As Giovanni stepped off the train in Zurich, his mobile phone began
to ring. Caught in the flow of arriving passengers and struggling
with his rolling suitcase, he could not get to the ringing phone
deep in his coat pocket. He searched the platform for an opening
where he could get out of the crowd and answer the call.
The phone continued ringing. Giovanni feared he might miss the call, and worse, the caller would not leave a message. He darted out of the crowd, his rolling suitcase flailing at his heels, and found a scrap of space that was standing room only. He parked his suitcase and dug into his coat for the phone.
Just as he had hoped, it was Jana Vogler, returning the call he had made to her while in Munich, before boarding his train to Zurich.
“I spoke with Johannes at the ITS,” Jana explained. “So I already know something about your search.”
Giovanni asked about her fees and availability. When she began to answer, a train departure was announced over a loudspeaker and he couldn’t make out her reply.
“I’m sorry,” Giovanni said. “I’m in the train station. Could you repeat that?”
She explained her fees, and that she was available. She wasn’t cheap, but it was not beyond Giovanni’s means. Considering what was at stake, he concluded the expense was worthwhile and he agreed to her terms.
He asked, “What do you think the chances are that we can find Clara?”
“There is always a chance,” she replied, “but I don’t want to give you false hope. In the majority of cases, we can find the individual at some point, but more often than not, they have passed away. But at the same time, I don’t want to crush your hopes, either. I have found a rare few who are still living. It is one of my greatest joys when we do.”
“I understand,” Giovanni said. “Whatever the resolution, it will be worth the effort. It is something I have to know.”
“I can check a number of sources both in Europe and the United States.”
“America? But she was French.”
“Mr. Fabrizzi, you might be surprised to learn where survivors emigrated to after the war. Many fled to America, Israel, Australia, even Brazil. You never know. After their experience, I think it is understandable that, though not a complete comfort, distance was the preference. To find them across the ocean, for example, is not unusual.”
“I see your point,” Giovanni said, considering that if he were in their shoes, he wouldn’t return to Europe, ever. “I have some further research to pursue,” he explained, “related to the art world. After Zurich, I’ll be back in London in a few days. You’ll be able to reach me at my studio.” He relayed the phone number.
“Give me three to four weeks,” she said, “and I should have something to report. Unless there is big news, in which case you’ll hear from me sooner.” After a pause, she added, “And by the way, I want you to know, I personally appreciate the work you are trying to do, regarding the return of the stolen artwork.”
“Thanks,” Giovanni said. “I don’t think it’s a great act of generosity. I see it as a necessity. Something that would bother me if I didn’t do it.”
“I still insist on complimenting you,” she said.
Giovanni liked the compliment and smiled.
She continued, “If I may ask you another question, Mr. Fabrizzi. Your research at the ITS showed that none of the other Meyersteins survived. Is that correct?”
“It is.”
“Then, if it is not too personal a question…” She paused, as if unable to continue without permission.
“Go ahead,” Giovanni said.
“If you find Clara Meyerstein is no longer alive, will you keep the painting? Or would you consider donating it?”
Giovanni rubbed his forehead. He didn’t have an answer, as he was not yet prepared to consider that possibility.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I might donate it to a museum.”
“Perhaps in Paris,” Jana suggested. “Since that is where the painting was last owned before it came to your family.”
Giovanni immediately understood that Jana was dedicated to dealing with the loss and anger of others, and trying to make up for what had happened to millions, decades earlier. He could not blame her for asking.
He explained, “I’m trying to do two things here, Jana. One, find out how the painting came into my family. And two, learn who the artist is. It’s unsigned, you know.”
“Yes, Johannes told me.”
“This will all become more complicated if the work turns out to have been painted by the artist I think painted it.”
“And who is that?”
“Botticelli.”
There was a long pause before she spoke. “Well, Mr. Fabrizzi, I’m no expert, but even I know how important he is. But stolen Jewish art, created by famous or even unknown artists, nevertheless is still stolen and deserves a special home.”
It was the last thing Giovanni wanted to think about, but he had to admit, the potential quandary had crossed his mind. If his investigation somehow revealed the painting was by Botticelli, he had that entire can of worms to deal with—everybody who was privy to his discovery and their endless suggestions of what Giovanni should do with the portrait.
He wanted to a find quiet, dark place and enjoy a soothing drink. He thanked Jana Vogler for taking the case and asked her to call when she had any information.
* * *
As his taxi rolled through the streets of Zurich, Giovanni was too
consumed by his latest dilemma to notice much of the passing
cityscape. He had not expected to find a member of the Meyerstein
family alive, and even though he had not yet confirmed that
possibility, the new developments were leading to difficult
choices. He was certain the Count’s story was true and the painting
had once belonged to the Meyersteins. That alone burdened him with
a moral responsibility that he could not ignore. Added to that, if
Clara Meyerstein were still alive, he could not in good conscience
do anything other than return the painting to her, its rightful
owner, even if a work of Botticelli.
