Giovanni removed the Brueghel from the easel and carried it to the
first strong room. He locked the door and set the alarm, then
wondered why he had. He wasn’t going anywhere. No matter. It wasn’t
a time to analyze his unthinking acts.
From the second strong room, he brought out the nobleman’s portrait and placed it on the easel. The panel remained silent, as did Giovanni. He stepped back to admire the painting in the better light of his work area. The artist was accomplished, again leading Giovanni to wonder why it was unsigned.
The painting was relatively small, about eighteen by twenty-six inches tall. The panel remained silent, and Giovanni began to question if it would speak again. Perhaps the strange phenomenon was limited to the strong room.
His chest felt tight, and his head hurt. He needed to relax, and music was the best remedy. He went to the stereo and put in a disc, then poured himself a glass of wine, another effective remedy, even though it was midmorning and he rarely drank so early. The day’s events justified a drink at any hour.
He stood before the painting, enjoying his wine and the music as he studied the panel further. Still it was silent. Perhaps his madness was temporary and had passed. Perhaps none of it really happened at all.
The Italian voice cried out, “Would you please, please, put an end to that mournful, gray, miserable bleating of Ludwig van Beethoven.”
“You don’t like—”
“Heavens no! Surely you have something from my native Italy. Oh the torture I must endure, if imprisoned in a crate were not enough. Have it stop!”
Giovanni hurried to the stereo and reduced the volume. “Is there something else you’d prefer?” he asked.
“Have you any Vivaldi?”
Giovanni nodded.
“Then for God’s sake, end that depressing German music!”
Giovanni set his wine down, nearly spilling it as he fumbled to open a CD case and swap discs in the player.
“Ah, much better.” The Italian hummed a few bars. “What are the round objects?” he asked. “They are the music?”
Giovanni did not understand. Then he realized, still in his grasp was the Beethoven CD from the player.
He held it up for the Italian to see. “A compact disc. Yes, it holds the music.”
“Hmm.”
“I guess a lot has changed since your time.” Giovanni put the CD down and picked up his glass of wine.
“Hmm,” the Italian murmured. “My time. Yes, so much time.”
“Who are you?” Giovanni asked.
The Italian gasped. “You do not know?”
Giovanni searched the panel for an expression, perhaps eyes wide, but there was no change in the painted surface. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve been around famous works of art all my life, and I’ve read plenty of history, and I can’t say that your face is familiar.”
With great pride, the Italian announced, “I am Count Marco Lorenzo Pietro de Medici.”
Giovanni nodded. “I see. Well then, I know of your family, certainly, but still, I can’t say that you have any particular place in history. I’m afraid, Marco, you’re just another nameless face to pose for one of countless portraits painted throughout the centuries.”
A silence passed.
“First,” the Italian said, sounding as though pushing the words past clenched teeth, “you will address me as Count. Second, your claim is preposterous! I will tell you of the events I have witnessed, the individuals of stature who—”
“We’ll get to that, Count, but first I want to know about my father. You mentioned his name.”
The Count took a moment to compose himself. “He is a good man, and I do not say that only because he is your father. He cared well for me while I was in his possession. And might I ask, how is it that I am no longer?”
“His things came to me. You know, after he passed. But I guess you didn’t know that.” Silly as it was, Giovanni paused to watch if the Count would nod or shake his head. The image remained static. “Anyway, after he died, your portrait and other works he had stored in Florence were shipped to me.”
“Then it is now in your hands to reveal the truth.”
“What truth?” Giovanni asked.
“Look at me,” the Count said. “Do you not notice anything special?”
“Other than you’re a talking painting?”
“Yes, other than that,” the Count said, annoyed.
“You seem like a handsome gentleman, as befits a Count.” Giovanni actually thought differently, but for the moment, good manners seemed a better choice than the truth.
“Yes, but what about the painting itself?”
Giovanni stepped back, sipped his wine, and studied the artwork anew. “The condition of the paint is quite good. It would only need a light cleaning, if exhibited.”
“Ah-ha!” the Count called out. “And where would you hang such a painting?”
