the corner of their suite. Belle walked over to him and gently
removed his arm from the shoulders of the marble bust.
“You could have damaged it, Lance. You don’t really know
what you’re experiencing here do you darling? Taste is some-
thing one acquires with study and exposure. Yours is somewhat
limited so I advise you to keep such opinions to yourself,” she
said. “I adore you for who you are, not for what you know.”
The next morning while Belle slept in, Lance went down
to the estate’s Roman inspired pool for an early swim. Amid
the columns on either end of the pool, Lance saw a man who
looked to be in his late twenties, just finishing laps.
186
Provenance: A Novel
“You’re new,” he said in English with a thick Italian accent.
“I’m Arturo, I saw you at dinner last night. And you are?”
“Lance.”
“Lance. I like it—very masculine. Your real name?”
“Of course.”
“Just asking. Who is your sponsor? Male or female? Not
that it matters. It is better if you can accommodate both.”
“My sponsor?” Lance asked as he took off the robe he wore
over his swimming trunks and dropped it along with his towel
on a chaise longue at the edge of the pool.
“You know, who did you have to fuck to get here?” Arturo
laughed. Only then did Lance realize what he was asking.
“No, it’s not like that,” he said. “Miss Greene and I are
friends. She’s not my sponsor, I’m not her—”
“We’re all whores darling; they pay, we play. You’re young
and pretty,” he said, looking Lance up and down. “Very smart
to take care of the body—it is your moneymaker,” he added,
playfully popping Lance on the behind with a towel. “Our
bodies are all we have—they are certainly not interested in
what is up here,” he tapped a finger to the side of his head.
“This is what holds their interest,” Arturo said as he stripped
out of his wet swim trunks and provocatively dried his privates
before putting on a terry robe.
“Need to hurry back,” he said as he gathered his things.
“She likes Arturo in the morning too.” As he started up the
stone steps to the main house, he called back to Lance, “Save
your money, darling. Our good looks won’t last forever. See
you at dinner.”
187
Donna Drew Sawyer
Arturo’s assessment stunned Lance just as Belle’s remark
about his taste in art had the previous evening. He dove into
the water, slapping it with hard strokes, he powered to one
end of the large pool then turned and pushed off with such
force that he shot to the middle and surged to the opposite
end to repeat the process. The more he thought about Arturo,
probably not his real name, the angrier he became. Belle’s
comment about adoring him for who he was, not what he
knew infuriated him in retrospect. They all think I’m a gigolo.
He swam harder and faster, lap after lap, assessing who he had
become in the past couple of years—a gigolo and a hanger on.
The people he knew in Europe were not his friends, they were
friends of friends. He contributed nothing to their existence;
his absence in their lives would probably go unnoticed, yet
these superficial friendships were all he had.
Finally exhausted, Lance pulled himself out of the pool
and lay panting on the stone deck. When he finally caught his
breath, he jumped up, grabbed his robe and, still dripping wet,
ran back to the room.
(VI)
Bel e was on the balcony overlooking the gardens, reading,
her face shaded by a large straw hat. A tray with fruit, biscotti
and coffee was on the table next to her.
“I had them bring breakfast,” she said. “After last night I
needed some sustenance.” She laughed and looked up to see
188
Provenance: A Novel
Lance, still wet from his swim, dripping on the tile floor of
the balcony.
“I was just informed that I’m your whore.”
“Really?”
“Really,” Lance said. “Is that what people are saying? Is
that what you’re telling them?”
Bel e put her book down and reached out to him, “Dry your
face, darling. Put your robe on before you catch a chill and sit.
Have some breakfast before the coffee gets cold.”
“Answer me, Belle.”
“First you must understand that the sexual mores are dif-
ferent on the continent than they are at home. We are helping
each other,” she said. “And the truth is, dear Lance, that we
are using each other. Not in the strictly transactional way some of the guests here are, but I am helping you to mature and you
are helping me stave off middle age. My reputation is already
established but it seems you are going to have to make the
decision, as I once had to, to be the art or the collector.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about, just answer my
question, Belle.”
“I am answering your question,” she said gently. “Listen to
me carefully. This is important, this is me helping you. When
I was about your age, I went to work as a library aid for Mr. J.
