Rare Traits (The Rare Traits Trilogy Book I) Read online

Chapter 21 : July 2009

  When Corrado Verdi mentioned his ‘little car’ that needed a spin up the autostrada, Ced Fisher imagined he would be spending an uncomfortable day with his six-foot-four frame folded into a Fiat 500. He couldn’t have been more surprised when Verdi greeted him in his hotel lobby and guided him across the car park towards a Maserati GranTurismo S, its powder blue bodywork exactly matching the colour of its owner’s Ermenegildo Zegna suit trousers – the jacket was carefully folded on the back seat.

  “Would you like to drive, Cedric?” asked Verdi, dangling the keys from his index finger.

  “Thanks, Corrado, I’d love to, but the steering wheel’s on the wrong side for me. I’ll think I’ll just sit back, relax and enjoy the ride.”

  “Perhaps later,” smiled Verdi, stowing Ced’s equipment boxes.

  Putting his problems to the back of his mind, Ced soaked up the luxury of the feisty sports car as the one hundred and eighty kilometres of autostrada between Rome and Arezzo disappeared in a blur. Verdi knew exactly where the speed checks would be and in between them, he opened up the throttle. The ride was so smooth that a hundred and eighty kilometres per hour seemed like fifty in any other car.

  “She’s a sweet little lady, eh, Cedric?” laughed Verdi as he flashed his lights at yet another slower moving car ahead of them in the fast lane.

  “Magico, Corrado, pure magico,” replied Ced.

  After taking the exit for Arezzo, they skirted the city and headed off in the direction of Anghiari.

  “We’ll see ‘The Awakening’ first, Cedric,” explained Verdi, “and then pop into San Sepolcro itself to see ‘The Resurrection’. After that we’ll call into Arezzo in time for my old friend Giorgio Bonazzi, the superintendent of fine art, to take us to lunch in one of his favourite Tuscan restaurants. Peasant food really, out here in the sticks, but it will be tasty enough I’m sure.”

  A few kilometres into the hills beyond Anghiari, they turned right on the crest of a rising curve through a newly built stone gateway that led onto a gravel road. A high stone wall topped with razor wire and security cameras disappeared into the trees on either side of the gateway. A sign announced that the site was the home of the chapel containing the Piero della Francesca painting ‘The Awakening’.

  “The discovery of this masterpiece caused the fine art authorities all sorts of headaches,” laughed Verdi. “It is in the middle of nowhere and cannot be moved. Well, it could, but it would be madness. After standing abandoned and neglected for centuries while it slowly decayed, this crumbling villa with its very special chapel is now protected by the latest high-security technology and a squad of guards patrolling twenty-four hours a day.”

  “I’m surprised not to see more tourists here,” remarked Ced as they drove down the gravel road and pulled up outside a large fourteenth century villa surrounded by scaffolding.

  “There will be once the conservation work is finished,” replied Verdi. “The authorities need to recoup the millions they are spending on this treasure.”

  A young man of about twenty-five was waiting for them near the chapel doors. Verdi introduced him to Ced as Luca Spinelli, one of his protégés from the Accademia working on the conservation work of ‘The Awakening’.

  Spinelli was full of questions about Ced’s program that he hurled excitedly at him as they walked towards the chapel. Normally, Ced would have been pleased to discuss his work with a like-minded art expert, but the setbacks of the past few days had left him feeling more than a little insecure about the whole project. He caught Verdi’s eye with a plaintive look. Picking up on it immediately, Verdi put an arm around Spinelli’s shoulder.

  “Luca, your enthusiasm is, as ever, a delight to see in this cynical world. May you never lose it. But you must remember that Cedric is about to experience a special moment, a moment that can only occur once. He is about to stand before a truly magnificent work of art for the first time, to have its beauty flow over him and caress him with its wonder. You must remember the awe you felt when you first laid eyes on this creation, Luca. It is a magical, religious moment, like speaking to God. Such moments deserve tranquility, peace. I am sure there will be time later for you to discuss technical matters.”

