In the Eye of the Beholder (2 page)

One such journey was to Venice, to view a Canaletto owned by the Contessa di Palma—a lady who, having divorced her third husband and sadly no longer possessing the looks to guarantee a fourth, had decided she would have to part with one or two of her treasures. The Contessa’s only stipulation was that no one must discover that she was facing temporary financial difficulties. Every leading dealer in Italy knew of her mounting debts and unpaid creditors. Gian Lorenzo was only thankful that the Contessa had chosen him to share her confidences with.

Gian Lorenzo took some time to study the Contessa’s considerable collection and concluded that she had an eye not only for rich men. After he had agreed a price for the Canaletto, he expressed the hope that this might be the beginning of a long and fruitful relationship.

“Let’s start with dinner at Harry’s Bar, my darling,” said the Contessa, once she had Gian Lorenzo’s check in her hand.

Gian Lorenzo was making up his mind between an affogato or an espresso when Paolo and Angelina strolled into Harrys Bar. Everyone in the room followed their progress, as the maître d’ ushered them unctuously to a corner table.

“Now there’s someone who can afford to buy my
entire
collection,” whispered the Contessa.

“Without a doubt,” agreed Gian Lorenzo, “but unfortunately Paolo only collects rare cars.”

“And even rarer women,” interjected the Contessa.

“And I’m not altogether sure what Angelina collects.”

“A few extra pounds each year,” suggested the Contessa. “She once came to tea with my second husband and literally ate us out of house and home. By the time she left we were down to the water biscuits.”

“Well, let’s try and make up for that tonight,” said Gian Lorenzo. “I’m told the zabaglione is their signature dish?”

The Contessa showed no interest in the zabaglione, but simply sailed on, ignoring her companion’s unsubtle hint. “Can you imagine what those two get up to, when they’re in bed?”

Gian Lorenzo was surprised that the Contessa was willing to voice a question he had often thought about but never felt able to express. And there was worse to come as the Contessa went on to describe things that hadn’t, until then, even crossed Gian Lorenzo’s mind.

“Do you think he climbs on top of her?” Gian Lorenzo didn’t offer an opinion. “A feat in itself,” she continued, “because if they did it the other way round, surely she’d suffocate him.”

Gian Lorenzo didn’t care to think about the image, so he tried once again to change the subject. “We went to the same school, you know—one hell of an athlete.”

“You’d have to be, to satisfy her.”

“I even attended their wedding,” he added. “A truly memorable occasion, though I doubt after all this time that he would even remember I was among the guests.”

“Would you really be willing to spend the rest of your life with such a creature, however much money she had to offer?” asked the Contessa, not paying attention to her host’s words.

“He claims to adore her,” said Gian Lorenzo, “calls her his little angel.”

“In that case, I wouldn’t want to meet up with his idea of a big angel.”

“But if he felt otherwise,” suggested Gian Lorenzo, “he could always divorce her.”

“Not a chance,” said the Contessa, “you clearly haven’t been told about their pre-nuptial agreement.”

“No, I haven’t,” admitted Gian Lorenzo, trying not to sound interested.

“Her father had much the same opinion of that clapped-out footballer as I do. Old man Porcelli made him sign an agreement which spelled out that if Paolo ever divorced his daughter he would end up with nothing. Paolo was also forced to sign a second document stating that he would never reveal the contents of the pre-nuptial to anyone, including Angelina.”

“Then how do you know about it?” prompted Gian Lorenzo.

“When you’ve signed as many pre-nuptials as I have, darling, you hear things.”

Gian Lorenzo laughed and called for the bill.

The maître d’ smiled. “It’s already been taken care of, signor,” he said, nodding in the direction of Paolo, “by your old school friend.”

“How kind of him,” said Gian Lorenzo.

“No, her,” the Contessa reminded him.

“Please excuse me for a moment,” said Gian Lorenzo. “I must just thank them before we leave.” He rose from his place, and made his way slowly across the crowded room.

“How are you?” said Paolo, who was on his feet long before Gian Lorenzo had reached their table. “You know my little angel, of course,” he said, turning to smile at his wife, “but then how could you ever forget?”

Gian Lorenzo took Angelina’s hand and kissed it gently. “And I will also never forget your magnificent wedding.”

“Medici would have swooned,” said Angelina.

Gian Lorenzo gave a slight bow in acknowledgment.

“Is that the Contessa di Palma you are dining with?” asked Paolo. “Because if it is, she has something my little angel desires.” Gian Lorenzo made no comment. “I do hope, Gian Lorenzo, that she’s a client, not a friend, because if my little angel wants something, then I will stop at nothing to ensure she gets it.” Gian Lorenzo still considered it wise to remain silent. Never forget, his father had once told him, only restaurateurs close deals in restaurants—when they hand you the bill. “And as it’s a field I know little about,” continued Paolo, “and you are acknowledged as one of the nation’s leading authorities, perhaps you would be kind enough to represent Angelina on this occasion?”

“I would be delighted to do so,” said Gian Lorenzo, as the head waiter placed a chocolate trifle in front of Paolo’s wife, with a bowl of créme fraîche on the side.

“Excellent,” said Paolo, “let’s keep in touch.”

Gian Lorenzo smiled and shook his old friend by the hand. He well remembered the last occasion Paolo had made such an offer.

But then some people consider such suggestions nothing more than polite conversation. Gian Lorenzo turned to Angelina and bowed low before walking back across the restaurant to rejoin the Contessa.

