The Teacher's Tales of Terror (4 page)

Simon peered at the painting.

‘I’m called Simon too,’ he said as if in an effort to explain his interest. The guide nodded.

‘St Peter was also called Simon, of course,’ she said, ‘before Our Lord gave him the name of Peter – the Rock.’

But Simon was far more interested in the flying Simon Magus than he was in the pious Simon Peter.

‘Would you like to have a closer look?’ asked the guide, heartened by Simon’s interest. ‘I have a magnifying glass.’

‘Yes please,’ said Simon.

Simon’s uncle smiled approvingly as his nephew took the magnifying glass from the guide.

‘You enjoy yourself, my boy,’ said his uncle. ‘I see someone I need to talk to.’

Simon nodded and watched with a wry smile as his uncle went over to talk to a woman they had met at the hotel the previous evening. His uncle had blushed boyishly when they had been introduced. It had been most amusing to watch.

Simon stared at the painting, passing the lens over the paintwork. He looked at the wooden tower and the figure of Simon Magus held above it.

He looked with particular relish at the winged demons that raised him up. They were spiky, shadowy figures; featureless silhouettes apart from their staring eyes, red tongues and white teeth.

He looked at the image of the fallen figure, face down on the ground, blood spattered around the head like a red halo. It was all painted with a grisly attention to detail that Simon found fascinating.

But as he moved the magnifying glass across the painting, he became intrigued by another figure. Standing in front of St Peter in the section of the painting that showed Simon Magus and Peter arguing, was a man who stared straight out of the picture.

Simon could not believe his eyes. He had seen that man before – and here in Siena! He and his uncle had, the previous evening, eaten at one of the many restaurants in the Campo – the rounded piazza at the heart of the town where the horse race was held.

It had been an indifferent meal and Uncle Henry had gone to complain about the bill, and it was then that Simon had become aware of a man sitting nearby, peering off towards the cathedral with a strange self-satisfied expression.

Just before his uncle returned the man had turned and looked directly at Simon. It was a very unnerving thing to have that same face stare out of a painting, horribly enlarged by the magnifying glass. The guide leaned in next to Simon.

‘It is quite a face, is it not?’ said the guide. ‘Such evil!’

Simon had to agree. The face bore an expression of arrogance and cruelty. The eyes were deep-set but piercing, the cheekbones high and the nose long and proud. A thin beard traced itself along his jaw and round his thin lips.

A woman in their party asked if she might take a look and Simon passed her the magnifying glass.

‘Who is it meant to be?’ said Simon, still struggling to make sense of what he was seeing.

‘Nobody knows for sure,’ said the guide. ‘There are theories, of course.’

The guide dropped her voice and leaned close to Simon’s ear.

‘Some say that it is a portrait of Satan himself,’ she said and crossed herself again.

Simon looked back at the painting and at the cruel face staring out at him.

‘Satan?’ he said, his throat very dry all of a sudden. Simon turned to see if his uncle was returning. He felt the colour draining from his face.

The guide marshalled her group and they began to move off across the room to an open doorway.

Simon was dazed. ‘Satan is everywhere,’ he remembered Uncle Henry saying. ‘
Everywhere
.’ Simon looked for his uncle again but could not see him anywhere. He walked in the direction he felt his uncle must have taken, but stopped in his tracks, haunted by that cruel face.

He happened to look back towards the painting and saw that, now that the tour group had moved on, a man was standing examining it with great concentration.

Even before the man turned to face him, Simon knew it was him. It was the man from the painting – the man who was staring out; it was the man the guide had said was thought to be Satan.

The man looked at Simon, who stared back at him in disbelief. Simon looked from him to the painting and back again and the man seemed to follow his gaze. Then the same cruel expression he wore in the picture appeared on his face.

‘Simon?’ It was Uncle Henry. ‘Are you all right, my boy? You look as if you’ve seen a –’

‘That man . . .’ said Simon, pointing.

But there was no one there.

‘What man, Simon?’ said Uncle Henry.

Simon looked around, peering into the clusters of tourists dotted around, but there was no one even vaguely familiar.

‘Nothing, Uncle,’ he said quietly. ‘I thought I saw someone I recognised.’

‘Well,’ said Uncle Henry, putting his arm round Simon. ‘What say we go and look at the view, eh? Get away from these fusty old masters. You look as though you could do with a swig of fresh air.’

Uncle Henry had mentioned the panorama at breakfast and after a steep climb, Simon and his uncle eventually reached the roof of the museum. Simon had been in a daze most of the climb and was jolted out of it by the bright sunlight hitting his face.

There was a low wall to their right and a magnificent view out across the terracotta rooftops of Siena, the bell tower rising above the Palazzo Pubblico, the rolling hills of Tuscany beyond. Simon began to feel a little calmer. Some people, he knew, hated heights, but Simon loved being high up. It made him feel more alive.

And in this case it also seemed to clear his head. Up there, under a bright blue sky, he seemed less convinced of what he had seen and certainly less sure of its meaning.

Satan? In a museum, looking at paintings? Was that really very likely? There had to be some other explanation. He had allowed himself to be unnerved by Uncle Henry and his warnings. He had panicked. It was not at all like him. Simon now felt a little foolish.

‘Bother,’ said his uncle suddenly, looking at his watch. ‘I have to go to the bank, Simon. I completely forgot.’

Simon smiled. More money from the bank meant more money for Simon to take when Uncle Henry had fallen asleep.

‘If I don’t go now, they’ll shut up shop for one of their siestas,’ continued Uncle Henry, ‘and we’ll have no money for lunch.’

‘Must we go down now, Uncle?’ said Simon. ‘It’s lovely up here.’

