The Case of the Missing Botticelli, page 3
“I don’t like this. I need to go.”
“Wait,” said Hadley, placing her hand firmly on the woman’s wrist, afraid the client would slip away. “You said it was an urgent matter. I think it best we get right to it.”
“How do I know I can trust you? My job, everything is on the line. And if this gets out, my reputation is ruined.”
“I am very discreet. You’ve come to the right place. I can help you.”
The woman shifted her stance and clutched her designer handbag.
“I’m the new curator at the Uffizi Gallery,” the lady began, flexing her hands.
That revelation raised a red flag in Hadley’s mind. If this woman worked at the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, then why was she staying at L’Hotel Bernini Palace? She mentioned she was the new curator, so maybe she was checked into the hotel until she found a permanent place to live. Or maybe this assignment was so sensitive she couldn’t afford to be seen talking with an art detective at her office or anywhere in the center city.
“We recently loaned a selection of Botticelli studies of The Birth of Venus to the High Museum of Art in Atlanta for an exhibit,” the woman said. “The sketch in question was done in preparation for the finished piece, specifically a detail for the face of the model of Venus. You know studies can be traced back to the Italian Renaissance. Art historians even have some of Michelangelo’s studies.”
“Did the studies arrive damaged?”
“No, the entire exhibit arrived intact, no problems. There was one study we came by recently from an unknown source. It had just surfaced and naturally we snatched it up, but this study, this latest one, is the piece at issue. I got a call about it from the High’s curator, one of my college classmates, who told me if this study is real, then the painting in the Uffizi is a fake. A fake! Outrageous, I know. The Birth of Venus is one of the most famous and beloved artworks in the world and one of Firenze’s top tourist attractions. It is a symbol of Florence itself. People come to the Uffizi specifically for our Botticellis. I asked her if she was sure, and she said, ‘Yes.’ ”
“Isn’t it typical for artists to show changes in the light, color, and composition of their work as they gain fresh insights while exploring the subject?” Hadley asked. “Especially if they encounter problems in rendering them?”
“Yes, there have been cases where an artist started out drawing or sketching a man’s face and then decided to make the subject a woman,” the curator agreed. “Specifically, technological testing revealed some of the revisions Botticelli made on his way to the final artwork.”
“I’m familiar,” Hadley said. “The Spring goddess to the right of Venus once wore sandals. The hair of Venus, Zephyr to her left, and the goddess in his embrace also underwent transformation. Even the title of the work is not original to the painting. It was added in the nineteenth century. And Botticelli added golden touches after the painting was finished and framed.”
“Of course, but that’s not what happened here. The layers of the work in the final piece don’t reflect the changes in the study,” the curator answered.
“Can’t you request the study back early so you can do a comparison?”
“That’s the problem. If the study in question is real, we’ll have our answer. But if it’s a fake, what good will it do to compare the two? What if the painting we have at the Uffizi was a reproduction all along? And there’s something else. You obviously know your Botticelli.”
“He’s my favorite artist,” Hadley offered.
“Then you know the painting’s history,” the curator said, biting her lip and scanning the square nervously. “It was believed the painting was ordered as a wedding gift for the cousin of Giuliano Medici and his brother Lorenzo. It hung above the new couple’s marriage bed before it was deemed fit to enter the public domain.”
Hadley knew that but chose to remain quiet.
“The Uffizi Gallery was established in 1581, commissioned by the patriarch of the de Medicis, Cosimo the First, in 1560,” the curator continued. “Anna Maria Louisa, the last Medici heiress, established the museum through a family pact that dictated all of her possessions were never to leave Florence. The Uffizi opened its doors to the public in 1765.”
All facts known to any art history major.
“The painting would be impossible to borrow today,” the woman chattered in a high-pitched voice. “We’d never take a chance that it could be damaged in transit or stolen. But on January 1, 1930, it was part of one of the most important exhibitions—the Exhibition of Italian Art, 1200-1900, at the Royal Academy in London. Benito Mussolini, the Italian dictator, was listed in the program as an honorary president.”
That fascinating fact was one that had escaped Hadley.
“And did you know that in 1938 Benito Mussolini escorted Adolph Hitler for two hours in Florence’s Uffizi gallery? Hitler was already planning a colossal art museum in his hometown of Linz, Austria. Three years later, Mussolini had the Uffizi pack up thirty-four crates of art and send them to Germany. Outgoing art continued to flow even after Mussolini was deposed and the Allies headed toward Tuscany.”
Hadley did know that the Germans had hidden another cache of paintings in Castello di Montegufoni, a thirteenth-century castle in Florence. There were two hundred and sixty-one works of art stolen from the Uffizi and Palazzo Pitti, another Florence art museum. Among them was Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus. It was one of the paintings plundered by the Nazis and turned over to The Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives (MFAA) section of the Allied armies, who returned it to the Uffizi in 1945. So the switch could have been made as early as the Second World War to either the original or the studies.
“Between Hitler and Hermann Göring’s systematic looting of Europe’s art collections, and the fire-sale of art seized from German citizens before the war and sold at auction, the entire contents of the Uffizi Museum, the museums of Paris, and the treasures of dozens of churches were stripped by the Nazis.”