“Time for us to leave, I fear,” said Gian Lorenzo, glancing at his watch, “especially if I’m to catch the first plane to Rome in the morning.”

“Did you manage to sell my Canaletto to your friend?” asked the Contessa, as she rose from her place.

“No,” replied Gian Lorenzo, as he waved in the direction of Paolo’s table, “but he did suggest that we keep in touch.”

“And will you?”

“That might be quite difficult,” admitted Gian Lorenzo, “as he didn’t give me his number, and I have a feeling Signor and Signora Castelli will not be listed in the
Yellow Pages.”

Gian Lorenzo took the first flight back to Rome the following morning. The Canaletto was to follow him at a more leisurely pace. No sooner had he set foot in the gallery than his secretary rushed out of the office, spilling out the words, “Paolo Castelli has already called twice this morning. He apologized for not giving you his number,” she added, “and wondered if you would be kind enough to phone him, just as soon as you get in.”

Gian Lorenzo walked calmly into his office, sat down at his desk and composed himself. He then tapped out the number his secretary had placed in front of him. The call was first answered by a butler, who transferred him to a seeretary, before he was finally connected to Paolo.

“After you left last night, my little angel spoke of nothing else,” began Paolo. “She has never forgotten her visit to the Contessa’s home, where she first saw her magnificent art collection. She wondered if the reason you were meeting with the Contessa was—”

“I don’t think it would be wise to discuss this matter over the phone,” said Gian Lorenzo, whose father had also taught him that deals are rarely made on the telephone, but almost always face to face. One needs the client to view the picture, and then you allow them to hang it on a wall in their home for several days. There is a crucial moment when the buyer considers the painting already belongs to them. Not until then do you start to negotiate the price.

“Then you’ll have to return to Venice,” said Paolo matter-of-factly. “I’ll send the private jet.”

Gian Lorenzo flew to Venice the following Friday. A Rolls-Royce was parked on the runway, waiting to take him to the Villa Rosa.

A butler greeted Gian Lorenzo at the front door before escorting him up a large marble staircase to a suite of private rooms that exhibited barren walls—an art dealer’s fantasy Gian Lorenzo was reminded of the collection that his father had put together for Agnelli over a period of thirty years, now considered to be one of the finest in private hands.

Gian Lorenzo spent most of the Saturday—between meals—being escorted round the one hundred and forty-two rooms of the Villa Rosa by Angelina. He quickly discovered that there was far more to his hostess than he had anticipated.

Angelina showed a genuine interest in wanting to start her own art collection, and had clearly visited all the great galleries round the world. Gian Lorenzo concluded that she only lacked the courage of her own convictions—a not uncommon problem for the only child of a self-made man—although she didn’t lack knowledge or, to Gian Lorenzo’s surprise, taste. He felt guilty for making assumptions based only on comments he had read in the press. Gian Lorenzo found himself enjoying Angelina’s company, and even began to wonder what this shy, thoughtful young woman could possibly see in Paolo.

Over dinner that night, Gian Lorenzo could not miss the adoration in her eyes whenever Angelina looked at her husband, even though she rarely interrupted him.

Over breakfast the following morning, Angelina hardly uttered a word. It was not until Paolo suggested that his wife show their guest round the grounds that his little angel once again came alive.

Angelina escorted Gian Lorenzo round a sixty-acre garden that possessed no immovable objects, or even havens where they might rest to cool their brows. Whenever Gian Lorenzo made a suggestion, she responded with enthusiasm, clearly willing to be led, if only he would take her by the hand.

Over dinner that night, it was Paolo who confirmed that it was his little angels desire to build a great collection in memory of her late father.

“But where to begin?” asked Paolo, stretching a hand across the table to take his wife’s hand.

“Canaletto, perhaps?” suggested Gian Lorenzo.

Gian Lorenzo spent the next five years commuting between Rome and Venice as he continued to coax pictures out of the Contessa, before rehanging them in the Villa Rosa. But as each new gem appeared, Angelinas appetite only became more voracious. Gian Lorenzo found himself having to travel as far afield as America, Russia and even Colombia, so that he could keep Paolo’s “little angel” satisfied. She seemed determined to outdo Catherine the Great.

Angelina became more and more captivated by each new masterpiece Gian Lorenzo put before her—Canaletto, Caravaggio, Tintoretto, Bellini and Da Vinci were among the natives. Not only did Gian Lorenzo begin to fill up the few remaining places on the walls of the villa, but he also had statues crated and sent from every quarter of the globe to be sited alongside other immigrants on the vast lawn—Moore, Brancusi, Epstein, Miró, Giacometti and, Angelina’s favorite, Botero.

With every new purchase she made, Gian Lorenzo presented her with a book about the artist. Angelina would devour them in one sitting and immediately demand more. Gian Lorenzo had to acknowledge that she had become not only the gallery’s most important client but also his most ardent student—what had begun as a flirtation with Canaletto was fast turning into a promiscuous affair with almost all the great masters of Europe. And it was Gian Lorenzo who was expected to continually supply new lovers. Something else Angelina had in common with Catherine the Great.

Gian Lorenzo was visiting a client in Barcelona, who for tax reasons had to dispose of a Murillo,
The Birth of Christ,
when he heard the news. He considered that the asking price for the painting was too high, even though he knew that Angelina would be willing to pay it. He was in the middle of haggling when his secretary called. Gian Lorenzo took the next available flight back to Rome.

Every paper reported, some in great detail, the death of Angelina Castelli. A massive heart attack while she was in her garden trying to move one of the statues.