“I would not have it any other way. I hope the place will be to the little Emperor’s liking.”
They both laughed. After all the emotions she had experienced, she was able to laugh for the first time in a month. She hadn’t lost him. He was still here. She would be living in his place, he would be painting again and they could be together, maybe not every day, but whenever possible. Making a few trips to Venice wasn’t such a bad thing either.
“Mackenzie, I want you to know how much I love you. I have not felt like this about anyone for longer than you can imagine. You have made me feel alive again. I can never thank you enough.”
“I love you, too,” she said as her eyes filled with joyous tears. “I’m sure David Giacomo is going to do his predecessors proud. Please promise to stay in touch. I will hunt you down if you don’t.”
“It is a deal. Now try not to look too happy when you go to work and blow the whole thing. Remember, you need to be in mourning for a couple days more.” He paused, “Oh, and there is just one more thing; you can call it fulfilling a promise if you like.”
“You’re starting to push your luck, Signore Giacomo,” she said, trying to sound stern.
“Yes, I know. But I remember distinctly that you said if I were to paint again, you would try something other than the poppy seed muffin at your café. I would personally suggest the quiche.”
She couldn’t help but laugh, wiping back her tears. “Sounds fair to me.”
Chapter 50
Venice, Italy, October 2010
Fortunately, the summer with its pounding sun and unrelenting crowds had passed. He had forgotten how hot it actually got here in the summer. One would think tat being completely engulfed by water would help moderate the temperature of the archipelago. But that didn’t seem to be the case. After all, Venice was originally created by draining swampland, which tended to be associated with high humidity. Having lived in New York for so long, he had forgotten about the unrelenting intensity of the Italian summer. It was hard for him to imagine a place that was worse than Florence during the height of tourist season, but Venice was making a strong push for the title.
He shivered as he remembered the summer; hordes of tourists from all over the globe jamming the streets, taking pictures in front of St. Marc’s Basilica, cruise ships unloading gaggles of middle aged adventurers in khaki shorts and Tommy Bahama shirts, all carrying large bottles of water to guard against the dreaded possibility of being caught without clean drinking water, as if they were crossing the Sahara as opposed to touring a city with nearly a thousand cafés.
Venice’s weather was both interesting and predictable. The winters were cold and the summers were hot. It often dropped below freezing in January and February and got up into the nineties in July and August. Both extremes posed their own challenges. October and November were nice, much like in New York. Sweater weather, as they say.
David Giacomo walked into one of the small cafes just a few streets down from his apartment, ordered a croissant and a cappuccino, and sat outside in front of the cafe. He casually nibbled on his croissant and sipped his coffee as he watched the city come to life. It was just after 7:00 a.m. He always relished watching a city slowly come to life. It didn’t matter which city he was in. After all, you really didn’t see an entire city come to life, per se; you saw a small sliver of that city spring to life. You could be in central London or the lower east side of Manhattan or Trastevere in Rome, Aoyama in Tokyo, Le Marais in Paris. It really didn’t matter, because you were always watching a micro-sector of a major metropolis awake. It always started out slowly. The bigger the city, the earlier it rose. New York at five a.m. was as lively as Stockholm at six, actually more so. They were all pretty busy by seven. Just watching them shake off their overnight hibernation was always a pleasure. It was like you were eavesdropping on a private conversation, but without the guilt. No one noticed you. You were just another part of the cityscape. They went on with their normal routines uninterrupted and unbothered by the man in the corner sipping his coffee, nibbling on his croissant, reading a newspaper.
He had spent the better part of the past two months getting his place in shape, buying painting supplies, shipping some personal effects from Florence and purchasing some new furniture here in Venice. He wasn’t in a huge hurry, which was good, because nothing was easy in Venice. You could ultimately acquire almost anything you wanted here, just like in any other city, but it took time and you more than likely had to get off the islands to make any significant purchases. Then those had to be brought onto the islands, carried through the narrow streets, up the even narrower staircases and installed into apartments with electrical and plumbing systems that typically were several generations past their prime. Fortunately, having done this more than a few times, he had instructed the broker he used to find an apartment that had recently been renovated and fitted with new HVAC, electricity, plumbing, and a modern kitchen.
