After a quick breakfast with her dad, she headed to work. She made it to the Cloisters at about 8:30 a.m. where she was met by Simon Davidson just inside the main entrance.
“Hello, Simon, I wasn’t expecting an official greeting upon my return, but it’s most welcome,” said Mackenzie cheerily.
Simon looked far from cheery.
“Mackenzie, I’d like to speak with you in my office, if you have a minute,” he said, and without waiting for her reply ushered her downstairs to his office.
Uh oh, she thought. She had never once gotten in trouble in school but this must be what it felt like to be taken down to the principal’s office. I wonder if I did something wrong?
When they reached his office, he offered her a seat on a straight-backed fourteenth century wooden chair that was beautiful to look at, excellent for your posture, and slightly more comfortable than the rack. He closed the door behind her.
“I didn’t want you to hear this from anyone but me.” He paused a bit as he sat down behind his desk on what appeared to be a much more modern and much more comfortable chair.
“Late last week we received a report from Italy that there had been an accident. It seems that there was an explosion on a private boat that was sailing between Livorno and Elba,” he hesitated. “No survivors were found. The name of the boat’s pilot was Anthony Bataglia. The authorities believe that he was sailing alone.”
Mackenzie stopped breathing. Her world had just been put on pause.
“Is he,” she hesitated, “I mean, is he dead?” she asked, still finding it hard to even breathe let alone form cogent sentences.
“I’m afraid so,” replied Simon calmly. “We were contacted by someone in Lucca who said that they were a trustee of the Di Bernardi Family Trust. Apparently, Anthony was a beneficiary of that trust. He had us listed as his current place of work and the trust felt that we should know.”
“How did they identify him?” she asked, trying to maintain whatever level of decorum she had left.
Simon looked at her with thoughtful, caring eyes.
“I know this is very hard. It’s been hard on all of us. We thought the world of Anthony. I know that you two were very close. The man who called said that the Italian Coast Guard had been notified of an explosion at sea by one of the big cruise ships in the Mediterranean. What they found was the tattered remains of the ship, as well as some documents, a passport, an international certificate of competence in navigation, some credit cards, etc. They all belonged to Anthony. The boat was purchased by the Di Bernardi Trust last month. The man at the Marina where the boat was docked positively identified Anthony as the person who had set sail the previous day. They did not find a body but it was pretty far out at sea and the explosion happened around midnight according to the cruise ship. The Coast Guard searched the area but you can imagine that it’s a huge expanse of open ocean. I didn’t ask for more than that.”
Of course not, who would in such a situation? Mackenzie thought that she probably wouldn’t have asked either.
“I—I don’t know what to say.” She paused as tears filled her eyes and she felt the full force of what she had just heard flow through her body. She thought she might pass out.
Simon poured her a glass of water from a sixteenth century French ewer sitting on a low bookshelf near his desk.
“Here, take a sip of this. I know this is very hard. I’m not a therapist or anything. We don’t usually get news like this and I’m not well prepared to convey it. Take as much time as you need. If you would like to take some time off, I totally understand. Everyone here is pretty shaken up about the news.”
“Do they know how it happened?” she asked, stumbling over the words.
“The Coast Guard believes that it was most likely a propane tank used in the galley that had a leak and then a spark lit it off. Apparently it’s rare but it does happen now and then.” Simon was clearly distraught himself, but was trying hard to hold it together for Mackenzie’s sake.
Mackenzie sat, tears streaming down her face, trying to come to grips with what had just happened. An explosion on a ship? She didn’t even know he owned a boat! He never mentioned a boat or sailing or anything like that to her. I guess it could happen to anyone, she thought, even someone who had been alive since before America had even been discovered. So many thoughts were going through her head. Had it been quick? Had he suffered? He had told her that he needed to go to Italy for a few weeks to take care of some of his affairs there. She hadn’t thought anything of it. As natural as anything you could imagine. She would be in Mexico, he would be in Italy, and they would both be back to work today.
She didn’t want to go home. Not yet, at least. What was she going to do by herself anyway? She spent the day as if she were sleepwalking. All the other conservators shared her grief and she spent most of the day sitting in front of a worktable talking with colleagues, sobbing or trying not to cry, but unable to hold it back.
She stared at the painting they had worked on together for the past month. It was stunning. Ever since Anthony had revealed his true past, there was something magical about restoring paintings with him. She wasn’t just working with a master restorer, she was working with the original artist. She relished every moment they had spent together in front of those marvelous works of art. Now, she thought, with eyes red and sore from constant crying, she would never have that opportunity again. The day ended and she gradually made it back to her father’s house, exhausted and heavy hearted.
† † †
The memorial service was Simon’s idea. At first Mackenzie was against it because she didn’t want to admit that Anthony was really gone. Simon gently convinced her that while it was painful for her especially, many of the other restorers thought highly of Anthony and would appreciate paying their final respects.
