Unmasked (7 page)

Marco climbed off the bike, raised his hand and lowered his head. He spoke calmly and softly and the woman was silenced. The baby on her hip stared at both. The dog barked on.

‘Who are you?’ asked the woman in Italian, turning her gaze from Marco to Emma for the first time.

Emma eased herself off the bike and stood behind Marco.

‘This my sister, Elena,’ Marco explained to Emma. ‘Angry I leave work.’

He looked at Elena, spoke a few words and then laughed. Turning back to Emma, he said, ‘I not know your name.’

‘Emma.’

‘Marco is my younger brother,’ the woman’s tone had softened now. ‘Always in trouble. Never do as he is told. This is Marco, too. My son. My husband Giovanni is at work now. Marco never bring girl here before. I find this interesting. Interesting,’ she added, smiling. ‘He paint, too much. Never time for anything else. No work. No money. No women. Paint, paint, paint. He paint you?’

‘No!’ said Marco, who had been straining to follow his sister’s English. ‘I no paint Emma.’

‘Why no? She
bellissima
.
Una bella ragazza
,’ said Elena, walking closer. She saw Emma glance at the still barking dog and, as if it was the first time she had noticed the sound, shouted at the mutt and he fell silent. Elena leant forward and kissed both of Emma’s cheeks and then held up the stoic silent child for Emma to kiss, which she did. The baby Marco’s expression did not change.

Now that Elena had calmed down, Emma could see that she was attractive – thick dark hair, large eyes, small nose – if only she could keep the mouth closed, for when she spoke her face fell apart. Her mouth was too large and her teeth jutted forward. Her eyes were lost. Silent she was a beauty. But silent she would not remain.

‘It is hot today. We went for a swim. Baby’s first swim.
Mare freddo
. Cold,’ she said, cuddling her child whose expression remained impassive. ‘Come in. I make something to eat.’ She didn’t wait for an answer but turned back to the house and went in.

‘I sorry,’ said Marco. ‘She love me too much.’

‘You live with your sister?’

‘
Si e
no. She live here. I live there,’ he said and pointed at one of the other buildings.

‘This is all yours?’ asked Emma, looking around. The three main buildings were not big but taken together it was a fairly large property. She assumed the cleared land was also his.

‘My sister and I. My mother è
morto
. Hers. Now ours.’

‘Your father?’

‘
Non lo so
. I don’t know,’ then raising his voice, ‘
Elena, mangeremo più tardi
.’

He took Emma by the hand and led her towards a third and as yet unclaimed building. ‘I tell her we eat later.’ Marco let go of her hand as he reached the large heavy door of what was probably once the barn. He lifted the iron latch and pulled open a smaller door set in the larger one. He stood aside for Emma to go in first.

‘What is this?’ she asked him.

He stood smiling at her. ‘You see.’

She stepped inside. A very large mirror on the far wall reflected her silhouette against the light coming in the door behind her. The smell of oil paints and dust and turpentine mixed with the sea air greeted her. In the dim light she could see it was a painter’s studio. A vast space with at least five easels each set up with large canvases. Marco had passed her without her noticing him for she was suddenly surprised by the sound and then the sight of great big shutters being clattered open high up on the walls across from her. Marco was using a large stick with a hook on its end to pull them open one by one. There was no glass in the windows and the sea breeze rushed in with the light.

Then Emma could see the canvases, stacked against each other some twenty or thirty deep, lining the walls of the barn. Hundreds of paintings of many different sizes and not one was displayed. All she saw were the backs of paintings. Even those on the easels were covered. Behind the easels was a divan littered with pillows and a crumpled blanket. A low broad chest beside the divan was being used as a table. Sketchbooks and art books were
scattered messily over it and in amongst all of this stood a glass and a bottle of red wine plugged by a cork.

‘I paint. Now you see?’ said Marco, coming up beside her.

She was overwhelmed by a sudden rush of happiness. She had taken a risk. She had placed her trust in him when she had climbed onto his scooter. This was much more than she could have imagined.

‘Yes, I see. Will you show me?’ she asked.

He nodded and dragged a stool across the floor.

‘
Sedere
!’ he said brusquely, slapping the top of the stool.

