A good hour later, the taxi stops in front of the entrance to the Città Universitaria, the main La Sapienza campus. It’s Thursday, an ordinary weekday, but it’s already quarter-to-six and I’m not sure if anyone will still be around. Well, no harm trying, even if it is a shot in the dark, I think as I pay the driver and go inside. I don’t have a map, but assume that somewhere inside there’ll be an indication of the buildings. So it shouldn’t be all that difficult to find the Art History Institute.
But actually it is, as I soon find out. As soon as I leave the vicinity of the entrance, an extensive campus opens out in front of me, with one imposing building complex after another. It’s its own little city within the city, I think, as I carry on walking, looking out for any kind of signpost that could help me get my bearings. Actually, it’s not at all surprising since La Sapienza — which also has more than a hundred libraries, museums, institutes, and departments all over the city of Rome — is said to be the largest university in Europe. It’s also supposed to be the oldest university in Rome — although this part, the Città, is definitely not that old. It was built by Mussolini in the 1930s, and its mammoth buildings were probably designed to instil students with a reverent appreciation of knowledge, I reflect in frustration. But then, I’ve never been one for 1930s architecture.
Although it’s already late afternoon, there are clearly still a few classes taking place, since there are students around. They look almost lost in the enormous campus, but I keep seeing them coming out of buildings or sitting around on the lawns and staircases in the sun, talking. I even pass an entire class, which has been relocated outside. I carry on, almost certain that I’ll run into an art historian who can tell me when and where Matteo Bertani holds his seminars.
I consider, with a sigh, whether or not I ought to wish that he’s there. I don’t actually believe he is — that would be a huge coincidence — but if he were, I’d like to get this over with quickly. And then, perhaps, I won’t spend so much time thinking about him.
Because I haven’t stopped thinking about him since my online investigations, which produced some very surprising results.
Somehow I thought that, as the heir to the Bertani concern, he must have grown up without a care in the world. That he’d only seen the sunny side of life — and that his charming smile and confident demeanour prove this.
But that’s not the case. As Andrew already mentioned, Matteo was fifteen when his father suddenly died of protracted influenza. His mother, an Englishwoman — who is probably responsible for his accent-free English — had already left them three years earlier and didn’t return to Italy, even after the death of her ex-husband. So Matteo, the only one of the three brothers who was still a minor, was entrusted to his grandmother Valentina’s care.
When I read that, I swallowed. I know exactly how it feels when your own mother lets you down. My mother’s still there, but she’s never really been able to look after me. She’s always been too busy dealing with herself and her illness. But at least I had a dad. It would have been terrible to lose him, the way Matteo Bertani lost his father — at a time when he must have still needed him very badly.
Perhaps that’s why he’d gotten married so early, at the age of only twenty-two, to a beautiful blonde woman called Giulia, the daughter of a well-known Italian actor. The two of them were the darlings of the Italian gossip rags, Rome’s “golden couple”. There are countless photos of them, laughing into the camera at parties, clubs and events. At some point the media frenzy died down a bit, probably because Matteo Bertani began to focus more on his academic career and spend less time on the Roman nightlife circuit. But his wife looked great in photos on her own, too. But then tragedy struck: Guilia, an amateur pilot who owned her own small plane, crashed into the sea with her flight instructor, and they were both killed.
It’s been six years since the accident. Afterward, Matteo Bertani threw himself into his work with even more determination than before. Now, at barely thirty-two, he’s one of Italy’s most respected art historians. He seems to be just as popular in his private life. There are more recent photos online, showing him with a series of different women. But he’s obviously never made another serious commitment to anyone, and has earned a reputation as a playboy and a womaniser. That’s probably why Andrew thinks he’s not my type.
I don’t want him anyway, I remind myself. After all, my opinion of him hasn’t changed. He’s arrogant and horrible, no matter what kind of a past he’s had. And I’m still dreading meeting him again, if only because I have no idea how he’s going to react to my request.
I walk past several more buildings, and then a courtyard suddenly appears in front of me and I’m standing in front of the main building, a magnificent white structure with high pillars at the entrance. If I understood the slightly faded map on one of walls correctly, I need to turn right to get to humanities, where I imagine I’ll find the Art History Institute. And, shortly afterward, I locate the right entrance and climb the broad external staircase leading to that sector of the university.