“I don’t know. To be honest, I was thinking of selling you to a client who wants to give his nephew a wedding present.”
“Are you utterly mad?”
“I am beginning to wonder about that.”
“Signor Fabrizzi. I can only surmise that your appreciation for fine art matches that of your father. Do you not notice anything particular about the style of this work?”
“It’s…”
“Yes? Yes?”
“It almost looks Italian Renaissance.”
“You restore art, yet you cannot recognize the artist?”
“Perhaps you’re not aware of it, being the subject of the painting rather than viewing it, but there is no signature.”
“Of course I know that. I have known that for five hundred years.”
Giovanni didn’t want to offend the Count further, but the fact of the matter was unavoidable. “I’m sorry to say, Count, but your portrait isn’t the work of anyone significant if they didn’t bother to sign the panel.”
“Your impertinence is astounding.” The Count grew louder. “You are looking upon a portrait painted by no less than the great Sandro Botticelli!”
Giovanni covered his mouth to stifle his laughter.
“You doubt my word?”
Giovanni sipped his wine as best he could while chuckling. “You’ll have to forgive me, Count, but here I am, drinking at eleven in the morning, and I’m talking to an unsigned portrait that I’m supposed to believe is by the great Botticelli.”
“Well, at the very least, you recognize his greatness.”
“Of course. But to think my father sent me an unsigned Botticelli that talks? Jesus Christ, it’s ridiculous.” Giovanni couldn’t stop laughing.
The Count cleared his throat. And again. “Signor Fabrizzi. May I respectfully remind you that I am a Medici. My family has provided the Italian church with several popes and many cardinals. I would ask that you do not use His name in such a manner. If you persist in blaspheming our Sovereign Lord, our friendship will prove to be short-lived.”
Giovanni stopped laughing. “Pardon me, Count. But you can understand, it’s hard to believe.”
“Yes, I can understand that. Just as others will have difficulty believing that you and I are able to converse.”
“It’s tough to imagine anyone believing that,” Giovanni said. “I can hardly believe it myself, but here I am.”
“You still do not believe that I exist.”
“I have my doubts.”
“Then you doubt your own sanity.”
The words struck Giovanni hard—however strange, this experience couldn’t be a delusion. If he were going insane and all of this was a product of his imagination, his fantasy would not remind him of that possibility. And the Count had done just that. But still, it was beyond all boundaries of reality. Could he believe in ghosts? He had little choice. That it might be his imagination was no longer valid.
“You are real,” Giovanni said, almost with reverence.
“Well, I am confined to two dimensions within a frame, but I can see and hear. Unfortunately, my only view is the direction I face. Would you be so kind as to give me another? Please, turn me toward the window. I want to see the sky.”
Giovanni swung the easel around.
A silent moment passed. The Count’s lack of enthusiasm for the gray London sky was not surprising.
“There is an image on the desk,” the Count said. “Of you and others. Your family?”
Giovanni glanced at the desk and then back to the Count. “A photograph.” He went to the desk, picked up the framed photo, and brought it closer for the Count to see.
“The signora is lovely,” he said.
“My wife, Serafina. I lost her almost two years ago. The boy is my son, Maurizio, but he’s grown now. He works in Florence as a restorer.”
“Yes,” the Count said. “I had heard Federico speak fondly of wanting to see you and his grandson again. Before I went into that wretched crate.”
Giovanni put the photograph back on the desk.
“I am sorry for your loss,” the Count said. “You still wear her ring? I would point to your finger, but you understand…”
“Arabella,” Giovanni said. “I remarried.”
“Hmm. Yet there is no image of her on the desk.”
Giovanni pulled out his wallet and found a snapshot of her, which he held up for the Count to see.
“She is quite striking,” the Count said. “You have married, if I may say so, a considerably younger woman, Signor Fabrizzi.”
“Arabella is my mainstay. She was so good to me when I was in the depths of mourning.”
“I must say, you still appear to be in mourning.”
Giovanni was taken aback. “Why would you say that?”
“You do not smile when you show me Arabella. She is a beautiful woman, no? A man of your age is very fortunate to have a woman, oh, I am guessing at least thirty years his junior. Is that correct?”
