Murder at the National Gallery (3 page)

But it was the marked difference in their facial expressions that struck Annabel. Whitney had lank lips; the hinges at the corners of his mouth didn’t allow his lips to part very far when smiling, resulting in what appeared to be pained, insincere
smiles. Luther’s smile, on the other hand, had an openness to it that was, at once, inviting and genuine.

Whitney directed the meeting back on course. “As all of you are aware,” he said, “the new administration has expressed a keen interest in the artistic life of this nation. Among many things President Jeppsen has managed to accomplish in the early days of his presidency has been the establishment of the White House Commission on the Arts, spearheaded by Vice President and Mrs. Aprile.” He looked to Annabel. “I understand the first person Mrs. Aprile called was you, Mrs. Smith.”

“Carole Aprile and I were college roommates,” Annabel said. “And please call me Annabel.” As she mentioned her personal history with Carole Aprile, she wondered if her appointment to the commission might be viewed by some as an example of bureaucratic cronyism, a pal’s patronage. She let that thought pass. What did it matter what anyone thought? The fact was that after having abandoned a lucrative career as a matrimonial attorney, and with the unbridled support of her husband, handsome, urbane law professor Mackensie Smith, who’d closed his criminal law practice to teach after losing his first wife, and son, in a Beltway accident, she’d indulged her dream of opening a pre-Columbian art gallery in Georgetown. It had flourished, along with her stature in Washington’s increasingly vibrant arts community.

Whitney continued: “Mrs. Aprile has appointed Mrs. Smith—Annabel—as White House liaison to the Caravaggio exhibition. Needless to say, there are significant political ramifications to this show. Those of you who have been dealing with the Italian government know how difficult they’ve made it for some of the Caravaggios to travel here, and then on to the Met, and London. I’m personally gratified at the level of interest shown by the White House in resolving these problems, and I know I speak for everyone in this room, Annabel, in welcoming your direct involvement.”

“I’m glad I can be a part of it,” she said. “Ever since Carole—Mrs. Aprile—asked me to become involved, I’ve been reading more about Caravaggio. Not only a master, a controversial fellow as well.”

Luther Mason laughed. “A gentle characterization from a gentle lady,” he said. “Just because Caravaggio was in the habit of killing people shouldn’t taint our opinion of him.”

Until his death a dozen years ago, Roberto Longhi had been considered without peer as a Caravaggio scholar. At his passing, that appellation was passed to Sir Denis Mahon, although a growing number of unofficial judges of such things had come to view Mason as being, at least, on a par with Sir Denis. Mahon was in his late eighties; unless he possessed centenarian genes, Mason would find himself standing alone one day as Caravaggio scholar
par excellence
.

There were, of course, dozens of others with a deep knowledge and appreciation of Caravaggio’s work. But they were bunched well behind in second place. Mahon and Mason had already crossed the finish line.

Remembering Carole’s comment about her staffer’s report of a rift among the Gallery’s hierarchy, Annabel made it a point to observe the interplay between Whitney, Mason, and Bishop. There was a certain tension, she decided, but nothing overt. Paul Bishop’s responses to comments made by Mason tended to be curt, even gruff on occasion. But Bishop was gruff with everyone. And Whitney demonstrated at times what Annabel thought might be a patronizing patience with Mason. But on the whole, the Gallery’s director and his two senior curators acted like the busy professionals they were. At least that was Annabel’s perception.

What she didn’t know—yet—was that Luther Mason disliked the new director intensely—“Oh, for the good old days of Carter Brown and Rusty Powell” (Whitney’s predecessors), he told discreet friends.

During a lull in the conversation, Paul Bishop said, without provocation, “Can you believe that moronic critic in the
Times
years ago who actually tried to find a comparison between Dubuffet and Rembrandt, of all things? Just because they both favored brown, and heavy textures, hardly begs such a comparison. Maybe it was that Rembrandt preferred old models, and Dubuffet enjoyed bloated, deformed ones.”

