Rare Traits (The Rare Traits Trilogy Book I) Page 9

By the spring of 1522, thanks to di Roberti’s contacts, Giovanni di Luca was well established in a studio in the heart of the city, all worries of Naples and exposure by the Church pushed to the back of his mind. He was working on a portrait of the Duke of Verona’s stunningly beautiful eighteen-year-old daughter, Cecilia. During one of the final sittings for the portrait, Giovanni’s assistant interrupted him with a message that there was a gentleman to see him. The youth was rather agitated, knowing that Giovanni discouraged interruptions.

  “Send him in, Umberto,” he reluctantly told the boy.

  Umberto opened the door and in swept a tall and imposing man in his early thirties wearing a flowing emerald green cloak over a matching doublet and hose. His eyes darted around, taking in everything. He took off his pointed green hat, bowed politely to Cecilia’s chaperones and then rather more elaborately to Cecilia herself, his eyes remaining on her with great interest. He then turned to Giovanni.

  “Signor di Luca, I must seek your forgiveness for this intrusion. May I introduce myself? Tiziano Vecellio.”

  He bowed again, this time towards Giovanni.

  “You need no introduction, signore,” replied Giovanni, “your reputation precedes you. I am honoured that you should wish to visit me.”

  “You are too kind, Signor di Luca. I wonder, as a fellow artist, would it be presumptuous of me to ask permission to view your portrait of this exquisite young lady.”

  “Please.” Giovanni gestured towards the painting.

  Vecellio, who would be known to future generations of English-speakers as Titian, moved round the easel to study the painting. After several minutes, he stood back.

  “Remarkable work, Signor di Luca. I had heard that your portraiture rivalled mine, but this work, it’s breathtaking in its delicacy and subtlety of tone.”

  “You are very generous, Signor Vecellio,” said Giovanni, bowing his head.

  “Not at all, signore. But I am intrigued by your style. It is reminiscent of works of the last century; I can see some of the sfumato technique of the great da Vinci. One sees it less often these days. Have you not been tempted to experiment with more vivid colour?”

  Giovanni smiled and walking over to a leather portfolio, pulled out two carnival scenes.

  “I love the use of rich colour in certain situations, Signor Vecellio, as you can see from these drafts, but for portraits, I prefer to keep my tones more muted.”

  Vecellio took the two paintings and studied them. “I underestimated your versatility, Signor di Luca. I apologise. But these are no drafts; they are masterpieces. Who has commissioned them, may I ask?”

  “No one, signore, they are solely for my own amusement.”

  Vecellio shook his head. “They should be adorning the walls of a fine palazzo, or the council chamber of the Signoria, not hidden away in your portfolio.”

  Giovanni smiled. “When the series is completed, signore, perhaps I shall offer them for sale. But there is much I still want to try with them.”

  Vecellio put the paintings down and offered his hand. “Signor di Luca – may I call you Giovanni to my Tiziano? – would you do me the honour of visiting my studio in the very near future? I should be humbled to show you my work.”

  Giovanni was delighted. He knew of Vecellio’s reputation and how he preferred to be called Da Cadore from the name of the town where he was born, reserving the use of his Christian name for close friends and the very few people he considered his artistic equal.

  He grasped Vecellio’s hand firmly.

  “Tiziano,” he smiled, “I should be greatly honoured to visit you at the earliest opportunity.”

  The two became firm friends, meeting to discuss new ideas and projects whenever Vecellio was in Venice. Giovanni found him a very adventurous artist, his use of colour innovative and exciting. It influenced his own work, taking him out of the fifteenth century into the more experimental sixteenth. Nevertheless, despite their close friendship, Vecellio made no attempt to persuade Giovanni to expand his horizons beyond relatively small canvasses. Whether this was from respect for his stated preferences or from a perceived threat to his own position, Giovanni never knew, but he was more than happy with the status quo.

  In early June 1530, a few days after his hundred-and-third birthday – to his Venetian friends it was his fortieth – Giovanni received a note from Giacomo di Roberti inviting him to dinner the following evening. He had scribbled on it ‘Someone interesting I should like you to meet’.

  “Di Luca!” cried di Roberti, clapping his hands in delight as Giovanni was shown into a third floor reception room of his vast house. “Let me introduce you to my esteemed guest. This elegant gentleman is my very good friend, Signor ‘Enery Marka-ham.”

  The tall, slim and silver-haired Markham, a man in his late fifties, stepped towards Giovanni and bowed his head. Speaking in good but accented Italian, he looked Giovanni in the eye and smiled warmly.

