The Girl With the Botticelli Eyes (35 page)

Coming across reproductions of it in dusty old portfolios while still a student at the Institute, Manship had felt an instant affinity with it, this painting of the good Centurion of Capernaum, whom both Matthew and Luke had gone out of their way to honor in the Gospels. He’d sensed the dignity, the strength, the inherent decency of the nobleman who’d sought out Christ to cure his ailing slave.

There it hung now in shreds and tatters, narrow strips that could never be sewn in such a way as to restore it to even a semblance of its former glory, having suffered the mindless destruction at the hands of a madman seething with a sense of personal grievance or, perhaps, thinking himself the instrument of some divine retribution.

Now that its function as exhibition art had been all but ended, Manship was determined to give the work another life. If it could no longer be a painting, it would become an educational tool, a public warning to the world, putting it on notice of the perishability of its most precious possessions.

Before leaving that morning, he dictated a message to Taverner over his phone mail. In it, he gave some last-minute instructions for the opening night and thanked her for the heroic efforts she’d made on behalf of the show, then authorized a salary increase for her on the occasion of her first anniversary at the museum.

He concluded with a simple sentence, as if it were an afterthought: He was flying to Rome that evening on the 6:00 P.M. Alitalia flight from Kennedy. He offered no explanation for the trip or why he chose not to be in attendance at the opening of an exhibition that would no doubt stand as the pinnacle of his professional life. The message gave no address where he could be reached in Rome. Even he didn’t know where he would be in the next twenty-four hours.

T
HERE WAS MORE TRAFFIC
on the street at that hour, 6:00 A.M., than anyone might have reasonably expected. Fleets of taxis prowled Fifth Avenue for early fares. Lines of buses lumbered up to stops, brakes gasping, hydraulic doors flapping open where early risers waited to board.

It was no typical day for Manship. Far from it. The day of his show’s opening—it should have been a joyous occasion. For Manship, it was quite the opposite, but he was determined not to brood too much about it.

About one thing, however, he had no doubts. He would tender his resignation to Van Nuys sometime within the next four weeks. For now, first in his mind was to get to Rome and see how he might help in the search for Isobel Cattaneo, his unreasoning need to do that still a mystery to him, but becoming less so with each passing day and hour.

The blare of a horn roused him from his musings to suddenly find himself in the middle of Eighty-fifth Street just as the lights were changing from yellow to red. He bounded the rest of the way across the street, landing safely on the other side, and brushed past a figure standing at the curb’s edge. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the figure except for the space it occupied, so sharply defined that it created an island of distinct isolation in a sea of swarming humanity.

Manship hadn’t actually seen the figure. It was a man glimpsed out of the corner of an eye. Still, there was something about him that had caught his attention. Nothing tangible—perhaps only the attitude conveyed in the posture—aloof and unapproachable, something off-putting enough to make one instinctively shy away.

It struck a cord in Manship, then was gone in an instant, disappearing like a puff of bad air. In the next moment, he was bounding up the stoop at 5 East Eighty-fifth, turning his key in the lock.

Mrs. McCooch was there at the door, startled as well as relieved to see him, silently disapproving his unshaven face and rumpled suit. Where had he spent the night? she seemed to ask. Years in the service of various employers, she’d long ago learned to ask no questions. Instead, she urged him into the kitchen with the lure of fresh coffee, bacon, and eggs.

Manship had no further occasion to think of that phantom figure until some fifteen hours later, but by then it was too late.

The day of the exhibition passed like a dream. Manship had moved through it like a sleepwalker, legs a bit leaden, mind strangely disengaged.

After breakfast, a shave, and a shower, by 9:00 A.M. that morning he had nothing to do but wait until 4:00 P.M., when he would call for a taxi to take him out to the airport for his flight at six. Time crept and the hours wore on slowly.

He’d resolved that under no circumstances would he set foot back in the museum that day. Leave it to René and Van Nuys, Osgood and Taverner. Let them clash with the Leonardo of lighting and contend with Mr. Tsacrios over his phyllo dough. Let them squabble over who was to get the lion’s share of accolades, for mounting the show. Let them devour one another. Walk away, Manship. Walk away. Wash your hands of them.

