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  Giovanni raised the glass to his lips and savored a long, slow sip of his scotch. Better than the conversation that was to come.

  “I had a very bad day,” he said. “I left the studio early and went to dine in Soho.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He shrugged, as telling the truth would have been worse. Being with her only reminded him of how she was not Serafina. His marriage to Arabella felt unreal.

  “I miss Soho,” he said. “I miss a lot of things that I don’t have anymore.”

  Arabella moved toward the stereo, preparing to put a halt to Beethoven.

  “Please, don’t,” he said.

  She reached for the controls. “I cannot hear you.” She lowered the volume but left it playing, then sat down on the sofa near him, but not next to him.

  “Gio, I feel you pulling away from me. We need to talk about this.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good time.” Giovanni studied his drink as he swirled it around in the glass. “I want you to know that I love you, and I’m trying not to think about Serafina. It’s not something that arrives and departs on schedule, like a train.”

  Her tone shifted to desperation. “We’ve only been married six months.” She scooted along the sofa cushion, closer to him. “When we were together, after she passed, you were so passionate and kind. It hasn’t been like that, even close to that, for months. My God, Gio, I don’t want to beg for your attention the rest of our lives.”

  He looked at her and lingered on her words the rest of our lives. Her eyes were welling with tears. He set his drink down and took her hand in his.

  “Nothing lasts forever,” he said.

  Arabella became puzzled.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “Things will work out.”

  She pulled free and shifted away. “I’m going to bed.” She rose from the sofa. Looking down at him, she softly said, “Gio, will you come to bed with me?”

  “In a while.” He got up from the sofa and restored Beethoven to a commanding volume.

  *

  The next morning, Giovanni arrived at his studio ready to continue the restoration of the Brueghel. He went to the first strong room and brought out the painting, set it up on the easel, and situated his tools closer.

  As he worked, his focus wandered. The painting before him didn’t help, which portrayed a Flemish village rejoicing in a carnival. The irony didn’t escape him, that his own feelings were the polar opposite of those depicted on the canvas.

  He would normally play classical music and get lost in his work, but that day, he had not put on any music. He worked diligently for what seemed like an hour, but he couldn’t concentrate. Thoughts of Arabella taunted him, and more so, he could not stop replaying the memory of hearing a voice in the second strong room the day before.

  He couldn’t get it out of his mind. It perturbed him, but he vowed not to be obsessed by it. But it wasn’t a natural occurrence, and nothing like it had ever happened to him before. He needed to find a way to either dismiss it or explain it.

  With resolve, he set down his brush and let the joyous celebration of the Brueghel sit. He took out his keys, unlocked the second strong room door, and flipped on the light switch.

  He cautiously ventured into the strong room. Most likely, yesterday’s events were his imagination, he concluded, and after a casual inspection, he would find nothing amiss and be done with it. Then he could devote all of his thoughts to a crumbling family life.

  Giovanni moved past the crates of art until he could see the paintings that he had unpacked the day before. All were still as he left them, the landscapes and the Italian nobleman. The cocky fellow still looked as entitled as ever, probably a real arrogant snob in his day. Giovanni slipped past and checked behind other crates deeper in the room, looking for anything unusual. There was nothing that could explain what had happened the previous day.

  “Please, I beg you, get me out of this room.”

  The Italian voice.

  Giovanni couldn’t move. He didn’t know what to do other than keep listening, though his noisy thoughts made it difficult to hear anything outside of his head. Could he be talking to himself, in his thoughts? But he heard the voice clearly, as if a person were standing before him. It couldn’t be.

  The Italian voice said, “Over here.”

  Giovanni scanned the room, then looked over his shoulder at the doorway to the strong room. Nothing had changed, and no one else was present. He turned back to study the paintings he had placed atop crates in the room. He ignored the landscapes and stepped closer to the portrait of the nobleman. Something was strange about it—the eyes. They were unmoving, as one would expect of any painting, but somehow it seemed the eyes of the subject were actually looking at Giovanni. He could feel it.

  “At last you acknowledge me. Thank heavens.”

  The mouth didn’t move, the brows didn’t twitch, but that thing just talked. Didn’t it? Giovanni heard the voice clearly, having moved near, directly facing the panel.

  “This must be a dream,” Giovanni mumbled to himself.

  “A nightmare I would say,” the voice uttered. “You try living in that wretched crate for decades.”

  “It’s impossible,” Giovanni said, though it made him feel ridiculous. Talking to oneself can be embarrassing if another catches you, but this…

  “Yes, of course, you’ve never spoken with a painted image before. There’s always a first time. Now, let’s get past all of that. What is your name?”

  Silent, Giovanni reached for the panel and brought it closer, trying to make out some clue that would explain what was happening.

  “Are you suddenly deaf!” the Italian hollered.

  Giovanni shifted the panel back, keeping the nobleman at arm’s length.

  “No, I can hear you,” Giovanni said. “Which I’m thinking is unfortunate, maybe. For the sake of my sanity, that is.”

  “Do you have a name?” the Italian asked.

  “Uh, Giovanni.”

  “This is quite tedious. Surely your father gave you more.”

