PENGUIN BOOKS
SAVING CARAVAGGIO
Neil Griffiths was born in 1965. He has lived for extended periods in New York and Paris. His first novel, Betrayal in Naples, was published in 2004, won the Authors’ Club Best First Novel Award and was shortlisted for the Pendleton May Award and the Waverton Good Read. Saving Caravaggio was shortlisted for the 2006 Costa Novel of the Year Award. Neil Griffiths also writes for radio and film. He lives in London.
PENGUIN BOOKS
PENGUIN BOOKS
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First published by Viking 2006
Published in Penguin Books 2007
1
Copyright © Neil Griffiths, 2006
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Extract from ‘Anglais Mort à Florence’ copyright © the Estate of Wallace Stevens.
Every effort has been made to contact copyright holders.
The publishers will be happy to make good in any future editions any errors or omissions
brought to their attention.
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject
to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent,
re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s
prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in
which it is published and without a similar condition including this
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
EISBN: 978–0–141–91214–1
For Bridget
But he remembered the time when he stood alone,
When to be and delight to be seemed one,
Before the colors deepened and grew small.
Wallace Stevens
(from ‘Anglais Mort à Florence’)
part one
calabria and ’ndrangheta
florence and the art mafia
naples and campania
part two
florence, the art mafia and the camorra
naples, nenni and maria
florence and francesca
london, sarah and more art mafia
florence and francesca
part three
calabria, francesca and ’ndrangheta
naples
It is produced by way of proof. Rolled out from the old man’s lap with a strong snap of the wrists, over his knees and across the ground to my feet. A wave of dust rises up as the last edge flaps flat. I don’t move, react. I concentrate on hiding my shock, my disbelief. I look directly at the old man. The two young men to my right, one standing by the door of the small house, one leaning against the new BMW, shift in my peripheral vision. They are restive. It’s hot. The sun is at its highest point in the sky. We are sitting in the shade of a tall, still cypress. We have drinks. Whisky. Johnnie Walker Blue Label. The old man is speaking. He’s explaining to me that what I want might be like this. He waves an old brown hand over the painting. The image lies over his lap and legs like a vast heavy blanket, splaying out over the ground. The image is dark, cracked. There are webs of cracks and larger fissures. The edges are splitting, frayed and dirty. There is no sheen. Perhaps it has been produced by way of proof many times. But I don’t think so – not this.
Every time the old man speaks I have to attune myself to the dialect, recognize the Italian hidden there; I understand about one-third of what is being said. It has been like this all over Calabria. Everything I say is understood. Even the old man has complimented me on my Italian.
‘I am only interested in the Turner,’ I say. ‘The Turner painting.’
The old man doesn’t respond. I see a subtle and swift roll of his eyes. My declaration was too bold; I have been unsettled by the example.
I scan the dark image. I know it very well. I have studied the few reproductions many times: the central light patches are forehead, shoulder, folds of fabric, a face; the darks are the saints; the white section falling over the side of the old man’s chair is an angel. I know that the words trailing from the banner in the angel’s hand are ‘GLORIA IN ECCELSIS DEO’, although only restoration will make them legible again. I also know that if I return with this painting, this image will make the front page of every quality newspaper in the world. I will make the front page. There will be some national coverage if I bring back the Turner, but it will last a day. Speculation over the ‘ransom’ paid and to whom. There will be little about the painting. There will be nothing about my operation: two and a half months on mainland Europe: Vienna, Budapest, Naples. Now Calabria. Only one week and a single weekend at home.
I press my thumb and forefinger into the bridge of my nose. I am hot, tired. It has been a long morning. An interminable drive through the dry hills in the back seat of the BMW, air con off, windows down. For the last hour I was wearing a blindfold. I need to eat something. I feel my mind slowing down. The mental fatigue induced by heat and the proximity of violent men is particular. It is dangerous. I look across to the younger men. The one by the house smokes; the other is staring down into the shiny black surface of the car. He spots a blemish, rubs at it firmly with his sleeve.
I ask for something to eat. Smile. I explain I can’t negotiate on an empty stomach. The old man nods and calls out. A woman appears from the small house. She is much younger than the old man, but could be the mother of the other two. She is dressed in black – black knee-length skirt, black blouse, black shoes. Her bare arms, legs, her face are a deep brown. Food is ordered. The old man then says something to the younger men and clicks his fingers. They move quickly but without haste. A table is found and placed in the shade of the tall, still cypress. Two more chairs are found.
The old man begins to roll up the Caravaggio. Rolling hands, twisting wrists, gently pressing – an automatic, absent movement. I watch as the faded image disappears, the dry paint ground against itself with the rolling movements of the old man’s brown hands. When it’s done, it is no more than a frayed old rug. He passes it into the arms of one of the younger men, who then takes it into the house. I can tell it has instantly disappeared from the mind of the old man. I help arrange our chairs around the table. The old man pours us all some Blue Label. Nothing is said. I don’t sense any hostility from these men. We are like four strangers forced to sit at a small square table in a small hill-village café, content not to talk. We are silent throughout our food. Spaghetti e melanzane, with a little chilli. When we are finished the old man calls for another bottle of whisky. It is Blue Label again. Over a hundred pounds a bottle in the UK.