Giovanni bristled. “I am not interested in discussing my age or the age of my wife with you, Count de Medici.”
“Do not be offended,” the Count said. “I am merely reacting to what I see and hear after years of no stimuli. My keen observations are due to my situation. When I am taken out of storage, I have only fleeting hours, sometimes moments, to absorb what is before me. You, Signor Fabrizzi, do not have the perspective of five hundred years of life. Many aspects of the world have changed, but the relationships between men and women have not changed so much.”
“What are you getting at?” Giovanni asked.
“I am merely reporting what I see. After all, you are not a young man. You convey a weariness about you.”
“I’ve told you. I lost my first wife. That’s not easy to get over. And my new wife is being difficult at the moment.”
“What is it that troubles your marriage, Signor Fabrizzi?”
Giovanni gazed out the window at the traffic along St. James’s Street. “It’s not something I really care to discuss.”
“This is the first conversation I’ve had in a considerable amount of time, so please, let’s try to make it interesting and enjoyable.”
Giovanni whirled around to face the Count. “What do you want me to say?”
“Can you still perform?”
“What do you mean?”
“Can you please her?” the Count asked. “Need I be specific?”
“I’m not going to answer that.”
“My dear Signor Fabrizzi, you are talking with someone who secretly oversaw Giacomo Casanova in action with Madame de Pompadour at Le Petit Trianon. You can confide in me. Who am I going to gossip with, for heaven’s sake? Sandro Botticelli?”
“I don’t care who you saw or what they were doing. You’re getting too personal. And stop claiming you were painted by Botticelli. The style is similar, I admit, but he would have signed the panel.”
“You do not know that,” the Count said. “Perhaps he had not yet completed it. I do not know how to convince you.”
“Then stop trying,” Giovanni countered.
“Hmm,” the Count murmured. “Perhaps I could tell you about Botticelli. Then you will know I am telling the truth.”
“And just what can you tell me that I don’t already know?”
“His real name was Alessandro di Mariano Filipepi. Sandro Botticelli was a nickname given by his elder brother. Meaning, The Little Barrel.”
“Any art student knows that.”
“He was first trained as a goldsmith, and later became an apprentice to Filippo Lippi.”
“Then Pollaiolo. You’re not telling me anything special.”
“It is rumored that a number of Lippi’s paintings may have actually been painted by his apprentice, Botticelli.”
“It’s of little consequence. Botticelli made his mark nonetheless. Take his masterworks, Primavera and The Birth of Venus, for example.”
“Lippi would be proud, certainly,” the Count said. “Or deathly envious.”
“Okay, that I wouldn’t know either way, even though I did my thesis on Lippi. But on the other hand, your suggestion could be pure speculation.”
“Are you aware the masterpieces of Botticelli to which you have referred were commissioned by my beloved uncle Lorenzo?”
“Is that so? Then you should know the Adoration of the Magi contained the likenesses of your other uncle, Cosimo, and his son and grandson.”
“You have impressed me,” the Count said. “Indeed. Uncle Cosimo took himself far too seriously. You know, don’t you, that Pope Sixtus commissioned Botticelli to paint the frescoes on the walls of the Sistine Chapel.”
“Count, all you’ve told me could be gleaned from a book. It does nothing to convince me that Botticelli painted you.”
“And how might I read such books?” the Count pointed out. “Or have read them, at any time during the past five hundred years.”
Giovanni couldn’t argue the point and remained silent.
“These books you speak of,” the Count said. “Do any expose that Botticelli was homosexual?”
“We use the word gay these days,” Giovanni said.
“Gay? That is to be cheerful and lighthearted. The acts involved may certainly lead to similar euphoria, though I believe homosexual has a more specific meaning. Botticelli was homosexual, as I understand the term, and in fact, he was accused of sexual relations with a young man. Fortunately, the charges were dropped, as the punishment for such acts—”
“I’m well aware of the era’s brutalities, and it’s not anything I’m interested in hearing about, nor what Botticelli may or may not have done with others. Please, enough of this gossip.”
“I was merely attempting to strengthen my claim. That I would know such intimate details must surely convince you that I speak the truth.”
