Painter of Time

by Matthew O'Connell

  “I could probably show you here, although I do not have a computer with me. I know it sounds crazy, but I need to show you something and my apartment is relatively close by and it would be easier to show you there than anywhere else. Please, humor me on this.”

  “If this is your idea of playing hard to get, then you’re terrible at it!” said Mackenzie, only half jokingly.

  They walked, mostly in silence, the twenty minutes or so it took to get to Anthony’s apartment. The rain had stopped. The chill of early spring was still in the air, damp and musty. It only smelled this way when the bitter cold of winter pulled away and the snow turned to rain. Remnants of the winter’s snow clung grudgingly to the sides of the street, hard, grey, encrusted and seemingly unwilling to leave. Snow in December is beautiful, thought Mackenzie, fresh light and delicate. Snow in March, however, was dirty and unwelcome. It matched her feelings at the moment, gray and despondent. She had no idea what he was going to show her, but she was sure that it wasn’t going to take their relationship to where she wanted it to go.

  They came to Anthony’s apartment, took off their wet coats and shoes in the entryway. Anthony poured them both a glass of sherry and led Mackenzie to the computer in the main room.

  “Have you ever researched your ancestry?” he asked nonchalantly.

  “Not really,” replied Mackenzie. “I guess I know about as far back as my grandparents, and I do know that my great grandfather on my mother’s side was from France and that my dad’s family mostly came from Italy. Other than that, not much.”

  Anthony made his way around the keyboard and quickly got to the page on the screen that he was looking for.

  “As you might imagine, I’ve got a unique interest in genealogies, ancestries and the like.”

  “I guess so. I wouldn’t have thought of it if you hadn’t mentioned it, but yeah, I guess you would be pretty interested in that type of thing.” She paused a moment. “But in your case, you probably pursue it from a different direction than most people, don’t you?”

  Anthony laughed. “Very good. Yes, absolutely. Most people who research their ancestors are looking at who came before them, or perhaps more specifically, whom or where they came from. In my case, I am more interested in who came from me. Let me show you something.” He directed Mackenzie’s attention to the detailed family tree that now appeared on the screen.

  The entire computer screen was filled with a genealogical tree showing her entire family. She grabbed the mouse and scrolled down the page. It went back centuries. Strange names from a distant and, up till now, unknown past filled the screen. She felt somehow violated, as if she had walked into the room of a stalker and found hundreds of photos of her plastered on the walls.

  “Holy crap, you’ve mapped my entire genealogy! I don’t know whether to be fascinated or freaked out.” She took a deep pull on her sherry and then poured herself another from the bottle on the table.

  “I mean, seriously, this isn’t something that normal people do! This is something that a stalker does! Is this what you wanted to show me?” She grabbed her head with both hands, trying to figure out what was happening. She was confused and a little pissed off.

  “I apologize if I have in any way violated your privacy. That was not my intention at all,” said Anthony calmly. “I think that you will find some interesting things about your ancestors.” He pointed to several of the branches above her and to the right of her parents.

  “One of the things that I find quite fascinating about this ancestry program is that you can benefit from genealogical research that has been conducted by others. For instance, it appears that one of your distant relatives, Eric Tellinson, has done a lot research to fill out your family tree. Are you familiar with him?”

  Mackenzie looked closely at the part of the broad tree that appeared on the screen.

  “No, I can’t say that I’ve even heard of him. I do recognize the names of my cousins that are listed here. How far does this thing go back?”

  “One of the advantages of living this long is that I have a vast knowledge about people who have lived, who they were descended from and who descended from them. It is a relatively worthless knowledge base, but it certainly comes in handy when you are trying to fill out a puzzle like this one.” He moved backwards several levels on the tree.

  “You are correct that your father’s family were from Italy. They came here, like many other immigrants at the turn of the twentieth century, when Italy became a country. I am sure if we went back many centuries before that we would find that some of them came from Greece, like most Italians did. But my research did not go back that far. I only went back until the fourteenth century.” Anthony turned from the screen and looked at Mackenzie.