Negotiations begin after caffè. The younger men are permitted to stay seated. They push their chairs back from the table, cross their legs and smoke. The old man says he doesn’t have the painting but can get it. He’ll need the money. I say I don’t have the money but can get it. This irritates him. He shouts something I don’t understand. The younger men don’t react. I have been here before. I fix my eyes on the hazy outline of another small hill village across the valley; it appears identical to the one I’ve been brought to: twenty or so little white houses, a tiny church. I know that the old man wants the money first and then he will decide whether to hand over the painting. They all want this: to take the money and then to pretend the return of the painting is an act of largesse or a favour. If you’re lucky. A million euros ransom is on offer for this painting. Why not just take it? Then sell the painting on. America. Japan.
The old man calms down. He didn’t expect me to capitulate easily; he sensed the moment I climbed out of the car that I wasn’t an amateur. He smiles.
‘When will you have the money?’
‘Within twenty-four hours of asking for it.’
He says he’d be happier with two million euros; it is worth ten.
I look across the valley. The hill is dry and rocky. The ground is dry and yellow. The tall cypresses are black and green. A window glints.
I explain that the institution to which the painting belongs will not raise their price. The old man rolls his eyes – the painting belongs to him. It is my turn to smile. Yes. Of course.
The old man, palms pressed on the table, pushes himself to his feet. He says something to one of the younger men, who wearily stands, sleepy from the spaghetti, whisky, heat. I do not understand what is being said; they have returned to deep Calabrian. When they are finished the old man turns and studies me one last time – a final moment for his instinct to make a judgement: does he want to do business with me? I stand, allow myself to be scrutinized. I know I will not meet the old man again. From now on everything will be done by his soldiers – sanctioned by him, based on this last moment, what his instinct is telling him now. I know if I return here tomorrow, the old man will be gone. It has taken almost a month to arrange this meeting and it has lasted two hours.
The BMW is started, the engine revved, the wheels pointlessly spun. A cloud of dust covers the rear of the car. It is time to leave. There will be no handshake or kiss. On this recovery I have made it clear that I am working for the other side. Clear I’m a copper. The institution insisted that I must be seen to be legitimate throughout. No pretence of criminality. There is to be no negotiation. The money is a reward, not a ransom.
I step out from the shade of the tall, still cypress. The old man gives me one last look and then turns and goes into the small house. I climb into the back of the car. I am handed the blindfold. I stretch the elastic over my head, position the eyepatches.
The next couple of days are always the most dangerous. Negotiating the exchange. A location. The money. The handing over of the painting – in this instance a large oil, probably ripped out of its frame, rolled up, maybe even folded. But that’s not what must concern me. I need a feel for the internal stability of the organization – is anyone looking to sabotage the deal? Does anyone gain if the deal goes wrong? Because that’s when I’m vulnerable: when the emphasis shifts and it’s no longer just business. But then, these days it’s almost always just business. The wars have dried up. Yet the possibility remains. Especially when the capo di tutti capi is as old as this old man.
I don’t sense instability. And this is a small deal. There is little to gain by sabotaging it. But the Caravaggio, that’s different. The world’s most famous stolen painting. Cut out of its frame from above an altar in a chapel in Palermo in 1969, and for the last thirty years moved around the families of organized crime as a multimillion-dollar marker, a guarantee for anything, from drugs deals to political assassination. Or so the myth goes. Like most policemen in the art world, I was certain it had been destroyed. Like every Caravaggio lover, I hoped it had not.
The car is filled with hot summer air, baked dry, full of sharp fragrances, heavy on the skin. I know that when I get back to the hotel I must call it in. I must call in what is the biggest news in the art world for many years.
‘It’s my signature, my photo; it’s just out of date by a week. Which means it’s still valid. You don’t even need a passport between here and France.’
‘What is the nature of your business here in Italy?’
I pause. I’m here to research a book.
‘I’m here to research a book.’
‘A writer?’
‘Yes.’
The passport officer looks at me, at the photo in the passport, and then seems to mull over whether he believes the combination of this real man before him and the image of him adds up to a writer. I straighten my shoulders – I want to be convincing. I want – my cover aside – to be convincing as a writer.
‘In Bologna?’
‘Florence.’
The passport officer nods. It is typical. Most travellers flying into Marconi airport go on to Florence.
‘How long will you be staying in Florence?’
This is a question I cannot answer. I hope to be in Italy for a week only, but last year my longest unbroken stay was twelve weeks.
‘I don’t think I need to answer that. EU regulations allow me freedom of movement.’
The question is repeated.
I look past the passport officer into Bologna Airport. It is almost empty. A few backpackers sitting on their rucksacks, businessmen on mobiles, solo holiday types looking like amateur art historians: squarely dressed (more for mountains than museums), Blue Guides and Uffizi carrier bags with Botticelli’s Venus printed on to the white plastic.
