The Fatal Touch (54 page)
Caterina sat down near him and watched a few minutes of explosions, then said, “I need to explain about those bed clothes. I had a visitor the other night.”
“No, no. Nothing to do with me,” said Blume. “You don’t need to tell me anything, really.”
“The visitor was Emma Solazzi,” said Caterina.
“Ah,” said Blume. He switched off Bruce Willis in mid-leap. “I think maybe I do want to hear about it.”
When she came to tell him about Emma’s confession, Caterina was both relieved and disappointed that he seemed to take the news in his stride. He seemed far keener on seeing the painting she had brought.
She thought he might have something to say about her harboring a suspect, but he hadn’t. Instead, he began to tell her about the mistakes he had made from when he allowed Paoloni to talk him into staging a burglary in his own apartment.
“That was the point I stopped being a proper policeman and began playing a game that led to my friend’s death. That was the point when I should have called up Faedda, and tried to set the Colonel up. That was when I should have called in an investigating magistrate, drawn up a report, put the facts in order. Everything I did from then on was illegal. A fatal game. And if you ended up with a suspect sleeping on your sofa and a rogue Carabiniere threatening your child, I’m responsible for that, too.”
“It’s a thin line between self-accusation and self-pity, Alec,” said Caterina. “So shut up now before you cross it.”
He looked at her in amazement.
“Seriously,” she said. “Shut up. What’s done is done. I’m sorry about Paoloni, and I’m sorry about Nightingale. But you didn’t kill them. As for what Emma did and what you think her mother may have done . . . it’s not for us to say. Now do you want to see that painting?”
Blume nodded.
“Good. I’ll get it then. Meanwhile, there’s a letter over there, on the desk next to my laptop. It’s what Treacy wrote to Angela, if you’re interested.”
Blume went over and read the letter.
“He wrote better in English,” he said as she returned. “All these yew berries and kisses, fruits and
pentimenti
. Awful stuff. He wrote mush in Italian.”
“Maybe it’s not because of the language but because of the person and his feelings of regret,” said Caterina.
Blume was looking at the painting. “Jesus, this is one lousy piece of work.”
“I like it now,” said Caterina. “I didn’t at first, but I do now. I like that he did it in the style of the woman he loved.”
“The woman he bullied, you mean. And this is hardly a flattering homage to her art. It’s a parody of bad painting. Or a parody of de Chirico. That’s what he was on about in the letter.”
“Is it?” said Caterina. “I don’t know anything about painting. I can see that maybe this isn’t great, but I don’t see parody in it.”
Blume propped the picture on the sofa and stood back. “Maybe not. It looks . . . it looks like a lot of correction effort went into it, which I suppose is not consistent with parody.”
“Also, you can tell from his letter that he meant this sincerely. He wanted to be forgiven.”
“You mean all that stuff about
pentimenti
?” said Blume. “It’s not just another way of saying sorry. It’s a technical term in painting. It means correction or second thoughts. When a painter starts drawing an open hand, then decides to turn it into a fist, or gets rid of a dog in the background, something like that, you can often see the traces of where the original was. That’s a
pentimento
. Come here.”
He led her closer to the painting and pointed to the center of the frame. “See, here? This, what is it, an empty grotto? It’s the focal point of the picture, and it is set at the center of the curving walls, only he made a real mess of the proportions here. The
pentimenti
are crowded around the focal point of the picture. It’s part of what makes it look so bad.”
“Do you suppose the Velázquez went up in flames in that house or is it hidden somewhere else?”
“I was wondering the same thing myself,” said Blume. “I think it was hidden somewhere, and he tells us where in his notebooks. And if that’s the case, then I think some American is going to find it in the end, since I have promised to give the notebooks to the embassy.”
“You’re an American. You find it,” said Caterina.
“Here,” said Blume. “This is made out for
€
2,600. I didn’t put your name or the date or anything. Just signed it.” He handed her the check.
Caterina took it, went into the kitchen, and put it in a drawer, then returned to Blume in the living room.
“Tomorrow afternoon Elia is going on a school trip to Venice and Padua, then down to Rimini. I am a bit worried about all that water.”
“He’ll be fine. How many days?”
“Four days. Three nights.”
The crematorium in Viterbo was not signposted, and Blume had to ask a local traffic cop for directions. He was told to follow the signs for McDonald’s, then for the Coop supermarket, and finally for the sports center.
He arrived with minutes to spare, and found he was one of a tiny group of mourners. There was Fabio, shuddering as much with rage as grief, his arm in the tight grip of his mother. She now had a Botox face, yellow hair, and strange leggings under her too-short skirt. She had aged, and without any grace. He raised his hand in greeting, but she did not seem to recognize him. Perhaps he, too, had aged without grace.
A very old couple—Paoloni’s parents? his ex-wife’s?—three middle-aged couples, and about eight others, three of whom Blume recognized as being former policemen.
Blume did not fancy himself a religious man, but the civic cremation of his friend was the most dismal and meaningless event he had ever witnessed. Within five minutes of the coffin being sent on a conveyer belt out of sight, everyone had left except for Fabio and his mother, but they were nowhere to be seen. Presumably they were waiting for the ashes. When he got into his car, the upholstery smelled of nickel and asphalt and made his head swim.
After ten minutes circling the city walls, Blume parked, got out of his car, and walked into the historical center looking for a bar. He found a pleasant one near the papal palace, had two cappuccinos and several pastries, and sat staring out the window at the zebra-striped bell tower of the city cathedral.
After his coffee, he lingered in front of the city cathedral, trying to remember its name but it wouldn’t come. He ambled around the side, and found a tourist information sign tucked against the wall. San Lorenzo. That was it. He had been here before, long ago, on a school trip or with his parents. He could not recall. What sense was there in being cremated next to a vandalized sports ground on the edge of town when a magnificent cathedral such as this stood empty and waiting? For some people, architecture like this was worth leaving all that was familiar and coming halfway across the globe to see.