Pierpont Morgan. He was a man of strong appetites—books,
art, food, drink, money and women. He always had a harem of
women. He was physical y attracted to me and I could have eas-
ily exploited that attraction, but I’d seen Mr. Morgan’s women
come and go. I knew that as his mistress, I would be adored and
189
Donna Drew Sawyer
well taken care of until another woman struck his fancy and
replaced me. To an art collector, the most recent acquisition is
the collector’s favorite, until the next new acquisition comes
along. Some older works you keep. They find their way deep
into the collection and they are treasured but will never be
what they once were. And some of the art you once loved you
sell because it no longer fits your image or the themes within
your collection. The collector makes those decisions—the art
has no say in the matter. Expertise is always valued over beauty
and the one with the expertise decides what beauty stays and
what goes. For those reasons, I chose not to be the art, but the
collector.”
Belle paused, reached over, took her napkin and wiped a
drop of water from Lance’s face.
“You are quite special,” she said. “You are a very good
looking man and you are a joy to be with physically, but you
also have an intellect; yet you’ve chosen to do little with that
gift. I’ve seen how much you’ve absorbed about art in our brief
time together. You already have a sense of it, you could develop
a very good eye for art. Put some of your passion into training
instead of floating about as you have the last couple of years.
Consciously choose to use your attributes. You have the potential
to be a great collector of art, knowledge and friends—but at
this moment, darling, all you are is the art.”
1
90
Provenance: A Novel
(VII)
For the rest of their time at the Villa, Belle began what
she called “Project Pygmalion.”
“So now you think I’m a gigolo and a cockney flower sel er,”
Lance was only half joking. “Are you my Henrietta Higgins?”
“You are so far ahead of where Eliza started,” Bel e said. “I
doubt my contribution will be that significant. I will point you
in the right direction, you will find your own momentum. It
will be easier for you to benefit from being part of the insular
world of art and money—easier for you than it was for me.
You will not be plagued with the same questions and doubts I
had to endure as a woman. ‘Who is she? Where is she from?
Can she possibly know anything about art?’ Even today, after
I have proven myself time and time again, they still question.
As a man, your intellect and authority will be readily accepted.
However, you should still expect to be challenged by those
educated far beyond their intelligence—the cognoscenti,” she
said in an ominous tone. “I am a little jealous of how much
easier it will be for you but I will take pride in any role I play
in your success.” Belle took Lance’s hand and led him into the
Villa’s extensive library.
“So Lance, we will begin, or should I call you my Eliza.”
“As long as you don’t mind being called Henry.”
“Professor Higgins, if you don’t mind,” she said, closing
the door behind them.
191
Donna Drew Sawyer
(VIII)
Lance had never seen Belle so excited; she bounced up
and down as she waited for the train to pull into the station
in Florence. At the moment the conductor put the step to the
car, a woman, who looked much older than Belle, bounded
off of the train.
“Gertrude!” Bel e screamed, running to embrace the smal
woman with grey hair and dusty colored skin.
“My Bella,” the woman said as the two wrapped their
arms tightly around each other in an embrace that lasted sev-
eral minutes and brought many tears. As the other passengers
streamed around them, Lance stood awkwardly aside watching
the reunion. Finally the two women stepped back to look at
each other.
“Belle you never age, I hate you! You look as young as you
did back in Princeton.”
“And you are as beautiful as you always were,” Belle said
graciously. No one would believe that the two women were the
same age; the years had not been as kind to Gertrude.
“And this would be?” Gertrude asked, looking at Lance
standing near them.
“This is my protégé, Mr. Lance Withers,” Bel e said, putting
her arm in Lance’s.
“Your protégé,” Gertrude whispered in Belle’s ear, “and
the secret to your fountain of youth?”
Belle playfully nudged Gertrude.
192
Provenance: A Novel
“Lance, this is Gertrude Martins. A dear friend from my
days at the Princeton library.” The two women hugged again.
“We have not seen each other in twenty years. She lives fifty
miles from me in NY and the only way I can get her to come
and see me is to bribe her with a trip to Italy.”
“Bribes always work,” Gertrude said.
The plan was for Gertrude to stay for a few of days and
then rejoin the church tour group she had abandoned to visit
Belle. She asked Lance to call her Trudy. “I already look old,”
she told him. “I don’t want to sound old too.” Trudy loved to
talk as much as she loved to eat and drink.
“These Italians,” she said, pronouncing the word Eye-tal-
eons, “really know how to live. Wine and pasta, pasta and
wine. I could get used to this.” Belle and Trudy had roomed
together with Trudy’s aunt when Junis Morgan, a Princeton
man, introduced Belle to his uncle J.P. Morgan who hired
her to help manage his growing collection. Belle moved to
Manhattan, and Trudy and Belle’s lives took different paths
but the affection that they felt for each other never waned.