Two weeks had passed since Simon had shared the news of Anthony’s untimely death with Mackenzie and the rest of the restorers. Because the accident happened so far away from them in Italy, they all had secretly hoped that the news was inaccurate, that there had been a mistake and that Anthony would eventually show up for work like nothing had happened. That didn’t happen. In fact, Mackenzie and her father followed the story online. Her father still had some contacts in the Italian police force and they confirmed Mackenzie’s worst suspicions. Anthony Bataglia was dead. It was official.
Her father had tried to comfort her as best he could, but she remained in shock. She couldn’t believe that he was gone, vanished. How could someone who had survived so long, over half a millennium, die so suddenly? She hadn’t even had a chance to really say a proper goodbye to him. They had both been busy getting ready for their trips and had just said a casual goodbye the last time they were together. After all, they would see each other within a couple of weeks. No big deal. Despite her father’s efforts to make her favorite dishes, she had no appetite. She felt hollow. There was a part of her that just didn’t even exist anymore. Anthony had taken it with him, never to return.
The restorers and Simon gathered in the cloistered garden during their lunch break. It was a warm, sunny spring day. New shoots had already come out on most of the trees and bushes and light green leaves danced in the wind. Simon held a rectangular wooden box in his hand. In the box was one of the paint brushes that Anthony had used on his last restoration, wrapped in a rag that smelled of turpentine. He felt that this was a fitting remembrance for a great artist. Simon had offered the rest of Anthony’s supplies, his palette, the rest of the brushes and a few knives to Mackenzie. She accepted them appreciatively, although with little enthusiasm. It was just another sign of his absence, of the finality of it all.
Upon Mackenzie’s recommendation, they had dug a small hole next to the Japanese maple in the garden. She told Simon that Anthony was very fond of that particular tree and she felt that it was as good as anyplace to bury his brush. They stood in a semi-circle in front of the small tree, its delicate limbs hanging limp, which seemed to reflect the somber moo
d of the group. There were six of them in total, Charles, Ariadne, Takeshi, Thomas van Arden, Simon, and Mackenzie. Simon said some words about Anthony. How they had been fortunate to have such a distinguished and talented restorer working with them at the Cloisters. Charles shared a story about how Anthony had given him some advice and historical insights about a cross that he was working on. He was amazed that someone in his thirties would know so much about a thirteenth century cross from Bologna, especially when that wasn’t his field of expertise. They were all quiet individuals and predominately worked alone, so there wasn’t too much to share. It was all Mackenzie could do to not just burst out crying throughout the entire ceremony, or whatever this was called. She held a handkerchief and blotted the tears from her eyes and tried not to shake uncontrollably. She had nothing to say, nothing that she had wanted to share with the group. She couldn’t have spoken anyway, even if she wanted to. She was in love with Anthony. No one else knew how she felt and she wasn’t about to share her deepest feelings with them now.
Simon carefully placed the box in the makeshift grave and they each tossed a handful of the moist dirt onto the box. Charles then finished the job and gently tapped down the earth and evened out the grave. They hugged each other with red eyes and headed back into the building. Mackenzie stayed behind staring at the grave and the small maple tree. Could she ever sit out in this garden and eat her lunch like she had done countless times with Anthony? Would this tree and this garden bring her comfort or just pain? She wasn’t sure. She turned to make her way back inside and noticed a pigeon perched on the statue of St. Francis. She envied the bird’s simple life. He didn’t feel pain or loss or heartache. But she did, and it wasn’t going away anytime soon.
Chapter 49
After a quiet dinner during which she had barely spoken to her father and mostly pushed her food around the plate, she went up to her room and sat on her bed beside Octavius, who was curled up in a tight ball. It had been almost a month since Anthony’s death. She had lost nearly ten pounds and her clothes hung loosely on her. Her father had gone from concerned to downright upset. He threatened to make her see a counselor if she didn’t start eating more. She didn’t care. She tried to force herself to eat, to actually care about eating, but she couldn’t. She didn’t care about anything anymore. She made her way through life in a fog. The past month went by slowly but she couldn’t remember much of any of it.
At about 8 p.m. her cell phone rang. It was a strange, long number beginning with 3906.
“Hello,” she answered with some hesitation.
“Hello, Mackenzie, I hope I am not disturbing you.”
The voice on the other end. So familiar. Could it be? No, it was impossible. It was just Mackenzie’s brain playing tricks. She tried to answer, but her voice had left her.
“Mackenzie, are you there?” the caller asked.
“Anthony?” she managed to croak. “Is that you?”
“Yes.” A pause, and then, “I apologize for not calling sooner.”
She wasn’t sure what to believe. Was this some type of horrible prank call? But who would want to make such a call?
“But, Simon told me—he told everyone that you were dead,” she said, her voice cracking as tears filled her eyes. She could barely breathe. “My dad even got confirmation from the Italian police!”
“I know. It must have been a terrible shock for you. I am very sorry to have put you through such a thing.”
