Precious Gifts (10 page)

“You're thinking about your children?” he asked her, as though he could read her mind. She nodded and turned to him, and he could read volumes in her eyes. He had a sense that she was very much alone in life, and not entirely happy. “What made you come here?” he asked, wishing he could take a photograph of her, but he didn't want to bother her or make her feel scrutinized. He could tell she didn't like too much attention focused on her. And as a photographer, neither did he.

“I had some time on my hands, and I actually came to research a painting my ex-husband left me. We bought it here on our honeymoon. I always thought it was a fake, and he thought it was real. A Bellini. It's hard to tell if it was painted by a student, the master himself, or a brilliant forger. There's a monastery here known for researching works like that, and pursuing provenances. I always meant to come here about it and never did. So now here I am.” She smiled, and he looked intrigued.

“Could I go with you? It must be fascinating.”

“They have one of the most extensive art libraries in the world, mostly from the Renaissance, illuminated manuscripts and more recent books to research provenance. They've found many stolen works, authenticated some real mysteries, and debunked some paintings that private collectors and museums paid a fortune for. I've brought a photograph to see if they can trace this one. I feel like I owe it to my children to check it out.”

“Will you love it even if they say it's a fake?”

“It has sentimental value to me. That's different,” she said, thinking of Paul. It was a relic of a better time than their later years or his shocking revelation at the end.

Aidan was impressed by how much she knew about art and obviously loved it, and asked her about how she came to be so knowledgeable, as they chatted and watched passersby from where they sat.

“My grandfather was a famous art dealer in Paris, and my mother taught me a lot about art. She passed her love for it on to me before she died. It always fascinated me, and still does.” He could tell it was her passion, the way photography had always been his.

“Are you hungry?” he asked her after a while, and she nodded. “I found a funny little trattoria yesterday by accident. Want to give it a try?”

“Sure.” She smiled at him, amused by the friendship they had struck up—fellow travelers in Venice, who kept bumping into each other, after he'd saved her life in Rome. It was very picturesque and would make a good story when she went home, if she bothered to tell the girls. It was the kind of anecdote that wouldn't interest them much. They were too busy to wonder how she spent her time, and had their own lives to think about, not hers. They paid attention when they needed her help or serious advice, but not the rest of the time, for her daily pursuits. She was on her own now, and even more so without Paul to check in from time to time. And she had grown more solitary than she intended over the years. It made a chance encounter like the one with Aidan all the more entertaining, and she had time to enjoy it now.

The trattoria he took her to was lively and fun and noisy. There were mostly locals and a few tourists, the food was delicious, and they both had pesto pasta, mozzarella, and a big green salad, and
granite di limone
for dessert. It was the perfect meal for a hot day, and she would have gone back to her hotel to lie by the pool, but there was so much left they wanted to see. They walked the streets together all day, stopped in Piazza San Marco at the end of it, and both admitted they were exhausted and couldn't wait to get back to their respective hotels, but they'd had fun together. Véronique invited him to come to the monastery with her the next day, and he was delighted to accept.

“I was planning to go to Siena and Florence after Venice,” Aidan said, looking relaxed as they drank lemonade at a sidewalk café, while she waited for the boat from the Cipriani to pick her up. “Can I interest you in joining me?” She had the time, but didn't know him, yet they had enjoyed each other's company. She was sure her children would be horrified to hear about her traveling with a stranger, but she had looked him up on the Internet the night before at the hotel, and he appeared to be a real photographer, with a long list of gallery shows to his credit. He was what he said, if nothing else. “I have some time to kill before my show in Berlin. I have to go to prepare it in the next month, but until then I decided to take a break and wander around Italy. I wanted to come back to Venice, and a few of my favorite cities. Siena is wonderful. If you've never been there, you'd love it. And Florence is my favorite city for art.” She had been there many times and loved it, too.

She was thinking about his offer to travel with him. “I'd like that,” Véronique said cautiously, deciding to trust him, and not sure why she did. She could always leave at any point, if he made her uncomfortable or acted crazy. But he hadn't so far, and despite some of his radical ideas, he was pleasant, interesting, polite, and respectful, as well as outspoken and intelligent.

