The Da Vinci Deception (36 page)

“You will see we live modestly,” Giorgio said, leading the way through the long, narrow rooms on the ground floor. “And we are proud of the art we've collected. Many of the drawings I bought for a few lira.” His voice rose. “We were so poor when I was a
professore aiutante
that to buy a small da Montelupo or Granacci would set Ivonne to crying. Today, they will bring a hundred or even a thousand times the little I paid for them.”

They had entered from lakeside, from the back of the villa, and were now walking to the entrance hall off of which was a flight of stairs leading to the second level. At the top they faced another long hall leading back toward the lake.

“We allowed ourselves one luxury when we created this study that looks over the water and to the east where the sun rises directly over your
Il Diodario
.”

It was a generous-sized room with alcoves and wide plank flooring. The walls were crammed with drawings and paintings, there was a collection of statuary, and many shelves were filled with Giorgio's favorite books. It was a cheerful, bright room that belonged to a scholar and an intellectual who lived in a special comfort surrounded by years of careful accumulation.

“I am Ivonne.” A woman stepped toward Jonas, her hand extended. If Ivonne Burri had been in the kitchen since sunup, she did not look the worse for the effort. She was of average height and lean, her hair a silvery blond and carefully coiffed. She looked very trim in a yellow-and-white summer dress.

“Welcome, Signore Kalem. I have heard so much about you.” Her accent was a blend of French and Italian.

“And Giorgio never fails to speak of you. He praises your touch in the kitchen most of all.”

“The way to his heart is through his stomach.” She smiled broadly. “Please sit. We put a table in this room where we can look out to the water.”

A tureen of hot
minestra
was in the center of the table. It was followed by linguini and pesto sauce and filets of lake whitefish.

“I apologize I cannot serve the
salmonrino,
but in a few days I will make a large catch,” Giorgio exclaimed.

Ivonne laughed. “That is what I hear each week, but the promise is greater than the catch.”

“Before these witnesses I say that on Friday I shall return with a basketful.”

Tony joined in. “We'll pay close attention to how well you do.”

Ivonne's menu concluded with a salad sweetened with fruit. “You are a lover of wines, Jonas,” Giorgio said. “I see you filled your glass several times with the wine from a vineyard of which I am part owner. It is east of Como, midway to Lake Garda. It is like Santa Maddalena. Do you like it?”

“Wine from
your
vineyard? I like it. Rich but not too heavy.”

“A good balance, we say. I have a supply in our wine cellar and I will ask Ivonne to bring you a bottle.”

Ivonne nodded, aware that Giorgio and Jonas were about to begin a more serious conversation. “I'll be in the garden if you should need anything.” She took away the remaining dishes.

Giorgio directed his attention to Tony. “In the room directly below is a collection of rare books, some quite old and beautiful. And more drawings, mostly by our Baroque artists. You're most welcome to browse there or anywhere in my home.” Tony, realizing he'd been dismissed, went off without a word.

“You enjoyed your food, Jonas?”

“As you told me many times, Ivonne has a master's touch. And I'll tell her.” He nestled the leather case in his arms. “But now to more important matters. Curtis has completed two folios, and I have them for your approval.”

“I've been curious to know why you brought them here. I should go over them with Curtis in the studio.”

“But this is your studio, your references are here. If there are problems, then you and Curtis can meet.”

Giorgio took the case to the table as if he were handling the Holy Grail. With appropriate reverence he placed two drawings on the table. He looked at each, front and back, for an initial impression. Gone was his usual smile. Now he was somber. He moved a lamp closer and began a closer examination. He spoke quietly in Italian. Jonas moved away and began a careful inspection of Giorgio's study.

“You must be pleased,” Giorgio said without looking up. “For these sheets to stand as Leonardo's, we must sense it intuitively, and here, in the young woman's face, is that unmistakable spirit Leonardo was searching for during all the days when he planned his
Mona Lisa.
Berenson taught that it is in the spirit and quality that are found the umpires of authenticity. There will be disbelievers, but that would be so if Leonardo da Vinci were to rise from his tomb and fly to London with you.” Giorgio smiled at his joke. “That's a good one, eh, Jonas? Leonardo in a flying machine?”

“He would approve,” Jonas answered.

Jonas was at the far end of the studio, carefully eyeing the art on the white stuccoed wall. He was less interested in the pictures than what was behind each one. He moved the paintings aside, looking for a hiding place or a small wall safe. Giorgio had boasted that his drawings were behind two feet of stone. But nowhere could the walls be this thick. At least not above ground. But below? In the cellar? In the wine cellar?