  “Henry Markham at your service, signore. I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Your reputation as an artist is, might I say, second to none. I hope that following this most fortunate meeting I might be able to request your undoubtedly highly sought-after services.”

  Giovanni bowed his head and began to reply. “Signor Markham, I–” But Markham interrupted him, pointing at di Roberti.

  “You see, Giacomo, my language is not as impossible as you make it!” He turned to Giovanni, “Bravo, Signor di Luca! That was a perfect rendition of my name. Please be so kind as to attempt my Christian name.”

  Giovanni smiled. “Henry,” he said, “Henry Markham.”

  “Bravo! Bravo!” exclaimed the delighted Markham. “You have an excellent ear, signore. You must give our tone-deaf host some lessons!”

  Di Roberti hooted with laughter. “That’s exactly like I said it. ‘Enery. ‘Enery Marka-ham.”

  Later, during the dinner, Giovanni continued the thread of conversation they had started earlier.

  “Signor Markham, you mentioned that you might want to engage my services. I should be delighted to attempt your likeness.”

  “Oh, it’s not my likeness I seek, Signor di Luca, I wouldn’t waste a piece of canvas on my ageing and uninteresting features. No, it is my daughter, Beth, whose portrait I desire. She will be arriving here soon from London. The fortunate girl inherited my late wife’s beauty, and there is nothing I should like more than to see that beauty captured on canvas.”

  When he heard mention of Markham’s daughter, di Roberti bellowed down the table at Giovanni.

  “I believe Signor Marka-ham’s daughter will be a challenge even for your exceptional skills, di Luca. If she is like her dear late mother, she will have a beauty unsurpassed in this city.”

  Noting the slight bristling of the ladies at the table, and wincing from a kick from one of his daughters, he added, “Present company excepted, of course,” and guffawed all the more.

  Markham lost no time in visiting Giovanni’s studio and buying several of his paintings. They quickly became friends, with Markham even attempting to teach Giovanni some English. Whenever di Roberti was around, Giovanni noticed he and Markham would retreat into whispered conversations. He wondered what they were plotting.

  Once Beth Markham arrived in Venice in late August 1530, her father wasted no time in introducing her to Venetian society. Giovanni di Luca was among the guests at the first dinner held in her honour.

  Although normally self-assured, Beth felt nervous as she made her entrance to the reception room of her father’s newly rented house, knowing that all twenty-two pairs of the guests’ eyes would be upon her. The buzz of conversation filling the room suddenly hushed as the guests appraised her looks. A beaming di Roberti marched forward to greet her, breaking the spell.

  “Signore e Signori,” he cried, “may I take the opportunity of introducing my esteemed friend ‘Eneri’s charming and beautiful daughter, Betta.”

  Beth curtseyed demurely to the room, smiling in amusement at di Roberti’s rend
ering of her name. Giovanni, standing at the back of the room, felt his breath catch involuntarily as he saw her. With her rich blonde curls drawn back by an elaborate set of combs to emphasise her angular features and high cheekbones, Beth’s Anglo-Saxon beauty was like none he had seen before. He waited impatiently to be introduced.

  “My dear,” said Markham to Beth, “this is Signor Giovanni di Luca, the artist I have been telling you about and whose work you have already seen adorning my offices.”

  Giovanni bowed his head and lifted Beth’s hand to his lips. He was aware of her looking into his pale grey eyes.

  “Signorina Markham,” he said, “it is a great pleasure to meet you. Your father has told me much about you.”

  Beth smiled at him playfully and replied in English. “Signor di Luca. It seems my father has been talking about us both, since after all he has told me, I feel as if I already know you. He has told me you have a natural ear for languages.”

  Slightly taken aback at what was clearly a need to reply in English, Giovanni stammered, “Signorina Markham, I, er, think-a that your father has been-a too generous. My English eez, I am-a sure, of-a very poor quality.”

  “Bravo, Signor di Luca,” cried Beth, clapping her hands in delight. “Your English is excellent. With a little more instruction, you will soon be speaking like an Englishman.”

  He smiled at her and switched back to Italian. “For the benefit of the other guests, I think we should use Italian. I know you are very comfortable with the language and everyone here can speak it as well as they can Venetian.”

  “Ah, Venetian, Signor di Luca,” replied Beth, her Italian excellent. “Is it really a difficult tongue?”

  “It is not too difficult, Signorina. I myself could not speak a word when I arrived here some years ago, but now it is second nature to me.”