Emma smiled. ‘Yes, sir!’

‘I paint,’ he repeated. ‘I begin here.’ He rummaged through one of the many collections of canvases then lifted one out and turned it to face Emma.

‘Giotto. Many, many Giotto.’

It was a replica of a painting Emma had seen in a chapel in Padua in the north – Mary and the baby Jesus on a donkey. Marco had painted it as it might once have been. Full of colour. And then he turned around an exact copy of Mantegna’s ‘Jesus’. For half an hour or so Marco worked his way through
his Renaissance. Emma was floored by the skill his reproductions required but really wanted to see something Marco had originated himself.

‘I am overwhelmed, Marco. So many paintings,’ she said. ‘Your sister was right, you must paint in your sleep.’

‘He spent all his time in galleries and churches, painting, painting, painting.’

Emma spun around. A stocky, dark-haired man in grey work overalls was leaning against the inside of the door.

‘His mother pay his way. Spend Elena’s inheritance, too. In Paris, in London, in Berlin, in Rome, Florence, Padua, Venice,’ he said, counting the names off his fingers. ‘Painting, painting, painting. How many you sell?’

Marco glared at the intruder but remained silent.

‘None. Not one. And why? They are good. They are perfect copies. Why he no sell one damn painting?’

‘
Sta zitto
, Giovanni.’

‘Soon sell. Not yet. Not ready. Not good. Not yet,’ aped Giovanni in a child’s voice, his unshaven face distorted, his lips pursed, dark eyes full of hate.

‘Giovanni!’

‘I have counted. I know. I went on Internet. I know prices. Thousands of Euros each painting. Half a million Euro here. Half a million!’

Emma turned to Marco, who was still glaring at his brother-in-law. Giovanni was evidently pleased with himself. She could see why he was frustrated with Marco. If they needed the money it did seem strange to her that he wouldn’t sell. They were just copies – exceptional copies, but still copies. He shouldn’t have too great an emotional attachment to them. And surely selling one or two of these would be preferable to sketching strangers in the street or working in a bar or any of the other jobs he had mentioned.

‘I go swim,’ Marco said at last. ‘You come?’

Emma nodded. She wasn’t dressed for the beach but she was curious. He was a strange man. Beautiful-strange. She wanted to know whether he was a true artist or just an excellent forger. Had his years of imitation dulled his creative capacity? Marco had shown her paintings from only one half of the room. Emma hoped that she would find the other half was original art.

Marco locked up and they left Giovanni standing just outside the door and then cut through a
gap between the studio and Elena’s house to find the sea.

‘May I have a look at some of
your
paintings?’

‘I show you my paintings.’ It was clear that Giovanni had upset him.

‘The paintings on the other side of the studio.’ She said this slowly and hoped he understood.

‘They are not finished.’

‘There are dozens of them.’

‘What is dozens?’

‘
Tanto
.’

‘Not finished.’

‘May I see?’

Marco stopped walking and turned to look at her. The anger in his eyes vanished. She saw he had meant to say something but changed his mind.

‘My English. Not good. I cannot speak. We swim?’

They made their way down a rocky path that led them to a small beach no more than ten metres across. The water was crystal-clear with a light blue tint. The water you’d expect to find on a tropical island beach. Marco strode across the coarse sand to the rocks beyond and climbed them, reaching around to help Emma up. Emma was wearing
knee-high leather boots under her jeans. She had bought them in Rome. They’d been her saviours through the long cold winter but were out of place here. They walked along a narrow ledge against the short cliff face and came to a flat expanse of rock, which overhung the sea at a height of about two metres.

Emma looked over the edge. The water below seemed deep enough. It was a darker hue of blue, but still so clear she could plainly see the bottom. Behind her Marco had already removed his shoes and had begun to take off his shirt. He undid a couple of buttons and then lifted the shirt over his head. Emma watched with interest. He was not a tall man but he was broad-shouldered, toned and strong. He had quick movements, too. He walked to the edge and Emma thought he was going to jump in with his blue jeans on but in a flash they were off. He wore black skintight boxers. She saw he had a very nice behind and strong thighs. She stood back to watch his dive and to get a better look at him, when he suddenly downed his boxers and dived in. There were no tan lines. He was used to swimming naked. She moved quickly to the edge and watched him rise out of the depths. There was no doubting
it, it was plain as day before her – he was a fine specimen of a man.