  The young man bowed his head in submission.

  “Certainly, dottore, I sometimes forget how privileged I am to be in the presence of this work every day. I shall leave you in peace.”

  He nodded his head at them and walked away in the direction of the site office.

  Verdi threw a conspiratorial wink at Ced.

  “Thanks, Corrado,” nodded Ced gratefully. “He’s a good lad but it’s hard to get enthusiastic about something that I’m seriously thinking might have to be binned.”

  Verdi shook his head. “It will never come to that, Cedric; your program is too good. I have every confidence you will solve your little problem.”

  They walked into the chapel. Inside was a rectangular nave with a small chancel at the far end. The only natural light came from two round windows in the wall above the main doors.

  The open space of the nave was divided into two: a working area of tables and benches for the conservationists cordoned off by red ropes, and a public area behind for viewing. Verdi had called ahead to announce their arrival and the workers who would normally be quietly carrying out their tests and applying their pastes and solutions had disappeared for coffee.

  The fresco was large, about twenty feet by fifteen, and covered much of the wall behind the chancel. The whole chapel was dominated by it. The two round windows let in a surprising amount of light, and, augmented by three floods left on by the team of conservationists, ‘The Awakening’ stood before them bathed in light.

  Ced walked to the centre of the nave and let his eyes roam over the fresco.

  “What do you think, Cedric?” asked Verdi quietly after a few minutes. “Is it worth all the fuss?”

  “It’s truly magnificent, Corrado,” replied Ced. “No photograph or poster can ever do it justice. It has to be experienced in the flesh.”

  “Yes,” agreed Verdi, “and to think it was lost for so long. It has sat in this room hidden behind a covering of plaster for maybe five hundred years. It is a miracle that the building survived, a true miracle.”

  Ced pointed to a small assembly of scaffolding on one side of the fresco.

  “Would it be OK if I used that rig to look at it a bit closer?”

  “Go ahead, Cedric, that is why we are here. Have you noticed the pale grey eyes of that shepherd, the one that looks like your Mr Andrews?”

  “First thing I saw, Corrado; they hit me immediately.”

  He wheeled the scaffolding in front of the fresco and climbed onto its platform. From this vantage point he could study every inch of the detail. Taking a large magnifying glass from his pocket, he scrutinised the figures in the painting, looking first at the faces and then at the clothing. After that, he turned his attention to the bucolic scenery of the background.

  Scratching his head and frowning, he moved back to the figures, specifically the faces, using his magnifying glass to study one area, then another, and then back to the first.

  After about fifteen minutes, he called down to Verdi, who was using his binoculars to conduct his own study. “Corrado, have you looked in detail at the faces on these figures? Not the shepherd; the others, I mean. I assume they are the disciples from their clothing and the way they are looking directly at the Christ figure.”

  Missing the tension in Ced’s voice, Verdi chuckled in amusement. “So you’ve spotted the Piero self-portrait. It’s on the figure that is generally agreed to be St. Paul. Like many of his contemporaries, Piero included his face on a figure in a number of his paintings, Cedric. The famous one is the figure in ‘The Resurrection’.”

  Cedric sat down on the platform, his legs dangling over the edge.

  “I know, Corrado, I’ve seen it.” His voice was distant, distracted.

  He paused and clasped his hands in front
of him in his lap, his head bent downwards as he gathered his thoughts. He looked up and fixed his eyes on Verdi. He spoke slowly and deliberately.

  “I’d agree, Corrado, that the face on that saint, St. Paul, is Piero’s face. The features are the same as those in the other self-portraits he produced. But,” he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper as he shook his head in disbelief at what he was saying, “I don’t think he painted it.”

  “What?” cried Verdi, in shock. “What do you mean, you don’t think he painted it? Are you saying that this fresco isn’t a Piero? I cannot agree with you, Cedric!”

  He looked around in panic in case anyone else had come into the church.

  Ced put up a hand to stop him.