Inside, right behind the glass entrance doors, two lines of yellow tape extend from wall to wall: one at knee height and the other slightly above head height. Additional vertical strips of tape are holding everything together, creating the appearance of a loose net. It’s open in the middle, but at first I think it’s a real barrier. Then I realise it’s only a student union demonstration, a protest to demand better learning conditions. Because, behind the cordon, a group of young people are standing around a table, and when a student walks past me and climbs over the easily surmountable obstacle they press a flyer into his hand and let him continue unimpeded. So I copy him, swinging a leg over the tape. I have to lift the skirt of my dress and show some leg to do so and that earns me an admiring whistle from a dark-haired student. He comes over and is about to press one of the colourful flyers into my hand, too, but I fob him off with a fleeting smile because I’ve just spotted something to my left which grabs my attention.
There’s a notice board affixed to the wall right by the entrance, with Dipartimento di Storia dell’Arte written on it in gold letters. The Art History Institute, I think, smiling. It must be right here on the ground floor. Well, that was pretty easy.
I go over to the board, to take a look at the notices and try to find out more. There might be a class schedule or — even better — details as to when and where I can find Matteo Bertani.
“Dove vai?” The guy from a moment ago appears next to me. He’s in his early twenties, tall and lanky. He correctly spotted that I’m obviously looking for something and his smile suggests that he’s not just trying to be helpful, he wants a chance to flirt with me. I’m really not in the mood, I’m way to preoccupied for that. But maybe he can spare me a long search, so I smile back at him.
First I have to take a moment to consider how to formulate my question in Italian. Then I ask him, hopefully using the right sentence structure, if he knows what Matteo Bertani’s teaching hours are today.
He rolls his eyes in response. He obviously isn’t happy with the fact that I’m interested in that particular lecturer.
“Over there on the right.” He indicates the end of the broad corridor adjoining the entrance hall which branches off in two directions. “Then the second door on your left. But the seminar he’s giving right now is already pretty full — I have no idea whether you’ll still be able to get in,” he declares with markedly less enthusiasm than at first, and strolls back to his friends.
“Grazie,” I call after him and carry on walking, fighting my way through a stream of people who are moving along the corridor in the opposite direction. I still can’t quite believe that it was so easy to find Matteo Bertani.
But now I have a new problem: I haven’t really thought through how I’m going to broach my question. Luckily I changed, at least, and swapped the quirky, printed summer dress for a green shirtdress, which is more appropriate for a business appointment. Last time I met Matteo Bertani, my wardrobe choices caused me a lot of problems, so this time I wanted to be on the safe side.
When I turn the corner, with my heart pounding, I notice that the second door on the left is open and the corridor is crowded with people. The reason instantly dawns on me. A well-attended seminar has just ended — and, judging by what the student just said, it was probably one of Matteo Bertani’s. Only a moment ago I was worried about what I was going to say to him, but now I immediately increase my pace — I don’t want to miss him altogether.
It looks as though I already have, however, because the seminar room is nearly empty by the time I enter. Three female students are still standing by the desk at the front, chatting. There are two more sitting at the desks in the front row, and a young man is leaning against the windowsill, busy with his mobile phone. The windows are open because the room is stuffy, and most of the chairs have been carelessly shoved aside — there must have been a lot of people in here a moment ago. But there’s no sign of Matteo Bertani. Is this really the right room?
The young women have just spotted me. They interrupt their chat. All three of them are dark-haired and very pretty, and they’re wearing trendy but rather skimpy clothes: miniskirts and tank tops — one of them is in a cat suit. They have their bags with them, stuffed full, and they’re holding their folders in front of their chests, as if they still needed them for something. As if they were waiting.
“Scusi, dov’è il professore Bertani?” I enquire with a friendly smile. But they don’t respond, they just stare at me, like the other three who’ve just turned round toward me.
OK, I think, what have I done wrong? I know my Italian isn’t accent free, I’m still working on that. But the young man understood me perfectly just now. Why are they all gawping at me as if I had a loose screw?
One of the three at front by the lectern is smiling now, at least. But the smile looks pitying, somehow. Then she indicates the corridor with her hand
“Direttamente dietro di te,” she says. And at that moment I realise that someone is standing behind me and whip round in shock.
