It took fifteen minutes for Giovanni to attract the attention of a
waiter in the crowded restaurant so that he could settle the lunch
bill.
Arabella asked, “We’re not in a rush, are we?” She gave him a teasing look with her dark eyes.
He smiled, feeling caught.
“No, my dear, but I am anxious to see what you think of this painting, whether you like it or think I should sell it.”
Their waiter finally delivered the bill and was off to another table. Giovanni placed money in the tray, helped Arabella with her coat, and escorted her out. Their arms entwined, they moved along the congested, lunchtime sidewalks, destined for his studio.
He punched in the required codes and they stepped inside.
Arabella set her purse and coat on a chair. “I need to use the bathroom.”
During her absence, Giovanni opened the second strong room and went to the back. He slid the painting of the Count out of the crate and spoke in a whisper.
“Count?”
No reply.
“Count, are you there?”
“Yes, I am here,” he replied. “Where else would I be? And why are you whispering?”
“My wife is here. I’m going to show you to her. Will she hear your voice?”
“I do not know,” the Count replied. “I never know. I did not know if you would, or others I have conversed with. You are one of very few, after all these years.”
Giovanni started out of the strong room but stopped in the doorway. “Please don’t say anything upsetting to my wife. Things are tense enough between us, and I don’t know how she will react.”
“I am not stupid, Signor Fabrizzi. You are afraid that your wife will think you are insane if she cannot hear my voice and you can.”
Giovanni was still uneasy with the notion that his mental state might be impaired. And it didn’t help having the reminder come from an inanimate object.
“Perhaps we shouldn’t talk until after she’s gone,” Giovanni suggested.
The Count did not reply. Giovanni could only hope it meant the Count intended to remain silent.
Giovanni came out of the strong room and went to the easel near the window. He set the painting on it and waited for Arabella to reappear. When she did, Giovanni expectantly watched her come closer.
She glanced at the portrait. “So this is the painting from your father, eh?”
“Yes. Take a look. Tell me what you think of it. Honestly.”
She crossed her arms and studied the work. She moved closer, then to one side, taking it in from various angles.
Giovanni silently stood watching her.
“It has a Renaissance feel to it,” she said.
“Yes,” Giovanni agreed.
“How old is it?”
“I have no idea.”
“It’s a handsome subject.”
“Mmm-hmmm,” the Count murmured, satisfied by Arabella’s compliment.
Giovanni watched her for any reaction to the odd response. She continued to gaze at the portrait. Perhaps she thought it was Giovanni agreeing with her.
“It’s very nicely done, whoever did it,” she said. “But I wouldn’t think twice about selling it. I certainly wouldn’t choose it for our flat.”
The Count bellowed, “Because you have absolutely no sense of taste, nor any inkling of art history.”
Giovanni stiffened and cleared his throat.
Arabella continued to gaze at the portrait, then glanced at Giovanni. “What?”
“What?” he asked.
She turned her full attention to Giovanni. “What is it?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You look strange,” she said.
The Count said, “And you look like someone who wouldn’t know a Botticelli if it smacked you on the ass!”
Giovanni took a swift breath, fearing how Arabella would react. But she didn’t have any reaction. She could not hear the Count.
Giovanni released his breath in a long sigh. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Why are you so fond of it?” she asked.
“I don’t know. It… it speaks to me. If you know what I mean.”
“Well, it says very little to me.”
“Because you are not worth talking to!” the Count hollered.
Arabella gathered her coat and purse, then started toward the door. “If you want to sell it, you go ahead. I’m going back home.”
Giovanni kissed her on the cheek, the lightest peck. He opened the door and watched her walk to the elevator, then shut the door and returned to his studio.
The Count said, “I am sorry to speak against your wife, Signor Fabrizzi, but I have never been so insulted. How anyone can overlook the timeless quality of my portrait is incomprehensible. However, she is correct that I am not fit to hang in your home. The Uffizi is the only place for me. Anything less is a disgrace to the memory of the artist. Furthermore—”
“Will you stop!” Giovanni shouted.
There was silence, during which Giovanni paced back and forth, running his fingers through his thinning, gray hair.
“Is there a problem?” the Count asked.
“You know I was nervous about showing you to her,” Giovanni said. “You said it yourself, if I told her that you spoke—actually spoke—to me, she’d think I was mad. And next she would contact an attorney and file for divorce. I have enough problems without giving her the legal foundation to leave me and take half of what I own.”
“Do you actually believe she would leave you?” the Count asked.
Giovanni sat at his desk and hung his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.”
“I have an idea,” the Count said. “You should have a small dinner party here in your studio. I would like to see Arabella and your friends talking with one another. It will be a grand and enjoyable event, and it will bring you and your wife closer together. And most importantly, it will entertain me. I miss watching the interactions of people. Trust me, you do not know this dreadful fate, to live hundreds of years in the dark.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Giovanni said. “I’ll talk to Arabella about it.”
“You can hang me on the wall,” the Count said, “and see what others have to say about me.”
As always, the Count’s expression was frozen in time, forever unchanging. Even so, Giovanni could imagine the Count’s beaming smile, overly satisfied with himself.