‘You come?’ he asked from the water below.

But Emma couldn’t do it. There was something about him. He had shown no interest in her. She hadn’t caught him looking at her. He hadn’t touched her in any way that might be considered flirting. He hadn’t flirted full stop. There was the language barrier, but that wasn’t it.

She wasn’t going to show herself naked to him like this. It would be too matter of fact. She would be accepting that they were going to be friends. Emma didn’t want him to be her friend. She wanted to get to the bottom of him. He was hiding from her. Giovanni had angered him, and maybe embarrassed him, causing him to close up shop.

‘No, too cold.’

When Marco climbed up the rocks and returned to his clothes, Emma was gone.

NINE

Emma was sitting with Elena in her kitchen with the dog, Pluto, on her lap when Marco returned. They had been speaking about Marco’s mother and her plans for Marco. Apparently he had shown extraordinary gifts at a very young age and his mother had fostered them the best she could. But she had no faith in modern art. She believed that a true artist masters the techniques of the past before experimenting. Marco had taken this philosophy to heart, though sadly his mother died before he had produced one work he could truly call his own.

‘What she saying?’ asked Marco as he entered. He had lain in the sun to dry before returning and was surprised to find Emma still around. Giovanni worked for a local cheese maker and drove a small truck between Lecce, Otranto and Brindisi. If he was driving between Brindisi and Otranto he often stopped by and Marco thought Emma would have taken a lift back to Otranto with him.

‘I say that you no like women. No like boys either. He like paint and only paint.’

‘I paint. I tell her I paint,’ he said, then turned to Emma. ‘I tell you I paint, no?’

‘He never have a
fidanzata
.’

‘Elena.’

‘It’s true. Where you from, Emma?’ asked Elena.

‘Australia.’

‘I paint now,’ said Marco, interrupting.

‘May I watch?’

Elena laughed.

‘Why do you laugh?’ asked Emma, smiling.

‘He
never
let nobody watch.’

Marco had had enough of his sister’s teasing and he held out his hand to Emma. ‘Come with me.’

He led her back to the studio. ‘I paint. You watch?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Please.’

He sat her down on the stool again and unceremoniously drew aside the sheet covering the smallest of the canvases. The painting was a portrait of an elderly woman. It was confronting, stark, realistic. It reminded Emma of Lucian Freud, but it wasn’t ugly. Marco had painted her as if he had been her lover. Emma was drawn past the flaws in the ageing skin to the eyes that looked back upon her as if the woman had known her all her life.

‘Who is she?’

Marco crossed to a bench on which lay a vast array of brushes and bottles, jars and rags and sketchbooks jammed with loose pages. He passed Emma a sketch. It was the same woman. On the bottom it said, ‘Michelle Roen, 2005’.

‘Is this one of the people you sketch on the street?’

‘
Si, sempre due. Uno per
me.
Uno per
they.’

Marco busied himself with his bottles and jars. Then he stopped, turned around and looked at her. Slowly and deliberately, obviously wanting to explain, he said, ‘My project. For fun. For me.’

He pointed at a collection of canvases that stood apart from the others. They were all smaller, portrait size.

‘May I look?’

‘
Si, si
. I want.’

Emma went over and turned the first canvas around. It was of a man in his forties. He had a cruel mouth and quizzical eyes. He looked to have been caught out in a lie and Marco had chosen the moment before the man had come up with a satisfactory explanation. The next was another man, dark skin, warm eyes and a smile on the edges of his mouth which made Emma also smile, as though they had just shared a joke. Starkly realistic, Marco’s portraits captured something unique in his sitters. Some part of their character which Marco, in his twenty minutes or so with them, had uncovered. The next was a young woman who stared blankly out. The next was an older woman in a hat sipping a drink through a straw. She looked up at Emma with an unmistakeable longing. And on and on. In every portrait Marco presented a character study. His style did not vary. He was able to paint what he saw. Standing back you could mistake them for photos, but when Emma looked closer she clearly
saw there were large brush strokes and deft uses of colour.