‘I’ll tell you what,’ said his uncle. ‘Why don’t you stay here and enjoy the view?’

‘Yes,’ said Simon. ‘I’d like that.’

‘Shall we meet outside the bank in, say, half an hour?’

Simon agreed and his uncle disappeared through the doorway that led to the narrow staircase. Simon gazed across at the view. Two swallows whirled past, mouths agape, and as he turned to follow their flight, he saw that there was someone standing framed in the doorway.

For a moment he thought it was his uncle having returned with a change of plan, but as the figure moved into the sunlight he saw that it was someone else entirely. Simon stared in horror and disbelief.

‘No!’ said Simon, staggering backwards.

‘Calm,’ said the man, putting up his hands. ‘Calm, please.’

But Simon was anything but calm. ‘You – you’re in that painting,’ spluttered Simon. ‘How can you be in the painting and here? How?’

The man smiled.

‘Calm yourself,’ said the man. ‘Please.’

‘The guide said you are . . . that you are . . . S-S-Satan,’ stuttered Simon.

‘The guide is misinformed about many things,’ said the man coolly.

‘But that painting is hundreds of years old,’ said Simon. ‘How? How? You’d have to be a ghost.’

‘I am a mortal man,’ said the man with a smile. ‘I assure you that I am no ghost. Nor Satan for that matter.’

‘But –’

The man moved a little closer and dropped his voice.

‘Will you listen to me?’ said the man. ‘And I will tell you how this happened. There is a logical explanation.’

‘I want to go back,’ said Simon. ‘Let me go.’

‘Let me explain first,’ he replied in a tone that left no doubt that he would brook no argument.

‘How?’ said Simon, trying to work out the chances of getting past the man and through the doorway.

‘Parts of the painting are many hundreds of years old,’ said the man. ‘And parts are not. Much is by Duccio. Some . . . is not.’

The man smiled crookedly and his deep-set eyes twinkled like water in a well.

‘What do you mean?’ said Simon.

The man took a deep breath and let it out slowly, looking out across the city.

‘Look at this city, my young friend,’ he said. ‘This is my city. But they do not know me at all.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Simon.

‘When Duccio painted his great altarpiece, it was carried to the cathedral in a torchlit procession. Can you imagine? Can you?’

Simon did not reply. The man indicated the whole city in a great sweep of his hand.

‘What would it be like to be that famous?’ he said. ‘To be so loved? To have this whole city at your feet.’

‘What has that to do with you?’ said Simon. ‘I want to go down.’

‘Many years ago a Duccio panel came into the hands of my father,’ said the man. ‘He was the most skilled and trusted restorer in all of Tuscany – of all Italy, perhaps.

‘It had been bequeathed to the city by an anonymous benefactor. The panel was damaged – badly damaged – and he had been asked by the Council of Siena to repair it so that it could be presented to the museum.

‘But the truth was my father was not the craftsman he had been when young. His eyes were weak, his hand unsteady. More and more, he passed on the work to me – while still claiming credit, naturally.

‘And so it was with the Duccio panel. And whilst I was engaged in its restoration my father became seriously ill. As I continued the work on my own, a thought occurred to me.

‘The notion that I might be able to pass my work off as that of the great Duccio began to obsess me. I knew the great man’s work as well as anyone and I knew that I could match him. I would show my father. I would show them all!’

His eyes blazed as he said these words and Simon took a step back.

‘There was a damaged section – the section showing figures next to Simon Magus when he meets St Peter. I decided that I would paint a self-portrait over that damaged section.

‘Of course I was a fool,’ he continued. ‘If my father had died, my contribution would have been revealed. But he did not, and I was so caught up in this scheme I worked feverishly until it was completed.

‘My own father’s eyesight was so weak he did not even notice what I had done. He handed the panel over and the Council were delighted, of course. Days later my father died and I could not even attend the unveiling ceremony for fear that someone might recognise me and my crime.

‘I moved away from Siena and found my true vocation in a life of forgery. It has been very lucrative. I am a wealthy man, my friend. But I had always wanted to return and see where it all began. It was a risk, of course, and now here we are . . .’

Simon’s heart began to calm as he realised that he was in the company of a mere criminal. This strange man was nothing more than a forger.

‘But do you see, my friend,’ he said. ‘If you tell people about this, then the panel will be seen as the forgery it is and taken out of the museum and I will be exposed as a trickster.’

‘Why tell
me
about it then?’ said Simon.

‘You are a clever boy,’ he replied. ‘You would have told someone and suspicions may have been raised.

‘But in truth, it feels good to tell someone. I was right. My work can pass as that of Duccio. I am his equal. And yet no one knows; no one but you, my young friend.’

The forger put his hands together as if in prayer and looked at Simon beseechingly.

‘I beg you. I did not alter the Duccio for profit. No one has been harmed by the subterfuge. Can you find it in your heart to forget what you have seen? Will you give me your word that you will say nothing about these things?’

‘Of course, sir,’ he said. ‘What difference does it make to me? You can forge as many silly paintings as you like as far as I’m concerned.’

The forger sighed with relief.

‘
Grazie
.
Grazie
, my friend,’ he said. ‘Shall we shake on it?’

‘Very well,’ said Simon, holding out his hand.

The forger took Simon’s hand and patted his arm with his other hand. Then he let his hand settle on Simon’s arm and gripped it tightly.

‘I truly wish I could trust your word,’ he said forlornly. ‘But I would be ruined if you did not keep it, you understand.’

And with that he gave a terrific heave on Simon’s arm and Simon felt his feet leave the stone floor as his body sailed over the short wall of the parapet.

He felt himself hang momentarily in the air. Time seemed to come to a halt and he floated in space, the whole city stretched out below him like a map.