Before leaving the museum that morning, he’d concealed his
Centurion,
but he had definite plans on that score. He owed it to Maestro Botticelli. Paying off his debt to the artist would require some inside cooperation, and he was by no means yet certain where he would find it.

Until the right moment, no one must learn that he’d penetrated Van Nuys’s hiding place and walked off with the painting. After the show, it would no longer matter if his actions in the predawn hours of that morning were to become general knowledge. But for the moment, the element of surprise was paramount.

Throughout the rest of the day, he’d kept trying to contact Ettore Foa’s office at the Italian embassy in Washington. He was repeatedly rebuffed each time by the same stubbornly uninformative assistant and told only that Mr. Foa was out of town and couldn’t be reached.

Though Manship had never met Foa personally, his impression of the man from speaking with him several times on the phone was that he was dealing with an intelligent, worldly individual. More importantly, he also came across as someone entirely sympathetic to Isobel’s predicament.

The total absence of any communication now from the deputy ambassador seemed uncharacteristic of the man and a bit ominous, as well.

Maeve breezed in somewhere near 10:00 A.M., still attired in the dressy outfit she’d obviously gone out in the day before. Seeing him there flustered her. It was embarrassing, yet she couldn’t say exactly why. After all, weren’t they free agents? Grown, consenting adults? Still, she could read his thoughts as his eyes perused all of the telltale signs of her evening with Osgood. Mrs. McCooch’s silent judgment didn’t help much, either.

Maeve excused herself and whisked upstairs to her room. Minutes later, winding up a few minor last-minute details in his own room, he heard her through the plaster walls talking on the phone to Tom Costain in La Jolla. Several times, her voice rose angrily; at other times, it sounded guarded, alternately tense and soothing. He imagined they were having some sort of spat, that Costain was shouting and that she was giving back as good as she was getting.

From what he could gather through snatches of conversation, it seemed that Costain felt she had stayed on far longer than was seemly. The funeral was over; the legal arrangements made. He was now insisting she return. It didn’t sound as though she was quite ready to do that. In addition to which, Costain was unaware of the recent Osgood factor.

When she came downstairs again, she looked rattled and white. She was in the process of exorcising all past fear of her second husband. Speaking to Manship, she was unaware that she spoke too fast and that her laughter was too frequent and seemed forced.

She wanted to show Manship the dress she’d bought at Bergdorf’s for the opening that night. “Wait right there,” she said, darting back upstairs to her room. She emerged moments later, descending the stairway. The stair was far too modest for the grandness of her descent.

The dress was a skintight black silk sheath that showed off her slim hips, small breasts, and thin, fine legs to great advantage. At age thirty-four, she still had the figure of a high school girl. How she’d maintained it locked up in a studio in Southern California, painting sixteen hours a day, was a mystery to him.

“Well?” She was a bit breathless standing there, hands on hips, feet pointed outward like a dancer in first position.

There was a defiance in her carriage, as if she dared him not to like it. In spite of all her jauntiness, she seemed to hunger for his approbation, and he gave it.

“Beautiful, Maeve. Really.”

“You mean it?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

“Sexy?”

“Very,” he said, surprised at the pang of envy he felt for Osgood and the night he’d just spent with her.

Her laugh was a girlish giggle. She was clearly delighted. He’d not seen her quite so up in years. He knew she was going to the opening with Osgood. He didn’t have to ask, although he knew that she wanted him to.

“I can’t believe you’re skipping out on your own show,” she said moments later, following him into the library. “McCooch just told me,” she fretted. “Probably the highlight of your career, and you’re chucking it. Well, I guess that’s what they call style, Marky.” She shook her head at him in wonderment. “You always had it. Lots of style but little sense. Can’t you say what this is all about?”

“It’s too complicated to go into now.”

“It has something to do with this Italian woman, doesn’t it? This Isobel?”

“Yes,” he conceded wearily. “But don’t ask me any more. Not now at least. How’s Tom?”

“Don’t ask,” she shot back, and they both laughed, genuinely fond of each other.