I look down at myself. At my wedding clothes. From a marriage not even a year old. Paid for by my wife. My wedding present. A dark-grey wool suit, white Egyptian cotton shirt, dark-blue tie, brown shoes, overcoat. All obscenely expensive. But she insisted. A man in good clothes, she had said enigmatically.
The passport officer should know that few writers can afford to dress so well. But then I try not to cast myself to type, not for this kind of work. Types invite small talk; the ease of being with a type invites it. I prefer to unsettle; it forces people to talk about themselves. Fill the dead space with their fears. It is a trick to human disclosure. So if I am going to be a writer, then wear stylish clothes, devoid of eccentricity, of the bohemian.
Within a month of my wedding, two weeks after our honeymoon in Florence, I was given the Turner assignment. I sat in our big house – Sarah’s big house – waiting for her to come home, my packed bag the first thing she would see. She said nothing, slipped past me, a vapour to my reaching hands. I was gone for two and a half months.
The passport officer studies me. The quality of my clothes is not lost on him; I am after all in Italy. His gaze lingers on my brown shoes, smooth and sleek – a classic design almost imperceptibly modernized with a longer shape, blunter toe.
On our wedding day Sarah said I looked dashing. On the steps of the Chelsea Register Office on the King’s Road we made a handsome couple. Tourists wondered which famous people we might be. My guess is that our marriage will last about as long as the standard famous marriage. Less long. This morning when I kissed her goodbye she didn’t stir. Her sleep deflecting love – resisting it. I was gone from her thoughts at midnight when she switched off her bedside light.
‘Can you step this way, please?’
I am taken into a small office. There is an Alitalia poster, a 737 banking in the sky. A plain desk. An old computer. Another passport officer sits behind the desk, scrolling through lists of numbers on the computer screen. He is older, forty, a little overweight. There is a packet of cigarettes in the breast pocket of his shirt. He doesn’t stand when we enter.
The passport is handed to him and the situation is described by the first officer: it is out of date (by a week, I interject); I am a writer; I am going to Florence; I refuse to say how long I plan to stay in Italy.
The older man looks at me. ‘Parla Italiano?’
‘Sì.’
‘How long do you plan to stay in Italy?’
‘Two weeks.’
The two officers look at one another. ‘Two weeks?’ the older one repeats for confirmation.
‘Yes. That is all.’
He scrolls through a page on his screen and enters my passport details.
‘Where are you staying?’ the original officer asks me.
‘A pensione. In Via Dante.’ I have no desire to be obstructive.
‘Via Dante’ is repeated by the younger officer; the older logs it. He then flicks through my passport. With a second flick, he displays my stamps and visas to his colleague: USA, Russia, India, Japan, Argentina.
‘You are a businessman?’
‘No, a writer, like he said.’
‘Travel writer?’
I calculate agreeing with this might end the interview more swiftly than explaining that I write about art, the history of art, although in Italy this might not be so unusual. Still, I nod. ‘Yes, a travel writer.’
My passport is handed back to me.
‘You need a new passport.’
The younger officer shows me out and points towards the exit and luggage reclaim.
The bus stop for Bologna Station is directly outside the airport. A bus is waiting. I heave my two bags into the luggage rack, pay the driver and sit down. My mobile rings. I flip it open and look at the caller ID. Work. I press accept and say evenly, ‘Do we have a name yet? Tell me they’ve given us a name…’
The reception is good, clear – next-room clear. Jim, my boss, tells me: no, Rome is still being difficult, evasive, repeating that the reason they invited in outsiders was because they didn’t want anyone local. Or anyone Italian for that matter. I reiterate: a key contact in Florence is the condition of my participation; I don’t care who it is. I am not going to be isolated. Not in Italy.
‘They say they’re working on it.’
‘I’ll call back at midday. If we don’t have a name by then…’ I pause. I don’t know what to say, what to threaten – the ultimatum to give. He doesn’t know that I am here for another reason. I should tell him. Confess now. I only agreed to the assignment to be back in Italy, to be closer to the Caravaggio. And therefore if we don’t have a name, I am going after it. But I can’t. It would involve too much explanation. Why didn’t I call it in at the time?
Jim is irritated by my threat of an ultimatum, ‘What if we don’t have a name by then, Danny?’
‘I’m coming home.’ I flip my mobile closed, stare out of the window at a damp, wide street; spots of rain hit the glass.
I am a Caravaggio expert, but before that a Caravaggio lover. I am a cop third. Or maybe cop isn’t that high, although there is little else to compete. Husband, perhaps. Certainly there is little else after that. Narrow interests make me a focused type. Concentrated. Serious. Some would say obsessive. I would say I have passions. I once had passions. Meaning I am not what I once was. Despite being the best at what I do.
When I mentioned the Caravaggio it was only to ask what we would do if I saw it. Jim was categorical. ‘We inform Rome. A firm-enough sighting and we inform Rome. They’ve had the same people on it since it was stolen. It’s their grail, not ours.’
People have short memories. Forgetting I’m the only Ph.D. in the department. Subject: Caravaggio. So you’re wrong. It’s my grail as well.
The main drag from the airport to the station is lined with small shops below flat-roofed concrete apartment blocks. Above, the sky is a flat unbroken grey panel. I wrap myself up in my overcoat.
