Chapter 15

 
Giovanni arrived in London, exhausted from his trip. During his taxi ride home, the gray skies encouraged him to sleep, which he was very much looking forward to doing. The driver, on the other hand, had apparently just polished off his hourly jumbo latte and wanted to talk ceaselessly, asking where his passenger was returning from, a question which Giovanni made the mistake of answering. The driver launched into a tirade about Germany, the war, and how none of his relatives would ever visit that despicable country.

Giovanni really didn’t care.

“Sir,” he said abruptly, “I don’t want to insult you, but I’ve had a particularly disturbing trip. Could we please complete this ride in silence?”

The driver studied Giovanni in the rear view mirror.

“Right, Mate. You’re the boss.”

The taxi wended its way through early evening traffic. When they arrived at Giovanni’s flat, he paid the driver and wheeled his suitcase to the front door of his lonely home. By the time his clothes were hung and he had whipped together a snack, it was 7:30 in the evening. He turned on light background music, stretched out on the sofa, and tried to relax, but his mind could not stop replaying events from his trip.

In recalling the night before, Giovanni’s emotions bounced between anger and shame over what his uncle had done and his harsh reactions to it. Shoving the old man into a bookcase, of all things, he thought. What if he had injured him? Would he have taken him to the hospital, despite his fury? There was no way of knowing, and it was worthless to think about anyway. In the end, there was no excuse for that kind of childish behavior. But then Giovanni’s mind turned back to the spite he had for Max, and the cycle of unresolvable thoughts started again.

If only his father were still alive, Giovanni would’ve had someone to talk to. Someone to help clear his troubled mind. How absurd, he thought, even cruel, that he could talk to the subject of a sixteenth century portrait, yet he could not talk to the one person he wanted to most. He longed to sit with his father and discuss what Max had done. He wanted to know what his father knew, which must have been so much more than the scarce evidence that Giovanni had discovered.

The longing for those closest to Giovanni overwhelmed him. He wanted his father and mother alive again. He wanted to see his son for more than a quick weekend twice a year, to see his old friends, and yes, to be with Arabella again, despite her infidelity. He wanted his life back. It had been upturned for one reason, which was safely stored in a strong room of his studio.

 
* * *

 
As he unlocked his studio, Giovanni realized that he should have had dinner. Snacks only go so far. But he was determined to confront the Count, despite the late hour. He opened the second strong room and turned on the light. In his haste to grab the crate, he almost dropped it, but he recovered and brought it to his work area, where he set the portrait on the usual easel.

He sat on his stool and stared at the Count, who was silent.

“I hate you,” Giovanni said.

“Signor Fabrizzi,” the Count said. “One should carefully consider their words, particularly when choosing any so harsh that one might later regret.”

“You’ve ruined my life.”

“Pray tell, just what have I done to ruin your life?”

“You’ve made me doubt my sanity, then waste my time listening to your endless, self-involved stories. Add to that, you spied on my wife and then told me about her affair. You have utterly destroyed me, but you don’t stop there. You had to go and tell me about Paris, which led to a rather unfriendly reunion with my Uncle Max.”

The Count was silent for a moment, then said, “First, I must remind you that I did not care to tell you about Paris. As I warned you, it was a disturbing period, but you implored me to tell the story of Sergei.”

“I don’t care about Sergei and his boyfriend. Whatever they did is nothing compared to the disturbing facts I learned about my Uncle Max.”

“That would be my second concern, this uncle of yours. I am afraid it is difficult to relate when the topic of conversation is a person I know nothing about nor have ever met. I am already kept in the dark, as they say, more than enough.”

“You’ve met him,” Giovanni said. “He’s Kreitel.”

The Count hesitated. “I see.”

“Right, now you see. So you should see how you’ve ruined my life.”

“Is this perhaps your hunch, the details of which you refused to share with me?”

“Yes,” Giovanni said. “But it’s not a hunch anymore. It’s true, I’m afraid. He stole artwork from Jewish families and sold it for a profit. And he did rather nicely for himself, I must say.”

“It is evident that this revelation has upset you.”

Giovanni vaulted upright. “Yes!” he screamed. “I’m furious. My own uncle, how could he?” He began to wobble, then clutched his chest and dropped to one knee.

“Fabrizzi!” the Count called out.

Giovanni steadied himself and took a few deep breaths. Slowly, he got up and retook his seat on the stool.

“Are you all right?” the Count asked.

“If you’re so concerned, why didn’t you help me up?” Giovanni joked about it but didn’t laugh. “Can’t you see? You’re a spirit locked inside a painting. You yearn for action, for company, to see, to travel. I’m not a young man anymore. All that’s happened since you came into my life, it’s just too much. I can’t bear it. I’m not strong enough.” Giovanni’s voice cracked and he held back his tears.