Matteo Bertani is leaning in the doorway and seems to have been there for a while. He must have arrived while I was talking to the girls. That’s why they were looking at me so uncomprehendingly when I asked where he was.
I look up at him, holding my breath because I’d forgotten how handsome he was. He’s wearing a light-coloured, close-fitting shirt with suit trousers that fit so beautifully, they must have been made to measure. He doesn’t have a jacket or tie, and he’s rolled up his shirt sleeves, revealing muscular, tanned forearms — probably as a concession to the heat and the fact that he’d just been teaching a whole horde of students. That’s probably also why his hair isn’t as neatly arranged as it was when we met at the reception. He seems to have run his hand through it a few times — but it suits him, this ever so slightly dishevelled look. Basically it just accentuates the casual, effortlessly elegant way he dresses — exactly the way you’d expect the youngest scion of an Italian design dynasty to dress. The pale scar on his neck, which contrasts with his tanned skin, is the only thing that jars this perfect image, and once again I can’t help wonder what might have caused the injury.
“Miss Conroy.” His deep voice rouses me from my observations, and I suddenly notice a very contented smile playing about his lips. “I’d been wondering when you were going to come.”
However I had pictured our meeting, it had not included that sentence, so I need a moment to collect my thoughts and suppress the anger rising up in me at his unbelievably shameless remark. Does he really think he’s so irresistible?
Calm down, Sophie. You want something from him; don’t let yourself get upset.
“May I speak with you?” I ask in as neutral a tone as possible, and smile for just a brief instant to demonstrate my low opinion of his shameless behaviour.
“Of course. Just a moment,” he replies, pushing away from the doorframe. Still smiling, he walks right by me into the room and returns to the lectern, where a few of his folders are still lying around, I’ve just noticed. There’s also a little box of slides next to the projector. He obviously stepped out directly after his seminar had ended — for whatever reason — and now he needs to collect his things.
As I watch him, once again I can’t help noticing how tall, fit, and toned he is. But I don’t need to be occupying myself with that, the female students have already taken on that task — gazing at him in shiny-eyed adulation. They’re all bombarding him with questions at the same time, at least the five young women are — the two who were sitting at the front have gotten up and joined the others. But the young man is still standing at the window, indifferent to the scene, playing with his smartphone — he’s probably completely zoned out on where he is and what he’s doing.
The three scantily-dressed girls are the most enthusiastic of the bunch. They focus their whole attention on their lecturer, who is packing the slide projector away in a box with practised movements, then locking it into a corner cupboard. You’d almost think they don’t want to let him go at all. I only catch snatches of their conversation — it seems to be about a course that’s just started, which they absolutely have to take part in, although it’s already full. The three of them refuse to accept that — and that’s why I’m kept waiting a lot longer than the ‘just a moment’ Matteo Bertani promised.
But he obviously hasn’t forgotten I’m here, since he keeps looking over at me — and he uses me as an excuse to shake off the women, explaining to the stubborn ladies that we have an appointment and that he needs to leave urgently. At that, they let him go, with visible reluctance and disappointment, maybe even a touch of jealousy toward me.
“Excuse me,” he says, joining me again, with his papers and his box of slides under his arm. He casts a brief glance over his shoulder at the students, who are still staring at him, and then he allows me to enter the corridor in front of him. “I think we’d better go to my office. I won’t get much peace here right now.”
He guides me back toward the entrance, but only a short way because now staircases open up to our left and right. I already noticed them on my way here. He chooses the right-hand stairs and, as I go upstairs with him, I notice how many pairs of eyes are following us. The female students have also left the lecture hall and are observing us, and so are the group of students around the table at the demonstration over by the entrance. Whom Matteo Bertani takes to his office with him seems to be a matter of general interest.
On the next floor up, there’s a glass door leading into a corridor with many doors leading off of it. The fourth door on the right is his office. It’s a small room with bookshelves and a desk, with furniture that looks just like furniture in a professor’s office usually looks: used and old. While he steps behind his desk and tidies away his papers and the box of slides, I sink down into the visitor’s chair and muse that I wouldn’t have expected to find him like this. It’s not the kind of environment that suits a rich entrepreneur’s grandson. But he clearly doesn’t have a problem with it, and that impresses me, against my will.