The bus turns right into Bologna Station. The other passengers ready themselves before the bus pulls up. I stay seated, looking out of the window. I wait until I hear the electronic doors open before moving. Last off, after two silent couples – the early flight having dulled their desire for talk – I haul my bags out of the rack and on to the street. Filled with as many books as clothes – the pretence of research? – they seem to be heavier each time I lift them. I drag them into the station. I buy a first-class ticket to Santa Maria Novella Station, Florence. I look up at the arrivals/departures boards. The train will probably be coming from Milan, on its way to Rome or Naples, maybe even Palermo. The next train is due in seventeen minutes. At the station café I order an espresso and croissant. I knock back the espresso and pull apart the croissant; it is both dry and doughy. I can only manage half before it is time to make my slow way to the platform.
Rain drips from the wrought-iron canopy, creating a dark damp skirting along the platform’s edge. The train is on time. A guard assists me with my bags. They are tucked in the lower luggage rack by the door. The guard rearranges other suitcases so this can be done. I say many ‘grazie mille’s.
The carriage is full of Italian executives, mostly male, mostly middle-aged, all wearing conservative, beautifully tailored, dark-grey suits, white shirts and dark ties. All their accessories – spectacles, briefcases, wallets, pens – are equally understated. Everyone is unerringly stylish.
I take off my overcoat and sit down at a window seat. I place my ticket on the table in front of me, sit back and close my eyes. The train moves off smoothly, noiselessly. I picture Sarah, herself on her way to work. Taking a bus up Sloane Street, through Knightsbridge, towards Piccadilly, always sitting on the bottom deck, reading in the half-light of a dull January sunrise. I know she’s not thinking of me. Even my absence has been forgotten. I am now doubly gone.
It is snowing. The sloped lawns of Santa Maria Novella Station are covered in a thick layer of undisturbed white snow; the roof of the church of Santa Maria Novella is white-capped; the snow on the streets is scored by cars and scooters into a complex pattern of circles and arcs. Florence looks more like Moscow or St Petersburg. And it is cold, the sharp wind off the Apennines taking the temperature down to below freezing. The air has a crisp edge, burning my cheeks; it cuts through my suit, my shirt, my skin. I drop my bags to the ground, swing on my overcoat and button it up, flipping the collar around my ears. I pull my gloves from the side pockets and slip them over my cold hands.
The plan was to walk to Via Dante, but I wasn’t expecting the icy wind, the snow, the razor cold. At the taxi rank I stand behind chatty businessmen from Torino, Milano, Roma – somewhere. When a cab pulls up I shove my bags on to the back seat and push myself in next to them.
‘Via Dante, per favore.’
The driver nods and pulls out of the station. He says something about the snow and I nod and say something about the cold. The thought makes me shiver and I nestle down into my buttoned-up coat, chin disappearing.
The cab is instantly in the heart of Florence and I look out of the window and into the sky. I am searching for the duomo above the high walls. Sighting the duomo signals my real arrival in Florence. To me, Florence, or rather the city understood as Florence, only truly exists after the duomo has been revealed at its heart. I do not doubt that without the duomo Florence would still be beautiful, but it would perhaps not be as wondrous. It would lack splendour.
I am a little shocked when it comes into view in the rear window of the taxi, my neck strained, head back, eyes high in their sockets. The terracotta tiles have vanished, covered with immaculate snow, the dome itself is a seamless curve upward from the white marble of the walls to the white marble of the lantern at its peak. It is a mountain in the centre of the city. Its new beauty almost makes me swoon.
‘Wow,’ I whisper.
The driver, with keen ears, glances into his mirror.
I explain, ‘The duomo. It’s a mountain.’
The driver looks up out of the windscreen as if searching for an object in the sky. ‘Sì, bello.’
We drive beyond the duomo and turn right into Via del Proconsolo. We are making good time due to the lightness of the traffic, which I suspect has something to do with the unexpected weather and the fact that we are not stopping continuously for groups of sightseers to cross the roads. The city seems empty and a little ghostly with none of the stubborn tourist crowds on every corner.