  Later that evening, when the guests had gone, Henry Markham relaxed on a balcony overlooking the Grand Canal, his beloved daughter sitting beside him.

  “A very successful evening, Beth. You had these Venetians eating out of your hand. Do you think you will be able to live among them?”

  “I have no doubt, Papa. Your friends were all charming people.”

  “And the dashing artist, di Luca, how did you find him?”

  “Oh I found him very well, Papa, a delightful man. But I am surprised by his youthful looks. Did you say he was forty years old? He really does not look it.”

  “Yes, he could certainly pass for someone much younger. And what an artist! I don’t think I have ever seen such skill. In my opinion he rivals this Da Cadore fellow. But he does seem to lack ambition. He’s content with only taking commissions for portraits from private families.”

  “I hope that I can see a lot more of him, Papa. He seems to me to be a very interesting man, despite his lack of ambition.”

  “We can certainly arrange that, my dear,” smiled her father, relieved that she appeared to like his choice of potential husband for her, not that he thought he had made it too obvious.

  Beth smiled softly at him, fully aware of his thoughts and intentions. She was very pleased that this man her father thought worthy of her had turned out to be both handsome and charming.

  In the weeks that followed, it was clear to Beth that Giovanni liked her very much. He would call at the Markham house frequently, although he often remained rather distant and formal, as if he were suppressing his emotions.

  For his part, Giovanni was worried. His feelings for Beth were growing stronger by the day. But he was, he assumed, still married, albeit as Stefano Crispi in another city. He could not make a commitment to Beth without knowing the situation in Naples. He decided to employ an agent to make discreet enquiries.

  During the two months following the agent’s departure, Giovanni waited impatiently. Beth and her father noticed he was more distracted than usual, but they put it down to an artistic temperament and the heat of an unusually hot summer.

  When the agent finally returned in the first week of August, Giovanni bustled him quickly into a back room of his studio and sat him down.

  “Tell me everything, Alfredo, everything. What have you discovered? How are the two Santini ladies?”

  “Both ladies are well, signore. Signora Francesca is living in the same household as her sister, Signora Anna, and her husband—”

  “Husband! Francesca Santini has a husband?” interrupted Giovanni.

  “No, signore, it is Signora Anna Santini who has a husband. Quite an elderly one, a notary called Aldo Farrara.”

  “Farrara! The scheming devil!” muttered Giovanni under his breath.

  “It seems, signore, that Signora Anna has two children from an earlier marriage to an artist, a Gianni Crispi, who was murdered in a street brawl. Both are now adults and indeed married with their own children.”

  Giovanni was stunned: he was a great-great grandfather.

  “And she has two more children from her marriage to Signor Farrara,” continued the agent.

  “And you say that the Signora Francesca lives with her sister?”

  “Yes, signore, she does, together with her daughter, Paola.”

  “Her daughter!” Giovanni felt a chill run down his spine. “How… how old is this daughter?” he whispered.

  “She is twelve, signore; she was born in August 1518.”

  Giovanni sat down hard in a chair. A daughter. Paola must be his daughter.

  “Tell me about this daughter, Alfredo. What did you find out? How does she look?”

  “She will, I think, signore, be a woman of great beauty. She is already very handsome, and she has the most striking pale grey eyes.”

  He paused to look up at Giovanni. “Rather like yours, I should say, signore.”

  “Yes, yes, quite a coincidence, I’m sure, Alfredo.” Giovanni looked away hurriedly.

  “I found out a little more about the child, signore. It appears that she enjoys the most exceptional health. It is reported that she is indeed never ill, not even with the usual childhood coughs and sneezes.”

  “Did you find out anything about the child’s father, Alfredo?” asked Giovanni hesitantly.

  “He was called Stefano Crispi, signore. He was Signora Anna’s late husband’s uncle and an artist, like yourself. He disappeared suddenly, long before the child was born and the child has since taken her mother’s name. She is Paola Santini. Her mother insisted on this after the annulment, signore.”

  “The annulment?”

  “Yes, signore. Signora Francesca had her marriage to Signor Crispi annulled on the grounds that he was in league with the Devil. When the child was born, there were many ceremonies of exorcism to remove any influence her father’s curse may have had on her.”

  Once the agent had left, Giovanni leaned forward and buried his head in his hands. A daughter! And very likely one who was like him. Paola. A daughter he would probably never see.

