The buildings that defined Ravello’s central piazza—a church with large black doors dating back to the eleventh century; a white-and-pink government building flying the Italian and the Ravello flags; a small hotel the color of fresh limes, with white wrought-iron railings defining tiny balconies on the front rooms; a market with freshly killed pheasants, ducks, and rabbits hanging from a red, white, and green canvas canopy; two restaurants, their outdoor cafes packed tightly with onlookers; and some private residences—had all been additionally decorated for the event with garlands of flowers, flags, and crude signs. The requisite fountain in the center of the piazza sent water into the air through the mouths of wild animals. Pretty schoolgirls in colorful costumes performed traditional folk dances to the dissonant music of old men in red uniforms with silver buttons, the music from their drums, tuba, trombone, cornet, and saxophone sounding as though each musician played a different song. The swelling crowd included press, priests, politicians, and townspeople.
In front of the fountain, facing the open doors of the church, was a platform on which stood two loudspeakers, a microphone, and a dozen folding metal chairs. Annabel looked up from the church steps into a cerulean sky marked only by an occasional puffy white cloud moving fast on unfelt upper-atmosphere winds.
“This is really exciting,” she said to Don Fechter.
They’d been picked up before dawn at their hotel in Rome by a sleek, modern bus on which an elaborate continental breakfast was set up; the coffee was the strongest Annabel had ever tasted. And good. She felt as if the caffeine had been injected intravenously.
The crate containing Grottesca took up most of the vehicle’s rear bench. Two armed guards assigned by the Ministry of Culture sat to either side of it. “You are never to take your eyes off it,” Alberto Betti had instructed them. One slept for most of the journey; the other read popular magazines. The crate was placed on the platform along with the chairs and amplification equipment, flanked by the two sleepy guards. Pims, who’d traveled from Rome with his camera crew in a hired limousine, directed the taping of the event from a vantage point directly in front of the platform.
Ravello’s mayor raised his arms and said, “Signore e signori. Your attention, please.”
“Time for you to get up there,” Fechter told Annabel.
She joined the others on the platform, looked out over the faces, and saw Luther Mason step from the dark recesses of the church into the bright sunshine. With him were two priests, followed by representatives from the National Gallery’s public information office. Workmen in white coveralls brought up the rear. The only conspicuous absentee was Father Pasquale Giocondi. When Annabel asked, she was told he had a previous commitment in Rome. “Signor Mason,” the mayor said into the microphone. “Please. It is time.”
Mason and the priests descended the church steps, threaded through the crowd, and joined the others on the platform. Once seated, the mayor said in Italian, “My dear friends, my fellow countrymen, I welcome you to Ravello on this most joyous of days. We gather here to celebrate the return of a magnificent painting by one of Italy’s most honored geniuses, Michelangelo Merisi Caravaggio.” The crowd applauded. “It is fitting, I believe, that this work, lost to us for so many years, was discovered here in our beautiful village. Ravello and its people are things of beauty, just as Caravaggio created things of beauty. It is appropriate that our lovely village be home to this important work of art for the next century and beyond.” More applause.
As the mayor continued to speak, Annabel thought how wonderful it was that this small church, in such an idyllic Italian town, would be the final showplace for a masterpiece. It also crossed her mind that great paintings were routinely stolen from Italian churches. She glanced at Luther Mason, seated at the end of her row. He looked to her like one of the statues dotting the piazza, ramrod straight, his face set in a stony grimace, in marked contrast with the ebullient mood of everyone else. Annabel couldn’t help but smile. When she’d agreed to join the White House Commission on the Arts, she’d never dreamed it would lead her to a tiny square in Ravello, Italy. She wished Mac were there to share the experience. Photographers hired by the town recorded the event; she would order a set of pictures to bring home to him.
The mayor said, “We are honored to have with us today a representative from the White House of the United States, Signora Smith.”
Annabel stepped to the microphone and read a short statement prepared by Vice President Aprile’s Press Office. Her remarks were repeated by a translator: “… and the president of the United States, and all Americans, thank the Italian people for allowing Grottesca to have spent a month in the United States at the National Gallery. And we praise Italy in constant astonishment for having contributed so much to the world of art.”
Mason was next. He rose tentatively; from Annabel’s perspective he seemed unsure whether to go to the microphone. With that same frozen, pained expression on his face, he pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and said in halting Italian, “This is where Grottesca belongs. With the people of Ravello. It is yours to treasure for all time.”
Short and sweet, thought Annabel.
The ceremony was climaxed by the playing of the Italian national anthem. Then, workmen took the crate from the platform and carried it to the church. The mayor had wanted to unveil Grottesca in the piazza, but the parish priests prevailed in their view that it was more fitting for it to first be seen in its religious setting than in a secular display. The actual hanging would be witnessed only by invited VIPs and town officials.
As Pims’s cameraman captured the action, Grottesca’s protective wooden shell was carefully dismantled under Donald Fechter’s supervision, his instructions translated into Italian. Once freed, the painting was carried to the chancel rail, where the priests, dressed in black cassocks covered by white surplices, blessed it. The air was thick with incense; liturgical music came from an unseen organist.