  “More…?” Giovanni was somewhat dazed, then he realized the answer. “Oh, more name, you mean. Yes. Fabrizzi, Giovanni Fabrizzi.”

  “Fabrizzi?” The Italian’s interest was piqued. “The son of Federico, perhaps. Or another relation?”

  All of this must be in his head, Giovanni thought. How else could a painted image, with which he just so happened to be engaging in conversation, know such details.

  “Federico is my father.” Giovanni flipped the panel over to study the back, then tilted it down, side to side and up, checking the edges for any clues. Surely there was a small speaker and microphone, and this was all just a sick practical joke.

  “Madonna mia, be careful! Crashing to the floor is not a pleasant event.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” Giovanni stopped juggling the panel and set it upright on a crate and leaning against another, sensing that it might be rude to set it flat and force the subject to stare at the ceiling. “Is that better?” he asked, though it made him feel silly. It’s just a painting.

  “Better would be air, light, a view,” the Italian said. “What is this dreadful room without windows?”

  “It’s to keep you safe. And others.”

  “I would prefer the risk of crashing to the floor. Please, remove me from this wretched space.”

  Chapter 3

  Giovanni removed the Brueghel from the easel and carried it to the first strong room. He locked the door and set the alarm, then wondered why he had. He wasn’t going anywhere. No matter. It wasn’t a time to analyze his unthinking acts.

  From the second strong room, he brought out the nobleman’s portrait and placed it on the easel. The panel remained silent, as did Giovanni. He stepped back to admire the painting in the better light of his work area. The artist was accomplished, again leading Giovanni to wonder why it was unsigned.

  The painting was relatively small, about eighteen by twenty-six inches tall. The
panel remained silent, and Giovanni began to question if it would speak again. Perhaps the strange phenomenon was limited to the strong room.

  His chest felt tight, and his head hurt. He needed to relax, and music was the best remedy. He went to the stereo and put in a disc, then poured himself a glass of wine, another effective remedy, even though it was midmorning and he rarely drank so early. The day’s events justified a drink at any hour.

  He stood before the painting, enjoying his wine and the music as he studied the panel further. Still it was silent. Perhaps his madness was temporary and had passed. Perhaps none of it really happened at all.

  The Italian voice cried out, “Would you please, please, put an end to that mournful, gray, miserable bleating of Ludwig van Beethoven.”

  “You don’t like—”

  “Heavens no! Surely you have something from my native Italy. Oh the torture I must endure, if imprisoned in a crate were not enough. Have it stop!”

  Giovanni hurried to the stereo and reduced the volume. “Is there something else you’d prefer?” he asked.

  “Have you any Vivaldi?”

  Giovanni nodded.

  “Then for God’s sake, end that depressing German music!”

  Giovanni set his wine down, nearly spilling it as he fumbled to open a CD case and swap discs in the player.

  “Ah, much better.” The Italian hummed a few bars. “What are the round objects?” he asked. “They are the music?”

  Giovanni did not understand. Then he realized, still in his grasp was the Beethoven CD from the player.

  He held it up for the Italian to see. “A compact disc. Yes, it holds the music.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I guess a lot has changed since your time.” Giovanni put the CD down and picked up his glass of wine.

  “Hmm,” the Italian murmured. “My time. Yes, so much time.”

  “Who are you?” Giovanni asked.

  The Italian gasped. “You do not know?”

  Giovanni searched the panel for an expression, perhaps eyes wide, but there was no change in the painted surface. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve been around famous works of art all my life, and I’ve read plenty of history, and I can’t say that your face is familiar.”

  With great pride, the Italian announced, “I am Count Marco Lorenzo Pietro de Medici.”

  Giovanni nodded. “I see. Well then, I know of your family, certainly, but still, I can’t say that you have any particular place in history. I’m afraid, Marco, you’re just another nameless face to pose for one of countless portraits painted throughout the centuries.”

  A silence passed.

  “First,” the Italian said, sounding as though pushing the words past clenched teeth, “you will address me as Count. Second, your claim is preposterous! I will tell you of the events I have witnessed, the individuals of stature who—”

  “We’ll get to that, Count, but first I want to know about my father. You mentioned his name.”

  The Count took a moment to compose himself. “He is a good man, and I do not say that only because he is your father. He cared well for me while I was in his possession. And might I ask, how is it that I am no longer?”

  “His things came to me. You know, after he passed. But I guess you didn’t know that.” Silly as it was, Giovanni paused to watch if the Count would nod or shake his head. The image remained static. “Anyway, after he died, your portrait and other works he had stored in Florence were shipped to me.”

  “Then it is now in your hands to reveal the truth.”

  “What truth?” Giovanni asked.

  “Look at me,” the Count said. “Do you not notice anything special?”

  “Other than you’re a talking painting?”

  “Yes, other than that,” the Count said, annoyed.

  “You seem like a handsome gentleman, as befits a Count.” Giovanni actually thought differently, but for the moment, good manners seemed a better choice than the truth.

  “Yes, but what about the painting itself?”

  Giovanni stepped back, sipped his wine, and studied the artwork anew. “The condition of the paint is quite good. It would only need a light cleaning, if exhibited.”

