Botticelli's Bastard Read online

  “I want to help you,” the Count said. “I know how sadness has impaired your marriage. If I can watch and listen to Arabella tonight, I might be able to suggest the best means to rekindle your love for each other.”

  “I admit,” Giovanni mumbled, eyes downcast to avoid the Count’s unchanging gaze. “I have to fight what’s inside of me. I know it sounds absurd, but sometimes, one has to fight to be happy. One has to ball up one’s fists, dig in one’s feet and say, over and over, I will not give in to misery.”

  “Whenever I felt sadness,” the Count said, “I relied upon ample glasses of wine to elevate my mood.”

  “Things are more advanced now,” Giovanni said. “We have drugs to lift us out of depression.”

  “Drugs?”

  “You know. Pills.”

  “Hmm,” the Count murmured.

  “An elixir, I guess people from your time would call it. Just made solid and a tablet small enough to swallow easily.”

  “And these remedies are effective?”

  “Not always.”

  “If I may ask, Signor Fabrizzi, are you consuming these elixirs to lift your spirits?”

  “No. I am trying to do this without drugs. I think I can.”

  Giovanni looked at his watch. He needed to get back to his flat.

  “I must dress for the party,” he said.

  “I am most excited,” the Count said. “And please remember. Seat Arabella directly beneath me so I may come to know her better.”

  Giovanni took a cab home. Together he and Arabella went over all the details, reviewed the guest list, and ensured that everything was in order. Satisfied with the arrangements, and anxious to get back to the studio before the caterers arrived, they began changing into formal attire.

  Giovanni finished dressing first and sat on the bed watching Arabella. Still in her underwear, she sat facing the mirror at her vanity. He admired her beauty and thought about how much he loved and needed her. She had saved his sanity when Serafina was dying, and their becoming intimate only months later was not opportunism. It felt like destiny. Giovanni watched her paw through a jewelry box, trying to decide which to wear. He could only think of how fortunate he was to have her in his life. After Serafina, he had been alone. Without Arabella, he would have gone mad from the grief, the loneliness, and the absence of love.

  As Arabella sifted through jewelry, Giovanni stood and moved closer, then paused to stand behind her. When their gazes met in the mirror, she had a look of concern. Giovanni smiled and brought his hands to her smooth, graceful shoulders.

  “I’m not sure what to wear,” she said.

  “I like very much what you’re wearing now,” he said.

  She smirked, then smiled to make up for it. She opened another jewelry box and poked around in it, as Giovanni began to gently stroke the soft skin of her shoulders.

  “Anything you wear will be beautiful,” he said.

  She stopped sifting through jewelry, becoming more aware of his soft touch across her shoulders. Giovanni reached past her and opened one of her jewelry boxes, black leather with gold inlay bordering the edges, that he had purchased years ago in Italy and had given to Arabella after their wedding.

  He lifted the brass latch and opened it. Arabella remained still as Giovanni reached into the jewelry box and brought out a necklace that he had always been fond of.

  “This is not a good idea,” Arabella said warily.

  “No, my dear. I want you to wear it. I feel good about you wearing it.” He spread apart the thin strands of hammered gold and draped the ruby cluster above her cleavage. “You will look magnificent.”

  “It’s hers,” Arabella said.

  “No. It’s yours now.” He began to work the clasp behind her neck.

  “Gio, this is a bad idea. You’re going to get upset. Let’s not do this now.”

  “I assure you, I am ready for you to wear this, to wear all of the jewelry I bought for her. Really, I am.”

  Before he could clasp the necklace, she reached for the strands and pulled it away.

  She met his gaze in the mirror. “I don’t want to wear her jewelry. I’ll find something of my own.”

  *

  After dinner, Giovanni and Arabella stood at the doorway, saying good-bye to their guests. Arabella had invited one guest to remain, to have a glass of after-dinner liqueur with them.

