just one way to make a painting, but some approaches clearly were better than others. He knew that their choice would be critical to the success of the painting. After a few moments he started sketching roughly on a blank sheet of parchment.
“It is critical that the Saint be the central image of the painting. This will be an icon for the church. That provides a wonderful focal point for the work. That should be the most important image on the painting. Everything else is there to support that image,” said Berlinghiero with confidence, drawing a large circle in the center where he thought the Saint should go. “I agree with you, twelve stories is too many. The central image is what people will see and remember. It is what sells the painting. If you have too many individual stories around that, then you will either need to make the stories very small or reduce the size of the icon. Neither one of those is a very good idea.”
“I agree, Father. To keep the icon as the focal point we should have no more than six separate stories,” said Bonaventura enthusiastically. “Three on each side of the icon, one on top of the other is what I think will work best.”
“That seems about right.” Berlinghiero drew six circles, three on each side of the Saint, on the parchment. He nodded approvingly at the layout. He loved symmetry. This will work well, he thought. “Have you thought about how you will present the image in terms of color schemes?”
“That is another challenge,” replied Bonaventura with concern. “If this were anyone else, I would use bold colors, with gold leaf as a background. I was going to use your mosaic on the church of San Frediano as a reference point. But Saint Francis preached about giving up worldly goods. He gave away all of his money and lived an incredibly humble life. I do not know if gold leaf and bold colors are the correct approach for such a man.”
Berlinghiero sat back and smiled. He was pleased that his son was thinking about such things in considering how to create his painting. This was the sign of a true artist, and yet it was also naive. He reflected back to when he was younger and only thought about art for the sake of art. Nothing else mattered to him, not money, not fame, nothing, except the sheer truth and purity of art and being an artist. Recently, he had come to realize that you needed to paint what people wanted if you were to be successful. He needed to pass those insights along to his sons if they were ever going to be famous artists and bring glory to the Berlinghieri name.
“My son, your thinking is well founded. I understand your dilemma. But let me share with you what I have learned about painting grand monuments and icons like this for the church. This icon that you are painting will be the central point on the altar in the first church erected specifically to honor Saint Francis. Do you think that they will erect a small, humble chapel to honor this Saint? No, they will erect a monumental edifice to glorify his memory and his teachings. The church may preach about the virtues of humble poverty, but have you ever seen a bishop wearing rags or a modest cathedral?”
“No, Father, I have not. Cathedrals are the grandest and most beautiful buildings in any village I have ever been to.”
“Exactly,” continued Berlinghiero. “When people go to church, they want to be in awe. They want to know that their God is truly great and powerful. A great and powerful God would want to be worshipped in a magnificent manner. Anything less and you raise the risk of offending the Lord. So even though our Savior Jesus Christ lived a life of poverty and humility, we worship him in the greatest possible buildings, with glorious paintings gilded with gold. This is no different with our newest saint. Saint Francis needs to be remembered as a great man and the people will only see him that way if you depict him with the level of glory used for other Saints. Anything less than that would call into question his Sainthood.”
Berlinghiero stopped, and motioned to his other sons to come closer. They sat at the table with Bonaventura and turned towards their father.
“Keep in mind, my sons, that we are artists. This is the noblest profession of them all and we are blessed to have these talents as well as the opportunity to display them. The mosaic I made on the facade of San Frediano will live on for centuries after I am gone. People in future generations will look upon it, admire its beauty, be moved by its grandeur, just like the people in Lucca today. Art is immortal. To a lesser extent, the artist himself is immortal. When people from Rome or Florence or Venice, perhaps even from France, come to Pescia five hundred years from now, they will see Bonaventura’s altarpiece. They will marvel at its beauty, be moved just like we all are when we see great art. They will know that Bonaventura Berlinghieri painted that piece. Your name and, most importantly, your art will live on for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years. They will not know that Bonaventura was just a young man trying to decide what to paint. They will know that you were a great painter and the names of all Berlinghieris will be honored. That, my sons, is what God has chosen for us.” He paused. “And we will not let Him down.”
“But also remember this because it is equally and perhaps more important,” continued Berlinghiero. “You need to paint what others want to buy. You need to know your audience. Art is wonderful in and of itself. But it only becomes worth the effort when you can actually sell it to someone.”
His sons nodded their understanding. Nonetheless, while Bonaventura would never contradict his father in front of his younger brothers, on this point he disagreed. Art, to him, was a true expression of life, of God’s hand. It was divine and sacred. Whether it sold well or not was not the question as far as he was concerned. Being a true artist was what appealed to him. Whether he became rich and famous was irrelevant.
His father hadn’t always been this way, lamented Bonaventura. He had always preached the value of being a true artist, of pursuing purity. That was before he became famous after painting the façade of San Frediano. That had propelled him to the top of the Luccan art world. He met with royalty, with bishops and cardinals. He was the toast of the city and he relished every minute of it. His coffers were fuller than they had ever been and yet, at least in the opinion of his eldest son, his soul was emptier than ever. Somehow, fame had changed him and, as far as Bonaventura was concerned, it was not a change for the better.