  “Ah-ha!” the Count called out. “And where would you hang such a painting?”

  “I don’t know. To be honest, I was thinking of selling you to a client who wants to give his nephew a wedding present.”

  “Are you utterly mad?”

  “I am beginning to wonder about that.”

  “Signor Fabrizzi. I can only surmise that your appreciation for fine art matches that of your father. Do you not notice anything particular about the style of this work?”

  “It’s…”

  “Yes? Yes?”

  “It almost looks Italian Renaissance.”

  “You restore art, yet you cannot recognize the artist?”

  “Perhaps you’re not aware of it, being the subject of the painting rather than viewing it, but there is no signature.”

  “Of course I know that. I have known that for five hundred years.”

  Giovanni didn’t want to offend the Count further, but the fact of the matter was unavoidable. “I’m sorry to say, Count, but your portrait isn’t the work of anyone significant if they didn’t bother to sign the panel.”

  “Your impertinence is astounding.” The Count grew louder. “You are looking upon a portrait painted by no less than the great Sandro Botticelli!”

  Giovanni covered his mouth to stifle his laughter.

  “You doubt my word?”

  Giovanni sipped his wine as best he could while chuckling. “You’ll have to forgive me, Count, but here I am, drinking at eleven in the morning, and I’m talking to an unsigned portrait that I’m supposed to believe is by the great Botticelli.”

  “Well, at the very least, you recognize his greatness.”

  “Of course. But to think my father sent me an unsigned Botticelli that talks? Jesus Christ, it’s ridiculous.” Giovanni couldn’t stop laughing.

  The Count cleared his throat. And again. “Signor Fabrizzi. May I respectfully remind you that I am a Medici. My family has provided the Italian church with several popes and many cardinals. I would ask that you do not use His name in such a manner. If you persist in blaspheming our Sovereign Lord, our friendship will prove to be short-lived.”

  Giovanni stopped laughing. “Pardon me, Count. But you can understand, it’s hard to believe.”

  “Yes, I can understand that. Just as others will have difficulty believing that you and I are able to converse.”

  “It’s tough to imagine anyone believing that,” Giovanni said. “I can hardly believe it myself, but here I am.”

  “You still do not believe that I exist.”

  “I have my doubts.”

  “Then you doubt your own sanity.”

  The words struck Giovanni hard—however strange, this experience couldn’t be a delusion. If he were going insane and all of this was a product of his imagination, his fantasy would not remind him of that possibility. And the Count had done just that. But still, it was beyond all boundaries of reality. Could he believe in ghosts? He had little choice. That it might be his imagination was no longer valid.

  “You are real,” Giovanni said, almost with reverence.

  “Well, I am confined to two dimensions within a frame, but I can see and hear. Unfortunately, my only view is the direction I face. Would you be so kind as to give me another? Please, turn me toward the window. I want to see the sky.”

  Giovanni swung the easel around.

  A silent moment passed. The Count’s lack of enthusiasm for the gray London sky was not surprising.

  “There is an image on the desk,” the Count said. “Of you and others. Your family?”

  Giovanni glanced at the desk and then back to the Count. “A photograph.” He went to the desk, picked up the framed photo, and brought it closer for the Count to see.

  “The signora is lovely,” he said.

  “M
y wife, Serafina. I lost her almost two years ago. The boy is my son, Maurizio, but he’s grown now. He works in Florence as a restorer.”

  “Yes,” the Count said. “I had heard Federico speak fondly of wanting to see you and his grandson again. Before I went into that wretched crate.”

  Giovanni put the photograph back on the desk.

  “I am sorry for your loss,” the Count said. “You still wear her ring? I would point to your finger, but you understand…”

  “Arabella,” Giovanni said. “I remarried.”

  “Hmm. Yet there is no image of her on the desk.”

  Giovanni pulled out his wallet and found a snapshot of her, which he held up for the Count to see.

  “She is quite striking,” the Count said. “You have married, if I may say so, a considerably younger woman, Signor Fabrizzi.”

  “Arabella is my mainstay. She was so good to me when I was in the depths of mourning.”

  “I must say, you still appear to be in mourning.”

  Giovanni was taken aback. “Why would you say that?”

  “You do not smile when you show me Arabella. She is a beautiful woman, no? A man of your age is very fortunate to have a woman, oh, I am guessing at least thirty years his junior. Is that correct?”

  Giovanni bristled. “I am not interested in discussing my age or the age of my wife with you, Count de Medici.”

  “Do not be offended,” the Count said. “I am merely reacting to what I see and hear after years of no stimuli. My keen observations are due to my situation. When I am taken out of storage, I have only fleeting hours, sometimes moments, to absorb what is before me. You, Signor Fabrizzi, do not have the perspective of five hundred years of life. Many aspects of the world have changed, but the relationships between men and women have not changed so much.”

  “What are you getting at?” Giovanni asked.

  “I am merely reporting what I see. After all, you are not a young man. You convey a weariness about you.”

  “I’ve told you. I lost my first wife. That’s not easy to get over. And my new wife is being difficult at the moment.”

  “What is it that troubles your marriage, Signor Fabrizzi?”