Painter of Time

by Matthew O'Connell

  “Well said, Mr. Bataglia,” Kevin added a playful bow. “Miss, I will be back with something that I think you will love.” With that, Kevin walked towards the bar with their empty glasses.

  “Wow, you really do come here a lot, don’t you?”

  “We all have our weaknesses,” said Anthony.

  Chris Gillespie started into their version of Dave Brubeck’s classic, “Take Five.”

  “You said you come here by yourself a lot. Do you always come here alone?” Mackenzie asked, not sure if she wanted to hear the answer. What if this was his place to bring all his dates? She was probably one in a long string of women that he brought here. He’s a wealthy, talented, handsome European man in his thirties with an apartment on Central Park West. Wouldn’t be too hard for him to find a date, oh, maybe anytime he wanted, thought Mackenzie.

  “Sad to say, but yes, I usually come here by myself. I find it to be very relaxing.”

  Good answer! thought Mackenzie. If he was lying, he was at least pretty good at it, which raised just as many concerns as it alleviated. But she didn’t think he was lying, at least not about this. She felt that he did probably spend a great deal of time alone. He certainly wasn’t the most outgoing person she had ever met. At the Cloisters he pretty much kept to himself and focused on his work. That was really one of the things that she found most attractive about him. She tried to remind herself of why she was here. It was hard. Even though the evidence seemed to be screaming out that he was a forger, perhaps involved in an international fine arts scam of some type, he was still very charming. Was his charm part of his way of throwing her off his trail, of disarming her? If it was, she had to admit that it was working. She tried to remember what her father had told her many times. Intelligent sociopaths, like John Gotti, are by far the most dangerous individuals in the world. They are charming, charismatic, and know exactly which buttons to push. It’s hard not to be captivated by them.

  “How long have you lived in New York?” asked Mackenzie. “Dr. Davidson said that you were here on loan from the Ufizzi for several years.”

  “Yes, my initial term is only for four years, but I have some flexibility should I want to stay longer. I have been here for a little less than three years now.”

  “You seem to have settled in well.” According to her father, the apartment he lived in was purchased in 1929. She wondered if he himself had only lived there for a few years or if that was just part of the story. Maybe the real Anthony Bataglia had lived there for a much longer period of time but this person, whoever he was, had only recently assumed Anthony’s identity. “You speak English flawlessly. You must have learned to speak when you were in Italy.”

  “Yes, I picked up English at an early age,” he agreed. “In Europe it is important to speak multiple languages, and English is the second language for most people.”

  “I also noticed that you don’t use contractions. Is that on purpose?” She had always found that strange, but had grown accustomed to his unusual way of speaking.

  Anthony smiled. “I had a very strict teacher when I was learning English who would not let us use contractions. She felt that it was too informal and made people sound uneducated. She was British and did not look favorably on how her native tongue was being bastardized. It was probably her own personal crusade to save the queen’s tongue.” He took a sip from his glass. “Old habits die hard. Whenever I try to use a contraction, it seems very awkward for me. I guess I stopped noticing years ago. Do you find it odd?”

  She finished munching a potato chip and took a sip of water. “No, I didn’t mean it that way at all. It’s unusual, but I wouldn’t say that it’s odd. I think there is an old-world elegance to it. I’ve just never heard anyone speak so eloquently without using contractions. I wouldn’t make it five minutes if you paid me a hundred dollars.”

  Kevin returned to their table with their drinks. He set Mackenzie’s drink in front of her. It was light pink with sparkling bubbles.

  “Miss, Tommy sends over a Passion Royale for you to consider. It uses a passion fruit infused vodka, lime juice, and champagne.”

  He set Anthony’s scotch in front of him.

  “Mr. Bataglia, Tommy sends over his regards. He says that this is a newly opened bottle for you to consider,” smiled Kevin.

  Mackenzie took a sip and let the liquid fill her mouth and then gently roll down her throat. It was mildly sweet with a hint of lime. The champagne made it bubble and tickle as it went down.