* * *
That evening when he arrived home, Giovanni proposed the Count’s
idea of a dinner party. Arabella was surprised, but in the best
possible way, as the suggestion to host a party in the unique
setting of the studio delighted her.
The Count had been right—the idea of organizing a party added a needed spark to Giovanni’s relationship with Arabella. In the days that followed, she threw herself into preparations for the social event, selecting the menu, arranging for the caterers to deliver the tables and chairs, and purchasing small books of great artists as both gifts and place markers for the guests.
Arabella expressed her pleasure with Giovanni’s improved mood, coming out of his dark abyss, and his desire to spend time with her as together they planned the event and sorted out the many details. She was more a part of his life than ever. They discussed who they should invite, not only for pleasant company but those who might lead to further business for Giovanni.
Giovanni suggested they invite an Italian art dealer who was in London. He might help Giovanni gain more commissions from Italian museums and private collectors. Arabella agreed and mentioned that she knew the first secretary at the French Embassy, via a girlfriend, and that he too, with strong connections to the art world in France, would be a wise choice as a dinner guest. The table would be a mixture of old friends, business contacts, and others who could open the path to new clients. Giovanni and Arabella had a common goal and were working as a team, which brought them closer together.
The day of the party, Arabella spent all morning busy on the telephone, attending to details with the caterers and making sure the small kitchen of the studio could be sufficiently adapted to accommodate the servers. Everything had to be just right and set up well before the event began.
In the late afternoon, Giovanni went by himself to his studio. He brought the portrait of the Count out of the second strong room and asked for his opinion on where he should be hung.
“I want to oversee the entire table,” the Count replied. “Hang me in the middle of that wall and not too high, as I want to hear their conversations.”
Giovanni did as the Count asked. He had to reposition the portrait a few times until the Count was satisfied, then he stepped back to gauge its place overlooking the center of the dinner table.
“Thank you, Signor Fabrizzi,” the Count said. “I appreciate your doing this for me.”
“In a strange way, it is more for me than it is for you. I needed a project other than restoring the Brueghel, something that could involve Arabella. She’s taken to this idea with great enthusiasm, which was surprising. I thought she would say no.”
“Women are the ultimate mystery of life,” the Count said. “I was intimate with many in my time. I can assure you, their subtlety and complexity is a puzzle and a challenge to every man. But that is part of their charm, their allure, is it not?”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“I want to help you,” the Count said. “I know how sadness has impaired your marriage. If I can watch and listen to Arabella tonight, I might be able to suggest the best means to rekindle your love for each other.”
“I admit,” Giovanni mumbled, eyes downcast to avoid the Count’s unchanging gaze. “I have to fight what’s inside of me. I know it sounds absurd, but sometimes, one has to fight to be happy. One has to ball up one’s fists, dig in one’s feet and say, over and over, I will not give in to misery.”
“Whenever I felt sadness,” the Count said, “I relied upon ample glasses of wine to elevate my mood.”
“Things are more advanced now,” Giovanni said. “We have drugs to lift us out of depression.”
“Drugs?”
“You know. Pills.”
“Hmm,” the Count murmured.
“An elixir, I guess people from your time would call it. Just made solid and a tablet small enough to swallow easily.”
“And these remedies are effective?”
“Not always.”
“If I may ask, Signor Fabrizzi, are you consuming these elixirs to lift your spirits?”
“No. I am trying to do this without drugs. I think I can.”
Giovanni looked at his watch. He needed to get back to his flat.
“I must dress for the party,” he said.
“I am most excited,” the Count said. “And please remember. Seat Arabella directly beneath me so I may come to know her better.”
Giovanni took a cab home. Together he and Arabella went over all the details, reviewed the guest list, and ensured that everything was in order. Satisfied with the arrangements, and anxious to get back to the studio before the caterers arrived, they began changing into formal attire.
Giovanni finished dressing first and sat on the bed watching Arabella. Still in her underwear, she sat facing the mirror at her vanity. He admired her beauty and thought about how much he loved and needed her. She had saved his sanity when Serafina was dying, and their becoming intimate only months later was not opportunism. It felt like destiny. Giovanni watched her paw through a jewelry box, trying to decide which to wear. He could only think of how fortunate he was to have her in his life. After Serafina, he had been alone. Without Arabella, he would have gone mad from the grief, the loneliness, and the absence of love.
As Arabella sifted through jewelry, Giovanni stood and moved closer, then paused to stand behind her. When their gazes met in the mirror, she had a look of concern. Giovanni smiled and brought his hands to her smooth, graceful shoulders.
“I’m not sure what to wear,” she said.
“I like very much what you’re wearing now,” he said.
She smirked, then smiled to make up for it. She opened another jewelry box and poked around in it, as Giovanni began to gently stroke the soft skin of her shoulders.
“Anything you wear will be beautiful,” he said.
She stopped sifting through jewelry, becoming more aware of his soft touch across her shoulders. Giovanni reached past her and opened one of her jewelry boxes, black leather with gold inlay bordering the edges, that he had purchased years ago in Italy and had given to Arabella after their wedding.