  François was Arabella’s friend from the French Embassy, with strong connections to the art world. Giovanni was anxious to speak with him further, as the topics of dinner conversation, in the presence of other guests, was mainly general subjects of the day and only lightly touched on the business of fine art. Dinner among mixed company was not the time or place to explore specifics that Giovanni wanted to propose, and he was delighted that Arabella had invited François to remain for a drink, so that he could delve deeper.

  François was a dashing young man, as might be expected of someone holding the position of first secretary at the embassy. But Giovanni sensed more than that. His estimation of François, beyond his persona of worldliness and sophistication, was the sort of fellow who spent more time before the mirror grooming and admiring himself than the ladies would spend applying their makeup. His effort to present a maintained appearance was obvious, and he seemed to enjoy the admiration from others that it generated. Throughout dinner, Arabella certainly admired him more than once.

  Giovanni may have gauged his guest as somewhat vain, but he also sensed opportunity. The slick fellow could help develop leads among French collectors and dealers, leading to new commissions for Fabrizzi & Sons.

  Seated at the table, Arabella and François sipped their wine and engaged in conversation while Giovanni went to the kitchen to check on the caterers, who were making some ruckus as they cleaned up and packed their dishes, flatware, and serving platters. They asked about the dining table and chairs, and Giovanni requested that they take it last, so he and his remaining guest could finish their drinks. Then he rejoined Arabella and François.

  “Well, that certainly went well.” Giovanni sat down next to Arabella.

  François raised his glass. “It was quite delightful. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Giovanni, after hearing so much about you from Arabella.”

  “How long have you and Arabella known each other?”

  Their gazes met and they were silent.

  Arabella began, “I think Louisa and I went by the French Embassy, what was it, about a year ago?”

  “That sounds about right,” François replied.

  After ample glasses of alcohol, Giovanni felt relaxed, and the evening’s success added to his satisfaction. He brought his arm around Arabella’s waist and pulled her closer.

  “And a handsome fellow like you,” he said to François, then asked Arabella, “Does he have a special woman in his life?”

  François chuckled. “A secretary at the embassy may have important responsibilities, but I cannot pretend the salary is impressive. I may require a job with better pay before considering the possibility of settling down.”

  “I might be able to help you there.” Giovanni sensed his opportunity. “In terms of increasing your income, that is.”

  “Really?” François flashed his exceedingly white smile.

  “Arabella tells me that in your position, you have contact with a number of French art collectors and dealers who either live here in London or travel here regularly. Is that so?”

  “It is true, Giovanni.”

  “Well then, if you should, by any chance, recommend my services to a collector or dealer who is not already a client of mine, I would be happy to compensate you.”

  François appeared genuinely pleased and looked at Arabella. She smiled and nodded, assuring François that Giovanni would indeed be generous, were François to refer any new clients.

  “I will definitely keep you in mind,” François said.

  Two of the caterers struggled to hold the door and get their equipment cart past the opening.

/>   Arabella suggested, “Gio, you should help them.”

  He rose to assist.

  “And,” she continued. “Get them down the elevator and to the street. With all your building’s security, you never know. We don’t need an incident.”

  “Good thinking.” Giovanni held the door while the caterers pushed their cart through, then accompanied them on the elevator ride down to the lobby. He ensured that no alarms would sound and then got them out to the street where they loaded their van.

  “And the table, sir,” one of the caterers said.

  “Yes, of course.” Giovanni led the way as they returned upstairs to the studio. He was first to enter.

  Arabella and François were standing near the table.

  François shifted away from her and moved to one end of the table. “Let me help.” He waved off Giovanni’s approach. “You’ve already done enough this evening.”

  Giovanni welcomed the offer and allowed François to assist the caterers. However, Giovanni felt a tinge of resentment. It almost seemed that François was suggesting that Giovanni was old and feeble, while François, a man in his prime, was better suited to the task.

  François held the door open so the caterers could carry the table downstairs.

