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Villa dei Fiori
The Villa dei Fiori, a thousand-acre estate located between the Tiber and Nera Rivers, had been in the possession of the Gasparri family since the days when Umbria was still ruled by the popes. There was a large and lucrative cattle operation, an equestrian center that bred some of the finest jumpers in all of Italy, and a flock of playful goats kept solely for entertainment value. Its olive groves produced some of Umbria’s best oil, and its small vineyard contributed several hundred kilos of grapes each year to the local cooperative. Sunflowers shone in its fields.
The villa itself stood at the end of a dusty drive shaded by towering umbrella pine. In the eleventh century, it had been a monastery. There was still a small chapel and, in the walled interior courtyard, the remains of an oven where the brothers had baked their daily bread. At the base of the house was a large blue swimming pool, and adjacent to the pool was a trellised garden where rosemary and lavender grew along walls of Etruscan stone.
The current Count Gasparri, a faded Roman nobleman with close ties to the Holy See, did not rent Villa dei Fiori or allow friends and relatives to borrow it. Indeed, the last unaccompanied guestsof the property had been the morose art restorer from the Vatican Museums and his beautiful Venetian-born wife, an experience the four-member staff would not soon forget. They were surprised, then, to learn that Count Gasparri had agreed to lend the villa to an unnamed acquaintance for a stay of indeterminate length. Yes, said the count, it was likely his unnamed acquaintance would have guests of his own. No, he would not require the services of the household staff, as he was intensely private by nature and wished not to be disturbed.
Accordingly, two members of the staff—Anna the fabled cook, and Margherita the temperamental housekeeper—departed Villa dei Fiori early on Tuesday morning for a brief and unexpected holiday. Two other employees, however, remained at their posts: Isabella, the ethereal half Swede who ran the equestrian center; and Carlos, the Argentinian cowboy who cared for the cattle and the crops. Both took note of the unmarked blue-black Fiat Ducato van that came bumping up the drive shortly before noon. The two occupants unloaded their cargo with the swiftness of thieves stashing stolen loot. The plunder included two large metal crates of the sort used by touring rock musicians, provisions enough to feed a small army, and, curiously, a professional-grade studio easel and a large blank canvas.
No, thought Isabella. It wasn’t possible. Not after all these years.
The van soon departed, and a tense calm returned to the villa. It was shattered at 3:42 p.m. by the appalling roar of a Maserati engine. A moment later the car streaked past the equestrian center in a cloud of powdery dust. Even so, Isabella managed to catch a brief glimpse of the passenger. His most distinguishing feature was the swath of gray hair—like a smudge of ash—at his right temple.
It was a coincidence, Isabella assured herself. It couldn’t possibly be the same man.
The Maserati’s engine note faded to a dull drone as the sedan sped toward the villa through the twin rows of umbrella pine. It stopped outside the walls of the ancient courtyard, and the man with graytemples emerged. Medium height, noted Isabella with mounting dread. Slender as a cyclist.
He collected an overnight bag from the backseat and spoke a few parting words to the driver. Then he slung the bag over his shoulder—like a soldier, thought Isabella—and walked a few paces across the drive toward the gate of the courtyard. The same forward slump to the shoulders. The same slight outward bend to the legs.
“Dear God,” whispered Isabella as the Maserati shot past her in a blur. It was true, after all.
The restorer had returned to Villa dei Fiori.
Nextmorning he settled into his familiar routine. He led himself on a forced march around the property. He went for a vigorous swim in the pool. He leafed through a book about the Flemish Baroque painter Anthony van Dyck while sitting in the shade of the trellised garden. Carlos and Isabella watched over him from afar. His mood, they observed, was much improved. It was as though a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Carlos declared that he was a changed man, but Isabella went even further. He was not a changed man, she said. He was a new man entirely.
His work habits, however, were as disciplined as ever. Wednesday’s labors before the easel began after a spartan lunch and continued late into the night. In his previous incarnation, he had listened to music while he worked. But now he seemed to be engrossed in a dreadful play on the radio, something that sounded like the output of a butt-dialed mobile phone. The program featured a roguishly charming London art dealer called Oliver and his plucky assistant, Cordelia. Of that much, at least, Isabella was certain. The rest of it was a disjointed hodgepodge of traffic noise, toilet flushes, one-sided phone calls, and bursts of barroom laughter.
The episode that aired Thursday morning featured a conversationbetween Oliver and Cordelia over a seemingly trivial scheduling matter—a visit to the gallery by a woman called Magdalena Navarro. At the conclusion of the program, the restorer set off on a punishing hike around the estate. And Isabella, in contravention of Count Gasparri’s strict instructions, set off toward the now undefended villa. She entered through the kitchen and made her way to the great room, which the restorer had once again converted into an artist’s atelier.
The canvas rested on the easel, shimmering with a recent application of oil-based paint. It was a three-quarter-length portrait of a woman wearing a gown of gold silk trimmed in white lace. Isabella, who had studied art history before devoting her life to horses, recognized the style as Van Dyck’s. The woman’s face was not yet complete, only her hair, which was almost black. Lampblack, thought Isabella, with a magnificent sheen of lead white with touches of lapis lazuli and vermilion.
His pigments and oils were arrayed on a nearby table. Isabella knew better than to touch anything, as he left behind hidden telltales to alert him to intruders. His Winsor & Newton Series 7 sable-hair brush lay on his palette. Like the painting, it was damp. Next to it was a slumbering laptop. The device was connected to a pair of Bose speakers. Better to hear the travails of Oliver and Cordelia, thought Isabella.
She turned to the unfinished painting once more. He had made a remarkable amount of progress in so short a time. But why was hepaintinga painting and not restoring one? And where was his model? The answer, thought Isabella, was that he had no need of one. She remembered the remarkable painting that had flowed from his hand after he had suffered the terrible injury to his eye—Two Children on a Beach, in the style of Mary Cassatt. He had finished it in a handful of marathon sessions, with only his memory to guide him.
“What do you think of it so far?” he asked calmly.
Isabella swung round and laid a hand over her heart. Somehow she managed not to scream.
He took a step forward. “What are you doing in here?”
“Count Gasparri asked me to check on you.”
“In that case, why did you come when you knew I was out?” He contemplated his pigments and oils. “You didn’t touch anything, did you?”
“Of course not. I was just wondering what you were working on.”
“Is that all? Or were you also wondering why I returned to this place after all these years?”
“That, too,” Isabella conceded.
He took another step forward. “Do you know who I am?”
“Until a moment ago, I thought you were an art restorer who sometimes worked at the Vatican Museums.”
“And you no longer believe that to be the case?”