  “I’m not saying that, Corrado, not at all. I think that Piero painted quite a portion of this work. But the portrait of himself, and … well, it’s difficult to say without a much more detailed examination, but I’d say that about forty per cent is della Francesca, and sixty per cent is another artist. Not a group of his apprentices, Corrado. Just one other artist.”

  Verdi rushed forward to the scaffolding. “Help me up, Cedric, I need you to show me exactly what you mean. I have studied this work in great detail and so have many other art experts. It’s agreed that there is some minor variation in style, but it’s also agreed that it is substantially the work of Piero.”

  “I should have formed the same opinion until I started to look for all the nuances that are searched for in my program. I think whoever painted alongside Piero was not only influenced by him – a gifted apprentice, say – but he actively tried to copy his style, to use Piero’s own style signature.”

  “You mean more than simply painting in Piero’s style because that is the way he had been taught, he was deliberately trying to disguise the fact that Piero wasn’t creating the whole work? He was forging part of a Piero della Francesca fresco while the man himself was working alongside him?”

  “Exactly, although I’m not sure that it would constitute forgery.” He paused, sighing. “That’s my first conclusion, Corrado. But my second conclusion is more ... worrying.”

  Verdi turned to face him. “What do you mean, ‘worrying’? That sounds like a piece of very British understatement.”

  Ced stared at the floor of the platform, gathering his thoughts. Then he lifted his eyes to Verdi’s.

  “Corrado, I’ve spent the last few days in London and here in Italy poring over paintings that have confounded my comparison program - the Perinis, the de la Places and the Lorenzinis; and there were also the Morettis. Not only have I checked every damn line of that program a hundred times, but I’ve studied the brushstrokes it examines, tried to get my eye to distinguish the subtleties that it can pick up, although it’s designed to do it far better than I or anyone else can. I haven’t been able to distinguish the works of those artists one from the other any more than my program can, or any more than you have so far, I regret to say.

  “It hadn’t really occurred to me before how much of Piero della Francesca’s techniques are in those paintings. They are not by his hand; they are distinguishable, although they are very influenced by him. When I started to look around this fresco this morning, Corrado, I nearly fell off the scaffolding. I’m either delusional or I’m seeing the same technique here as well.”

  Disbelief clouded Verdi’s face. “You mean you can’t distinguish some of this painting from the Perinis and … and the others?”

  Ced nodded. “I can’t by eye. What I need to find out is whether my program can. If it can’t, we have yet another nail in its coffin.”

  “And in ours, Cedric,” muttered Verdi. “We are supposed to be the experts. If we can’t tell one artist from another, who can?”

  Ced climbed down from the scaffolding, his heart heavy. He went outside to Verdi’s car and retrieved his imaging equipment. He had no interest in photographing the entire fresco; that had been done many times. What he wanted were images of small sections of the painting that the program could analyse in the greatest of detail.

  He clamped the scaffolding and set up his tripod, camera and lights. Meanwhile, Verdi was pacing the chapel. He would occasionally stop, raise his head and turn in Ced’s direction, as if he were about to raise a significant point, but then his head would drop, his hands clasp each other behind his back, and he would continue pacing.

  After an hour, Ced had what he considered to be enough images. He packed away his equipment and climbed down from the scaffolding.

  “I’m done, Corrado. I can’t do anything more until I get back to Rome; I didn’t bring my computer with me.”

  Verdi reached up and put a hand on Ced’s shoulder. “Cedric, listen,” he said quietly. “What you have discovered this morning is potentially shattering. Its implications would reverberate all the way up to the President of the Republic. It’s not so much that less of the fresco might have been painted by della Francesca than we thought, although that is bad enough. The more difficult matter is this confusion over styles. Until that is explained, we must keep this to ourselves. Do you agree?”

  He looked around as he spoke, still worried that somebody might be listening to their conversation.

  “I agree absolutely, Corrado. If we’re not careful, we could become totally discredited.”

  “Along with the Accademia and all the experts who have deliberated over this painting,” added Verdi.

  They walked out to the car.