A short time later, Osgood arrived. He hadn’t expected to find Manship there. He glanced at Maeve, his eyes seeking some hint of what Manship might know. The two of them were as nervous as two adolescents caught bundling in the attic.

Manship took all of that in with a glance.

Maeve went upstairs to change, leaving him and Osgood alone together in the library. When Manship said nothing, Osgood felt obliged to. Clearing his throat, he started awkwardly. “I s’pose you know.”

“Look, don’t feel you have to explain.”

“I don’t.”

“Good.”

“But I want to.”

“If it makes you feel better,” Manship offered expansively. “Whatever happens, I want you to know I’m pleased for both of you.”

Osgood’s taut, anxious look relaxed. He shrugged in that wry Texas way and laughed.

“But I should warn you,” Manship quickly added, “you’re not out of the woods yet. You’re going to have to deal with Tom Costain. He’ll teach you things about the art of litigation you scarcely dreamed possible.”

Osgood was about to reply, but instead, Manship hurriedly informed him of his plans to go to Rome that evening, and why he felt he had to.

“Now listen, Bill. I heed a favor, and you’re me only one I can trust to do it without making a balls-up of everything.”

Hastily and in half whispers, he explained the situation with the
Centurion
and told Osgood what had to be done with it.

Osgood sat stonily, not speaking for several moments afterward. Manship sensed he was looking desperately for a graceful way to decline. After all, he had far more to lose than Manship.

At last, he unwound his loose, gangly legs and spoke. “You realize this will be the end of your career at the Met?”

“I certainly hope so. It will spare me the trouble of having to draft my own resignation.”

“You’ll never work in a museum again, Mark—at least, not in any responsible position.”

“Sounds fine to me.”

Osgood gazed at him skeptically. “His heart’s not good, you realize. He could expire in an apoplectic seizure.”

Manship pondered the possibility, then replied solemnly, “In which case, I’d be shortlisted for the Nobel Peace Prize.”

Osgood reared back as if ducking a blow. Then, both of them were doubled over, howling.

L
ONG BEFORE SUNRISE, BORGHINI
had set out from Battery Park, leaving the Harbor Rest shrouded in mist behind him. Armed with a small map he’d purchased at a cigar store, he’d made his way through the empty predawn streets of lower Broadway, Chinatown, through SoHo, narrow, silent lanes of warehouses and loading docks, and on to the Village. By the crack of dawn he’d crossed Washington Square Park and was starting up Fifth Avenue.

An hour later, he stood out front, across the street from the museum and watched the enormous pennant above the pillared entry way drift lazily up and down in the soft morning breeze. Imprinted on its silken folds was a huge blowup of the worldly, slightly jaded smile of the Primavera, along with the words BOTTICELLI. 550 emblazoned in large bold letters across the banner’s full length.

Later, he walked into the park. He urinated behind a bush, then strolled the wooded, leaf-strewn paths. He sat idly on a bench and watched the joggers and children being walked to school, and young business types cutting briskly across the Sheep Meadow on their way to work.

There were hours to wait before he must swing into action. He would have to find ways to kill time. He didn’t mind. Strangely, he felt a certain peace, a sense of divine approval in the benevolence of that bright autumn morning. The day, fully dawned, promised to be brilliant.

By 9:00 A.M., he was at the zoo, the first person there when the gate opened. A short time later, a busload of school children arrived for a day’s outing in the park. Borghini stood there a while, full of a sense of secret pleasure, watching the elephants. Outside in their concrete patios, floors splattered with heaps of steaming dung, the elephants dozed on their feet. Tails switching, they dreamed of open skies and dimly-remembered broad savannahs a half-world away.

Going wherever his footsteps led him, he circled the seal pool, watching the sleek, bullet-shaped silhouettes glide effortlessly over and under the oily surface of the water, their hoarse cries ringing on the silky air. Laughing to himself, he watched the polar bear with his dirty coat having an icy morning bath in his pool. Behind him, park attendants, slight-framed Ecuadorians and Peruvians in brown uniforms, made scratching music as they pushed rubbish along ahead of their massive straw brooms.