He lifted the brass latch and opened it. Arabella remained still as Giovanni reached into the jewelry box and brought out a necklace that he had always been fond of.
“This is not a good idea,” Arabella said warily.
“No, my dear. I want you to wear it. I feel good about you wearing it.” He spread apart the thin strands of hammered gold and draped the ruby cluster above her cleavage. “You will look magnificent.”
“It’s hers,” Arabella said.
“No. It’s yours now.” He began to work the clasp behind her neck.
“Gio, this is a bad idea. You’re going to get upset. Let’s not do this now.”
“I assure you, I am ready for you to wear this, to wear all of the jewelry I bought for her. Really, I am.”
Before he could clasp the necklace, she reached for the strands and pulled it away.
She met his gaze in the mirror. “I don’t want to wear her jewelry. I’ll find something of my own.”
* * *
After dinner, Giovanni and Arabella stood at the doorway, saying
good-bye to their guests. Arabella had invited one guest to remain,
to have a glass of after-dinner liqueur with them.
François was Arabella’s friend from the French Embassy, with strong connections to the art world. Giovanni was anxious to speak with him further, as the topics of dinner conversation, in the presence of other guests, was mainly general subjects of the day and only lightly touched on the business of fine art. Dinner among mixed company was not the time or place to explore specifics that Giovanni wanted to propose, and he was delighted that Arabella had invited François to remain for a drink, so that he could delve deeper.
François was a dashing young man, as might be expected of someone holding the position of first secretary at the embassy. But Giovanni sensed more than that. His estimation of François, beyond his persona of worldliness and sophistication, was the sort of fellow who spent more time before the mirror grooming and admiring himself than the ladies would spend applying their makeup. His effort to present a maintained appearance was obvious, and he seemed to enjoy the admiration from others that it generated. Throughout dinner, Arabella certainly admired him more than once.
Giovanni may have gauged his guest as somewhat vain, but he also sensed opportunity. The slick fellow could help develop leads among French collectors and dealers, leading to new commissions for Fabrizzi & Sons.
Seated at the table, Arabella and François sipped their wine and engaged in conversation while Giovanni went to the kitchen to check on the caterers, who were making some ruckus as they cleaned up and packed their dishes, flatware, and serving platters. They asked about the dining table and chairs, and Giovanni requested that they take it last, so he and his remaining guest could finish their drinks. Then he rejoined Arabella and François.
“Well, that certainly went well.” Giovanni sat down next to Arabella.
François raised his glass. “It was quite delightful. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Giovanni, after hearing so much about you from Arabella.”
“How long have you and Arabella known each other?”
Their gazes met and they were silent.
Arabella began, “I think Louisa and I went by the French Embassy, what was it, about a year ago?”
“That sounds about right,” François replied.
After ample glasses of alcohol, Giovanni felt relaxed, and the evening’s success added to his satisfaction. He brought his arm around Arabella’s waist and pulled her closer.
“And a handsome fellow like you,” he said to François, then asked Arabella, “Does he have a special woman in his life?”
François chuckled. “A secretary at the embassy may have important responsibilities, but I cannot pretend the salary is impressive. I may require a job with better pay before considering the possibility of settling down.”
“I might be able to help you there.” Giovanni sensed his opportunity. “In terms of increasing your income, that is.”
“Really?” François flashed his exceedingly white smile.
“Arabella tells me that in your position, you have contact with a number of French art collectors and dealers who either live here in London or travel here regularly. Is that so?”
“It is true, Giovanni.”
“Well then, if you should, by any chance, recommend my services to a collector or dealer who is not already a client of mine, I would be happy to compensate you.”
François appeared genuinely pleased and looked at Arabella. She smiled and nodded, assuring François that Giovanni would indeed be generous, were François to refer any new clients.
“I will definitely keep you in mind,” François said.
Two of the caterers struggled to hold the door and get their equipment cart past the opening.
Arabella suggested, “Gio, you should help them.”
He rose to assist.
“And,” she continued. “Get them down the elevator and to the street. With all your building’s security, you never know. We don’t need an incident.”
“Good thinking.” Giovanni held the door while the caterers pushed their cart through, then accompanied them on the elevator ride down to the lobby. He ensured that no alarms would sound and then got them out to the street where they loaded their van.
“And the table, sir,” one of the caterers said.
“Yes, of course.” Giovanni led the way as they returned upstairs to the studio. He was first to enter.
Arabella and François were standing near the table.
François shifted away from her and moved to one end of the table. “Let me help.” He waved off Giovanni’s approach. “You’ve already done enough this evening.”
Giovanni welcomed the offer and allowed François to assist the caterers. However, Giovanni felt a tinge of resentment. It almost seemed that François was suggesting that Giovanni was old and feeble, while François, a man in his prime, was better suited to the task.
François held the door open so the caterers could carry the table downstairs.
Giovanni reconsidered his thoughts. Any resentment toward François was silly and he didn’t want something so trivial to ruin the fine evening they had all enjoyed.
He patted François on the shoulder.
“Thank you, François. You’re a good man.”