The things you could get in Venice, if you knew where to look, knew what you wanted, and had patience and money, were treasures that could only be found here. You could find beautiful draperies of damask, silk, and velvet, and spectacular Turkish rugs that could have proudly adorned the Doge’s palace. Murano glass chandeliers and sconces that threw a spectrum of color throughout the room, Venetian mirrors with elaborate frames made of etched or beveled pieces of mirror accented in black and vibrant red and yellow jewels, or gracefully shaped Fortuny lamps with fine silk shades were all easily available.
Venetian planning regulations required that you keep the outer walls of gray trachyte intact. But what you did behind those walls was virtually carte blanche. The choices were endless, from sixteenth century Venetian or Ottoman to twenty-first century Scandinavian contemporary. So behind the dingy gray walls that hadn’t changed in centuries and looked as if they would crumble and fall at any minute lay palaces of unbelievable splendor. In some cases they truly were palaces, twenty to thirty room luxury estates that would have made Louis XIII proud. More often than not, those palaces had been divided up over time into eight-room mini-estates that were still spectacular in their own right.
David had found a six-room Piano Nobile, which in Venice meant the second floor, with larger windows and better views away from the dampness and inevitable flooding of the ground floor, in the Castello neighborhood, or Sestieri, of Venice. Castello was the largest of the six Sestieri that made up the Venetian island and was far away from the hustle and bustle of San Marco square, the Rialto Bridge, and the train station. His apartment on the Riva dei Sette Martin looked out onto the lagoon and to the open sea and gave him stunning views of the Campanile of San Marco, the Salute, San Giorgio Maggiore, and San Clemente.
In a word, his apartment was breathtaking. The ceilings were fifteen feet high, which, along with the tall wood framed windows, made the large rooms seem even more spacious. The walls and ceilings were covered in Venetian plaster, which was a mixture of plaster and marble dust, in this case pink marble, which was applied in multiple thin layers. These were then polished to a smooth finish. The marble dust gave a unique depth and sheen to the plaster. The floors were also pink granite, with generous appointments of Turkish rugs. The large French windows opened to a long balcony that ran the length of three entire rooms and looked out onto the sea.
David made one of the largest rooms his new studio. It was spacious and airy and filled with natural light. His current project involved painting a series of large frescoes that would cover the walls and ceilings of every room in his new home. The fresco would flow, appearing out of the plaster and then disappearing back into it. The edges would be undefined and the scenes would seem to drop off, as if complete sections had been plastered over. This was to be his new style, both for himself and for other patrons who might be interested in his talents.
When he wasn’t getting his apartment and personal affairs in order, he spent most of his time wandering through the streets of Venice, taking photos of places and scenes that interested
him. Venice at dawn and at dusk had two completely different color palettes. The vibrant early morning light contrasted sharply with the long shadows and tired light of the fading sunset. The canals themselves were a spectrum of colors ranging from a frothy pale green to a deep indigo. The sky and the water framed the spectacular silhouette of this magical place. Whatever you added beyond these could be either incidental or central to the scene. These would serve as the inspirations for his new paintings and frescoes. Gone were the limitations of having to paint interpretations of biblical scenes or portraits of saints, noblemen or wealthy merchants that he had labored for over two centuries to capture. Art in the past two hundred years had shown him that everyday life was a worthy subject with infinite possibilities. Just as importantly, he was confident in his ability to transmit this beauty to canvas or plaster and he was excited to be painting again. Where better than the timeless city of Venice to begin anew? David Giacomo had begun painting. Whether future art historians or critics would mark this time period and single out his work for study as they had done in the past was something that did not concern him. He was no longer obsessed with fame, as he had been for much of his career. He would likely never be another Michelangelo. But he had come to accept the simple truth that no one would. No one would be Van Gogh, or Da Vinci, or Monet, or Dürer, or in fact anyone else. He painted because he needed to paint. It was who he was, who he was meant to be, an artist.