“Yes, I know,” said Hadley. “During the Second World War, the Germans hid tens of thousands of masterpieces in secret underground storage facilities, like salt mines, and in the Italian homes and villas of high-ranking SS officers, for use after the war. There are many pieces still missing. The stolen art trade is a multi-billion-dollar global business, the third largest behind drugs and arms trafficking.”
The curator, who hadn’t yet introduced herself, relaxed, confident in Hadley’s professed knowledge.
“I see you understand. So, our painting has had quite a history.”
“Did you notify the Carabinieri Art Squad? Or the superintendent for the arts at the cultural ministry, or at least the local police?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“What if this would get out, that The Birth of Venus is possibly a fake? I can’t take that chance. I have to verify it another way.”
“Could the study be a fake?”
“Not to our knowledge. But it is a possibility. Either the study or the painting hanging in the Uffizi—or both could be imitations.”
“Can you have the painting at the Uffizi authenticated?”
“I can’t risk it. What if it is a fake? What if the painting returned in the forties was not the real one? How can I explain how that happened?” The curator was adamant. “No one must know about this.”
Suddenly, Hadley understood the curator’s predicament and why she hadn’t called in government officials. She couldn’t risk them discovering even the hint that the masterpiece might be a fake. But how to explain the discrepancy between the completed painting and the study that had happened under her watch? So she had called in old reliable Signore Domingo, who had lost most of his important connections in the art world and could be relied upon for secrecy. If he failed in his mission and talked about it, no one would believe him. Did this woman know the Signore was desperate?
“So either the study was switched in transit, stolen and replaced in Atlanta, or the painting that has been hanging on our wall since it was donated by the Medici family was a fake all along, or the painting returned to us by the Monuments Men was a fake. I have to find the original study and get it back before my director or the Advisory Board notices.”
“Was the study on canvas?”
“Yes, medium tempera on canvas, just as the master rendered his work in the 1480s, the first artist in Tuscany to do so.”
“At six by nine feet, could the painting really be a fake? How would a thief carry it out? Of course, he could strip it from the frame and roll it up, but it’s too famous to unload.”
“Exactly. It’s priceless, but not for sale.”
“So our assignment is to track down the original Botticelli study of the face of Venus, if there is one, and return it to you so you can compare it with the original hanging in the Uffizi?”
“Yes, or the original painting itself, if ours is a fake. A tall order, I know. I will pay handsomely.” The woman handed Hadley a large manila envelope. “Here is everything you’ll need, any information we know about the provenance of the work, and details about the study. Perhaps that will provide some leads. Here’s my card, with my cell phone number on the back. Call me any time of the day or night. But this is not to get out to the press, to the public, to the police, to anyone. It would be a scandal that would taint the museum and destroy my career.”
“I understand,” said Hadley. She took the proffered envelope, put it in her purse, and shook the woman’s hand. “You can trust me, er, Signore Domingo. We work as a team.”
“Of course, you can charge me for all expenses incurred.”
Hadley was more than happy to oblige. Who knew where the hunt would take her? And if she accomplished her mission, this contact at the Uffizi could propel her on her career path.
She watched the “cloak and dagger” curator from the museum walk back in the direction of her hotel. She signaled Luca to come out of hiding.
“Did you get her picture?”
“Yes, I used the telephoto lens. It was dark, but here, you can still see her face.”
“Great.”
“Why do you need her photo?”
“Rule Number One of Signore Domingo’s Pocket Guide to Art Theft Recovery is Don’t Overlook the Obvious. Better to be safe than sorry. Leave no stone unturned. It’s best to be prepared. Any detail, large or small, could be critical.”
She explained the situation to her boyfriend.
“What now?” Luca asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You’re the art historian.”
“And you’re the policeman.”
“I have a contact at the art crime department.”
Hadley dug her fingers into Luca’s arm and whispered furiously. “No police involved, except you. This has to stay between us. I’ve taken the next week off. We have one week to solve this case. What does your schedule look like?”
“I have some vacation time coming. I can take off some days if you need me. But I’ll have to ask my sister to watch Bocelli.”
“I do need you,” Hadley said, wrapping herself against him, laying her lips on Luca’s, deepening the kiss.
“You don’t have to seduce me, Hadley. I’m at your disposal, always.”
“Good to know. Let’s continue this conversation back at your place and come up with a plan.”
Her suggestive tone implied that she was at his disposal as well.
Luca lived in the Ultra Arno, on the other side of the Arno River, connected by the Ponte Vecchio, the bridge that used to be home to fishmongers and butchers and now sparkled with gold and jewelry shops, the only original bridge to survive the Second World War. So they were close to his apartment, and both were anxious to be alone together.
“Hop on,” said Luca, revving up his motor and his motorbike. “Bocelli will be happy to see you.”
She’d almost forgotten about Bocelli. Luca was crazy about his dog, an adorable Italian Greyhound named after the popular Italian tenor. Luca even sang romantic arias to the sight hound, and Bocelli howled back. The two of them were like Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald serenading each other in Indian Love Call, a song her grandmother used to sing.