  “As far as I can tell, and obviously there is some speculation in some of this, but your very, very distant ancestor was a young couple who lived in Florence in the late 1300s. The mother’s name was Christina Angelina Garibaldi. She was the daughter of Christiano and Estancia Garibaldi. Estancia’s maiden name was Daddi.” Anthony paused momentarily and then continued. “Her mother’s name was Angelina Antinori and her father was the painter Bernardo Daddi.”

  The blood drained from Mackenzie’s face. She looked from the screen and back at Anthony.

  “Do you mean that I am one of your descendants?”

  He smiled gently. “It would appear so. Twenty-two generations separate us, but the line is quite distinct. I would not have been able to connect the dots if it were not for the work that this Eric Tellinson fellow had done.”

  Mackenzie was at a loss for words. She just stared at the complex branches on the screen.

  “How long have you known about this?”

  “Probably for the past three to four months,” replied Anthony.

  “Why didn’t you say anything to me before now?” asked Mackenzie.

  “You must forgive me. I guess that I have become quite secretive over time. I also see time a bit differently than most people. A decade must seem like a long time to you, but it seems like only a few months to me. I am somewhat hesitant in sharing cryptic knowledge until the moment presents itself. You never know when the right time will come. Tonight was the right time.” He paused and then continued. “Do you understand now what I meant earlier when I said that our relationship was more complex than you knew?”

  It was all a whirlwind to Mackenzie. She didn’t know what to think. She actually wasn’t sure whether she was going to throw up on Anthony’s carpet, right then and there. An hour ago she was essentially telling this man that she was in love with him and now she was faced with the startling fact that she was actually descended from him. It was surreal. It was too much for her to take.

  Chapter 46

  Joe sat on the porch drinking coffee and reading the newspaper and looked at Mackenzie. It was a beautiful Saturday morning in May. He had broached the topic of Anthony several times in the past several months and Mackenzie had told him that everything was fine but she couldn’t tell him more than that. Being a detective, he didn’t like leaving ends loose or mysteries unsolved. As a father, he was most concerned with her well-being. It remained an elephant that sat between them that neither wished to address.

  He folded the sports section that he had just finished and set it on the porch. Mackenzie sat on the glider holding her coffee mug in both hands.

  “Yankees seem to be on a roll this year, Dad. Could be another repeat of last year.”

  “Humph” he grunted. He never liked to be too optimistic about the Yankees for fear of jinxing the team. “They’re 21-8 right now and crushed the Sox last night, but it’s just the beginning of May. We’ll see what happens. If A-Rod plays well in the post season like he did last year instead of choking like he normally does, then they stand a pretty good chance.”

  He took a sip of coffee and then changed topics. “Thought you might be interested to know that they were able to ID some partial prints off of that dagger that found its way onto our porch.” />
  Mackenzie looked at him with surprise. “I thought they ran it, but couldn’t find a match.”

  “That’s right,” said Joe, clearing his throat. “But they pulled in a guy the other day on a completely unrelated charge and his prints matched those on the dagger.” He paused and a knowing smile came to his face. “Guess who Mr. X turns out to be?”

  She shook her head.

  “Turns out he’s the nephew of none other than Stephen Thomas.”

  She looked at him and her mouth silently formed a, “Wow!”

  “Yep,” he nodded. “Looks like this young man had somehow kept his nose clean up to this point and had never been printed. But it seems like he might be doing some minor errands for one of the families, probably the Genovese, and got nabbed. Fortunately for us, he was stupid enough not to wipe the dagger clean. You’d be surprised how often that happens.”

  “So that’s pretty incriminating for Stephen Thomas, isn’t it?”

  “Circumstantially, yes,” he replied. “It doesn’t really mean anything, but it definitely directs suspicion back to him and might be enough to get some more resources directed at him. I think we’re close on this one, Kenz, and he knows we are. This little gesture on his part only helps direct the spotlight a bit more.”