“A terrible shock!” she erupted, trying to gain her composure. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “That’s an understatement! Christ, Anthony, you put me through hell! Does this mean that you are all right? That you didn’t die on a boat?” Stupid question! “Were you hurt? Are you in a hospital?” The questions just kept coming to her. She couldn’t believe she was talking to Anthony again.
“Well, it is sort of a long story. Give me a minute and I will try to explain,” he said in a calm, comforting voice. “Anthony Bataglia, the art conservator on loan from the Uffizi, passed away in an explosion on a private yacht off the coast of Livorno. That much is now accepted as fact by the police and the case has been closed. A propane gas leak in the galley of the boat caused the explosion. No survivors and no body found. Freak accident, yes. Raising undue suspicion, no.” He continued, “I, however, am not dead, which pretty much goes without saying, given that I am talking with you on the phone right now.”
This was too much for her to comprehend at the moment. She’d spent the last month in mourning, dealing with the finality of Anthony’s life. She still hadn’t really accepted it, but was finally starting to come to grips with losing him. And then, out of the blue comes a phone call from Anthony, or whoever he was now, calmly describing that he had staged the whole thing and that he was fine. Was this some sick joke?
“But why did Anthony have to die?” It was all she could think to ask at this point.
His voice remained calm. “A number of things came together at the right moment in time to make this possible. I told you before that timing these things is a bit challenging and you have to take your opportunities when they present themselves. Ultimately, I was able to do this because of your persistent nudging, which, if you were my wife, might be called nagging.”
“What are you talking about? I never told you to kill yourself, or I mean, to kill Anthony.” She wasn’t sure what he was saying. So many conflicting emotions were hitting her all at once, happiness, relief, surprise, confusion, and now most of all, anger. “If you didn’t die, then why did you let me go through the worst month of my entire freaking life thinking that you were dead?” She tried not to raise her voice and alarm her father, but it was hard. She was so upset she was visibly shaking.
“I know, and I cannot imagine what you must have felt. Trust me, if there were another way to do it, I would have. It happened very quickly. Besides, you are a terrible liar and I needed to have closure both here in Italy and there in New York. Everyone who knew Anthony needed to think that he was dead. If I had told you ahead of time, you could never have pulled it off. I mean that as a compliment. Being a good liar is not a worthy trait in a person; helpful on occasion, yes, but not admirable. You are one of the most honest and sincere people I have ever met. You could not tell a credible lie if your life depended on it. In this case, my life, or at least my current and future personas, depended on a credible lie. I hope you can at least understand.”
The confusion had subsided somewhat, and so had the anger, at least temporarily. She was relieved, certainly. He was alive! Whatever his name was now, he was alive. Their conversation prompted Octavius to wake and begin passing back and forth against her arm, each time pushing harder against her, while she talked.
“What do you mean that I was the reason you did this?” She came back to something he said earlier that struck her as odd.
“You have been telling me for the past six months that I should paint again. Remember our conversation at that little cafe in the Village, the one with the great quiche? Well, I have decided to do just that. I am starting a new chapter in my life, and for the first time in about five hundred years, thanks to you, I am going to be a painter again. David Giacomo will begin his painting career in Venice. If not for you, I would never have decided to do this. The time is right. I am excited again. I have not been excited to be doing anything for longer than I can remember. I owe that to you.”
Great, she thought, blowing her nose with a tissue. I’m the reason he decided to break my heart and throw me into full clinical depression. She hadn’t cared about anything for the past month and now it suddenly seemed like a bad dream from which she had just woken. While she understood why he had done this, she was still so emotionally raw from what she went through that it was hard to process everything without breaking down. She realized that she had been standing for most of the conversation and made herself sit down before she passed out.
“What about us? Will I be able to see you again? Will you be coming back to New York?”
“I will be with you for as long as you live. You are the most important person in the world to me. I have a beautiful place in Venice that you are welcome to visit, or to live, any time. We can talk, Skype, or whatever, anytime you like. As far as coming to New York, it is probably better for me to keep a low profile for a while. Too many people know Anthony and you would be surprised how people react when they see a dead person walking the streets. But I do have a favor to ask of you, if that is all right.”
“I’m not sure if I feel like doing you any favors after what you put me through, but what is it?” she said, trying to sound angry, but that particular emotion was gradually being replaced by relief and even elation. She gently rubbed Octavius under the chin while he raised his head towards the ceiling in casual delight.
“The di Bernardi Family Trust still owns a very nice apartment on the upper west side of Manhattan. You have been there a number of times, I am sure you remember the place. I hate to leave it empty and I cannot imagine selling it either. Besides, moving all of those paintings is a logistical nightmare. Would you be willing to live there rent free for as long as you like? It is completely paid for and the trust pays all maintenance fees. I can have papers drawn up next week to officially have you listed as the primary tenant. Is that something you are comfortable with?”
Living for free in a luxury four bedroom condo, filled with original masterpieces dating from the fourteenth century, with a view of Central Park didn’t require a lot of thought.
“I’ll do it on one condition. Octavius will be coming with me and walking all over your Persian carpets.”
Painter of Time Page 27