The cab swings tightly into Via Dante Alighieri, squeezing past scaffolding fixed to a small chapel, which with its thick covering of snow looks like the stable in a Nativity scene. We pull up outside number fourteen. I drag my bags on to the pavement. The building is sixteenth century, flat, unornamented, with clean pale walls and dark-green shutters. The ground floor is an American Express office. I am staying in the apartment of Professor Claudio Bramante, arranged for me by a curator at the National Gallery. I open the heavy mahogany doors and haul myself and my bags up the steep stone steps. My footfalls echo. There is a faint smell of disinfectant. I pass a hotel entrance on the second floor, a large wood door with a small grille in the centre. Floors three and four are apartments. My bags seem to gain weight at the bottom of each set of steps. My arms and shoulders ache by the time I reach the top. The big key is weightless in my hand. I push my bags into the apartment with my feet. Before I have the chance to appreciate the place – its vaulted ceilings, exposed wood and stone work, the terracotta floors – I am hit by the ambient temperature, at least five degrees colder than outside. I go straight to the small kitchenette and turn on all the gas rings. The air crackles in the sudden heat. I then check to see if a window has been left open. The view over the rooftops of Florence includes the very top of the duomo – the lantern – almost invisible against the white sky. The room itself is divided into two sections. The far end, by the door, is the dining area: a glass table and six chairs. More centrally and adjacent to the kitchenette there are two brown leather armchairs, worn, shiny and cracked from years of use. Between them is a coffee table with a pile of art and fashion magazines. Against one wall is a tall wide glass-fronted bookcase filled mostly with books, some alcohol and one ornament – an award of some kind. Next to the kitchen there is a small bookcase filled with paperbacks. It would be cosy if it wasn’t so cold. In the bedroom there is a large double bed, tightly made up, a wardrobe and a dresser with grooming products neatly arranged on top. There is a butane-gas heater in the corner. I wheel the heater into the sitting room, open the back and turn on the valve and press the ignition button until the gas catches alight; I keep it pressed while watching the curtain of flame cross the grille at the front. I leave the cooker’s gas rings burning. I drop into one of the armchairs. I am still in my overcoat and gloves. I look at my watch. Ten a.m. Nothing to do until twelve, at which point a decision has to be made. I watch my breath ease out of my mouth like puffs of glitter and then close my eyes. I want to sleep and clear my head, of Sarah, the Caravaggio – obsessive thoughts.
I can’t sleep. My eyes refuse to shut, pulling open the moment they close. I push myself against the right side of the chair, dig my hand into the pocket of my overcoat and pull out my phone. I flip open the front, press and hold down 2. ‘SARAH’ appears on the screen. I hold the phone to my ear. The air around me is a little warmer but I suspect the rest of the room is still icy cold.
‘Sarah Delaney.’ Her voice is low, a little husky.
‘It’s me…’ I had wanted to sound more upbeat.
‘Hello, you…’
I can’t tell whether this is her attempt at being light, letting me know she doesn’t want to argue or prolong the coolness, or whether there are people in the room with her.
‘Can you talk?’
‘Can you?’
‘Florence is freezing; everything’s covered in snow…’ Small talk. Pointless.
‘It must be beautiful.’ Her delivery is flat, without encouragement.
I don’t respond immediately; stare at the orange curtain of flame rustling across the heater grille. ‘Look, Sarah, I really didn’t want to come – you know that.’
She is silent. It is clear I want forgiveness, understanding, my actions supported. I know she knows. Her unwillingness to help me out maddens me.
‘Sarah?’
‘Yes…’
‘I said I didn’t want to come…’
‘But you are there.’
‘It’s my work. I really think we need to talk.’
‘I don’t see how we can talk if you’re never here.’
‘That’s unfair. When I am at home you won’t talk…’
Silence again.
‘Sarah?’
‘I’m here.’
‘Please… this is making us both very unhappy.’
‘Look, Daniel, I’m at work. We’ve got an important auction tomorrow.’
It is my turn to be silent. She doesn’t intrude on it.
‘I don’t know what to say…’ There is no response and I’m forced to say her name for the third time. ‘Sarah?’
‘I’ll call you when I get home tonight.’
‘Thank you.’
The line goes dead, and I flip my phone shut. I try to close my eyes again. I do not see darkness, but Sarah, a bright thing, smiling at me, a great catch for the son of a market trader. But before I knew that – the summa that makes the catch: position, influence, money – I saw her striding towards me along the entrance hall of Langdon’s auction house, long and slender in charcoal-grey and black, with cropped black hair and blue, blue eyes. She could so easily have passed by. Momentum was with her. But she stopped. Stopped and said in that low, husky voice, ‘I like the look of you.’
Next we were having dinner, me refusing to talk about my work, thinking she’d never go for a copper; her straight from Oxford into Langdon’s, her area of expertise Modern British. ‘What’s that? Bangers and pesto mash?’ It gave a lot away, I assumed. Just isn’t the kind of joke anyone but the working class make – not with the long, tight ‘a’ sounds. But she laughed, and laid her hand over mine and said again, ‘I like the look of you,’ adding a wry smile to her now wine-rich voice. What did she see, I wonder. The residuum of lost passions?
I wake up sweating, buried in my overcoat, the heater burning the air around me. I push myself up from the chair, turn off the gas rings and shunt the heater into the corner of the room. I look out of the window. A light snow is dusting white all the red terracotta tiles missed by the last fall. It is twelve o’clock. I have been asleep for two hours. I stare across the room at my unpacked bags. No point unpacking until I speak to Jim. I look out of the window again, shove my hands into my pockets, gripping my mobile. I’m not sure what I want to hear when I call. No point of contact and I have threatened to go home. To Sarah. Where I need to be.
On the glass-topped dining table I open the heavier of my two bags and pull wide the sides – a laptop, jeans, T-shirts and three large art books, all with the same name on the cover. The same single name. One in silver, a bold sharp modern font; one in white, at a slant, the signature of easy penmanship; the last – gold – Latinate, grand. The same name spelling so many things: genius, rogue, iconoclast, murderer, psychologist, desperado, enigma. I must accept that he is why I am in Italy. He is my real mission.
