Murder at the National Gallery (4 page)

“Si. Vuoi venire a vedere i miei tatuaggi?”

“You’ve lost me.”

“I asked if you’d like to come up and see my tattoos.”

“Your tattoos? Why would you—?”

“Just a phrase I happen to remember.”

“You don’t have any tattoos.”

“I know. Should I get one?”

“No.”

“I’d love to go to Italy with you. I can accompany you as your spouse. Maybe they have a museum tour for spouses, and a shopping mall.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Should I pack this afternoon?” he asked.

“You’re already packed.” Mac Smith always kept a suitcase packed “just in case.”

“Italy,” he said to no one, returning to his lunch. “Sounds lovely. Eat your salad, Annabel. It’s very good, and not at all Italian.”

Carlo Giliberti was waiting when Luther Mason arrived for their Alitalia flight to Rome. Mason would have preferred flying another carrier, on which he’d accumulated more frequent flier miles, but that wouldn’t have been politic. Alitalia had joined a growing list of corporate sponsors of the Caravaggio exhibition and had been designated the official carrier
of the art for the exhibition. It was expected, although unstated, that Gallery staff use the airline whenever possible. In return for this consideration, the airline had instituted its own quiet policy of upgrading senior Gallery personnel to first class.

The Italian cultural attaché and the senior curator were a study in opposites: Mason looked every bit the professor, or gallery curator. His double-breasted navy blazer was sculpted to his tall, slender frame. His shirt was a blue button-down model, his tie a muted blue paisley. He wore gray slacks and brown walking shoes with thick crepe soles. Mason held to what had become a hopelessly old-fashioned belief that one should dress nicely when traveling. His only fear of flying was that he would be seated next to someone wearing a tank top, sandals, and a baseball cap worn backwards, and who wanted to talk.

Giliberti, also thin, was considerably shorter. His suit was silver gray; hundreds of tiny metallic threads woven into the cloth shimmered in the overhead lights. The collar of his white shirt rose unnaturally high at the back of his neck. His tie was a palette of reds, greens, and yellows, his shoes highly polished black loafers with paper-thin soles. The cultural attaché’s swarthy face had a chiseled quality, the nose large and prominent, some acne pitting scarring his cheeks. His hair was coal-black, wavy, and wet.

Their traveling styles were different, too. Mason sat in his preferred window seat in first class, where he was less likely to be called upon to chat. The more gregarious Giliberti, a familiar face on Alitalia, was especially friendly this night with one of the flight attendants, engaging her in long, animated conversations. Mason contented himself with reading magazines and reports he’d carried aboard in a well-worn expandable brown-leather briefcase. Giliberti watched the movie, a current American comedy with Italian subtitles, its racy scenes deleted in order not to offend the flying public.

Mussolini would have been proud, Mason thought, as the aircraft pulled up to the gate precisely at its scheduled arrival time at Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci Airport, on the coast, fifteen miles east of the city. With Giliberti leading the way, they were
sped through Customs and into a waiting government Mercedes that took them to the Valadier Hotel in the heart of the Eternal City. The Valadier, once a brothel, was Luther Mason’s place of choice when in Rome. Its transformation into a luxurious hotel, with the largest bathrooms in the city, was inherently appealing. But it was its location that he especially enjoyed. Situated just below Pincio Hill, the Valadier was only a short walk to the splendors of Villa Borghese’s sumptuous grounds and esteemed museums, as well as the popular Piazza del Popolo.

“What time is our meeting?” Mason asked as he prepared to leave the Mercedes.

“Two hours,” replied Giliberti. “I’ll pick you up at ten-thirty.”

Mason followed the bellman and his luggage into the lobby gleaming with marble, polished brass, expanses of mahogany, and overflowing arrangements of fresh flowers. He was shown to the room he always tried to reserve, one of three with a terrace overlooking the Borghese gardens. He slowly and carefully unpacked, neatly arranging socks, underwear, and shirts in dresser drawers and positioning his hang-up clothing in the large closet so that the garments were equidistant from each other.