“Not really.” Giovanni went to the kitchen. He decided against more wine and rinsed out his glass. When he returned to the Count, Giovanni brought out his stool and sat down facing the easel, studying the panel as though he might begin restoring it.
“You do realize,” the Count said with trepidation, “before you start working on me, that I am of tempera, not oil.”
“Of course I know that. I also know you’re on panel, not canvas. I’m not an idiot.”
“Hmm,” the Count murmured. “I simply wanted to make sure before you hover over me with your brushes and scalpels. What do you know about tempera?”
It irked Giovanni to be treated like an ignorant schoolboy. “Count, I have been working with tempera all my life.” He pointed to the armoire across the room. “I have over two hundred powdered pigments, and in the refrigerator in the kitchen are dozens of eggs for the yolks. The pigments are from minerals and wood, plants, and clay. I have a full range. You don’t need to question my abilities.”
“Of course. I ask you, Signor Fabrizzi, do not give me away to a private party. They will never know my true origin if you do. You will be depriving the world of a major work. As a lover of art, how could you?”
Giovanni took the panel from the easel.
“What are you doing?” the Count asked, worried. “Don’t put me back in that horrible room. I am Italian. I need sunlight.”
“You won’t get much either way. You’re in London now.”
“England? Ugh, such dreadful food. Thank heavens I lack a stomach to turn. Nevertheless, Signor Fabrizzi, please reconsider your actions. I beg you, do not return me to the dark.”
Giovanni opened the door to the second strong room. “I need time to think. I’m just leaving you in here for safety.” He set the panel down and picked up the crate in which it was shipped.
“Don’t be cruel,” the Count said. “You have no idea of the loneliness I’ve endured.”
“Don’t worry, Count, we’ll talk again. In the meantime, I can’t leave you out.”
When Giovanni lifted the crate, an envelope slipped out and fell to the floor. He bent down to retrieve it.
“What is it?” the Count asked.
Giovanni opened the envelope and began reading the contents, a single sheet. Then he became stern. “Did you know about this?” he asked the Count.
“Know about what? What is it?”
Giovanni fixed his stare on the Count’s image. “You didn’t know this letter was in the crate when you were shipped.”
“I swear, I know nothing about it. What is it? Tell me.”
“It’s a letter from my uncle. To my father.”
“What does the letter say?” the Count asked.
Giovanni ignored him, folded the letter, and returned it to the envelope. He noticed a sticky substance on the back. He picked up the portrait of the Count and studied the reverse side.
“What are you doing?” the Count asked, worried.
On the back of the panel was a spot similarly sticky. Previously, the envelope had been affixed to the panel’s backside.
“It must have fallen off and settled in the bottom of the crate.”
“The letter?” the Count asked. “What does it say?”
Giovanni set the painting down and studied the crate. It had the typical markings such as gallery or other names stenciled on the side, and it had multiple shipping labels, all of which except the most recent were crossed out. It had last come from Florence, which he expected, but he was curious where it had come from before that. He found an earlier crossed-out label addressed to his father and the Florence studio, sent from an address in Switzerland.
“Well?” the Count asked. “What is the letter about?”
“It’s not something I’m prepared to discuss with you, Count.” Giovanni took one last look at the Count’s portrait. “I promise you, I will take you out again soon.”
“Please,” the Count said.
Giovanni carefully slid the portrait back into the crate and leaned it against the wall. Letter in hand, he stepped out of the strong room and locked the door.
At his desk, Giovanni sat down and opened the envelope, delicately this time. Again he read the letter, treating it like a relic, as though the finest painting in any museum.
Dear Federico,
I have long regretted that we haven’t spoken with each other in so many years. I don’t know how two brothers could come to such a sad state of affairs. In looking through my art collection, I found some works that you might want or might want to sell.
I want this gift to be a peace offering. I don’t need for you to reciprocate with any kind of gift. All I want is that we can be brothers again, that I might see your family. I am alone. My wife died two years ago and you are all I have.
We have lived too long and have seen too many hard and terrible times to let the past separate us. Please be in touch.
Your loving brother, Maximiliano.