Blume went up the flight of steps and into the cathedral, and found he was the only one there that morning.
He sat staring down the arcaded nave at the blank apse with the crucifix, and thought about Paoloni. It was a severe interior, with faded frescos and a few paintings. On impulse, he lit a candle for Paoloni. Then he lit one for his own father and mother, and fumbled in his pocket for change and found none. The smallest he had was a 20-euro note.
He toyed with the idea of dropping the full 20 euros into the collection box, but dismissed it as ridiculous. But he did not want to leave without contributing the one fifty he owed for the candles, and blowing them out seemed out of the question. He stood there in a paralysis of indecision.
Fuck it. He dropped in the twenty, and wandered over to look at the paintings. A guidebook at an unattended desk was on sale for fifteen euros. Great. He grabbed it, took it to a bench, and flicked idly through it. The painting in front of him showed the Holy Family and some saint, painted by Giovanni Francesco Romanelli, a native of
Viterbo.
Blume looked at the painting, and heard his father’s voice saying “mannerist.” That had always been a term of abuse for him. He even had grave doubts about Michelangelo, and was generally dismissive of most of the three hundred years until the modernists arrived. Maybe someday, Blume thought, he would develop his own ideas about what was good. But the guidebook seemed to be on his father’s side. This was not the best of his works, it noted regretfully. Most of Romanelli’s important works were to be found in France not, for once, because the marauding Napoleonic armies had stolen them during their rape of this beautiful and incomparably more cultured country (Blume checked the name of the polemical art historian and found it was a priest), but because Romanelli had lost all his commissions in Rome after Pope Urban VIII, a Barberini prince, died and the throne was taken over by the pro-Spanish and violently anti-French Pope Innocent X, the great Pamphili Pope, immortalized in the famous portrait by Velázquez and the bust by Barberini. The art historian priest seemed to approve of the irascible Pamphili, even if his election to the papacy did mean that Viterbo’s best artist had to leave town.
Blume stood up, pulled out a 50-euro note from his wallet, and stuffed it in the collection box. He would have said a prayer of thanks if he had been a believer. Or maybe this was the beginning of faith.
He had just worked out where Treacy had hidden the Velázquez.
Blume cleared space in his living room, turned on his laptop, and fetched a series of art books from his parents’ study.
But he knew he was right even before he had finished opening the art books and Web pages. He called Caterina at the station.
“I need you to get a tactical bag. We’re going to need a battering ram, a set of chain cutters, maybe a hammer, crowbar, screwdriver, and flashlight. When you have all that, go home, pick up that painting Emma left, and come here.”
“They wanted to know why I wanted a tactical bag,” she said when she arrived forty minutes later.
“Did you tell them?”
“How could I?” She handed him the painting.
“OK,” said Blume. “Now I want you to look at this.” He gave her an Editalia art book.
“That’s Treacy’s painting!” said Caterina. Immediately. “No, wait . . . ” She looked more carefully at the picture, then at Treacy’s painting. “Well, except the trees are in a different place, and the wall and arch aren’t the same either, and . . . I think I’m going to stop now before I come across as a complete idiot.”
“No, you’re right. The colors are similar. You can’t tell properly because this is a reproduction, but you can still see they are muddy, green, gray, beige, and depressing, same as this painting. The theme, too, the mood, the size even. You saw the likeness before the differences, same as me.”
Caterina looked at the cover of the book she was holding. “Giorgio de Chirico,” she said. “I thought he only did surreal paintings.”
“What you’re looking at is a view of
Villa Falconieri,” said Blume.
“Which?”
“The one in the book. De Chirico’s,” said Blume. “Now, listen to this,” he pulled over a battered old blue hardback and read:
“During his second visit to the Eternal City, Diego Velázquez was an honored guest at the graceful Villa Medici, where it was only natural that a mind of refined artistic temperament and an innate sense of the aesthetic . . .”
“God.” He tossed the book aside. “I can’t stand that sort of drivel. The point is when Velázquez was in Rome and painted the portrait of Pope Innocent X which we saw a few days ago, he was staying at the Villa Medici. Where the French Academy now is.”
She nodded.
“And when Velázquez was there, he did a painting, of the gardens. It’s not as well-known as his portrait works. Now listen: In 1946, Giorgio de Chirico painted two landscapes, one of
Villa Falconieri, which I’ve just shown you, and one of
Villa Medici. Both of them reference Velázquez’s painting. If you take the two de Chirico paintings and merge them, you get a sort of reproduction of Velázquez’s painting. It was de Chirico paying homage to but also copying the master.
Treacy went on about it in his notes.
“Now, we also know from his notebooks that Treacy was a great fan of de Chirico, he talks about a sense of affinity. More to the point, he turned down a chance to pass off forged de Chirico works to de Chirico’s niece when they were stolen.
“Now that ugly painting there is not just homage to Angela, it’s a message, too. Personal and professional. It is also a variation on the de Chirico painting.”
“Which is a variation on Velázquez’s.”
“Right. But Treacy’s painting isn’t a casual variation. It’s a landscape of a specific place. A park, in which he used to live as a guest. A park that is now open to the public, but belonged to the Pamphili family for centuries. The park where he and Angela kissed and were interrupted by an Englishwoman with dogs.”
“Villa Pamphili,” said Caterina.
“That is where we’re going now. Bring the painting and the tactical bag.”
Blume drove across town, struggling to keep a light foot on the accelerator. At the San Pancrazio entrance he drove into the park. “Nice and slowly. Don’t want to kill any joggers,” he said. “Though those cyclists weaving in and out among people trying to walk are fair game.”