Whitney sighed. He knew that Bishop was annoyed now
that the meeting’s focus had turned to the Caravaggio exhibition, in which he would play only a minor role. Worse, it promised to be the crowning achievement of Luther Mason’s twenty-two years at the National Gallery. Gravel in Bishop’s craw. Meanwhile, Mason enjoyed the unbridled respect of the Gallery’s vast staff. More important, he had the faith of a number of the institution’s most powerful members of the Board of Trustees. Mason could do no wrong in their eyes. That’s why Whitney picked his arguments with Mason carefully.

Knowing that Whitney disliked Mason, Bishop had made a point of getting close to the new director and enjoyed his disparaging off-hand comments about Mason. But those were private moments. In the National Gallery of Art’s hierarchy, Luther Mason stood tallest. And the Caravaggio exhibition would only elevate his reputation and stature to new heights.

Whitney cleared his throat. “We would all appreciate an update from you, Luther, on how things are progressing with the exhibition.” To Annabel: “We’ve been working on this show for almost two years. Six months to go, which in this business is getting down to the wire.”

Mason opened a leather-bound legal-sized book, removed half-glasses from his pocket, placed them on the end of his nose, and silently surveyed his notes. Satisfied he’d sufficiently readied himself, he took in the others at the table: “I would say that things are progressing quite nicely. I’m leaving this evening for Rome. I think final arrangements will
at last
be made with the Borghese Gallery for the three works it’s loaning us—
The Little Bacchus
,
Saint John the Baptist
, and
David with the Head of Goliath
. Donald and his people have made two trips to the Borghese. I believe you have their reports. It’s their professional judgment that those three paintings can be safely traveled. You are aware, of course, that Donald insists that special climate-controlled boxes be constructed here.” He looked at Whitney. “It is my understanding that you have approved the construction of those special crates.”

“That’s right, Luther. Please move along.”

Annabel heard the unnecessary sharp edge to the director’s voice.

“The Registrar is currently putting final touches on the agreements with the Uffizi, the Hermitage—although Lord knows the Russians have been, as usual, infuriating in their demands—the Louvre, and the National Gallery in London. We’ve run into a number of unfortunate snags with Galleria Doria-Pamphili concerning
Penitent Mary Magdalene
and
Rest on the Flight to Egypt
. Because they’re in private hands, an additional set of egos have had to be dealt with. Bad enough to deal with the bureaucrats thrown in the way by the Italians, without having to salve pompous private citizens. But still, they are the owners, lawfully, I might add, unlike the Russians.” He sighed deeply, as though seeking something from an inner reservoir. He found it. “Carlo Giliberti has been extremely helpful in these matters.”

Giliberti, one of Luther’s close friends, had been running interference for the National Gallery, through the Italian Embassy in Washington, since the idea of a Caravaggio exhibition was first raised.

Mason’s briefing of the exhibition committee lasted another ten minutes and was surprisingly efficient; and underneath, the joy at the prospect of being surrounded by Caravaggios shone through everything he said and had already accomplished. When he was through, Whitney turned to design chief George Kublinski, who spread a set of preliminary drawings of the exhibition on the table.

Initial debate about where to hold the show within the National Gallery’s two buildings had been spirited, sometimes rancorous. The East Building, the newer of the two, had more available exhibition space. But because it was primarily used to show the works of more contemporary artists, Mason held fast to his insistence that to place the works of Michelangelo Caravaggio in such a modern architectural setting would be a form of blasphemy. He prevailed, and plans proceeded to use a gallery in the West Building to showcase Caravaggio’s works—his artistic output amounted to no more than fifty
paintings, according to those who kept score. Approximately thirty would soon hang in the National Gallery.

“I’d like to raise an issue,” said Naomi Warren.

“Yes?” Whitney said.

“I had a meeting earlier this morning with the Education Office concerning materials to be distributed to schools. They’re concerned about how to handle Caravaggio’s tumultuous personal life. He’s hardly the sort of role model for the million or so school kids who’ll be reading these materials.”

“Simple,” said Paul Bishop. “We leave out everything having to do with those he murdered, his homosexuality, his dastardly behavior with family and friends, and his subsequent drug-crazed death on that beach.” His tone was smug, arrogant.

“Absolutely not,” Mason said, closing the cover of his leather-bound book with unnecessary force. “Are we mounting what is perhaps this institution’s most important exhibition in years, or are we running a board of education?”

“I think Naomi’s point is valid,” Whitney said.