I take the books over to the armchair and sit down. But what about my actual assignment? Investigating whether or not there is any truth in the rumour that someone at the Uffizi is being blackmailed to help with a robbery. A rumour! Proving a negative is how Jim sold it. Should be easy. Quick. A political job then – covering Rome if anything should happen. We had Europe’s best man on it. Posing as an art writer, an art expert, writing about Michelangelo’s Doni Tondo. It’s not even my area, not really – not in a world of true experts, where glittering careers are made by the interpretation of a single piece of correspondence, a controversial date, proving true or false the claims of other experts. I do have some form; I’m not all cop. Type my name into a search engine and the first entry is always: ‘Daniel Wright. Caravaggio: Every World Needs Its Desperado. University of Newcastle. High Resolution Images.’ Enough to satisfy the Mafia or some other criminal outfit of my expertise. But the Uffizi, staffed by some of the world’s top art historians? I’ll need better credentials than a postgraduate thesis if people are to open up to me, discuss the gallery, their colleagues, if they are to confide. For that I will need their trust, which first means respect, which means being regarded as superior to all the other art historians in Florence on research projects looking for largesse from the Uffizi.
I flip up the front of my phone and press 3: work. It rings ten times before Jim picks up.
‘It’s Danny. What have you got?’
‘They say they’re working on it. There’s a prosecutor. If they’re happy, he’s your point of contact. But it won’t be today.’
I cast my eyes around the room. ‘This could take days.’
‘Dan, give it another twenty-four hours. Until this time tomorrow.’
‘Why?’
‘You know why. Because our work becomes a million times more difficult if we piss off the Italians. They’re asking for this favour.’
‘It’s a waste of my time.’ I pause. Another opportunity. Trade: OK, I’ll sit around, I’ll wait, but in the meantime I want to make some enquiries. Last year…
Jim ends the call. ‘Relax, Danny. You’re wound so tight these days.’
I flick open the top book at a full-page colour plate of Judith Beheading Holofernes. One of my favourite paintings. The exquisite brutality. Holofernes’ sexually sated weight contorted on the bed. Judith’s beauty concentrated in her eyes, the slight squint giving her whole face focus, continued determination midway through the act. I love the wrist of her hand gripping Holofernes’ hair – the firm twist of it, turning his head away from his neck, exposing and tightening his flesh so that her sword will slice quickly through. A beheading is more than a killing.
I rest my phone against my cheek. Am I wound tight? I must be. My breathing is shallow, fast; my neck and shoulders ache. Maybe I should relax. Relax and enjoy Florence as tourist, not art cop, or whatever it is that I am, or am pretending to be. Relax as an art lover with time on his hands.
I stand and lay all three books on the glass table and open them at their plates of The Nativity with Saints Lawrence and Francis, reading below each picture, ‘1609, oil on canvas, 105 ½ × 77 ½ in (268 × 197 cm). Oratory of the Campagnia di San Lorenzo (formerly; stolen 1969)’. There is no really acceptable reproduction. Not by modern standards. There is a haze over the pictures, as if its theft is somehow present even in the reproductions, giving it a veil of mystery, an uncertain existence, a hint of its dark life since it was stolen. I focus on the largest version, a full-colour page. A superficial glance will suggest little more than a Nativity scene. Almost by numbers. Heavy on piety, light on inspiration. One of the less exceptional commissions on his flight from Rome, from arrest for murder. There are a couple of recognizable Caravaggio models in there, but otherwise there is little to distinguish it from other devout works by other painters of the time, even of the near past. However, on closer examination there is more. First, the exact moment it is depicting: Mary is cradling her stomach, having just given birth to Christ. There are no precedents for representing the Madonna at this supreme moment. And then there is the dandy in the foreground, the Sower of Doubts, slyly nudging the infant with his shoe: a moment of disrespect, of suspicion. Another radical touch, revealing much about the complexity of Caravaggio’s theological thinking. There are the contemporaneous clothes – Italian 1600s, making it more resonant for the contemporary viewer, but perhaps distancing it for the modern audience. Yet for me it is the figure of Joseph which most intrigues. Placed on the periphery of the picture, he leans on a staff, and rather than looking at his child, he is chatting to the dandy. He is on the outside of the supreme moment, patiently waiting to be told when his role as the father of Christ will begin. It seems that up until that point he is content to be just an ordinary old man, talkative, easily distracted – sidelined. The painting may not be representative of Caravaggio’s most striking work – the formal austerity, the darkest palette – but his narrative and psychological genius are still present. I am not moved by the painting, yet its existence thrills me beyond any other painting in the world. What if I really did go after it alone? What if I brought it back? Would I become the hero of the art establishment? A world that shunned me fifteen years ago, because, as they made clear: working-class boys just don’t ‘rise very far’ in this world. Of course they didn’t actually say ‘working-class boys’ but ‘candidates without the appropriate background’ is candid enough. Little has changed. Even now as a policeman and central to the recovery of many great paintings, I am regarded as little more than a bit of muscle needed to make the exchange, a cog in the machine paid for by the British taxpayer. They don’t care that I recover and return more paintings per year than any other law-enforcement officer in the world. They are art administrators, keepers of the nation’s heritage, a handful of elevated individuals occupying a handful of important posts, not interchangeable coppers just waiting for their pensions at fifty so they can lay a new patio, play some golf or do whatever it is that retired policemen do.