  Giovanni reconsidered his thoughts. Any resentment toward François was silly and he didn’t want something so trivial to ruin the fine evening they had all enjoyed.

  He patted François on the shoulder.

  “Thank you, François. You’re a good man.”

  Chapter 5

  The next morning, Giovanni returned to his studio. The previous night’s party had been a success and one telltale sign remained—a few empty wine bottles in a box near the door. In his haste to put away the Count’s portrait the night before, he had overlooked that. He would take care of it soon enough, but first he wanted to know what the Count had to say.

  Giovanni opened the second strong room, brought out the portrait, and set it on the easel.

  “Where is the Brueghel?” the Count asked. “Are you no longer restoring that abomination?”

  “You don’t like Brueghel?” Giovanni was taken aback. “How can you possibly say that?”

  “I speak my mind, and Brueghel’s work is simply dreadful. And you may include Goya and Caravaggio. Their work is heavy-handed and unceasingly bleak.”

  “So who do you like?”

  “Rembrandt, Raphael, and Velasquez,” the Count replied without hesitation.

  “What about modern painters?” Giovanni asked.

  “My portrait has not hung in the company of many modern works. I was able to admire Turner and Degas, though I suppose your term modern may or may not include such artists. Of course, I have been denied opportunities, due to that wretched crate, of viewing the work of more recent artists. Regardless, I doubt any could surpass Rembrandt.”

  Giovanni pulled a stool closer and sat down. “Count, I want to know about last night. What did you think of Arabella?”

  “Your wife is lovely,” the Count said, then continued in a rush of words, “You know, women are infinitely fascinating. Take my wife, for example…”

  “I’m asking about my wife, Count, not any wife you—”

  The Count charged ahead. “It was my uncle, Lorenzo de Medici, who arranged for me to marry Maria Pitti, the daughter of Luca Pitti, the Florentine banker who had built the Pitti Palace. It was not a happy marriage. I understand the difficulty a marriage presents. There is much that may go awry. For example, my wife could not bear children, and she was quite promiscuous. A scandal arose in Florence when her affair with Fancelli was exposed. Fancelli, you will remember, worked with Brunelleschi and had designed the Palace.”

  “Sure, but what about Arabella? I hung your portrait like you asked, so you could—”

  “To keep matters quiet,” the Count continued, “the family sent us to Venice, in the hope that a change of scenery would restore calm to our turbulent marriage. But it wasn’t long before Maria embarked on another affair and this time with Andrea Gritti. Enough! I returned to Florence, taking with me the very painting that you now look upon. So if you ignore those turbulent years in Venice, when my portrait was hung by a window that was left open more often than not, overlooking the Grand Canal, I do not consider that I was properly hung until I returned to the Pitti Palace in Florence.”

  “Andrea Gritti. Wasn’t he the Doge?” Giovanni asked.

  “That is the one. He had a distinguished military career and was elected Doge in 1523. What chance, Signor Fabrizzi, would I have stood had I stayed in Venice with a wife who was the Doge’s mistress? It was quite humiliating. I knew Gritti a modest degree. Any degree was quite enough, Signor Fabrizzi, I assure you. He was a fierce man with a bad temper. The swine Titian painted his portrait.”

  “You don’t like Titian either?” Giovanni was dismayed that anyone could dismiss the great master so easily. “Did you know him?”

  “It was Titian who introduced my wife to Gritti and encouraged their relationship.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Oh, I am sure it was simple spite and Florence-Venice rivalry.” The Count was bitter.

  Giovanni hoped to steer the topic away from past wounds. “Did you enjoy living at the Pitti Palace? It must have been very grand.”

  “Indeed it was,” the Count replied. “It was a magnificent building, and the location superb, on the south side of the Arno, near the Ponte Vecchio. We all lived there in typical family disharmony. I had my own quarters, a luxurious apartment with a perfect view of the Ponte Vecchio, where I kept to myself. I felt some shame and embarrassment, you understand, without an heir and having a wife who would bed every man who came within her sights. So I began an affair with a first cousin, Maria de Medici. The family did not approve. She was only fourteen.”