The priests beckoned those in attendance to come forward to admire close-up the now consecrated painting before it was lifted to its place of honor high above the altar. Annabel was the first to approach. She knelt at the rail—it seemed the appropriate thing to do—and stared into the face of Caravaggio’s young male model. She hadn’t experienced a visceral reaction to Grottesca during its residence at the National Gallery. But now, so close to it, the young boy’s anguish was palpable. She envisioned Caravaggio working on the piece, becoming one with the young male model. The impact on her was painful; she had to look away—directly into the cameraman’s lens.
One by one the invited approached to pay their respects to Caravaggio and his work. It was a bit too ceremonial for Annabel’s taste, and it seemed to her that Christ was playing second fiddle to a violent painter. But then again, she’d never been a person to stand on ceremony or to insist on ritual. As she watched, her attention was captured by a man she’d noticed outside during the ceremonies. He wore a shiny raincoat the color of rust, its collar raised against wind and rain that weren’t there. His hat was a slouch-brimmed leather fedora from Hollywood gangster films of the thirties and forties. What most interested Annabel about him, aside from his getup, was that once on his knees, he withdrew a large, round magnifying glass and began to examine the painting through it. Strange, she thought, looking at Luther Mason, whose expression continued to be grim.
Annabel looked again at the altar. The man with the glass continued to examine the painting until a priest whispered in his ear. He stood and retreated from the rail as the priests lifted the painting with great solemnity and carried it to the altar where workmen, ascending parallel ladders, hung it. The applause was spontaneous. Two spotlights came to life, bathing the painting in brilliant white light.
“George Kublinski would have a heart attack if he saw those lights,” Don Fechter whispered to Annabel. “Feel the humidity in here? I may have a heart attack.”
“Is that it?” Annabel asked Fechter. “It just hangs there? Not bolted to the wall?”
“I give it three months,” he said.
“Who was the man with the magnifying glass?” Annabel asked.
“Joseph Spagnola. A Vatican curator.”
“Really? What was he doing, making sure it’s the real thing?”
“Who knows?” Fechter replied. “Luther and Spagnola hate each other. I was at a conference a couple of years ago where they both presented papers on Caravaggio. Luther really tore into him, said his research was faulty—no, I think the word he used was ‘shabby.’ I thought they might come to blows.”
“Did Luther know he was going to be here?” Annabel asked.
“Beats me. I’m just glad I work in conservation. These curator types can get a little too flaky for my taste.”
Annabel laughed quietly.
“You should have seen Luther this past month,” Fechter said. “Really acted strange. Bizarre.”
“Well, Caravaggio, and especially Grottesca, mean an awful lot to him,” Annabel said.
“I know,” said Fechter. “But there’s a difference between liking something and becoming maniacal about it. I guess I shouldn’t say that. I really do like Luther. Beneath that neurotic exterior is a very nice man. And smart. I never doubted that what he said to Spagnola at that conference was on the money. Excuse me, Annabel. I want to get that crate put back together before it ends up firewood in somebody’s house. Cost a bundle to make it. Hopefully we’ll get to use it again.”
On the bus trip back to Rome, Annabel asked, “Where’s Luther?”
“He went with Scott Pims in the limo,” a National Gallery staffer replied. “Said he had to get back to Rome right away. He sure seemed upset.”
Originally, Annabel had planned to fly to Washington the next day. But once back in Rome, she decided to catch a flight that night. She missed Mac, missed Rufus, missed her home.
The following morning, a jet-lagged Annabel and Mac sat in their kitchen reading The Washington Post. A small story appeared in the Style Section about the return of Grottesca to Ravello, illustrated with a photograph taken inside the church of Luther Mason shaking hands with Ravello’s beaming mayor.
“Did you ever see Mason again in Rome?” Mac asked.
Annabel shook her head. “He just disappeared along with Scott Pims.”
“You seem worried.”
“That business with the Vatican curator, Spagnola, or something, really upset him.”
“You say they don’t like each other.”
“According to Don Fechter. It sure looked that way to me. I must call Carole this morning, tell her how it went.”
“Later,” Mac said, coming around behind, wrapping his arms about her, and allowing his hands to wander into the folds of her robe.
“A little amorous for so early in the morning, aren’t you?” Annabel asked, jet lag falling away.
“I missed you,” he said. “By the way, I stopped in to see Susan Shevlin. She can get us some wonderful deals on a trip to Italy. I left a note on your desk with dates that are good for me. If any of them match up with your schedule, I’ll book it.”
“Wonderful,” said Annabel, pushing back her chair, which pushed him back, too. She stood, turned, wrapped her arms about his neck, and kissed him hard on the mouth. “You once asked me to come up to see your tattoos. Is the offer still good?”
“You bet it is, lady. Sure you’re not too tired from your flight?”
“There’s always time for sleep.”