It wasn’t until he arrived at the Baur au Lac Hotel, paid the driver, and wheeled his suitcase toward the entrance that Giovanni took a moment to absorb the surroundings. He and Arabella had stayed at the Baur au Lac before, where they walked around the lake, strolled the Bahnhofstrasse, and took in local shopping and dining.
Giovanni checked his watch. He still had a few hours before his dinner plans, but he couldn’t relax. He considered taking a walk, as the hotel was located in a splendid area of Zurich, but he was too preoccupied by the uncertain outcome that his meeting might produce. Instead he stayed in his room, unpacked some of his clothes, and collected the photographs and documents that he would bring with him to dinner. He needed to mentally prepare, knowing the meeting could well be his only chance to learn the truth about the Meyersteins and the Count.
He scheduled a taxi to arrive in two hours and take him to the restaurant Max had suggested, the Kronenhalle on Rämistrasse. Then he went over the questions he had for Max. He went so far as to write the questions on a sheet of hotel stationery, then changed his mind, scratched out some and wrote others. He did not want Max to feel as though he was being interviewed, if Giovanni could avoid it, but he needed direct answers. Then he tried to imagine responses Max might offer and formulated follow-up questions, but the myriad directions their conversation might take only frustrated Giovanni. He crumpled up the sheet of stationery and pitched it into the trash. He would simply focus on the most important questions, and if Max balked, Giovanni would have to improvise on the spot.
After a shower and once dressed, Giovanni took the elevator to the lobby and waited for his taxi. He had scheduled the taxi to come early, as the restaurant was some distance from the hotel and he wanted to arrive well before Max.
After his taxi ride to the Kronenhalle, Giovanni paid the driver and went into the restaurant. He paused to admire the setting, just as he had the last time he dined there with Arabella. If not for the tables and fine linen, one might imagine they had walked into a museum. The room itself was a work of art, the warm walls covered in wood and intricate molding, the tall ceiling as well. Among the handsome woodwork, priceless art in elaborate gilded frames hung throughout the restaurant. The works of Chagall, Kandinsky, Matisse, Picasso, and others. Any one of the paintings would have fetched an enormous sum on the international art market.
Giovanni told the maître d´ his name and was shown to a table. As he settled in his seat, still admiring the fine art, it reminded him of his dilemma. What if the Count’s portrait really was a Botticelli? It would bring much comfort to an aged Clara Meyerstein. Or perhaps she would sell it and live her remaining years in luxury. There was nothing wrong with that. But he had a disturbing thought. What if he found Clara still alive, but she was unable, due to age, to remember her past during the Occupation? Ironically, Giovanni considered, it might be a mixed blessing to have an impaired memory. It might be preferable if the incomprehensible brutality her family had endured, and millions of others, was a vague flicker of a memory, if that. It would be a gift to be forgetful, after what she had been through.
Sitting, waiting, and doing nothing only fueled Giovanni’s growing anxiety about the meeting he would have shortly. He sipped his mineral water and nibbled on a slice of bread. Giovanni checked his watch, saw that Max was ten minutes late, and wondered if his uncle had intended to keep their dinner appointment in the first place, or if he was just leading Giovanni astray.
Then Giovanni spotted a frail man with white hair, speaking to the maître d´. They both looked at Giovanni and the old man nodded, then started toward the table. He used a walking stick that looked expensive, adorned by hammered silver. As he drew near, Giovanni gauged that more than his walking stick came at great expense, though the sight was somewhat of a contradiction. The man was ancient, but hanging from his ailing frame, he wore a suit tailored from the finest cloth.
Giovanni stood and extended his hand. “Hello. I’m Giovanni.”
“Well, well. Giovanni. I am your Uncle Max. At last we meet.”
He reached out to Giovanni’s hand but rather than shake it, his gesture was more of a quick slap. Giovanni did not judge it as disrespectful, rather a matter of Max’s advanced age and vulnerability.
“Didn’t we ever?” Giovanni asked. “Not even when I was an infant?”
Max didn’t respond and Giovanni felt awkward, worried that his response might have been taken as an insult. He was no youngster himself, so his words might suggest that he and Max were from different centuries. Max had survived to a remarkable age, which was difficult to ignore, but Giovanni didn’t want to make it a topic of conversation.
They sat down at the table and spent a moment studying each other, neither of them sure of where to begin the conversation. Max chose a safe route.
“You have been here before, at the Kronenhalle.”
“Yes, with my wife, although I’m sorry to say we’re separated right now. It’s been very hard.” Giovanni hadn’t intended to make his marital problems a topic but it just came out that way.
“I know how it is,” Max said. “My wife has been gone many years.”
“It’s hard to be alone.”
“I have a butler and a beautiful home. I don’t travel much anymore, but I think I am more fortunate than most.”