  “Do you still want to see ‘The Resurrection’?” asked Verdi.

  “I’ve seen it on a number of occasions before, Corrado, and there are enough hi-res images on line for me to check it later. I’d rather get lunch over with and head back to Rome,” replied Ced morosely.

  As the tyres of the Maserati threw up gravel from the drive, Luca Spinelli rushed from the site office. He had been hoping for a long and detailed discussion with the English expert. As it was, he had to content himself with watching the sleek sports car disappear through the trees towards the gate.

  Arriving in Arezzo, they went straight to the Piazza Grande in the heart of the city’s historic centre where they found the superintendent of fine art for the Arezzo region, Giorgio Bonazzi, waiting for them in his chosen restaurant. By contrast to Verdi, Bonazzi was a harassed-looking overweight man in his late forties crammed into a suit that had been bought when his girth carried far fewer kilos. He wore thick glasses and he spoke with an Italian accent that even to Ced’s untrained ear was very different from what he had heard in Rome. To Ced’s relief, he also spoke no English – Ced could leave Verdi to hold court and drift in his own sea of worries.

  The lunch, for which neither Ced nor Verdi had any appetite, was delicious. Bonazzi had gone to a great deal of trouble in his ordering and both men tried their hardest to appear appreciative. Verdi refused any wine on the grounds he was driving, but Ced had no choice but sample a local red that Bonazzi eulogised at length to Verdi, insisting he translate. Verdi kept it short.

  “He says it is from a local boutique vineyard – one with a very low production but which lovingly cares for its grapes and then monitors the fermentation, bottling and storage with more attention than you would give a patient in intensive care. Look suitably impressed even if you just want to spit the stuff onto the floor.”

  Ced laughed and swirled the wine round his mouth. “It’s actually delicious, Corrado, you old cynic, even though it’s not from Lazio. There are hints of several fruits, blackberry being the strongest, but there is something else. It’s like a plum, but it’s very delicate.”

  “Madonna, you sound like the writer of some pretentious wine magazine!” snorted Verdi as he turned to Bonazzi to repeat what Ced had told him, embellishing it with his own floweriness.

  Bonazzi beamed in delight and told them the subtle fruit Ced had detected was a special wild plum that grew in the area that affected the flavour of the grapes. He poured Ced another glass.

  Keen to head back to Rome, the two men tried hard to lea
ve, but Bonazzi was having none of it. He knew of Ced’s program, and he wanted to show him a painting he had recently acquired as well as discuss several paintings housed in the city’s art museum.

  In his heart, Ced knew this was an important opportunity to gather more information since three of the paintings in the museum were Tommaso Perinis, but he was desperate to follow up his morning’s imaging.

  Bonazzi’s office, a short walk away in the fourteenth-century Palazzo del Comune, was a large room heavily panelled in dark wood. A huge antique desk dominated one end while a more modern display table occupied the other. In the centre were two sofas and a coffee table where he entertained his visitors.

  With a certain amount of theatre, Bonazzi walked over to the display table and picked up two medium-sized paintings. He spoke rapidly to Verdi who translated for Ced.

  “As he said earlier, he has three Tommaso Perinis from the art museum to show you – here are two and the other is on its way.”

  Ced took the first of the paintings. It was a portrait of a middle-aged man in the clothing and bonnet commonly worn by merchants in sixteenth-century Tuscany. He could see immediately that it was typical of Tommaso Perini.

  He smiled at Bonazzi. “This is a stunning example of Perini’s work, signore,” he said, to which the superintendent nodded eagerly and passed him the second painting.

  While Ced was studying this, there was a knock on the door and a young woman entered carrying the third painting. She appeared to have arrived straight from the catwalk of a fashion show. Assistant curator Maria di Laurentis cast a practised eye around the room, singled out Ced and smiled seductively at him. She walked over to the coffee table.

  “Shall I leave the painting here, dottore?” she purred softly in English. When it was clear her boss hadn’t understood, she barked it again at him in rapid Italian.

  “Uh, grazie, Maria,” replied the embarrassed Bonazzi.