  She nodded. “It also exonerates Anthony from having anything to do with it.”

  He rubbed the stubble on his chin and neck. “That it does.” He paused. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did, but it’s still nice to tie up loose ends,” she smiled. “Isn’t that what you always told me?”

  “Yes it is,” he agreed. “Unfortunately, because my daughter won’t share what she knows with her father, who tirelessly helped her work through this puzzle, it only ties up one of many loose ends as it pertains to Mr. Bataglia.” He looked at her with a wry smile. It bothered him more than he cared to admit that Mackenzie was keeping a secret from him. They had always been so close and shared everything with each other, especially after her mother died. He wasn’t sure if he was more upset about the fact that she wouldn’t share what she knew with him or that this whole Anthony Bataglia mystery remained another unclosed loop just sitting out there, taunting him. He had done everything he could to help her make sense of it. They worked as a team. Then, just when it looked like they were going to crack the case, she betrayed him and closed him out. For some reason she chose to give her allegiance to Anthony as opposed to him. That, more than anything, more than the lack of closure, was what hurt, and he couldn’t easily get past it.

  “I know, Dad. I wish I could tell you more, but I promised that I wouldn’t. Not now at least. Maybe there will be a time when I can. I hate to keep anything from you, but I have to honor my word.” She paused, grinning. “That’s another thing you taught me, isn’t it?”

  He grunted to himself. “All I care about is that you are safe. I still have my doubts,” he pointed a friendly finger in her direction, “that you helped raise, by the way. But I trust your judgment and I respect your privacy. I’m always here if you need my help.”

  “I know that, Dad. You know I would never keep anything from you unless there was a good reason. You’ve always been there for me. I’ll be fine.” She saw the hurt in his face and hoped that she could share Anthony’s story with him at some point. That time was not now, though.

  Chapter 47

  Anthony sat at the counter with Mackenzie looking onto the traffic on West 4th Street. Even though it was a bit more of a commute to the Cloisters for him, she had coerced him into joining her for breakfast at Joe Muffin, which she mentioned was a favorite haunt of hers from graduate school. Anthony had never been here, but the dreadlocked chef Jean Paul’s roasted red pepper, arugula, and feta quiche seemed to whisper invitingly to him from behind the glass counter when they placed their order. He watched as the owner, Angela, unsuccessfully tried to convince Mackenzie to try something other than a poppy seed muffin and cappuccino.

  He sipped a double cappuccino while he ate the quiche with the beautifully crumbly homemade crust. “I am both disappointed and offended that you never brought me here before,” he said, feigning an indignant glare.

  “Don’t feel bad. This is the first time I’ve ever come here with a guy. I’m pretty sure they were convinced that I was a dyed-in-the-wool lesbian or a desolate loner.”

  He nodded. “The wonderful thing about great cities is that they can transpose culture and time. I have had incredible quiches in Paris, of course, but I have also had quiches that are just as good and perhaps better in Copenhagen, London, and Tokyo. This one is right up there. A Parisian would be impressed by this quiche.” He paused, looked around the café suspiciously, and then whispered to Mackenzie. “Although he would be loath to admit it in public.”

  She laughed. “I’ve never tried anything but the poppy seed muffin, but I’m willing to put it against anything Manhattan can offer. I’m not sure if poppy seed muffins are big in France, but I bet this one would hold its own in a Paris bistro as well.” He watched Mackenzie nibble around the edges of her muffin and sip her cappuccino. Such an interesting woman, he thought, and at the same time very much a little girl.

  “I want to tell you something and I hope you take it how it’s intended,” continued Mackenzie.

  Anthony turned to look at her. “This sounds pretty serious. Let me have it.”

  “You need to start painting again.”

  He looked at her with a playful smile. “I do paint. I am a restorer. I paint every day. I also paint in my studio. You have seen my work, on numerous occasions.” He knew what she meant and was trying to get her off the subject.