The Count waited a moment. “Signor Fabrizzi. You must realize that I did not know Kreitel was your relative. The odds are incalculable.”

“Maybe so, but it’s true. And while I can’t prove it, I know it in my bones, my father knew about Max and hid it from me. A lot more makes sense now. The cigar box, when I was young, with the name Kreitel engraved on the lid. Like your portrait, it was another useless gift from Max, trying to appease my father. He must have hated Max for selling stolen art, but he didn’t send your portrait back to Zurich. He kept it, knowing when he was gone, it would come to me. As if he were leaving me a chance to find out on my own.”

“Perhaps your father had hoped that you would do what he could not.”

“And what would that be?” Giovanni asked.

“Forgive Max. After all, he is family.”

“That is going to be difficult,” Giovanni said. “Maybe one day, but not now. Certainly not for some time.”

“I am truly sorry to have brought you this pain,” the Count said. “It was never my intention that you would learn of your uncle’s deeds, nor that any action on my part would lead to you losing your wife.”

“Don’t say losing,” Giovanni said. “We say that when a loved one has died.”

“You are still very much in love with her,” the Count said.

Giovanni hung his head. “I am.”

“Then forgive her. And forgive me. And begin your life anew. Cautiously, but anew. Trust me, I know better than anyone. It is dreadful to be alone. But you have a choice. You don’t have to be alone.”

Giovanni rose from the stool. “I’ll consider your advice, Count.” He reached for the crate, preparing to put the portrait away.

“Please,” the Count said. “Leave me here. I have been in the dark too long. If you would, turn me toward the window. I want to see the street life of London. At least, as much as I can.”

Giovanni turned the easel around and moved it closer to the window.

“How is that?” he asked.

“Perfect.”

Giovanni turned off the lights, set the alarms, and left the painting alone to stare out into the night.

 
* * *

 
Giovanni returned home just before eleven o’clock. It was late, but he had to eat something after skipping dinner. He made a quick sandwich, then brushed his teeth and got into his pajamas.

As he pulled the covers back to get into bed, he noticed on the nightstand, a blinking light on the phone that indicated a message. Whoever it was, they could wait, he concluded. He adjusted his pillow, stretched out flat, and pulled the comforter up to his neck. It was good to be home, he thought, even if he was alone.

The phone rang.

He growled. How rude for anyone to call so late. But then it occurred to him—any call coming so late might be an emergency. As his outgoing message played, he dragged himself across the bed, toward the phone machine, and turned up the volume.

“Leave your message after the tone…” came from the speaker, and he waited to hear if the caller had bothered to record a voice mail.

“Mr. Fabrizzi. This is Jana Vogler, calling from Germany. I left a message earlier. I’m sorry to call so late but it’s very important that I talk with you right away. I’ve found Clara Meyerstein.”

Giovanni reached for the phone, but in the dark, he knocked it off the nightstand. He scrambled out of bed and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” he said. “I’m sorry. Hello?”

“Mr. Fabrizzi?” Jana said.

“Yes, I heard your message.” Seated on the edge of the bed, Giovanni reached for the lamp and clicked it on. “Please tell me everything.” Giovanni wasn’t going to get much sleep after receiving this important news. He scrounged through a drawer in the nightstand and found a pen and pad.

“There was no listing with the archives in Germany or France,” she explained, “and the U.S. Holocaust Museum in Washington D.C. could not find her either. And then, just to see if we might have some luck elsewhere, I checked Aufbau, a German-language newspaper that maintained a list of European refugees arriving in New York between 1944 and 1946. And there she was. Clara Meyerstein. She arrived August 1, 1946.”

Giovanni asked, “Is there any way to find out what happened to her?”

“Mr. Fabrizzi,” Jana said with great satisfaction, “it is my pleasure to tell you that Clara Meyerstein is presently living in Manhattan, in an area I believe New Yorkers call Hell’s Kitchen.”

“She’s alive?” Giovanni was stunned.

“Yes. I went through the records of the borough of Manhattan. She is living in an apartment on Ninth Avenue. I left a phone message for you earlier tonight. And I have already e-mailed her address to you.”

“I’m not at my computer right now,” Giovanni said.

“When you are, the message should be there.” With a thrill in her voice, she continued, “This is very special. So many times I cannot find a missing person. And most times when I do, the end of my investigation is only to learn of their death. But this—this is what I live for, Mr. Fabrizzi. She is alive.”

“I will visit her,” he said. “And tell her about the painting.”

“This is wonderful,” Jana said. “Is there anything else I can do for you regarding Clara?”

“Do you have a phone number for her?”

“I could not find one listed. But I have confirmed her address on Ninth Avenue. Check your e-mail.”