  “This is wonderful! Please tell Tommy that I am not disappointed,” Mackenzie said holding up her glass.

  “Wonderful,” said Kevin as he set down a new bowl of nuts and potato chips, “I will pass that along to Mr. Rowles.”

  “How do you like New York compared to Florence? I’m sure they are quite different.”

  Anthony took a slow sip of his scotch.

  “New York is much better designed for handling millions of people. There are a lot of people, but there is also a lot of space for them to spread out.”

  “What about the winters? Florence doesn’t get as cold as New York, does it?”

  “No, I have to admit that the first winter I was here was a bit rough. I do not remember feeling that biting cold wind in all my life. But it makes the inside of a warm house or bar that much more inviting.”

  “I’ve always lived in the Northeast, so those types of winters are all that I really know. I definitely enjoy the change of seasons, and Christmas time in New York is hard to beat,” said Mackenzie as she snuggled back in the leather couch and held her drink with both hands.

  They both turned and listened while Chris made his effortless progression from jazz to Bach and back to jazz in finishing Brubeck’s classic.

  After the three hour session finished and they had worked their way through several trays of potato chips and a few more drinks, Mackenzie steeled her nerves and decided now was as good a time as ever.

  “Anthony,” she said with as much confidence as she could muster, trying to talk above the flutter of butterflies she felt in her stomach. “I hope you won’t find this too forward or inappropriate in any way, but I would love to see your apartment. I’ve never been inside any buildings on Central Park West, let alone an apartment. Does yours have a view of the park?” What a dumb question! She took a sip of water, trying to keep her hand from trembling.

  Anthony sat back in the cushioned seat and thought. Then he smiled and said, “Yes, why not. Tomorrow is a day off, and it is still quite early, so it would be my pleasure.” He stood up and offered her a hand to stand up as well, which she gladly took.

  Okay, she thought, as they walked out the door, so far so good. Now, let’s see if I can pull this off.

  Chapter 27

  As Anthony mentioned, it was about a twenty-minute walk from The Carlyle to his apartment building. They carried on superficial chitchat on the way. Mackenzie was too nervous to come up with anything remotely intelligent or interesting to say. She had a tendency to just chatter incessantly when she was nervous, so she forced herself to be quiet. The doorman was there to greet them.

  “Beautiful evening, Mr. Bataglia.” He opened the doors for them, nodding to Mackenzie as well.

  “Yes, indeed it is Jack. Thank God it has cooled down a bit. Thank you.” They walked through the plush hallway to the elevators. They rode up to the twentieth floor and arrived at the door of his apartment. “This is the place,” he said punching in the combination on the electronic keypad. “I did not know that I would have company, so I cannot guarantee that the apartment is in any shape for entertaining.” He pushed open the door and they made their way inside.

  He took off his shoes and calmly gestured to her. “The New York winters are terrible on my rugs, so I make it a habit to never wear shoes inside, even in summer. I hope you do not mind.”

  “Not at all. Makes a lot of sense. I did the same thing in my apartment in college. My dad says the dirt builds character in the carpet so I got out of the habit of tak
ing them off when I moved back in.”

  Stunning! That was the first word that came to her head as she entered the apartment. It was not only spotless but everything, the wall sconces, the wood paneling, the floor and the carpets, were immaculate. If someone had told her to design the perfect Central Park apartment she couldn’t have done better than this, and would have been hard pressed to even come close.

  Would you like a glass of wine, or perhaps something a bit stronger?” he asked as he led her down the hallway. He paused in front of an in-wall Eurocave wine refrigerator with a sleek black glass front. The refrigerator sat beside a small recessed bar.

  “A glass of wine would be great.” Keep a clear head. You can’t afford to get drunk while you’re in his apartment. You’re here for a reason. She could almost hear her father talking to her, telling her to stay focused on the task at hand.