  Maria di Laurentis leaned over the coffee table and handed Ced the painting she was carrying, displaying to him as she did the substantial contents of her cream silk blouse.

  With great difficulty, Ced raised his eyes to hers.

  “Thank you, er, grazie,” he stuttered.

  “Prego, Dottor Fisher,” she replied, smiling coquettishly.

  “Grazie, Maria, that will be all for now,” said Bonazzi in Italian.

  The girl stood up straight and tossed her head at the director, her smile evaporating. She walked slowly from the room, turning once more to catch Ced’s eyes as she closed the door.

  “Cedric.”

  There was no reply.

  “Cedric!” smiled Verdi insistently.

  “What?”

  “Mind your tongue. If it hangs out any further, you’re going to damage that painting.”

  Ced grinned sheepishly at him, shook his head and turned his attention to the third painting.

  A few minutes later, Ced turned to Verdi. “These are all superb examples of Perini’s work, Corrado. Does Dottor Bonazzi know of their provenance?”

  “He told me it is beyond question. These paintings have not left Arezzo once in four hundred and fifty years.”

  “I’m itching to get back to Rome to work up the images from this morning, but I really would like to add these three to my library, if that’s possible. It’s too good an opportunity to miss. Do you think the dottore would agree?”

  “I’ve already asked him and he would be delighted to oblige.”

  “I’ll need to pop to the car and get my stuff. It won’t take a moment.”

  Verdi explained this to Bonazzi, who replied in Italian.

  “The superintendent says he will send his young assistant curator to help you, Cedric,” said Verdi. Then he laughed, seeing the look of panic in Ced’s eyes. “Don’t worry, he has more than one assistant curator and this one’s a perfectly harmless young man.”

  Bonazzi lifted his phone to call the man and then walked to a cupboard beyond his display table. He unlocked the door with a key from a bundle attached to his trouser belt and took out another painting. He turned to explain something to Verdi, staring lovingly at the painting as he did.

  “The superintendent has another painting he’d like to show you, Cedric. This one he bought for the museum recently when he was in Venice.”

  Ced stood and walked to the table where Bonazzi had set the painting on a small easel.

  It was smaller than the other three, a portrait of a woman in her twenties, again in clothing typical of the early or mid-sixteenth century. Ced studied the style and brushwork; clearly another Tommaso Perini, he thought. He immediately recognised her as a younger version of the woman in the portrait Lawrence Forbes had shown him in London. He looked up into Bonazzi’s eager eyes.

  “An exquisite portrait, dottore,” he said. “Really beautiful. How interesting that it travelled all the way to Venice only for you to bring it back here again.”

  Bonazzi waited while Verdi translated and then frowned as he replied.

  “He doesn’t understand Cedric. He’s asking what you mean,” said Verdi.

  “Well,” smiled Cedric, it’s a Tommaso Perini, clearly, but from earlier in his life since I’ve seen this same model painted by him in middle age. What I meant was that he obviously painted it here in Arezzo, which is where he worked, and at some stage it was bought or taken to Venice. Now it’s come back.”

  Verdi repeated this in Italian to Bonazzi, who started to shake his head furiously. There followed an intense conversation in rapid Italian between the two men that finished with Bonazzi turning on his heel and marching over to the cupboard where he kept the painting. He pulled out a large white envelope and retrieved a certificate from it. He marched back to Verdi and thrust it into his hands. Verdi read it carefully and shook his head.

  He sighed deeply and turned to Ced.

  “Cedric, you are not going to like this.”

  Ced eyed him warily.

  “Cedric, Dottor Bonazzi says you are mistaken and with this document he can prove it. He says this painting is not by Tommaso Perini, although he agrees the style is similar and he can understand your confusion. He says, and this document confirms, that it is by a little-known Venetian artist called Giovanni di Luca who worked exclusively in Venice in the first part of the sixteenth century.”

  He paused, noting the shock in Cedric’s face.

  “It’s another one, Cedric; we’ve found another one!”