Chapter 6
Joe Ferrara sat at the dining room table with papers spread out in neat stacks. They consisted of copies of old files, interviews with witnesses, phone records, forensic reports, and forensic accounting records covering Stephen Thompson’s tax returns and business records over a ten-year period. Joe poured through files that he had been through dozens if not hundreds of times before, making notes on a yellow legal pad. His reading glasses were perched on the bridge of his nose and there was a cup of lukewarm coffee in front of him. Octavius was curled up quietly on the corner of the table, asleep in the warmth of the late afternoon summer sun. He had spent the first five minutes of his interaction with Joe walking all over the papers and knocking anything loose on the tabl
e, paper clips, pens, erasers, pencils and the like onto the floor, each time followed by a groan from Joe, typically accompanied by a “Jesus Christ, O!” and being lifted, and occasionally swatted, off the table and onto the floor. Octavius had either grown bored with the knock-everything-off-the-table game or realized that he would soon find himself locked in a bedroom and moved over to a cozy resting spot.
On October 25, 2004, at approximately 6:12 p.m., a blue Ford F-150 SuperCrew, had exploded into a ball of fire in the driveway of 57 Sunset Trail in the Bronx, New York. In the truck at the time was Maureen Thompson, age forty-three, her daughter Laura, age eight, and son Timothy, age six. They died almost instantaneously. The father, Stephen Thompson, forty-four, had been in the house at the time of the explosion.
Joseph Ferrara was then a Detective First Class stationed in NYPD’s 45th precinct. He had finished work for the day, but lived less than ten minutes away and responded to the call. By the time he had arrived, paramedics were on the scene as well as a fire engine, eight police cars with a crime scene investigation unit, and an FBI task force was on their way. In post 9/11 New York City, responses to bombings were immediate and aggressive. When he arrived on the scene, Joe Ferrara, as the senior detective on site, took over the crime scene and ultimately took the lead on the investigation.
Neighbors were questioned about suspicious behaviors leading up to the explosion. Stephen Thompson, who was in shock at the time of the incident and in need of medical assistance, was questioned extensively over the coming weeks. While he was never considered a primary suspect, detective Ferrara and his colleagues always thought that the bomb had been intended for Stephen rather than his wife and children. They also thought that he knew more about why he was a target than he ever admitted. As expected, the CSI unit eventually found trace amounts of a C4 explosive at the crime scene.
Joe Ferrara had spent the previous eight years working as part of an organized crime task force, which worked in conjunction, and occasionally at odds with, the FBI. After 9/11, the FBI’s organized crime units were thinned dramatically to refocus on anti-terrorism. During the 1980s and 1990s, the FBI’s efforts had dramatically impacted all five mafia families in New York, putting hundreds of associates, including multiple mob bosses, underbosses, capos, and soldiers for each family in prison for long, often lifetime prison terms. While the five families were devastated and disorganized, they were not dead. As the FBI reallocated their resources, the families gradually started rebuilding their ranks. Cockroaches survive, was a phrase that Joe’s Captain had used.
Joe was convinced that this was a mafia related homicide and not an act of terrorism, which many in the department and the city believed. Stephen Thompson was the owner of a chain of car washes throughout the Bronx, twelve at the time of the crime. His business was highly profitable, too profitable, in fact. While they were never able to prove fraud, it seemed likely that some type of money laundering was going on behind the scenes of these establishments. Stephen Thompson never caved under questioning, even though they dug up phone records tying him to known associates from the Genovese crime family. He was a cool customer who claimed that he had no idea that those individuals were associated with the mafia. He was just a businessman trying to run a successful small business. He didn’t know why anyone would want to target him or his family in such a manner.
There were a number of leads that Joe and his team had pursued, but all turned out to be dead ends. After two years the case was filed as a cold case, officially unsolved but still open. Despite moving on to other crimes that required his attention, the Thompson case stuck with Joe Ferrara. Some cases just wouldn’t leave. That was one of the curses of being a detective for almost thirty years. Your job as a detective was to piece together clues and solve mysteries. Some were easy while others tested you in every way possible. In the end, most cases were solved. Some remained open but eventually expired because of the statute of limitations associated with the crime. Because this was considered a homicide, there was no statute of limitations, but nonetheless it remained, like many murders, unsolved. He knew deep down that Stephen Thompson knew who did it and why, but he wasn’t talking and there was no way to force his hand.
The sound of a car rolling into the driveway broke the relative silence, but not enough for Octavius to stir. Moments later Mackenzie entered through the kitchen door.
“Hey Dad, I’m home.”
Joe raised his head from his work without turning around, “Hey Kenz. How was your day?”