I stare at the painting, remembering the cracks across it, the peeling and breaking of the surface, the old man’s dark hands as he rolled it up. I close each book. Return to the window. The snow is still falling, deepening on the rooftops. I sense its weight, its compact coldness, its brightness, a hundred million silver-white glints revealing its delicate structure. I open the window and draw a finger across the snow on the outside sill. It is inches deep, dry for a moment, and then, after my body heat seeps in, a wrap of moisture adhering to my skin. Then the sudden cold. A freezing moment. Physics at play. My atomic structure, less delicate than snow, but also less extreme, letting the cold in. I shut the window. Feeling numbness at the end of my nose, a patch on each cheek.
I haven’t eaten properly since last night. I feel empty rather than hungry. I check the cupboards in the small kitchenette. Only dried pasta, tins of fruit, instant coffee. The small fridge is empty. I mentally map the area beyond Via Dante. There is a small restaurant nearby that Sarah and I used as our regular for lunch on our honeymoon. Slightly irritating young male staff looking to pick up girls – American girls mostly – but the food was good.
The stone stairs still smell faintly of disinfectant. I button up my coat and pull on my gloves. Via Dante is empty. I turn left, then right, thinking I’ll recognize the way once I’ve reached the Palazzo Vecchio, remembering that it’s down an alley somewhere off the street behind. I cut across the corner of Piazza della Signoria, keeping the massive Neptune to my right, his shoulders carrying snow like an ermine robe. A small group of tourists are assembled in the centre of the piazza, turning on their toes to get the full three-sixty. A tour guide peers around for stragglers, impatient to start her talk, yet holding out so she doesn’t have to repeat herself. Most people visit Florence once in their life, on the school trip, the big culture trip, the long weekend, the honeymoon, part of an Italian or European tour; some visit a few times, for further, deeper exploration; lucky people make it more often, recognizing that few other cities offer so much, at least superficially, as a cultural city-break destination. This is my ninth trip, all but three work-based, and I feel at home. I can still do a double-take now and again: David in the Accademia continues to move me like no other single work of art; the serenity of Piazza Santa Croce still enchants me like no other urban space; the small artisan workshops that line the narrow streets continue to make me yearn for something bygone. But it still remains primarily a place of business: streets leading to the offices of museums, cafés as places for meetings not quiet moments with caffè and guidebooks. It is also a place of loneliness, of isolation, of deception. On only three of the nine visits have I actually been myself, on only three of the nine have I had company, on only three of the nine have I been able to share my thoughts, feelings, impressions without pressing them through the vector of my cover, the self-editing of myself as another. This is my first time in Florence in the winter but it has seemed a cold place before, with little warmth to be had from its history and its modern wealth particularly chilly.
I pass behind the high brown-brick walls of the Palazzo Vecchio and look out for the narrow street which I think leads to the restaurant. I remember we could see it from the main road – a small sign, a name – Luigi’s or something. I peer down one street; there is nothing, just undisturbed snow like a recently unrolled white carpet, narrower than the street, its edges perfectly straight, the contrast with the dark paving giving it extra whiteness, vivid sharpness. The sign is visible from the top of the next street – Luigi’s. I can tell it is closed. It’s not surprising given the thinness of trade, the only people around clearly native, clad in their expensive overcoats, scarves and gloves. There is the odd tourist wandering around, unprepared for the coldness of the weather, only a cagoule to keep out the wind.
The small café in Piazza di San Firenze is also closed. I decide on Antico Fattore, close to the Uffizi – it’s near, the food is passable and it’s likely to be free of tourists with the Uffizi closed on Mondays. I head towards the Arno, cross over the road and walk along the river bank. The water below is grey, muddy, quick-running. The tree tops on the hills across the river are snow-capped, the sky above as white. I pass the east wing of the Uffizi and turn into the long cortile with its statuary of artists ensconced within the arches of the loggia. The right side houses the most famous: Machiavelli, Dante, da Vinci, Giotto, others. I read their names, glance at their faces, sensing I recognize Michelangelo, Dante – that the strength of their faces is present in the strength of their work.
As expected the restaurant is almost empty. The ageing waiters greet me without warmth and ask, ‘Uno solo?’ I nod and point to where I want to sit – a table set for four in the corner of the second room – and head towards it before I can be redirected. As I am handed a menu I order a bowl of spaghetti genovese and a half-bottle of Amarone; the menu is withdrawn. Only two other tables are occupied. At the furthest table, four middle-aged men are just finishing giving their orders. They are cultured-looking but could still be bankers. Nearer to me sit two women, more likely to be secretaries than art administrators from the Uffizi. I fold my arms and sit back in my chair. I have been promised a private tour if I go to the gallery today. It’s tempting. But it begins my assignment. Something I want to avoid. Yet undisturbed time with the Doni Tondo is hard to pass up. On every other occasion I’ve seen it I’ve had to muscle in between tour parties crowding around hack art historians bellowing the same story, the same interpretation. How many times have I stood in that small room waiting for just one moment, one silent moment to take in the painting without the presence of idiots with video cameras pressed to their eyes or, worse still, held up a foot away from their faces so they can see the painting nice and clearly in their video screens? And that’s what I’d get – longer, I presume – if I stroll over there after lunch.