He looked at his watch and then finished his cappuccino and wiped the crumbs of the croissant from his lips. He made his way to a nearby canal, flagged a water taxi, and directed the driver to take him to the airport. After winding his way through a labyrinth of canals they came to the open lagoon and on towards the mainland where Marco Polo airport sat beside the water. He paid the driver and made his way into the international arrivals area. He looked on the screen, awaiting British Airways flight 578 from Heathrow.
After approximately twenty minutes, he saw Mackenzie making her way out of customs. She flashed a warm, travel-weary smile when she saw him. They hugged and then headed out towards the lagoon to grab a water taxi.
“Did you have a nice flight?” he asked, rolling her luggage by his side.
“Yeah, it was pretty uneventful. I’ve never flown first class before. It was awesome. Thank you so much, it must have cost a fortune!”
“Glad you enjoyed it.”
They climbed onto the water taxi and made their way towards the archipelago.
“You look great,” she said admiringly.
“Thank you. You too. Your hair is a mess, but otherwise you look beautiful.” They both laughed. “How is everything at the Cloisters?”
“Oh, it’s good. I just finished up a Conrad von Soest. It’s the second restoration I did from beginning to end,” she said with obvious pride. “I think it turned out well.”
They passed the tall smoke stacks on the island of Murano, where glass making had been moved from Venice in 1291 to reduce the risk of fire in the more populated areas.
“Of course it did. You are very good at what you do. I expect that you will be hitting Simon up for a raise in no time.” They didn’t say anything for a few moments as the taxi ferried them closer to the main islands, through the deep green and blue waters.
“Mackenzie, I have been thinking about something for a while,” he said, breaking the silence. “You have not told your father about my situation, is that correct?”
“No, of course not. I promised that I wouldn’t tell anyone and I haven’t. Why?”
“I expected that to be the case. I also know that you are very close to your father and it must be difficult to keep something like this from him.”
“It’s been terrible, really. I’ve never kept anything from my dad and he helped me so much in piecing things together. I know that he respects my promise, but I also know that he feels hurt and there’s something between us now that was never there before.”
He could sense that this was something that had been on her mind for some time.
“As you can imagine, I have had to keep secrets from people I loved all my life. It is a terrible burden to carry and one that I do not wish to place on anyone, especially someone I care about as much as you.” He paused, and then looked directly at her. “When you go back home, feel free to share my secret with your father. But, and you have to promise me this, the secret must stay with the two of you and no one else.”
Her face glowed with joy in the warm Venetian sun. She wrapped her arms around Anthony in a big hug. “Thank you so much! You can’t imagine how happy this makes me! I promise that we won’t share your secret with anyone.”
He placed his hands over hers. “Do you think he will believe you? Detectives are not really known for accepting incredible stories.”
“Are you saying that I am more gullible than my father?” They both laughed. “I’m not sure whether he’ll believe it or not, but he’s always preached the old adage from Sherlock Holmes, ‘once every other possibility has been ruled out, then the one that remains, however unlikely, must be the truth.’ So, yeah, I think he’ll believe me. I can be pretty persuasive when I need to.”
“That you can,” replied Anthony with a deepening grin.
The taxi plowed onward. The wind blew his hair back on his tan face, as he squinted into in the sun. He caught her staring at him. “Is something wrong?”
She pulled back the hair towards his temple. “I just noticed that you have some grey in your hair. I never noticed it before. Is it makeup?”
He turned towards her and smiled. “No, it is real grey.” He paused for a moment as the main islands approached across the light green chop in the lagoon. “I guess you could say that it is just a natural part of growing old.” He smiled at her.
She stared at him, momentarily taking in what he had just said. “Does that mean what I think it does?”