“I will,” Giovanni said. “This is remarkable. How much do I owe you?”

“I’ve already received your check,” Jana said. “I’m pleased to say the retainer covered your costs in full. All you owe me is a full account of your meeting with Clara Meyerstein.”

“Thank you so much, Jana.”

“Thank you. Please let me know how it goes.”

They said their good-byes and Giovanni hung up the phone, then he switched the lamp off and slipped back under the covers. But sleeping was next to impossible, as his mind went round and round, imagining the trip he would soon take to America.

 
* * *

 
The next morning, Giovanni went to his studio and told the Count the great news. But there was even greater news. Finding Clara alive also meant that it was time to have the painting analyzed by a laboratory to confirm its authenticity. The Count was more excited by that news, and sincerely thanked Giovanni for keeping his promise.

As Giovanni prepared to pack the portrait back into the crate, he paused to ask for the Count’s cooperation. Giovanni wanted his promise that he would not speak when Giovanni showed him to the director of the laboratory. Giovanni explained that he wanted to be focused and professional when he told the laboratory staff that the painting might possibly be the work of one of history’s greatest painters. The Count assured Giovanni that he understood and agreed to remain silent during his entire visit to the laboratory.

Nevertheless, Giovanni remained apprehensive about his meeting with Vincent Drysdale, the director of L & D Laboratories, whose expertise in the authentication of significant works of art was renowned.

When Giovanni entered Drysdale’s office, the director rose from his seat. He was exceedingly proper and ramrod stiff, outfitted in an impeccable suit. He greeted Giovanni with a strong handshake and offered him a seat, then asked if Giovanni wanted a coffee, which he politely declined.

Drysdale lowered to his seat behind the desk. “Well, I must say, I am most anxious to see this sixteenth century panel of yours.”

Giovanni took the cue and opened the crate. As he brought out and unwrapped the Count, Drysdale kept up the conversation.

“We haven’t seen much of you of late, old chap. I did hear about you and Arabella from someone, I don’t recall whom.”

Giovanni did not look up.

“I’m terribly sorry, Gio. Really, I am. And how is the work going on the Brueghel?”

“I took a little time off.” Giovanni prepared to unveil the painting to Drysdale. “A European trip.”

“Of course. Keep yourself busy.”

Giovanni pulled out the panel with a flourish and held it up.

“May I?” Drysdale rose from his seat and came around the desk. Giovanni handed the panel to him. As he held it with great care, the director studied the painting for some time, shifting the angle so the light would strike it differently.

Giovanni was relieved that the Count had remained silent.

“It appears from the right period,” Drysdale said. He carefully set the painting on an easel next to his enormous, mahogany desk. “Botticelli, you are thinking.”

“I suspect it is possible, yes.”

As he gazed at the painting, Drysdale nodded a few times, then he moved around his desk and returned to his chair behind it. He hesitated a moment before proceeding.

“Gio, we’ve known each other a long time, and I’ve always admired your skills with restoration and your eye for fine art. So please, don’t take this the wrong way and let it be an insult, but you have to realize the implications of your suggestion. Remember, your reputation is at stake here.”

“I fully realize that, Vincent. I am prepared, whatever the outcome may be.”

Drysdale nodded though he still appeared concerned. “If I may ask, what has led you to believe it might be the work of Botticelli?”

“The trip I just went on,” Giovanni explained. “I did some research in France and Germany, and ultimately in Switzerland. The painting had belonged to a Jewish family who lived in Paris. The Nazis confiscated their collection in 1940.”

“Then you have documentation,” Drysdale said.

“Sadly, not any to verify this particular work, only others. You see, the item was taken by a hired appraiser, an art dealer, before it could be cataloged.”

“Then it went to a private collection,” Drysdale said. “So you’ve been in contact with the collector. Care to give any names?”

“I can’t say. And it doesn’t matter anyway. The collector doesn’t have any documentation either.”

Drysdale’s eyes grew wide. “Heaven’s sake, Gio. You have this notion and no documentation whatsoever?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“You’re operating on a hunch,” Drysdale said. “This isn’t like you, Gio.”

“I realize that, but you have to trust me, Vincent. I have to know one way or another.”

Staring at Giovanni with a look of disbelief, Drysdale was silent, then he began to nod slowly. “Anyone else I’d say they were crazy. But the years we’ve worked together are something I can’t ignore. If you’re that confident, so be it. But, Gio, what if we test and discover the work is a knock-off created early last century?”

“I’m confident that won’t be the case,” Giovanni said. “I’m certain of that much.”

Still disbelieving, Drysdale nodded. “All right, but the tests come at considerable cost. That’s a lot of money to throw away if you’re wrong, and it’s not a Botticelli.”

“The expense is peanuts if I’m right.”