Chapter 2

 
Giovanni unlocked the door to his studio and opened it slowly, afraid an intruder might leap out. There was no one in the reception area. He crept in and checked the kitchen next, saving his worst fear for last. There was no one in the kitchen, either.

He gathered his courage, ready to dash for the toolbox and get the hammer, the screwdriver, anything, in the event an attack was imminent. There was no one in his work area, and the Brueghel was still on the easel. He breathed a sigh of relief.

But his senses remained heightened—someone could be lurking in the shadows. Again he armed himself with the hammer and screwdriver, the only weapons available, however ridiculous, and searched every corner of his studio. There was no one.

Back in his work area, he stared at the closed door to the second strong room, beyond which his madness began. Then he realized his tense grasp of the makeshift weapons, making his arms tremble.

He felt like a fool.

It was just one of those things, he told himself, whatever it was those things were, or could be. He dropped the tools in their box and went to the window overlooking St. James’s Street. The world outside looked okay. Normal as it should be. Any problem had to be inside—of him.

On a desk near the window was a photograph of Giovanni with Serafina and their son, Maurizio, back when he was a cherubic, early teenager.

Giovanni picked up the photograph and studied it, almost mystified by it. Serafina was more than beautiful—generous, caring, and the most understanding person he had ever known. Each day he woke to the truth—she was gone, well before her years. If only it were just a bad dream. But no, the cancer had run its horrifying course within a short six months, and her beauty was washed away to a sallow complexion. Toward the end, her eyes silently begged to be relieved of the misery.

Maurizio came to London once during the time, trying to be as much help as he could, but when he was alone with his father, he crumbled, the tears unimpeded, and Giovanni found himself reassuring both his dying wife and his bereft son, yet feeling there was no one on earth to comfort him. Consoling friends would take him out to dinner, some of whom insisted on visiting Serafina, but as her stamina waned, both the doctors and Serafina decided it took too much energy to engage visitors.

Giovanni fixed his gaze on the photograph. They were all smiling, happy, living a good life. It seemed so impossible, so distant, like a far-off cloud that might actually be a puff of smoke or nothing at all, just a trick of light.

Gently, as if her image were alive and delicate, he set the photograph down and went into the bathroom. Over the sink he doused his face with cold water, again and again. To be in mourning was a natural thing, he convinced himself. But now he felt that he was losing a grip on what was real, and it was intolerable.

He took a hand towel and patted himself dry, then saw himself in the mirror. His bulging eyes were those of a madman.

He returned to the photograph and stared at the angelic image of his only son. He sat at the desk, reached for the telephone, and dialed the Fabrizzi studio in Florence.

Flavio, Giovanni’s assistant, answered the call. Giovanni asked to speak with Maurizio and Flavio responded by asking how things were lately. Giovanni ignored the cordial small talk and again asked to speak with his son. Flavio went to fetch him.

There was a long pause. Giovanni fully expected that Flavio would return to the line only to claim that Maurizio was too busy for calls, even one from his father. Which could actually mean, particularly calls from his father.

Giovanni was surprised to hear his son’s voice, pleasant enough but also hurried, indicating that he was busy. Giovanni did not modulate his voice as smoothly as usual. He was relieved and went on to tell Maurizio how much he wanted to talk to him, and to know how he was doing, and how the progress was going with the large canvas that he and Flavio were restoring.

“It’s going well, Papa,” Maurizio assured him. “We’ll be done on time, don’t worry.”

It saddened Giovanni to imagine that his son only thought of his father as a boss, calling to check on the progress of a deadline.

“That’s not why I called,” Giovanni said.

There was another long pause.

“Oh? Then what is it?” Maurizio asked.

There was no simple way to tell him, in the middle of a busy workday, that his father feared he was going mad and that his life was coming apart, like an old crust of bread between one’s fingers. But something had to be said.

“I just needed to hear your voice, Mau.” Giovanni had no idea how to speak to his son about his feelings. “I haven’t seen you in months, you know.”

“I know. Are you well? How’s your work on the Brueghel?”

“I’m not working,” Giovanni hesitated to reply. He reached for the family photograph and tilted it face down on the desk. “Things are not going well, Mau.”

“Is it mother?” Maurizio asked.

“Her absence is difficult to…” Giovanni couldn’t finish. Thinking of it was never pleasant, but voicing his pain only made it come alive.