  “Fourteen?” Giovanni choked on the word. “You, your cousin? Fourteen? If you did that today, you’d be put in jail.”

  “I would have preferred that to the actual outcome.”

  “Don’t tell me—it gets worse.”

  “It begins to,” the Count said. “Maria’s brother, Francesco, challenged me to a duel. He won. I died at far too early an age. My portrait, that which you look upon now, was taken off the wall in the Grand Salon. How I would know this, being dead, I cannot say, but somehow I did not cease to be, perhaps because I cared so dearly for the fate of my portrait, as dearly as I cared for my life, which by then was extinguished. But not the portrait, though it too would be removed from sight, banished forever to the cavernous cellars at the Pitti Palace. I could not bear for that to happen any more than I could bear to lose my life. My prayers were answered by another young cousin, Catherine de Medici. How I loved that sweet girl. If not for her, I would still be in that damned cellar. It was after she became the Countess of Auvergne, on her aunt’s death. The poor girl had been orphaned when she was barely one month old and had been brought up by her aunt. Her father was Lorenzo de Medici II, another cousin, of course. When she was fourteen, she married the Duke of Orleans in Marseilles. At that wedding, it is said that Catherine wore high heels. The first time in recorded history that any woman wore high heels.”

  “I’m not interested in the history of footwear.” Giovanni was getting irritated. “You wanted to listen to our guests last night, and Arabella. You haven’t told me—”

  “Catherine moved to France,” the Count continued. “After all, her father-in-law was the King. It was during preparations for the move that she saved me. Her ladies-in-waiting were helping her decide what she should take, and one of the ladies glanced upon me and urged Catherine to bring my portrait with her to France. When Catherine asked who painted it, another of the ladies told her it was Botticelli. As her grandfather Lorenzo was Botticelli’s patron, Catherine could not leave my portrait behind. And so I left Florence, saved from a certain life of dust and solitude, and instead taken amidst great style and luxury to France. First at Fontainebleau, then Chambord, Versailles of
course, and then I was taken to Le Petit Trianon.”

  The Count paused, allowing Giovanni a chance to respond.

  Giovanni rose from his stool, crossed his arms, and said nothing.

  “Signor Fabrizzi, you seem to have something on your mind.”

  “I asked you to tell me what you thought of Arabella. In fact, it was your idea that we host a dinner party so you could listen to her and others having conversation.”

  “Well, yes, I—”

  “I asked for your opinion of my wife and all you do is talk about yourself. Your life history is fascinating, I’m sure, but I want to know about Arabella.”

  The Count was not quick to respond. “I have already told you that I found your wife lovely. Beyond that, I cannot say the party conversation was of great interest to me.”

  “Really?” Giovanni was disappointed. “Why not?”

  “In my time, Signor Fabrizzi, there was more a sense of revelry. Dinner guests would tell bawdy stories, rumors about court intrigue, and other tales far more captivating. I am sure your guests are fine people, but all they talk about is how difficult it is to get from place to place in London, about their precious and wonderful children, and I must say, very little about art.”

  Giovanni hung his head. “It’s a sad fact about the world today. People will sooner talk about the latest movie, which of course everyone will forgot about next month, than discuss the awe inspired by a work of art centuries old.”

  “I believe this age has less passion,” the Count said. “Or perhaps it is England. My people in Italy might be quite different. I would venture to say that Italian women today are filled with more vitality than any of your female guests last night.”

  “Arabella?”

  “As I said, she is lovely.”

  “But what else?” Giovanni asked. “What do you make of her?”

  The Count hesitated. “Signor Fabrizzi, women are more complex than men. Their motivations are not always clear. At times one must read between the lines, as they say.”

  “I don’t want to read between the lines.” Giovanni was getting aggravated by the Count’s repeated dodging of the question.