“Italy is so perfect this time of year.” She couldn't disagree with him, and there was nowhere she had to be until St. Paul de Vence in another month to see the château. She had the time, too.

They agreed to meet in Piazza San Marco the next day at eleven o'clock to go to the monastery about the painting, and continue their sightseeing. He suggested Harry's Bar for dinner the following night. It was an institution in Venice, and she liked the idea of going there, too. And the following day they would leave for Siena. He said he had a car in the parking lot, an old Austin-Healey he had been nursing for years. Although it wasn't as impressive as Nikolai's Ferrari, it sounded like fun to her. It was an adventure, which fit in with her current philosophy since Paul's death, that life was short and you had to seize it with both hands while you could. Aidan seemed to live that way, too.

He walked her to the boat dock, and she went back to the Cipriani, had a quick swim and dinner in her room. It had been a thoroughly enjoyable day, and Aidan had been good company.

She took out the photograph of the Bellini, and laid it on the desk for the next day. She could hardly wait to hear what the monks would say about it. And although she considered it unlikely, it would be amazing if it was real!

T
he next morning Véronique met Aidan at the Piazza San Marco, where he was enjoying an espresso at his favorite café. He saw her coming toward him and waved, and she sat down next to him, and he ordered an espresso for her, too. They chatted peacefully in the sunshine for a few minutes, and he asked to see the photograph of the Bellini. She took it out and showed him, and he studied it for a moment in silence, concentrating on the details.

“Beautiful painting,” he said admiringly. “It looks real to me.” It did to her, too, a little too much so, which was why she'd been suspicious of it since the beginning. She explained that to him as they drank their coffee.

“When it's too perfect, there's usually something wrong with it. Very few paintings have this kind of flawless precision, and if they do, they've been in museums for the last two hundred years. It may be by the school of Bellini, possibly even worked on by several of his students, but I just don't think it's by the master himself. I'm sure the monks will want to see the original, but at least they can start tracing the provenance, and where it's been for the last six hundred years.” The painting had certainly been painted in the fifteenth century—the question was by whom, an unknown or a master.

“This should be very exciting,” he said, fascinated by the story. He was catching the bug from her.

They finished their coffee, and Véronique had the address of the monastery, which was farther afield than they had ventured so far around Venice. It was the monastery of San Gregorio de la Luce, and they guessed that it would take them twenty minutes to walk there if they didn't lose their way. It was a Gregorian monastery that dated back to the fifteenth century, like so much of Venice. They had no appointment and were planning to drop in, and she hoped that at least one of the monks would speak French or English. She could manage in Italian, but not well enough to give them all the pertinent details of the painting.

Aidan gave her back the photograph, and she felt as if she were carrying the Holy Grail. Part of her wished that the painting would turn out to be genuine, it would be an incredible legacy to leave her children. But for the most part, she was prepared to hear ultimately that it was a fraud. They had bought it from an antique shop that didn't even exist anymore. The owner had brought it out of the back room, and had sold it to them for very little. She had gone back to look for the shop on her first day in Venice, and it was no longer there.

And as they walked in the direction of the monastery, it was hard not to stop at some of the beautiful small churches they saw. They promised each other to do so on their way back to the square. And they chatted easily as they walked along. Aidan said he had gone for a long stroll the night before, and had made new discoveries around his hotel, including a small restaurant where he'd had dinner. He said the food was fabulous, but they had already agreed to go to Harry's Bar that night, which was Véronique's favorite, and she was dreaming of their risotto Milanese, which she said was the best in the world. Aidan said he'd never been there but was excited to try it with her. It was one of the most famous restaurants in Venice, and known around the world. It had spawned many namesakes but none as good as the original, and she promised him a delicious meal.

It took them slightly longer than expected to reach the monastery, and when they got there, they found heavy bronze doors open to reveal a large courtyard where several monks were standing and talking. Véronique approached them, and asked if there was an office or library where she could consult someone about the provenance of a painting. Its veracity was a whole other issue and too complicated to explain. One of the brothers understood her mission immediately, and directed them to a small door, which was locked, and they rang a bell. It took a few minutes, but a monk in a brown habit came to the door and looked at them both. Véronique explained again. The monk told them to follow him, as they heard the church bells ring in the chapel and they saw all the monks in the courtyard go inside.