A waiter came and Giovanni was surprised when Max ordered a vodka on the rocks with three olives. No less than three, he insisted, as if he had been cheated in the past. Giovanni wanted to remain clear-headed, so he kept to his mineral water.
“I’m truly sorry I didn’t find my father’s address book sooner,” Giovanni said, “and tell you he was gone.”
Max nodded. “We were out of touch for a very long time.”
An uncomfortable silence passed, then Max’s drink arrived. Before he could take the first sip, Giovanni clinked his glass against his uncle’s.
“A toast to making up for long absences,” Giovanni said.
Max raised an eyebrow and sipped his glass, perhaps annoyed that his drinking was delayed, Giovanni pondered. Or maybe because Giovanni’s glass of mineral water somehow made the toast invalid.
The waiter was ready for their order, further postponing the conversation that Giovanni wanted to get started, but he couldn’t seem to light the fuse. He resolved to get down to the matter after they had ordered their meals. Giovanni chose a house specialty, the bollito misto, a stew of boiled beef, chicken, sausage, and tongue. Max ordered veal. As the waiter moved off, Giovanni eased into the conversation with casual questions about Max’s life in Zurich, the art world, and other relatively safe topics.
“I never really understood,” Giovanni said, “why you didn’t visit when I was a child. My father never told me much about you.” Giovanni reached into his pocket and brought out an old black and white photograph of Max and Federico, standing together in a garden. He put it on the table, facing Max.
Max sipped from his glass and then set it down. He reached for the photograph, slid it closer to him, and raised it up so he could study it. Giovanni watched carefully. Max did not make a show of emotion, although he did appear in concentration, as if unwinding a puzzle.
“Oh, Federico.” Max sighed. “I am sad we missed out on all those years. And I didn’t even know of his funeral.”
“Why was it that way between you two?” Giovanni asked.
Max put down the photograph and looked at his nephew. “Your father was an excellent restorer. I am sure you are one as well. The House of Fabrizzi. I tried hard to live up to that name. Your father believed I was trying to avoid work, that I was more interested in Parisian girls than working. He had a wife, your mother, and his great talent. I had nothing.”
“He told me that you stopped working with him in Paris,” Giovanni said. “Was that because he placed a lot of expectations on you as a restorer?”
The waiter arrived with their meals and interrupted the conversation. They both unfolded their napkins and began poking at dinner while Giovanni waited for an answer. Max did not appear in any hurry to provide one, rather he indulged in his veal. As they continued eating, Giovanni did not push for a reply, though his repeated glances at Max seemed enough to prompt a response.
Max set down his fork and knife. “I’m sorry to say this, and possibly I shouldn’t say it at all. That is, to you, his son.”
“No,” Giovanni said. “Please, say what you have to. I need to understand.”
“Very well. Your father and I parted ways. My abilities as a conservator could never satisfy him. There was, of course, also that I enjoyed the nightlife. Montmartre. Montparnasse. Music. Theater. Art openings. Women. But most of all, I believe Federico was cross with me because I deserted our family heritage of art restoration.”
“How was that?” Giovanni asked.
“I had to make living, and it wasn’t going to be restoring art as your father did, and as you do. I never had that talent. So I became an art dealer. And I became very successful. It took a good long while, believe me, but by the time your father left Paris, I was making far more money than him. I do not think that made him feel any better about matters between us.”
“I suppose not,” Giovanni said, but he was distracted to learn that Max, by his own admission, had become an art dealer. “When you were in Paris,” Giovanni asked, “did you ever sell any work by well-known artists?”
Max took a long sip from his glass and finished it. “There were some, eventually.” He laid his napkin over the unfinished plate of veal and signaled for the waiter to bring the check.
Giovanni stiffened. His question had touched a nerve, as he had feared it might, once probing Max’s history as an art dealer. Giovanni had to do something. His one opportunity to learn the truth was slipping away.
“Can I get you some coffee or dessert?” he asked.
Max seemed to ignore him, more interested in the waiter.
When the check came, Giovanni reached for it.
Max slapped Giovanni’s hand. “You are the visitor,” he said. “Not the host.” He placed a credit card in the tray and the waiter took it away before Giovanni could protest. Soon the waiter returned and Max signed the receipt. “Now,” he said, “you will have to forgive me, but my stamina is not what it used to be. I will have to pass on dessert.” He struggled to rise from his seat.
Giovanni moved around the table to help.
“Stop that,” Max said, and he got up by himself. “You make a man feel older than he already is.”
He didn’t care to have his hand slapped again, so Giovanni backed off. But all of his plans were crumbling. He had no way to hold his uncle there, to ask him the questions he wanted answered the most, and to find the truth.
“Uncle Max, there’s so much more we haven’t talked about. Is there any way we could meet tomorrow? It would mean a great deal to me.”
Max looked at him for a long while. “I will have to think about that.”
“All right. May I call you in the morning? Is ten too early?”
“Eleven. Then I will tell you if I’m feeling up to another visit.”
He turned around and hobbled away on his walking stick.