  When he finally stirred from his introspection, he got up and walked over to a mirror to take a long look at himself. He was a man of a hundred and four who had no idea why he had lived so long, nor how long he would live. Was it not wrong, absurd, immoral even, for a man of his age to have feelings for a woman born when he was in his eighties? He looked again into his eyes in the mirror and made a decision. If he was going to ask Beth to marry him, he would have to tell her everything, even though it would run the risk of her rejecting him and perhaps even denouncing him.

  That afternoon Giovanni called at the Markham house. Henry was out on business so Beth was alone. He was shown into a third-floor sitting room with a commanding view of the Grand Canal. As Beth entered, she saw that Giovanni was preoccupied, staring out of the window. She sighed to herself, wondering if this was going to be another difficult afternoon where she had to do most of the talking.

  To her surprise Giovanni walked over to her and took both her hands in his.

  “Beth, you look radiant in that wonderful dress. Please come and sit by me. There is something I need to discus
s with you.”

  Beth’s heart leapt. Was he finally going to make a declaration of his love for her?

  “Beth, I think it must be obvious that I have very strong feelings for you, feelings that I hope might be reciprocated.” He held up his hand to stall her when he saw she was about to interrupt him, her eagerness showing in her eyes.

  “My dear Beth, please, there is something I must tell you about myself. Something that you are going to find very hard to believe.”

  She frowned, her heart pounding. “Tell me, Giovanni. Whatever it is, I’ll try to understand.”

  “Beth, what I am about to say will probably make you think I have lost my senses, that I am mad. However, I can assure you that I am perfectly sane.”

  He took a breath. “Beth, you know me as a man of forty-one—”

  “And a very youthful forty-one,” she interrupted eagerly.

  “But what if I told you that I am not that age, Beth, but much, much older.”

  She put her hand to her mouth to suppress a laugh. “But how could that be, Giovanni? If you were to confess that you were younger, I should not be surprised, but older? I cannot imagine such a thing.”

  She saw he was looking very serious, his whole demeanour that of a man consumed by worry. She turned her hands in his and gripped his fingers tightly. “I apologise. I shouldn’t interrupt. Pray continue.”

  “It is true, Beth, but I cannot explain it. I am telling you because if you were to consider me worthy, as … as a possible husband, I think you should know the truth about me, as difficult as it might be to understand.”

  “A husband!” she gasped. Letting go of his hands, she clutched her own together to her breast, “Giovanni, are you–?”

  “Beth, please, hear me out. Once I have finished, you might no longer think me suitable. You might, instead, find me repulsive.”

  She was shocked. “Giovanni, what have you done? Is it something terrible?”

  “I have done nothing, Beth. It’s, well, it’s my age. It seems I have a strange and inexplicable condition. No, do not look concerned; I am not ill – far from it. Not only am I not ill, I have never been ill, not once in my life. Not a single cough, cold, fever. Nothing. Not as a child, not as an adult. Not in a hundred and four years, Beth.”

  “A hundred and four years! Giovanni, what are you saying? That you are a hundred and four years old?”

  She laughed dismissively. “Giovanni, don’t be absurd. Nobody lives that long, and if they did, they would not look youthful as you do. They would look horribly wrinkled! This extreme summer heat must have affected your mind. You are delirious, my dear. Let me fetch you some water.”

  He put his hand on her arm. “Beth, I am not delirious. What I have told you is true. Since I reached the age of about thirty I simply have not aged. I have maintained perfect health despite having been exposed from time to time to the most fearful of diseases.” He paused, seeing she was beginning to look worried. He held her hands tighter and told her about his lives in Naples and San Sepolcro, his two wives and his son. And then he told her about Paola.

  He studied Beth’s face to see if she seemed to be genuinely believing him or whether she was simply humouring him. He took her hands again.

  “Beth, I have only today been told the information about my daughter in Naples and about the annulment. I could not possibly have asked you to marry me if I knew I was still married, even if it were in another lifetime and another city. Now, having heard my tale, I doubt you would want to consider me. But please, dear Beth, if you reject my tale and think me mad, before you go to your father and declare me so, please give me a chance to escape this city.”

  “Escape this city? I could not possibly allow you to do that! No, Giovanni di Luca – for that is the name I know you by and the name I shall use – you came here this afternoon, I believe, with two intentions in mind. One was to tell me this amazing, unbelievable, incredible tale of your life, a tale that will require some time to absorb. You have told me your tale. I have not rejected it since you seem so earnest, so … believable. So pray tell me, what was your second intention this afternoon, assuming you were successful in your first?”

  She looked at him mischievously, raising her eyebrows in question.

