Murder at the National Gallery (31 page)

He also made a point of spending an increasing amount of
time in the crating and shipping rooms, which fell under Don Fechter’s jurisdiction, becoming especially friendly with those who worked there. At the same time, he deliberately became a minor meddling nuisance about how
Grottesca
would be handled once its month at the National Gallery was up.

“Stop worrying, Luther,” he was told, never harshly. Mason had working for him his sterling reputation and gentle manner; his occasional histrionic outbursts were considered part of his eccentric charm. And he was the National Gallery’s most dedicated and famous curator.

From the moment
Grottesca
was taken down from the wall, Luther never left its side, shepherding it through every detail of preparing for its packing and shipment back to Italy. He knew that there was one final element of the plan that would be crucial to its success. Timing. Timing was everything, it was said. That was certainly true here.

An hour before the original
Grottesca
was to be placed in its climate-controlled crate built by Don Fechter’s staff, Mason signed in and entered the secured area. With him was one of the framed forgeries sandwiched between two other works. He went to where
Grottesca
leaned against the crate, lowered the three paintings he carried to the floor, and let out a long, audible sigh.

The other two people in the room were members of Fechter’s staff. Mason had noted during his frequent trips there that the guard at the door sat facing out into the hallway, more concerned with who might enter than what went on in the room once they were inside.

“I can’t bear it,” Luther said aloud.

“Can’t bear what, Luther?” asked one of the staffers.

“That it’s leaving.”

“You really love that painting, don’t you?” the other staffer said.

“More than you can ever imagine.”

“Well, Luther, take a final look. We have to get it wrapped up and ready to go.”

“Of course. Just give me a few minutes to stand here and
take it in. One last impression to carry with me for the rest of my life.”

The staffers glanced at each other, gentle smiles on their lips. Luther Mason was a strange bird. A nice man—but strange. How could anyone be
that
enamored of a painting?

Mason didn’t know if he could cry on cue. He’d practiced in front of his bathroom mirror, feeling foolish but pleasantly surprised to find that he could. He applied what he knew of “method acting”—recalling a particular time in his life and applying it to the moment. He thought of Julian. “I’m sorry,” he said, wiping tears from his face with a handkerchief. “It’s just that—”

“Sure, Luther,” one of the staffers said, motioning with his head for his colleague to follow him into a small supply room.

They gave him a couple of minutes for a final swoon; he needed less than one to switch paintings. When the staffers returned, they looked at
Grottesca
. The Jacques Saison version.

“Sorry, Luther. Time to put it away.”

“I understand. Thank you for that courtesy. At least I’ll get to see it one more time when they hang it in the church over there. Yes, thank you so much for those few minutes. Sorry for losing myself like that. Silly.” He stepped closer to the forgery, gently placed his fingertips on the twisted face of the androgynous boy snared in thorns and serpents, and said, “Go in peace.”

He quickly signed out as the staffers giggled and began securing the painting in the crate.

Mason went to his office, where he hid the original behind other works in the locked closet.

Later that night, he returned to his office, removed the original
Grottesca
’s frame, and concealed the painting behind one of the Gaissers he’d bought in Paris. The following day, with Tom Morris on duty at the employee entrance, he signed out.

“How did you make out with those paintings you bought in Paris?” Morris asked.

“Oh, those. Bishop said they weren’t worth very much, but
I’m pleased with my purchase.” He unwrapped the package and again showed Morris the Gaisser.

“I kind of like it, Luther,” Morris said. “I think you made a good choice.”

“I think so. Well, have a good day, Tom.”

He replaced the paper around the painting and went to his car, his heart threatening to burst through his ribs, rivulets of perspiration running down his nose.

He called Franco del Brasco that night from home. “Mr. del Brasco, Luther Mason. I just wanted you to know that the most difficult part is over. The original is in my possession. I’m leaving for Italy tomorrow. When I return in a few days, I’ll see that it’s in your hands.”

“Good.” Del Brasco hung up.

“Bastard,” Mason said into the dead phone. “You’ll get only the art you deserve.”

His dreams that night transported him from Washington to a small, pleasant house on Hydra, the turquoise sea far below his balcony.
Grottesca
hung on the stark white living room wall. Anyone observing Luther Mason sleeping that night might have wondered why a smile kept forming on his lips. A sexual dream? A fond recollection of a childhood incident, or a special meal? Simple pleasure at contemplating a long vacation in a lovely place?

In fact, all of the above.

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.

“And tiring,” he said.

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.”