My cover was arranged by Lucy Stevens, a curator friend at the National Gallery with good personal contacts at the Uffizi. A series of monographs on the world’s hundred most influential paintings has been commissioned and Mr Wright has been invited to write about the Doni Tondo – might private access be arranged? When I asked for the name of my point of contact Lucy whistled. Francesca Natali. You’ll have to be careful. She’s very clever. MBA in Milan. Stint with McKinsey’s at the Metropolitan. Many people think she runs the show at the Uffizi these days. Lucy then added, with a curious leaping of her eyebrows: she’s also very, very beautiful. Adding further: if you like that sort of thing. I wasn’t intrigued; I’ve had quite enough of attractive, well-educated art administrators.
My genovese arrives, along with the half-bottle of Amarone. I pour myself a glass of wine and take a sip. I dwell on its slow warmth, starting in my mouth, percolating up into my head, then travelling down into my body, through my heart and into my stomach, relishing red wine as the perfect drug, the subtlest narcotic. I dig into my pasta. The food is OK, rich, with strong flavours, but lacks refinement. More people arrive and are seated. I keep half an eye out for someone who might be Francesca Natali, thinking I’ll recognize her – the intelligence and beauty Lucy alluded to being obvious even in Italy.
I finish my pasta and have left enough in the half-bottle of Amarone to enjoy an uninterrupted glass. I push back my chair a little and stretch out my legs under the table, crossing them at the ankles. From this position I can see a small section of the Uffizi out of the far corner of the window. I sip the wine, staring out yet seeing little, my mind empty, just the sensation of the glass against my lips, the wine on my tongue, the softness as I swallow. A waiter passes asking whether I want caffè. I nod. My espresso arrives within a minute and I knock it back in a second – a bitter hot viscous jolt. The bill appears moments later, slid on to my table as a waiter delivers dessert to the four bankers.
I leave the restaurant and head back into the long cortile of the Uffizi, scanning the doors for the number I’ve been given. I have nothing else to do. I wait a moment before ringing the buzzer. If I am not here to start the job, why am I here? Does it matter? Undercover cop, undercover tourist – it is all the same. A single layer of deception. I press the buzzer. A security guard appears.
‘I’m here to see Francesca Natali. My name is Daniel Wright.’
The door is closed. I rock back on my heels, gloved hands pressed together as fists. The door opens again. A small man in a suit has replaced the security guard. A functionary. Old support staff.
‘Do you have an appointment, Signor Wright?’
I think, no, not really. More of an arrangement.
‘Yes and no.’
‘You’re not in her diary and you don’t have a pass.’
‘I know. Is she here?’
The man shrugs. ‘Come with me.’
I follow him up a wide grey stone staircase to the third floor. I am shown into a long corridor with offices giving off to the left. I am taken to the end, to the last office.
‘Please.’ The old man guides me into a large room with high windows. There is a panoramic view of the south bank of the Arno, the hill beyond, the fir trees crenulated with snow. There is a slim laptop open on the desk, a desktop computer on a small table against the left wall. There is no loose paper, no books anywhere, no printer, fax or photocopier. This is a purely electronic office. There is also no landline. Just a small mobile next to the laptop, next to which is a small espresso cup with a smudge of lipstick, then a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles. It makes a nice row: spectacles, cup, mobile, laptop – spelling efficiency, concentration, intensity. The chair behind the desk is an Eames, its worn leather suggesting an original, or at least one bought long before the recent fad for them. The only other chair, hidden behind the door, is a small light-brown armchair with very square back and arms – classic Italian. There is a blue enamel ashtray perched on the arm containing an extinguished cigarette; there is a similar lipstick smudge. On the other arm there is a book, open face down, spine still unbroken, standing like a little tent. I step back and glance down at the title. Elvira’s Secret. It appears to be some kind of romance novel. If asked to judge the current reading of the person occupying this office, a novel wouldn’t be my first guess; a romance novel wouldn’t even get on the list. There is one picture on the walls. A photograph. A Cartier-Bresson. A young man and woman in the sea, taken from above; he is standing, holding her as she floats, her legs wrapped around him. Their faces cannot be seen because of the angle, but she is naked, her breasts visible breaking the surface of the water. It is signed. I walk over to the window, behind the desk, and look down at the Arno.
‘Signor Wright.’
I turn. Francesca Natali is at the door; I am behind her desk.
‘Come in.’ I smile to disguise my embarrassment.
We change places, each moving around a different side of the desk. Francesca folds down the screen of her laptop, slides on her spectacles and looks at me.