Tony accepted Giorgio's offer and went first to the room where a collection of old books was waiting to be sorted. Shutters were closed on all the windows except one facing the garden. He could see out to the sunlit garden where Ivonne sat writing in her notebook.

From the study he went to a small music room, then to the dining room. Across from the dining room was the kitchen. It was a square room with a massive fireplace, which gave evidence that the house was more than two centuries old. One door opened to the pantry, another to a black void. Only the first few steps of a staircase leading down were visible. Inside the door he found a light switch. He flicked it on, then started down the wooden steps.

At the bottom he found he was in a cavernous room running the full width and length of the house. Lights dangled off wires suspended from the cross beams. Thirty feet away was a brick enclosure. He was
certain it was the wine cellar. A thick wood door was secured by a monstrous padlock he could not pick or break apart. He retreated to the top of the stairs, turned off the lights, and then returned to the cellar to wait for Ivonne to come for the bottle of wine.

“They are nearly perfect, Jonas. The study for the
Mona Lisa
is incredibly beautiful.”

“Nearly perfect is not good enough,” Jonas said sternly.

“There are minor changes to make, but none too difficult. I have made notes for Curtis and we will go over everything together.”

“How much time will it take?”

“A day, no more than two.”

“I will need a week and perhaps more to force the inks into the paper and prepare them for the other tests.”

“I am happy that is not my responsibility. Eleanor could help, but you have kept her unaware. Am I correct?”

“She is asking questions and has become suspicious.”

“Would you expect otherwise?”

“I had hoped to bring her into my confidence, but I put it off. I can't force her to become a willing partner, yet if she knows and won't join us . . .” Jonas didn't finish the thought. He put the drawings back into their plastic sleeves and then into the leather case.

“You could explain that these two are part of your discovery and ask that she prove their authenticity.”

Jonas nodded. “That's crossed my mind.” The big man held the leather case across his generous girth and looked intently at Giorgio. “When Curtis has made the corrections, he will be free to start on the next pages. One of the reasons I've come to your home is to ask for the original drawings.”

“You may ask, Jonas, but I will not give them to you.”

“I demand it.”

“It is useless to argue. They stay with me.”

“What assurance do I have you won't make more Xerox copies and expose the entire project?”

“That would be foolish, Jonas. You have my word.”

“That isn't good enough. There's too much money at stake. Once these pages are shown to the world, the pressures on all of us will be immense.”

“The drawings are safe with me,” Giorgio said calmly.

“But are you safe?” Jonas wheeled about and walked off.

Caramazza's boat was as advertised: solid and comfortable. Deats tried to dress as a tourist, but his wardrobe was as inappropriate for a boat ride as the heavy woolens he had taken to a steamy New York.

From Moltrassio, Caramazza ran his boat slowly along the irregular shoreline. Below the Villa d'Este he swung toward the center of the lake, holding to a hundred feet from the sharp spit of land Deats had seen through the binoculars. After rounding the tip, they turned sharply back along the pebbled beach of Cernobbio.

“There is the landing.” Caramazza pointed to a marina where fishing boats had been pulled up to rest on the smooth flat rocks and sand.

Deats looked for the white speedboat but the only white craft was a Sunfish that a small boy was striving to float out to friendlier winds.

Then he saw the gazebo and below it the boat. He touched Caramazza's shoulder. “Look there.”

Caramazza put the throttle in neutral. The boat stopped, rising and falling in a nearly imperceptible swell. “That dock belongs to Giorgio Burri.”

“You know him?”

“Yes. And his wife. Though we are not close friends, we have known each other for many years. They come to the hotel for some of our specialties and I have been with them at the home of mutual friends.”

“What is his business?”

“He is retired from the University of Milan. When he was young, he was a painter. Then he became a teacher of art.”

“He teaches painting?”

“Perhaps, I do not know. He gives lectures on the Italian painters at the schools in Como.”

“Tell me more about him. How long has he been retired from the university?”

“Two, perhaps three years. I said he retired, but that is only partly true. He was asked to resign.” Caramazza waved his hand as if hoping to pluck his next words from the air. “There were rumors he published papers on controversial subjects that caused his superiors to demand he make apologies. But he was stubborn.”

“What kind of controversial subjects?”

“As I say, these were rumors and I did not pay close attention. He was a professor of the History of Art, so what can the controversy be over such a subject?” He smiled. “There are politics in the University like everywhere. Am I right?”

Deats sighed. “You are right, Mr. Caramazza. I have seen it.”