He just smiled and looked forward towards the Campanile in the distance. They turned into the Grand Canal and made their way into the center of Venice. Soft white clouds floated across the blue sky as centuries’-old buildings formed one of the most beautiful passageways in the world.
HISTORIAL FACTS
While the dialogue of all characters in this book is completely fictitious, a number of the main characters actually did exist.
BERLINGHIERO BERLINGHIERI was a well-known Byzantine painter from Lucca who was active from 1200 –1240. He had three sons who also worked as artists: Bonaventura (active 1228–1274); Marco (active 1222 – 1259); and Barone (active 1228 – 1282). There is a beautiful mosaic on the façade of the San Martino Cathedral in Lucca that remains today. Bonaventura’s St. Francis and His Life altarpiece (1235) still resides in the church of San Francesco in Pescia, Italy. Berlinghiero’s wife Ilaria is a created name.
BERNARDO DADDI was a Florentine painter (1280 – 1348). He was also likely an apprentice of Giotto. His birth date actually remains unknown, and in fact his death is estimated to be 1348 because his last painting was dated as 1347. After Giotto’s death he became Florence’s leading painter. His children’s names, as well as his wife Angelina, are all fictitious.
GIOTTO DI BONDONE (1267 – 1337), known as Giotto, was a Florentine painter and architect. He is credited with making a break from the Byzantine style and bringing more accurate depictions of life in his artwork. There remains some debate with regard to who actually painted all of the Life of St. Francis frescoes in the Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi. It is widely acknowledged that Giotto and the Florentine painter Cimabue, who was a teacher of Giotto, painted the frescoes. However, in the absence of firm documentation the entire cycle of frescoes has been attributed to Giotto, mostly because of his prestige.
FILIPPO LIPPI, aka FRA LIPPI (1406 – 1469) was a Florentine painter, who was brought up as an unwanted child in a Carmelite friary, where he took his vows in 1421. He wasn’t particularly successful as a friar and had an affair with a nun, Lucrezia Buti, who bore him a son, Filippino, and a daughter, Alessandra.
They were released from their vows and allowed to marry. His son Filippino actually went on to become a successful painter himself. He was a highly regarded painter during his lifetime and was patronized by the Medici family.
THE MEDICI. The Medici family was one of the most powerful families in Florence, Italy, and indeed the world. It would be hard to compare another family’s breadth of influence and power to that of the Medici.
COSIMO DE MEDICI (1389-1464) was an astute businessman fascinated by the secrets of ancient Rome and Greece and paid to have lost teachings, sculptures, and other artifacts brought back to Florence, which he envisioned would emerge as the next Rome or Athens. Despite fierce opposition, he supported the architect Filippo Brunelleschi in building the largest unsupported dome in the Christian world for the unfinished Duomo. He built his father’s relatively small bank into an international powerhouse with offices reaching from Brussels to Cairo. At the time of his death, the Medici bank was the most profitable organization in Europe. He was the most sought after patron of the arts and can rightly be considered the father of the Renaissance.
LORENZO DE MEDICI (1449-1492) continued his father’s support of the arts and founded the first art academy in the world, which would support, among others, Michelangelo, Botticelli and Leonardo Da Vinci. Known as Lorenzo the Magnificent, he was instrumental in pushing art into a more secular realm, much to the dismay of the church, and in particular an influential Dominican monk named Girolamo Savonarola who would continue to serve as an enemy of Lorenzo, the entire Medici family, and ultimately the foundation of the Renaissance itself.
POPE LEO X (elected 1513) was originally born Giovanni di Lorenzo de Medici (1475-1521), and was the second son of Lorenzo. His reign as pope (as well as that of his cousin Guillio, who was elected Pope Clement VII in 1523) was highlighted by political intrigue and conspicuous excesses. Leo X is also associated with granting indulgences to those who donated to the reconstruction of St. Peter’s Basilica, which partly led to Martin Luther’s 95 Theses. Despite Pope Leo’s efforts to fight against Luther’s premises, his reign saw the growth of Lutheranism throughout Scandinavia and Northern Europe.
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