“I think not, Naomi, but the point is absurd,” said Mason. “Who are we to separate the man from his work? Should we purge any mentions of the Sistine Chapel from the history texts because Michelangelo was gay? Caravaggio was a bona fide genius. Geniuses walk their own path. We’re not approving his
life
.”

Whitney suggested to Naomi that they schedule a meeting as soon as possible with the Education Department. Mason’s face mirrored his pique at the director’s response. He stood and said, “I believe we’ve covered everything of substance for now. Will you excuse me? I have to finish preparing for my trip.”

“First class, of course,” Bishop said.

Mason turned to Bishop, smiled, and said, “Yes, Paul. First class.” It was as if he had said: First class for those involved in first-class curating. But he added: “At no extra cost to the taxpayers.” And left the room.

The meeting lasted only a few minutes more. When asked whether there was anything Annabel wished to convey on
behalf of the White House Arts Council, she said only that Carole Aprile had written her master’s thesis on the work of Michelangelo Caravaggio. “I would say her interest in this exhibition is more than a passing one.”

“Wonderful to hear that,” said Whitney. “And thank you for joining us, Annabel. I look forward to many more meetings with you. Would you come to my office for a few minutes?”

Once there, he asked, “Think that distinguished husband of yours can spare you now and then?”

“Spare me? From what?”

Whitney smiled. “Not spare you
from
, Annabel. Spare you
for
a few trips on our behalf.”

“Trips? Where am I going?”

“I spoke with Mrs. Aprile this morning. She agrees that having you accompany some of our people to Italy for final negotiations on the Caravaggio exhibition makes sense. You wouldn’t be traveling in an official capacity, of course. But you would add a sense of direct involvement by the White House, which might help us get over a few remaining hurdles with the Italian government.”

“I’d love it,” said Annabel without hesitation. “I assume I’d be traveling with Luther Mason.”

“And others. Have a problem with Mason?”

“Oh, no. I’ve known Luther for years. Brilliant and pleasant to be with. No, no problem. Would
he
have a problem having me tag along?”

“Why would he?”

“I don’t know. This woman representing the White House meddling in what is very much his domain.”

“Don’t give it a second thought. Too late for you to go with him tonight. Or could you swing it?”

“Afraid not.”

“I’ll have Luther put together a fast itinerary covering the next few months. You take a look at it and pick your spots to participate.”

“Fair enough. And thanks again for all your courtesy this morning.”

“My pleasure. Oh … mind a suggestion?”

“Of course not.”

“We never call ourselves a museum, Annabel. New York’s Metropolitan is a museum. Lots of things from all the ages. We just collect pictures, and some sculpture. We’re a gallery. Not a museum.”

“I’ll remember that,” said Annabel, wondering whether he was trying to be helpful or had issued a mild rebuke. Or both.

“Best to your husband.”

“He’ll enjoy hearing from you. He loves the Gallery—and hates museums.”

“How did it go?” Mackensie Smith asked after he and Annabel had been seated for a lunch of almond chicken salad at C. F. Folks, on Nineteenth Street, below Dupont Circle.

“Fine,” said Annabel. “Pretty big brains and bigger egos in the room this morning. Put some politicians to shame.”

Mac chuckled. “Luther Mason?”

“Everyone. Luther. The new director, Whitney. Who sends his best. Another curator named Bishop. Some sparks flew.”

“Sorry you got involved?”

“Absolutely not. I enjoy sparks now and then.”

“On the Fourth of July. And as long as they don’t land on you. Sparks can burn. Start large fires.”

“I can handle it.”

“I have no doubt about that, Annabel. Never have.”

“Whitney wants me to accompany Luther and others on some of the trips to Italy,” Annabel said. “Sort of lend a presence on behalf of Carole and the White House.”

“Makes sense. When you are leaving?”

“I don’t know. They’re putting together a list of scheduled trips. I’m to choose which ones to take. Join me? We haven’t been to Italy together.”

He dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, sat back, and sighed contentedly.
“Sei la più bella ragazza del mondo,”
he said, a big grin on his handsome face.

She laughed. “I forgot. You speak some Italian. Let’s see. You think I’m beautiful. The
most
beautiful woman in the world?”