After a quick shower, he opened the door to allow room service to deliver coffee and fresh pastries. Ninety minutes later he joined Giliberti in the waiting car.

Alberto Betti was as corpulent as Carlo Giliberti was thin. Perhaps
round
was a better adjective to describe the minister of culture, whose office in the seventeenth-century Palazzo di Montecitorio was proportionally large to accommodate him, or so it seemed. Minister of Circles, Luther Mason thought, for Betti appeared to be constructed of a series of them, the type drawn by young children on stick figures. There was a circle for his head, almost perfect, its upper curved pate disturbed by strands of thinning black hair. A larger circle defined his torso
and was covered by a drab, wrinkled blue suit—enough material to make four suits of average size, Mason mused. The circles were supported by short tree trunks for legs inside his trousers. Like most overweight people, Betti tended to perspire and to breathe laboriously. The long, slender black cigarettes he chain-smoked didn’t help.

In all his trips to Rome, Mason had never met Alberto Betti. Giliberti always took care of details involving the Italian government, including the payment of an occasional “gift” to an unnamed government official to, as Giliberti would say,
“ungere.”
Grease the palm. Never large sums. Petty graft, small enough for Mason to include on his expense account under “miscellaneous.” That was what bothered him most. To compromise one’s principles and reputation for such minor money was doubly distasteful to him. If you were going to steal, which he had never done, aside from penny-candy thefts as a small boy, at least steal big.

The globular minister of culture sat heavily behind his desk and asked,
“Cafè?”
Giliberti accepted, Mason declined. As they waited for Betti’s secretary to bring the coffee, Giliberti and Betti engaged in a spirited conversation. Mason, who had a working knowledge of Italian, quietly listened to their banter about women, the most recent of many political upheavals in Italy, food, and again, women. After coffee had been served, Mason asked Betti, in Italian, whether the problem of the “six-month rule” had been resolved.

Betti looked to Giliberti, smiled through fleshy lips, and raised his hands in a gesture that asked, “What is the answer?”

“I explained to Mr. Mason on the flight here, your excellency, that it appeared to me, based upon our last conversation, that a solution was at hand. But as I also explained, it is not as easy to bend the rules these days as it was before the current situation.”

Mason knew the “current situation” referred to a series of Mafia scandals that had rocked both the Italian government and big business. The pressure was on. Rules, even the most archaic, were now being followed to the letter after decades of breaking them as a matter of national pride.

“But as is often the case,” Giliberti said, directing his comment to Mason and raising his eyebrows, “there is always the possibility of
l’eccezione
. An accommodation.” To Betti: “Am I correct, your excellency?
Fra amici
. We are among friends.”

Betti said,
“Si,”
shifted his bulk in his chair, and ran a finger between his circles, his collar, and the folds of his neck.

Giliberti smiled broadly at Mason. “You see, Luther, we are not nearly as unbending as you might previously have thought.”

“Let me be direct, Minister Betti,” said Mason. “Are you saying that an exception to the six-month rule will be made for our Caravaggio exhibition?”

The top circle broke into an arc resembling a grin. “The six-month rule is not without merit,” he said, pudgy hands taking flight. “You are certainly aware, Mr. Mason, that Italy is rich in artistic treasures. Does not this nation possess more great works of art than any other? We must have rules.”

Mason controlled a growing anger and frustration as he nodded. He didn’t need lectures from a fat politician whose only connection with the art world was to stand in the way of progress. But he knew what was coming. This time he had traveled to Rome prepared for it.

Betti continued: “All the world wishes to borrow our masterpieces. All the world’s museums want them displayed on their walls. You are no exception, you and your National Gallery.” He chuckled. “Obviously, a man of your artistic sensibilities understands the need for a country of origin like Italy to enact all possible legislation to protect its treasures.”

Mason’s stomach growled, matching his mood.