“But Arabella…” Maurizio let her name linger on the line, as if implying his stepmother should be the balm for his father’s sadness and that nothing else was needed.

“It’s just hard,” Giovanni said. “I know you miss her too.”

“Of course I miss her, Papa.”

“Usually I’m all right, but the last couple of days, things have been bad.”

There was another long pause. Giovanni gauged that his son was just as uncomfortable with their conversation.

“I wish there was something I could do to help,” Maurizio said. He sounded small and pitiful, despite being in the prime of his life.

“I think there is something,” Giovanni said. “You could come and stay with me. With us. For just a few days.”

“Well, of course. But I should probably finish this project first. I can’t leave it all to Flavio.”

“Maurizio.” Giovanni spoke with firm clarity. “It would mean a lot to me if you would come soon. I need to see you. It’s not something Arabella can help me with, if you know what I mean.”

“Papa, can you tell me what it is exactly? Are you having trouble sleeping? Or is it just your mood? Is it something a therapist could help with?”

Giovanni winced at the word therapist. He dreaded the idea—confide his darkest secrets in someone who quietly sat listening, asking how he felt, who then charged him an enormous sum of money. It was not that therapy wasn’t useful. It just saddened him that he and Maurizio could not talk about Serafina’s death in any substantial way.

“I know you have a commission to finish,” Giovanni said. “When you get that done, please consider coming for a few days.”

“All right, but I think you should seriously consider the therapy idea.”

“We’ll see how it goes. If it comes to that, I’ll give it some thought.”

“Take care of yourself, Papa.”

Giovanni hung up the phone and stared out the window at the gray sky. He was incapable of any further work that day.

He carried the Brueghel to the first strong room, locked the door, and set the alarms of both rooms. After turning off the lights and activating the remaining alarms, he locked the office and started toward the elevator. Rather than going straight home, he decided to pay a visit to his old Soho neighborhood.

 
* * *

 
At his flat, Giovanni turned the key and stepped in. It was well after six o’clock as he had promised. Most every light was off, except for the kitchen. He guessed that Arabella would be there waiting for him, and she would not be happy.

He hung up his coat and went to the liquor cabinet. He poured a scotch, not his usual drink, but it appealed to him at the moment. Standing before the cabinet, he relished the smoothness of it.

He poured another two fingers and then turned on the stereo, put in a CD of Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony, and turned it up loud. He sat down on the sofa, in the dark, and let the music sweep over him. Eyes closed, he sipped his scotch.

The room filled with light. With eyes adjusted to the dark, Giovanni had to squint, and then he saw Arabella across the room, hands on her hips, glaring at him.

“Where on earth have you been?” she asked. “Look at the time. I called you at your studio and on your mobile phone, and you never answered.”

Giovanni raised the glass to his lips and savored a long, slow sip of his scotch. Better than the conversation that was to come.

“I had a very bad day,” he said. “I left the studio early and went to dine in Soho.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He shrugged, as telling the truth would have been worse. Being with her only reminded him of how she was not Serafina. His marriage to Arabella felt unreal.

“I miss Soho,” he said. “I miss a lot of things that I don’t have anymore.”

Arabella moved toward the stereo, preparing to put a halt to Beethoven.

“Please, don’t,” he said.

She reached for the controls. “I cannot hear you.” She lowered the volume but left it playing, then sat down on the sofa near him, but not next to him.

“Gio, I feel you pulling away from me. We need to talk about this.”

“I don’t think it’s a good time.” Giovanni studied his drink as he swirled it around in the glass. “I want you to know that I love you, and I’m trying not to think about Serafina. It’s not something that arrives and departs on schedule, like a train.”

Her tone shifted to desperation. “We’ve only been married six months.” She scooted along the sofa cushion, closer to him. “When we were together, after she passed, you were so passionate and kind. It hasn’t been like that, even close to that, for months. My God, Gio, I don’t want to beg for your attention the rest of our lives.”

He looked at her and lingered on her words the rest of our lives. Her eyes were welling with tears. He set his drink down and took her hand in his.

“Nothing lasts forever,” he said.

Arabella became puzzled.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Things will work out.”

She pulled free and shifted away. “I’m going to bed.” She rose from the sofa. Looking down at him, she softly said, “Gio, will you come to bed with me?”

“In a while.” He got up from the sofa and restored Beethoven to a commanding volume.

 
* * *

 
The next morning, Giovanni arrived at his studio ready to continue the restoration of the Brueghel. He went to the first strong room and brought out the painting, set it up on the easel, and situated his tools closer.