When we sit down opposite each other, I’m suddenly conscious of the fact that I’m alone with him. I sit up a little straighter, almost instinctively.
I’m expecting him to say something. But he seems to have decided to leave the talking to me, because he’s just looking at me expectantly without saying a word. So, after a long moment, I clear my throat.
“I … need your help, Signore Bertani.”
“Aha.” He leans back and folds his arms across his chest. I can’t read the expression in his eyes at all, and now he’s not smiling, which I find rather confusing. So I go on speaking hurriedly, and outline my request, to get it over with.
“Our auction house has been offered a picture attributed to Enzo di Montagna. We have the forensic certificate, it definitely dates from his creative period, but we don’t have a detailed expert evaluation of its provenance, so we can’t offer it for sale. We need an expert to take a look at it.” I swallow because my mouth is suddenly completely dry. “Could you see yourself taking that on for us?”
I wait nervously for his answer and — finally! — see the corners of his mouth rise. But the grin that appears on his face isn’t one of happiness, it’s smug.
“So it seems you can’t decide for yourself what something is or is not, can you, Miss Conroy?”
I remember that those were the very words I said to him before I stormed off at the reception. Now I feel the blood rising into my cheeks.
“No,” I say through gritted teeth, angry with myself for having been goaded into that remark to begin with. I should have known he’d use it against me.
“You might have mentioned that I’d have to travel to London for this appraisal,” he says, interrupting my train of thought and startling me. “As far as I know, the picture is not allowed to leave England before the sale, isn’t that correct?”
I stare at him, perplexed. “How …?”
Of course, I think, and I don’t need to look at his triumphant smile anymore to realise that he’s known about it all along. He’s the expert on Enzo di Montagna, so of course he’s one of the first people to be informed when one of the painter’s pictures comes on to the market. He probably even knew that they’d offered it to our auction house — he’s bound to be well-connected and he must have contacts who keep him up to date. That’s why he wasn’t surprised to see me. He really was expecting me to come.
OK then, I think, returning his satisfied look belligerently. I guess that just makes things easier.
“I was about to go into the details. Yes, you’d have to fly to London and, of course, we would reimburse your travel costs, in addition to your fee. But if you already knew all that, then you must have already considered whether or not to take on the appraisal.”
He takes his time before answering, turning his head to look out of the window, through which the afternoon sun is shining in on us. I’m fascinated by the golden gleam it projects onto his dark blonde hair — and quickly call myself to order, before he looks at me again
“No, I don’t think so,” he says.
My face turns stony. I’d been counting on many things, but not such a brutal rejection. I thought he would tease me again, like he did at the reception. Or set impossible conditions, such as not completing my commission to sell Giacomo’s pictures. But that he simply would refuse to do it — I hadn’t even considered that possibility.
My God, the man is an art expert — and I’m offering him a sparsely documented painting to appraise, by the painter he’s an expert on. It’s bloody well a part of his job to prepare expert appraisals, even for people like me who he’s not necessarily fond of.
But then I realise that that’s exactly where Matteo Bertani differs from your usual academic in a stuffy little university office. He doesn’t have to do anything — everything he does is voluntarily. Because he’s passionate about it, not because he needs to earn a living. That’s why he picks and chooses which jobs he takes on, and which he doesn’t. And apparently, he just doesn’t want to do me the favour.
“Oh.” The disappointed sound escapes me before I can stop it. “Well … I suppose that’s it then.”
I get up quickly, suddenly feeling an urgent need to leave. There’s got to be an alternative, I console myself, trying to suppress the disappointment rising up inside me and feeling as though I’ve just been given the brush-off. Which I have. And I should have known. With a man like Matteo Bertani, you’ve got to be ready for anything …
“Are you going to give up that quickly?” His question cuts my thought process short. I note the challenging glint in his eye. “I had you down as more persistent than that.”
“You just said you wouldn’t do it,” I say, but then sink down into the chair again. What does he expect from me now? If he wants me to beg, he can forget it. Then we’ll definitely have to come up with Plan B.
“And I’m not going to.” He raises his eyebrows. “Unless …”
“Unless what?” I ask impatiently because I get the feeling he’s toying with me.
He bends forward. “Unless you go out to dinner with me, Sophie Conroy.”