Bocelli was an noble Italian breed that Luca had had since the dog was a pup. Supposedly, the line originated in early Greece and Turkey more than two thousand years ago. They were a favorite breed of Italians during the sixteenth century and coveted by royals as companion dogs. And he was a beautiful dog.
On the minus side, Bocelli had a coat that occasionally shed, and he needed daily exercise. He was speedy, and he loved to run, and he was a great jumper, so Luca had to build a fence around his house to keep Bocelli in. If the dog wasn’t chasing rabbits and squirrels, he stuck by Luca’s side. On the plus side, he was intelligent and perceptive and sensitive to Luca’s voice and his moods. And Luca’s voice was amazing. She’d first heard him singing in the shower.
“You have a really good voice. Did you ever think about singing professionally?”
“I’ve always wanted to be a policeman. My father was a policeman, and so was his father.”
“The world is missing out.”
She later found out that his coworkers called him “the Voice.”
Luca didn’t like to be away from Bocelli for very long. She’d have some convincing to do to keep the man and his dog apart for an entire week.
Chapter Three
Before they left on their trip, Hadley insisted they make one stop. She had to view The Birth of Venus herself, again. Surely, she could tell if it was a fake. She was no artist or art restorer, but she would know innately if it was a forgery. Botticelli’s spark of brilliance could not be replicated or imitated.
She expected the Botticelli Room to be crowded, and it was. She stood in front of the iconic masterpiece to capture that moment in time, cameras clicking, camera sticks waving, people interrupting her view. Every time she saw the painting, and she’d seen it more times than she could count, it spoke to her heart and captured her imagination.
She saw what she always saw in the painting she jokingly called Venus on the Half Shell. She could recite from memory the description of the masterpiece after studying it tirelessly in art history class. It portrayed a sensuous, divinely beautiful Venus naked on a seashell floating in to the seashore on gently breaking waves. On her left, the winds Zephyr and Aura gently caressed her with a shower of roses. On her right a handmaid, one of the Three Graces, waited for the goddess to approach so she could cover her nakedness. The meadow was sprinkled with violets. Bright colors, painted with a mixture of egg yolk and light paint, made it look more like a fresco. Some of the details were decorated with traces of gold. The leaves of the orange trees in the background, the ringlets of Venus’s hair, and the fluttering cloaks and drapery of the figures were in motion.
No, this was the original. It had to be. She was more convinced than ever. She’d stake her career on it. She was staking her career on it. She would have to find the original study to prove that the study at the High Museum was a forgery, which would confirm that the painting at the Uffizi was the real thing.
She wasn’t quite sure how to go about it, but she knew she couldn’t afford to fail. Too much was at stake—Signore Domingo’s reputation and his business, her livelihood.
She hurried to where Luca was waiting on his motorcycle.
“Did you get what you came for?”
“I’m convinced the painting in the Uffizi is real, which means the study is a fake. Now we have to track down the missing Botticelli study.”
“What if the painting in the Uffizi is a fake?”
“Unlikely, but then we’ll have to track down the original.”
“Where do we start?”
“I’ve gone over the history of the painting. There are some gaps in the provenance. We should start there.”
Luca drove them back to her apartment. On the way, they passed Florence Cathedral, the Duomo. He took his right hand off the handlebars of the motorbike and squeezed her hands wrapped around his waist. She couldn’t hear him over the traffic noise, but she knew what he was thinking. You could get married at the Duomo. There was a long waiting list, but it was possible. He hadn’t proposed yet. They had just known each other six months, but she knew that was his wish. It was a romantic thought, but they weren’t at that point in their relationship. At least, she wasn’t ready to commit—to him or anyone. Certainly not to King Charles, or she would have returned home by now.
When they arrived, she retrieved her packed travel bag. Luca’s backpack stood erect beside hers like a silent sentry.
Hadley inched toward Luca and patted his thigh.
“Cara Mia, we don’t have time for that. We’ll miss our train.”
Hadley scoffed. “That’s not why I was patting you down. Are you carrying a gun?”
“It’s a dangerous world, Dolcezza.”
“Don’t sweetheart me. Are you packing?”
“Bella, I’ve already packed,” said Luca, feigning innocence, pointing to his backpack. “I’m ready to go.”
“Luca Ferrari, it is illegal to carry weapons in public places. Answer my question.”
“I have a hunting license and a hunting permit.”
“It is not hunting season. And we’re not going to a game preserve.”
“But we are going hunting, are we not?”
“For a painting.”
“Art theft is a dangerous game, Fragolina.”
“Fragolina?”
“What?”
“You just called me your little strawberry.”
“It’s a term of endearment.”
“For a child. We are equal partners.”
“Carabinieri have policing powers that can be exercised at any time and in any part of the country. We are always permitted to carry our assigned weapon as personal equipment. Now, if you would like to check out my personal equipment—”
Hadley opened his jacket and pulled out a Beretta 91FS pistol.
“What is this?”
“Cara Mia, it’s loaded,” he barked. “Put that back, please.”