They were led into a small waiting room that looked almost like a cell, and a few minutes later a young brother in the habit and sandals of the order came to greet them and escort them deeper into the monastery. Véronique already had the photograph in her hand.

They were led down a long, narrow stone hallway and from there into a large room. It was a library, with stone floors, wood paneling, and shelves lined with enormous ancient books. There were two tall ladders and several monks carefully dusting and cleaning the books, and a very old monk at a desk. He glanced up when they entered and smiled at them, as Véronique and Aidan approached. There was something very holy about the atmosphere, and a wonderful smell of old parchment and leather from the books.

The older monk stood up when they reached his desk. He was small and round, his head was shaved as required by the order, and he had a snow-white beard. He would have looked like Santa Claus if it weren't for the monastic robe. He invited them to sit down on two straight-backed chairs, and smiled at them from across the desk.

“What brings you here?” he asked them in English, after hearing them talking to each other. He had an accent but spoke it well. He gazed from one to the other, and Véronique answered him in a hushed tone. She explained the history of the painting to him, in her life, and was candid about her doubts about it, but she said she had always wanted to know more, and had finally come to Venice to find out. She handed him the photograph.

He put on rimless spectacles, held the photograph close to his face, and frowned. Then he turned the photograph slowly around, holding it upside down for a long time. Véronique described the quality of the paint surface to him, and the few flaws it had, which were mostly due to time, since she genuinely believed it was of the era they said it was. The artist was in question, not the fact that it had been painted during the Renaissance. And it was obvious that she was knowledgeable about fifteenth-century art, and painting in general. She gave him a very good description of the technical aspects of the painting. Once again, as he had been when they talked about it, Aidan was impressed. She was a very learned woman about art, and the monk, who had said he was Brother Tommaso, seemed to think so, too. He studied the photograph for a long time, and then set it down on his desk and turned to Véronique.

“I can see why you're intrigued by it. It's a very interesting piece. It's a subject he painted several times, though never in quite this way.” It was a painting of the Virgin Mary, holding her infant son, surrounded by angels that seemed to fill the heavens. And although it was a religious painting, the detail was exquisite, the face of the Virgin was astoundingly beautiful, and the angels floated in a sky at dawn over Venice. “
If
this is real,” Brother Tommaso said carefully, “it was painted by Jacopo Bellini, the father, who was a student of Gentile da Fabriano. I don't think that this was painted by either of Jacopo's sons, Gentile or Giovanni, who weren't as fond of angels as their father, and didn't have the same ethereal quality to their themes.” Véronique listened with fascination. She had researched Bellini, so the names were familiar to her, and she also knew about Bellini's son-in-law Andrea Mantegna, who painted with them as part of their community of artists.

Paul had always loved the painting because he said the Virgin looked like Véronique, and Brother Tommaso noticed it, too, and commented on it, much to Véronique's surprise, since she didn't think she did. And then Brother Tommaso surprised her further, and told her there was a similar painting that he wanted to show her.

He led them into another enormous library room, and from that one into several others, with bookshelves going up to the high ceilings, with ladders to reach them. In the fifth room of its kind, he asked a young monk to reach a high bookshelf that he pointed to, and told him which book he wanted. He knew exactly where it was located, and the young monk put it in his hand a moment later. Brother Tommaso opened it and found a reproduction of a painting similar to Véronique's, with an almost identical theme.

“Either your artist was inspired by this painting, or it's one of a series Bellini did himself, and we have simply lost track of this one over the years. You have given us a very interesting project, my dear. Let me do some work on the provenance, and then you can ship me the original for further study.” He took them into another room then, filled with paintings that had been sent by museums and collectors to be verified. The monastery was extraordinary in the meticulous research the monks did.