  “You know what I mean. For the past couple hundred years or so you’ve occupied your time touching up artwork you or one of your friends or family painted six or seven hundred years ago, or making copies of someone else’s work. You haven’t released a new painting since the Renaissance, for Christ sake.”

  He calmly looked around the cafe. Fortunately there were very few other customers near them. He gestured to her to keep her voice down, especially when it had to do with talking about being alive for several hundred years. “I told you why I stopped painting.” It did not appear that she was going to give up without a fight. He expected nothing less from her.

  She leaned in closer to him and in a softer voice continued. “Yeah, and I actually understand why you stopped. But, like I said before, if every great painter decided not to paint because they weren’t as good as Michelangelo, then there wouldn’t have been a new painting since about 1550. It would be like a musician deciding not to make music because the Beatles or Mozart did it better. Maybe you’re not as good as Michelangelo. Let’s say that’s the case. There’s still a lot of room in the realm of great painters who aren’t as good as Michelangelo.”

  Anthony wiped the crumbs of the quiche from his mouth and sipped his cappuccino. She was right, of course. Comparing yourself to geniuses was not only a sign of arrogance, it was a recipe for disappointment. He had lived with that feeling for centuries.

  “You know that I have not thought of actually painting something new in ages. I cannot remember the last time that I felt the urge to try to become a painter again. I am not sure if I still have what it takes to be one. You have to need to paint to be a great painter, not just want to paint.” He repeated to her what he had told himself many times over. He wondered how much of it was the truth and how much was an excuse. At this point, he had to admit that it was probably fifty-fifty.

  “Then you have to develop that need again. Think of what type of painter you could be now, having seen so many great painters throughout the ages. I’ve seen both your original works and the replicas you’ve painted, and both are phenomenal. Your style would be something that the world has never seen.”

  Hmm, he thought, that is an interesting perspective. She was a tough person to argue with, not only because of her persistence but because of her spot-on insights. “Perhaps you are right. O
n the other hand, perhaps I have been so many different painters, and I have seen and copied so many more, that I no longer have a style of my own. It is all such a jumble to me sometimes.” Anthony looked down at his folded hands on the table. He had struggled with this so many times in his mind. In some ways, he had to admit, perhaps only to himself, that he was scared. He was scared that he no longer had what was necessary to be an artist.

  “You need to find out who you are now. Your style will emerge once you put brush to canvas. There’s no one alive who can incorporate more knowledge and experience than you. Think what that would be like!”

  Anthony smiled. He had always been attracted to intelligent women who weren’t afraid to speak their mind. Mackenzie reminded him of his second wife, Angelina. It was crazy but perhaps Angelina was talking to him through this long distant descendant of theirs, separated by over two dozen generations.

  “I will think about what you have said,” he said after a thoughtful pause. “But right now, I want to focus on the rest of this quiche. If I do start painting again, and that is a big if, then you need to try one of these.”

  “It’s a deal.” Mackenzie went back to work on her muffin with a satisfied smile.

  Chapter 48

  Several months had passed since Anthony had shared his finding that Mackenzie was likely his direct descendent. Their relationship had grown even closer, although not necessarily in the romantic sense that Mackenzie had wanted. But she understood and was fine with where it was headed. Anthony was away on business in Italy, but would be returning in the next day or so.

  Mackenzie had taken the opportunity to go on a ten-day trip to Cancun with her college friend, Katarina. It had been a wonderful time to sit back, drink beer and tequila and just lounge around in the warm Mexican sun and read Carlos Castaneda novels. The beaches were beautiful, the whitest sand and the clearest aqua blue water she had ever seen, and the snorkeling in Cozumel was amazing. Towards the end, she couldn’t wait to get back and tell Anthony all about it. They were putting the finishing touches on Fra. Lippi’s Adoration of the Magi and were expecting to receive another Lippi, this time Lippi’s son, Filippino, sometime in the next week or so. Mackenzie had never really thought of it much, but she now found it strange and oddly surreal that Filippino Lippi was likely a very distant relative of hers.