  “I’m thinking that an Argentinean Malbec would be nice.” He pulled a bottle from the refrigerator and expertly opened it with the ease of a sommelier.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever had Malbec before,” she replied, watching him work. She was happy to see that the wine was from a previously unopened bottle. At least I won’t be drugged on my first glass. “But as you have already discerned, I’m open minded,” she added.

  “Yes, I remember. Cautiously adventurous.” He poured them each a large, crystal glass. “Cheers. I hope you like it.”

  She took a sip. It was round and rich and very flavorful.

  “Mm, this is nice, thank you.”

  “You are very welcome. It is so much nicer not to have to drink alone.” He led them deeper into the apartment. “Come, let me show you around a bit.”

  They made their way into an enormous room with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on Central Park and the lights of 51st street. What really caught her eye, however, was not the view, but the paintings on the wall. The three walls that were not filled with windows were covered with some of the most amazing paintings imaginable. It was like walking into a gallery room at the Met, or better yet, the Uffizi. She couldn’t speak. She consciously focused on not dropping her wine glass, which she grabbed with two hands because both of them were trembling. She realized that she must have been standing there with her mouth wide open, but there was nothing she could do about it.

  There were paintings that she knew must have been from Italy in the fourteenth through sixteenth centuries. The styles were unmistakable. But she wasn’t familiar with any of them. She would have likely placed some of them as Giottos, Gaddis, Bellinis, Giorgiones, some Daddis, a Tintoretto, at least two Veronese, and even a Lippi. There were also clearly some that looked to be the work of Raphael, although again, she wasn’t familiar with these particular works. She counted fourteen paintings across the three walls. All of them were masterpieces and likely to be worth a fortune. If they were really originals of the artists she thought, then this collection would be worth tens of millions. This confirmed what her father told her about the di Bernardi Foundation’s holdings. She wasn’t, however, sure what this meant about Anthony. If he was a forger or a thief, or whatever he was, why had he agreed to take her to his apartment with all of these masterpieces staring out so brazenly from the walls? He obviously wasn’t afraid of her seeing all of this. But why?

  She wasn’t sure how long she had been staring, spinning in a small circle trying not to pass out.

  “These paintings are amazing!” she finally exclaimed. “This is an incredible private collection.”

  “Thank you,” responded Anthony calmly as he sipped his wine. “As you know, I have an affinity for art, and these are some of my favorites. Please, have a seat and I’ll put on some music.”

  She needed to take a break of some type. There were too many emotions swirling in her head right now to even attempt conversation. She needed time to regroup.

  “Do you mind if I use your restroom?”

  “Of course not,” he said while he was fiddling with a flat paneled music system in the wall. “Just down that hallway, first door on your right.”

  “Thanks, be right back.” She took her purse and made her way down the hallway. She felt her breath coming back to her. Some light jazz came on through speakers that were flush mounted in the ceiling, probably throughout the entire apartment, she thought. The bathroom door was open and she was about to step in when she saw that there was another room just down from the bathroom on the other side of the hallway with its door slightly ajar. She silently crept her way down the hallway hoping that he couldn’t see her from the living room.

  Upon reaching the door, she cautiously stuck her head inside and looked around. The lights of the room were out, but there was still enough light from the city to see inside. It was an art studio, a large one. There was a painting sitting on an easel that clearly looked like a Vermeer, but only partially painted. Her heart was racing. She almost fainted as she looked around. All four walls of this room were covered in what looked to be priceless artwork. Beyond that there were stacks of paintings, at least ten-deep against two of the walls. She noticed that one of the paintings in the stack was the exact same Vermeer that was sitting on the easel, except this one was finished. It was spectacular. She would swear that it was an original. There’s no doubt, she thought. He’s a forger!