“We were both trained in the library by my aunt,” Trudy
explained.
“I thought you were students together,” Lance said.
“Heavens no! Evelyn Col ege for Women would never have
admitted the likes of us,” Trudy said. Belle, sitting beside her
friend, gently squeezed her arm. Trudy immediately fell silent
and took a sip of her ever present drink.
“Evelyn College for Women?” Lance asked.
193
Donna Drew Sawyer
“The sister school in Princeton. We could not afford to go
there. We worked for a living,” Bel e said, making it clear there
would be no more discussion.
“Still do,” Trudy said under her breath.
Lance felt like an intruder during their conversations about
their days together at the Princeton Library. He started to
spend more time in the villa’s Library, walking the grounds
or reading by the pool to give the women an opportunity to
reminisce. Several times when he walked in on them in the
midst of conversation, they immediately changed the subject,
then invited him to join them. These women had secrets. He
was curious, but because of his own history, he knew some
things were best shared in their own time or not at all.
Lance made it his routine to swim first thing in the morning
and since Arturo and his “sponsor” had already left the vil a he
now enjoyed his solitary early morning exercise. Bel e’s schedule
of instruction often kept him in the library for hours each day
so he treasured the time he had to himself during his swim.
On Trudy’s last day at the villa, he left at his usual early
time to swim but when he arrived at the pool the caretaker
was doing maintenance and asked him to return later. He went
back to the suite and let himself in. He heard Trudy in Belle’s
bedroom, the door was open, but they had not heard him return.
“Put your hat on, Belle. You’d better be careful or you
going to end up looking like me,” he heard Trudy say laughing.
“You’re getting too much sun, you’re browning up.”
194
Provenance: A Novel
“I am not,” Belle said. “I just look healthy. I’m not as lucky
as you. You were always lighter than me. I claimed to have the
darker Portuguese blood, remember?”
“And my ancestors were from Southern Spain—more like
southern Senegal. Look at us, same age and same story, except
I’m starting to look like I’m returning to the motherland. You
won’t be far behind me if you don’t cover yourself from the sun.”
“We’re still light enough to pass,” Belle said.
“They say as we get older we’ll get darker. Soon we’ll be
two old Nigs who used to be white.”
Lance quietly backed out of the suite and closed the door.
He stood in the hallway, not sure what to do. When he looked
up, Belle, in her dressing gown, was standing in front of
him.
“I thought you went for a swim,” she whispered.
“The pool, they’re doing work. They asked me to come
back…” Belle put her finger to his lips.
“You heard?” she whispered. Lance did not respond. Belle
stroked his face,
“We’ll talk later. After Trudy leaves. Give us a few minutes
then you can come back,” she said calmly. “You were not here,
you heard nothing.” Belle went back into the suite and as she
closed the door on Lance, she cal ed out, “It was nothing Trudy
dear, just a breeze.”
(IX)
At least forty, maybe forty-five Lance tried to guess Belle’s age as he watched her sleep. It was hard to believe she was
195
Donna Drew Sawyer
the same age as Trudy, who looked ancient to him. The early
morning sun streaming through the bedroom window fell on
her face illuminating the tiny lines around her eyes and her
mouth. Without makeup, her face was a dull, dusty color; no
rosy cheeks, well-defined mouth, bright eyes—any illusion
of youth was gone. From her heavy breathing, he knew she
was sound asleep but she clutched the satin sheet to her breast
and turned away from him as though she could sense him
watching her.
Lance got up slowly hoping not to wake her. He retrieved
his robe and went down the hall to the bath. He thought
about going for a swim, but changed his mind—even after a
full night’s sleep, he felt drained. Returning to their rooms, he
stopped for a moment in the salon to look at the treasures from
yesterday’s shopping. Belle wanted them to talk away from the
villa so they took Trudy to the train and after she departed to
rejoin her tour group, they spent the rest of the day in Florence,
shopping and talking.
Belle told him everything. That she was passing, that
Charlotte had told her that he was passing and then black-
mailed her into taking him on as her protégée. In the back of
his mind he had wondered why a woman like Belle had such
an enduring interest in him. My grandmother procured a woman
for me—what kind of a grandmother does that?
Bel e assured him that even before Charlotte threatened to
reveal her Richmond background as a lie, she’d wanted to be
with him for the summer. That explanation seemed too con-
venient. Lance felt sick, he went to the window, took several
196
Provenance: A Novel
deep breaths of the clear Mediterranean air and then slid to
Provenance_InteriorDraft_07.indd Page 18