As he worked, his focus wandered. The painting before him didn’t help, which portrayed a Flemish village rejoicing in a carnival. The irony didn’t escape him, that his own feelings were the polar opposite of those depicted on the canvas.

He would normally play classical music and get lost in his work, but that day, he had not put on any music. He worked diligently for what seemed like an hour, but he couldn’t concentrate. Thoughts of Arabella taunted him, and more so, he could not stop replaying the memory of hearing a voice in the second strong room the day before.

He couldn’t get it out of his mind. It perturbed him, but he vowed not to be obsessed by it. But it wasn’t a natural occurrence, and nothing like it had ever happened to him before. He needed to find a way to either dismiss it or explain it.

With resolve, he set down his brush and let the joyous celebration of the Brueghel sit. He took out his keys, unlocked the second strong room door, and flipped on the light switch.

He cautiously ventured into the strong room. Most likely, yesterday’s events were his imagination, he concluded, and after a casual inspection, he would find nothing amiss and be done with it. Then he could devote all of his thoughts to a crumbling family life.

Giovanni moved past the crates of art until he could see the paintings that he had unpacked the day before. All were still as he left them, the landscapes and the Italian nobleman. The cocky fellow still looked as entitled as ever, probably a real arrogant snob in his day. Giovanni slipped past and checked behind other crates deeper in the room, looking for anything unusual. There was nothing that could explain what had happened the previous day.

“Please, I beg you, get me out of this room.”

The Italian voice.

Giovanni couldn’t move. He didn’t know what to do other than keep listening, though his noisy thoughts made it difficult to hear anything outside of his head. Could he be talking to himself, in his thoughts? But he heard the voice clearly, as if a person were standing before him. It couldn’t be.

The Italian voice said, “Over here.”

Giovanni scanned the room, then looked over his shoulder at the doorway to the strong room. Nothing had changed, and no one else was present. He turned back to study the paintings he had placed atop crates in the room. He ignored the landscapes and stepped closer to the portrait of the nobleman. Something was strange about it—the eyes. They were unmoving, as one would expect of any painting, but somehow it seemed the eyes of the subject were actually looking at Giovanni. He could feel it.

“At last you acknowledge me. Thank heavens.”

The mouth didn’t move, the brows didn’t twitch, but that thing just talked. Didn’t it? Giovanni heard the voice clearly, having moved near, directly facing the panel.

“This must be a dream,” Giovanni mumbled to himself.

“A nightmare I would say,” the voice uttered. “You try living in that wretched crate for decades.”

“It’s impossible,” Giovanni said, though it made him feel ridiculous. Talking to oneself can be embarrassing if another catches you, but this…

“Yes, of course, you’ve never spoken with a painted image before. There’s always a first time. Now, let’s get past all of that. What is your name?”

Silent, Giovanni reached for the panel and brought it closer, trying to make out some clue that would explain what was happening.

“Are you suddenly deaf!” the Italian hollered.

Giovanni shifted the panel back, keeping the nobleman at arm’s length.

“No, I can hear you,” Giovanni said. “Which I’m thinking is unfortunate, maybe. For the sake of my sanity, that is.”

“Do you have a name?” the Italian asked.

“Uh, Giovanni.”

“This is quite tedious. Surely your father gave you more.”

“More…?” Giovanni was somewhat dazed, then he realized the answer. “Oh, more name, you mean. Yes. Fabrizzi, Giovanni Fabrizzi.”

“Fabrizzi?” The Italian’s interest was piqued. “The son of Federico, perhaps. Or another relation?”

All of this must be in his head, Giovanni thought. How else could a painted image, with which he just so happened to be engaging in conversation, know such details.

“Federico is my father.” Giovanni flipped the panel over to study the back, then tilted it down, side to side and up, checking the edges for any clues. Surely there was a small speaker and microphone, and this was all just a sick practical joke.

“Madonna mia, be careful! Crashing to the floor is not a pleasant event.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Giovanni stopped juggling the panel and set it upright on a crate and leaning against another, sensing that it might be rude to set it flat and force the subject to stare at the ceiling. “Is that better?” he asked, though it made him feel silly. It’s just a painting.

“Better would be air, light, a view,” the Italian said. “What is this dreadful room without windows?”

“It’s to keep you safe. And others.”

“I would prefer the risk of crashing to the floor. Please, remove me from this wretched space.”