And then he led them into a smaller room that was incongruous, compared to all the ancient books they'd seen in the monastery's libraries. This was the computer room they used to do modern research, and to contact museums and art resources around the world. They even had a direct connection with Interpol, to research stolen paintings. Several of the younger monks were working at the computers when they walked in. Véronique's project was in good hands. Brother Tommaso told her that he couldn't say when, but they would be in touch with her when they were ready for the next step, to examine the painting itself.

They spent two hours there, and when they left, Aidan was in awe of what they'd seen. They both agreed that they could have spent hours in the library rooms, examining the old books.

“Thank you for taking me with you. It was fascinating,” he said, still amazed. They went to their favorite little trattoria then, on their way back to Piazza San Marco.

“How long do you think it will take to hear from them?” he asked her over a delicious bowl of pasta, curious about the process he was learning about from her.

“Probably several months,” she said thoughtfully. “Maybe longer. Nothing moves quickly in the art world. And they have six centuries of history to dig through on this painting, before they even look at it to see if it's a forgery. And if there's no trace of it before this, that's a whole other story, and could mean it's a fraud, too, or even rarer than we hope. I just don't know.”

“It's like a mystery, waiting to unravel,” Aidan said. He had loved sharing the morning with her and meeting Brother Tommaso. “How do you know about this place?”

“My grandfather mentioned it in a book he wrote nearly seventy years ago. They've always been one of the definitive verification sources. Every museum knows about them and uses them as a resource, and I heard great things about them when I was at the Beaux-Arts as a student.”

“Amazing stuff,” he said, smiling at her. He loved learning new things, and what she was sharing with him. He knew a great deal about photography, but her expertise in art was a whole other world.

They looked at a few more churches that afternoon that they had missed earlier, but they had each seen enough by then. Véronique left him to do a little shopping in the shops that bordered the square, and Aidan wanted to go off and take some photographs of skulls and relics in one of the churches. And he was planning to pick up some maps for their trip to Siena the next day, and they agreed to meet at the boat dock to go to dinner.

She left him and was very happy with her purchases, including a handbag at Prada, and a small, pretty, typically Venetian blackamoor brooch at Nardi. She knew it wasn't politically correct, but the brooch was part of the history of Venice, and it had tiny diamond earrings. She thought it might look nice on a black suit in Paris, and she was sure her girls wouldn't approve of it. To Véronique it was simply Venetian, a brooch of a Moor, and not offensive. Fashionable women had been wearing Nardi's blackamoors for years.

When she went back to the Cipriani, she had just enough time to dress for dinner and meet Aidan at the boat dock. He was wearing a well-cut beige linen suit, a shirt and tie, and proper shoes. And she was wearing high heels and a short red dress, and her knees and legs were looking a lot better and not so battered. They made a handsome couple as they took a water taxi to dinner.

The food at Harry's Bar was as excellent as she had promised. She had the risotto Milanese she'd been longing for, with zucchini blossoms to start with, and Aidan had linguine vongole, followed by a steak he said was delicious. And their conversation was lively.

As she had, he had spent time in Hong Kong when he was younger, and they talked about their experiences there. After that, he had lived in Shanghai and Singapore before moving back to London, and he'd also spent time in New York and Paris, so they shared common geography, even if not similar backgrounds. He was still startled that she had married so young, and had a much older husband.

“I was lost when my father died,” she explained over the Chianti he had ordered. It had been a delicious meal and a very pleasant evening so far. “I had no parents. I didn't know how to manage what my father had left me. I was alone in an enormous house, with no one to guide me. Paul took over the role of father and mentor, and it was easy for me when we got married. I had no one to take care of me, without him.”

“You probably could have taken care of yourself,” Aidan said quietly.

“I became prey for a lot of very unnerving people. Paul shielded me from all that, and protected me, and then we married and started having babies and I was very much in love with him. I felt safe in my life with him. The good times lasted for eleven years. It doesn't seem like long now, but we were very happy.” She looked peaceful as she said it. “They were the best years of my life.”

“And after?”

“It was pretty rocky in the beginning, alone with three children. And I was used to being married. But I had the children to keep me busy and distract me. And the next thing I knew, they were teenagers, and then off to college. The time flew by, and then one day I woke up and they were gone, and it was over. My youngest daughter left for college eight years ago, and it's been very quiet since then.”