  For the second time in less than five minutes, she couldn’t breathe. She tried to calm herself. Somehow she made her way to the bathroom, ran some cold water in the sink and splashed it onto her face. She looked at herself in the mirror and tried to get her composure back. I’ve got to get out of here, now! She flushed the toilet without ever using it, reached into her purse, and grabbed hold of the small pepper spray canister she carried with her. One thing about having a cop for a father was that you didn’t get caught off guard very often. She took a deep breath and made her way back down the hallway and into the living room.

  Anthony was sitting on the large tan leather couch sipping his wine and looking out over the park. He smiled at her when she appeared.

  “It is not much, but I found a little soppressata and some aged Parmegiano for us to nibble on, just in case the potato chips and nuts were not enough.” He motioned to a hand painted ceramic tray on the living room table.

  “Anthony, I’m terribly sorry, but I have to leave.” She tried not to sound panicked but didn’t slow down as she made her way back to the entrance.

  He stood up from the couch, surprised.

  “Is everything all right?”

  She tried to remain calm. “Yes, I feel weak-headed. I may have caught something. I need to get home.” She grabbed her shoes and started to put them on.

  Anthony caught up to her and put a hand on her shoulder as she bent down to put on her shoes. She stiffened, holding onto the small can in the palm of her right hand, ready to strike if necessary.

  “Are you sure you would not prefer to lie down on the couch for a few minutes? I can get you some water.” He sounded genuinely concerned.

  “No, I’ll be all right.” She stood and looked at him, forcing a smile. “I probably had too much to drink and I think I’m coming down with a cold. I’ll be fine. I just need to get home.”

  “Okay, let me walk you down,” he said reaching for his shoes.

  “No, I don’t want to trouble you. I feel terrible for ruining your evening.”

  “You did not ruin my evening at all. I had a wonderful time. I just feel bad that you are not feeling better. At least let me call down and have Jack get you a cab.”

  She opened the door and was already halfway-out when she looked back.

  “Thank you. That would be great.” She paused. “Anthony, thank you for inviting me tonight, I enjoyed it.” She made her way into the hallway and headed to the elevator.

  “Me too,” he waved and watched her until the doors closed.

  Once in the elevator, she finally felt that she could take a deep breath. Her mind was rushing. Had she really seen what she thought she saw? Those were clearly reproductions
of famous paintings, and most of them were excellent. She was confused and sad at the same time. She had feelings for Anthony, feelings that went beyond a casual relationship, and she sensed that he had feelings for her as well. All of that was now out of the question.

  Jack greeted her at the door, where there was already a taxi waiting. He opened the car door for her, smiled and wished her a nice evening. She told the taxi driver her address and then sank back into her seat. In spite of herself, she started to cry.

  Chapter 28

  Daddi, along with Giotto, two of his apprentices, and several guards had spent the previous four days traveling on muddy roads, and sleeping in strange beds, on their way to Assisi. The morning air in Assisi was warm and fresh. Daddi woke early and was excited to finally see the object of their quest, Giotto’s famous frescoes of the life of Saint Francis. After a generous breakfast he, along with Giotto and the other artists, Gaddi, Buonarroti, and Orcagna, made their way to the upper basilica of San Francesco. It was truly a spectacular building that was even more impressive up close than it was from a distance. The outside was made with pinkish white stones that had been quarried from Monte Subasio.

  With Giotto as their guide, the group filed into the upper portion of the church, which, according to Giotto, was the most complete and spectacular of the two parts of the basilica. Daddi immediately felt a sense of familiarity surround him upon entering the church as the sweet, pungent smell of frankincense perfumed the air around him. Compared with the brightness of the early morning, it was darker and cooler in the church. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the dramatic change. He closed them and took in the atmosphere of the great open space.

  A single, long nave with a beautifully ornate vaulted ceiling ran through the upper basilica. Filtered light entered through tall stained glass windows along both sides of the nave. With the smoke from the candles and the lingering remnants of the incense used in the early morning mass, the sun’s light came through in long, distinct rays of muted color. It reminded him of watching the sun peek through dense clouds over the Arno River in Florence just before sunset. He could almost count the individual rays of silver and yellow light.