Mackenzie opened up the refrigerator, grabbed a bottle of lemon Snapple, and sat down at the end of the table. Octavius lazily looked up with half-closed eyes, opened his mouth and eked out an “Awww” to welcome her home. She rubbed the bottom of his chin as he raised his head to facilitate the massage.
“Any luck with the Thompson case?”
“No, unfortunately, the same old shit,” responded Joe grumpily. “I know that bastard was involved one way or another, but there’s still no way to directly tie him to it or to make him talk.”
“Well,” said Mackenzie, taking a sip, “you have to admit that at this point there’s not a lot of incentive in it for him to talk. They already killed his family. He still has his businesses, and whatever threat was made is in the past. He’s still alive, so somehow or other he’s either made amends for his transgressions or they’re leaving him alone.”
“These people don’t just decide to leave you alone. He’s still hooked up somehow. He’s smart and he’s got balls, I’ll give him that. I’d still like to nail him and the people who did this before I leave this earth.”
“As always, Dad, I wish you luck. But remember what you’ve told me—sometimes the past should stay right where it is and let us go on with our lives.”
“I said it’s a good philosophy. I didn’t say that I necessarily believed in it,” Joe said with a laugh. “Hey, I got some steaks at Rizzo’s today. Thought we’d fire up the grill and even throw on some eggplant and zucchini to go with them. What d’ya think?”
“Jeez, Dad, sounds like you’re turning into a vegan on me.” They both laughed.
He turned back to the papers in front of him, making more notes on a dog-eared legal pad. These would be added to the countless notes accumulated over the past several years that still hadn’t gotten him closer to catching the bastard. But Joe would catch him—he knew he would.
Chapter 7
Lucca, Italy, April 1232
It was just past six in the morning and the sun’s rays were starting to bathe the studio in early morning light. The rains from the previous night had left the air clean and fresh and the roads muddy. Such was spring in Lucca.
Berlinghiero sat alone in his studio. Bonaventura had been in a funk for the past two weeks and Berlinghiero was trying to figure out how to reach his eldest son. He was probably just nervous about the unveiling coming up at the end of the month. Everyone dealt with stress differently, thought Berlinghiero. In Berlinghiero’s case, it made him a bit more frantic, worried about small details, and convinced that something was either missing or going to go wrong. It rarely did, but it pushed him to work harder. It also made him a little hard to be around. Berlinghiero’s wife, Ilaria, tried to cook his favorite dishes when he was feeling stressed and generally avoided anything that would upset him.
Bonaventura was different. He wasn’t frantic at all. In fact he seemed to retreat from the world into a protective shell. For Berlinghiero, it was simply un cattivo umore, a bad mood. Bonaventura seemed uninspired, lacking his normal energy. This was to be his moment in the sun, his time to shine. At times it was all Berlinghiero could do not to grab his son by the shoulders and shake him until he finally woke up.
Ilaria told him to give Bonaventura time, that he was a different man than his father, with aspirations of his own, which might not involve following in his father’s footsteps. But Berlinghiero had gone out of his way to ensure this opportunity for his son. He had put his reputation on the line and cal
led in numerous favors that he had accumulated over the past decade. His own father had never done anything like this, not because he hadn’t wanted to, but because he was simply a poor merchant who was not in a position to influence powerful men like the bishop. Artists throughout Tuscany had all wanted this commission. It was not only prestigious—it was profitable. This was just the type of commission that, if done correctly, could set up a young artist for a prosperous career. As the unveiling grew closer, Bonaventura acted less like the up-and-coming artist his father knew he could be and more like a spoiled child of privilege.
He knew that if he asked Bonaventura what was wrong, he would simply respond, “Nothing, Father,” and then continue plodding along like a man in mourning. His painting was exceptional. It would be a huge success. Berlinghiero had an excellent eye and knew what people, especially influential people, wanted to see. He had worked closely with Bonaventura to ensure that his painting had all the right elements. It was sure to be a success.
† † †
The Via Fillungo led to the Piazza San Frediano and then to the church of the same name. The church, and the piazza as well, were named after a sixth century bishop of Lucca. Frediano had originally built the church and dedicated it to St. Vincent, a martyr from Zaragoza, Spain. When Frediano was buried in the church, it was renamed Saints Frediano and Vincenzo. Over the years the church had grown in stature and the prior of San Frediano was afforded equal status to that of a bishop.
It was a large Romanesque basilica. The most striking feature of the church was the enormous golden mosaic of The Ascension of Christ the Saviour over the entrance that had been created by Berlinghiero himself. The Byzantine style mosaic itself was massive, almost twenty-four feet wide and thirty feet high. On a background of brilliant gold sat Jesus, dressed in flowing blue robes, on a red throne. On his left and right were angels wearing graceful green and violet robes with deep green and purple wings. Beneath Jesus and the angels stood the twelve apostles, the entire mosaic bathed in vivid colors. For obvious reasons the church had long been the Berlinghieris’ favorite.
Painter of Time Page 4