“This is especially necessary with an artist of Caravaggio’s stature and talent. His works rank among civilization’s finest. From his early days in Milan until his tragic death at the age of thirty-nine, he created the most inspired religious paintings of all time. There were those who were less than kind in their judgment of his work. Giovanni Baglione wrote that Caravaggio had ‘ruined the art of painting.’ Another, your Mr. Ruskin I believe, no, the English person, said he found Caravaggio’s work to represent—let me see if I accurately
recall what he said—he said it represented ‘horror and ugliness and filthiness of sin.’ But the more enlightened admirers of his work …”

Mason seriously wondered if he could contain himself any longer and not bolt from the room. What an insult to have this bureaucrat lecture
him
, Luther Mason, on the importance of Caravaggio. As far as he was concerned, no one in the world—including any Italian—knew more about the artist than he did. His expertise was acknowledged internationally. He’d written the definitive book on the artist’s work. His papers appeared in dozens of scholarly journals. To be subjected to this sham violated every one of his senses.

But he stayed, his face expressionless, his posture rigid in the overstuffed chair, his belly burning.

“You and your superiors have found the arrangements suggested to Carlo to be satisfactory?” Betti asked, as much with raised eyebrows as with his voice.

Mason thought he might choke on the word: “Yes.”

Betti said to Giliberti, “It will be carried out as instructed?”

Giliberti’s reply was an enthusiastic affirmative.

“Splendid,” said Betti, pushing himself up by placing his hands on the desk. “When reasonable men who share an appreciation of true genius and beauty can sit and rationally discuss such matters, a satisfactory conclusion is almost always reached.” He extended his hand to Mason. “It is my sincere hope that your Caravaggio exhibition in Washington will be the highlight of that esteemed institution’s long and illustrious history.”

“I’m certain it will be, Signor Betti.”

Mason waited in the reception area until Giliberti joined him. “You see, Luther? I told you everything had been worked out.”

They lunched at an outside table at Piccolo Mondo, on the Corso, the famous thoroughfare once used by ancient Romans for horse racing, now home to countless restaurants and cafes. Mason ordered cold pasta with tomato and basil, while Giliberti indulged in a heaping plate of
coda alla vaccinara
; Mason found the thought of eating oxtail off-putting.

“Are you sure you don’t want me at the meeting this afternoon?” asked Giliberti, referring to a three o’clock date Mason had at Galleria Borghese.

“Not necessary.”

Had he been entirely truthful, Mason would have admitted he’d had enough of his Italian friend for one day.

“Tonight? You have plans?”

“To read, and to go to bed early,” Mason said.

“If you change your mind, call me.”

As they finished their coffee and waited for the check, Giliberti leaned across the small table and said, “The minister is a sensible man,
si
?”

“The minister is an unprincipled slob,” Luther replied.

Giliberti recoiled in mock horror, then laughed too loudly. “Luther, even though we deal with great art, we also must recognize that it is a business, this loaning of paintings from one country to another. So a little money will pass hands from your country to ours, from someone there to someone here. Where is the harm in that? It is done every day,
si
? In your country. In my country.”

Mason’s bottled-up anger at what had transpired that morning now came from his mouth in a low, steady stream. “Carlo, we are talking about transporting precious, priceless paintings by Caravaggio from your country to mine to be put on display at the National Gallery. Because of your arbitrary rule that no art treasure may be out of the country longer than six months, and because the exhibition will travel to the Met and to London, we must again crate those precious paintings at the end of six months, put them on planes, and return them to Rome, where they will sit in your depressing airport for twenty-four hours to satisfy some stupid law, and then be flown back to the United States. Transporting those priceless works
once
is dangerous enough. To subject them to unnecessary packing and traveling is idiotic.”

Giliberti started to speak, but Mason continued. “On top of that, money is to be paid to certain unnamed individuals in your Ministry of Culture—
tangentopoli!
—bribesville—paid
to have the rule bent so that the paintings can be placed in greater jeopardy, and—”

The waiter placed the check in front of Giliberti, who didn’t make a move. Mason dumped an appropriate pile of
lire
on it, stood, and said, “You must excuse my moment of pique, Carlo. It was a very long flight, and an even longer hour with your minister of culture, who, by the way, hardly deserves the title. He bought the position, you say? I believe it. I’ll be in a considerably better mood after I get a good night’s sleep.”