  Giovanni stared back at her, hardly daring to believe what he was hearing. Had she really accepted his story?

  “Beth, my second intention this afternoon, was to ask if you would possibly consider being my wife. Will you marry me, Beth?”

  “Well, knowing my feelings for you, my friends have teased me about the possibility of marrying an older man. Little do they know,” she laughed.

  She suddenly sat back, withdrawing her hands from him and tilting her head slightly sideways.

  “Kind sir, I sincerely accept your proposal. But you shall, of course, have to seek my father’s permission.”

  Giovanni took her hands again and pressed them to his lips. “Beth, I am so happy. But, could this —”

  “This incredible tale you have told me?” she interrupted. “Could it remain our secret? Of course. It must. No one must know, not even my father. Although I’m not sure that I like the prospect of catching you up in age and then overtaking you. Becoming old while you remain as you are. You might be attracted by another young woman.”

  “Never, Beth, on my life. As for my staying like this, surely it cannot last. I must start to age soon. I simply don’t believe I can carry on like this forever.”

  “Well, don’t start yet, my love, I want our marriage to be a long one.”

  The following fifteen years were a time of continuing happiness for them both. In 1542, Beth produced a boy, Piero, followed two years later by a girl, Sofia. Both children were healthy, although neither appeared to have Giovanni’s ‘condition’.

  Giovanni called on Vecellio whenever the now famous man was in Venice. Like Piero della Francesca before him, Vecellio’s keen artistic eye saw through Giovanni’s attempts at disguising his youthfulness. It puzzled him greatly, but unlike Piero, he never discussed it.

  In June 1548, two months after Beth had announced that she was pregnant with their third child, Giovanni returned one morning from Vecellio’s studio with news of a grand unveiling of his friend’s latest masterpiece.

  “It was commissioned by that fat and pompous merchant from Rome, Alvise Baldissera. The one who is always trying to ingratiate himself with the cardinal. It was only the size of the purse that persuaded Tiziano to take it on. He cannot stand the man.”

  At the ceremony two weeks later, Beth and Giovanni were watching in amusement as Tiziano held court to a gaggle of priests when the huge Baldissera waddled up to them, his tiny eyes staring piercingly at Giovanni’s from his bloated, porcine features. Ignoring Beth and any niceties, he said,

  “Signor di Luca, I believe. Heard all about you. Been meaning to chat. Come with me; something I want to show you.”

  Giovanni raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I won’t be long,” he said quietly to Beth.

  Baldissera led him to a large room separated from the reception hall by two corridors. On the way, Giovanni noticed the now eighty-year-old Giacomo di Roberti in full flood to a crowd of his attendants. Giovanni caught his eye and waved.

  “In here, di Luca,” said the still unsmiling Baldissera.

  The walls of the room were packed with paintings.

  “Something of a collector,” said Baldissera, with the sweep of an arm. “Thought you’d like to see my latest purchases.”

  He waddled to one corner, pointing at two portraits that Giovanni recognised in surprise. They were his own work. He frowned. “These were commissioned by–”

  “Conte Ludovico Contarini. I know. Died recently, family eager for money. Sold his collection.”

  “I didn’t know,” said Giovanni, glancing around the room uneasily.

  “Reminded me of these,” said Baldissera, waddling over to the opposite corner.

  As he followed, Giovanni’s eyes fell on two la
rge portraits mounted at head height. He gasped.

  “Recognise them?” said Baldissera, his face a sneer.

  But he didn’t wait for an answer. “Stefano Crispi, as you well know, Signor di Luca, or should I say, Signor Crispi.”

  He turned and stood close to Giovanni.

  “Couldn’t believe it when I saw those other two,” he said, sneering. “Just like these. Identical. It had to be you. I’d always wondered where you’d gone.”

  Giovanni said nothing, his mind racing.

  “You don’t remember me, do you, Crispi?” continued Baldiserra. “Not surprised. Thirty years ago I was an altar boy in the church in Naples your wife prayed in almost constantly. I was a skinny young lad then. Unrecognisable now. But not you. You’re exactly the same. Those eyes are unmistakeable. Well your pact with the Devil has just expired. He can’t help you now.”

  A noise from the door caused Giovanni to turn in panic. Four burly guards had quietly walked in.

  “Seize him!” ordered Baldissera. “Take him down the back stairs and bind him. We’ll let the cardinal decide on his fate later. But I’ve no doubt what will happen. Burning is the only way to free his miserable carcass from the Devil.”