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37
Bridge of Sighs
Umberto Conti, universally regarded as the greatest art restorer of the twentieth century, had bequeathed to Francesco Tiepolo a magical ring of keys that could open any door in Venice. Over drinks at Harry’s Bar, Francesco entrusted them to Gabriel. Late that evening he slipped into the Scuola Grande di San Rocco and spent two hours in solitary communion with some of Tintoretto’s greatest works. Then he breached the defenses of the neighboring Frari church and stood transfixed before Titian’s magisterialAssumption of the Virgin. In the deep silence of the cavernous nave, he recalled the words Umberto had spoken to him when he was a broken, gray-haired boy of twenty-five.
Only a man with a damaged canvas of his own can be a truly great restorer...
Umberto would not have approved of his gifted pupil’s newest commission. And neither, for that matter, did Francesco. Nevertheless, he agreed to serve as a consultant to the project. He was, after all, one of the world’s foremost authorities on the Venetian School painters. If Gabriel could fool Francesco Tiepolo, he could fool anyone.
Francesco likewise agreed to accompany Gabriel during his nocturnal Venetian wanderings, if only to prevent another mishap like the one involving poor Capitano Rossetti. They stole into churches andscuole, roamed the Accademia and the Museo Correr, and even stormed the Doge’s Palace. While peering through the stone-barred windows of the Bridge of Sighs, Francesco summarized the difficulty of the task ahead.
“Four different works by four of the greatest painters in history. Only a madman would attempt such a thing.”
“If he can do it, so can I.”
“The forger?”
Gabriel nodded.
“It’s not a competition, you know.”
“Of course it is. I have to prove to them that I would be a worthy addition to the network. Otherwise, they won’t make a play for me.”
“Is that why you allowed yourself to be dragged into this? For the challenge?”
“Wherever did you get the idea that this was going to be a challenge for me?”
“You don’t lack for confidence, do you?”
“Neither does he.”
“You’re all the same, you art forgers. You all have something to prove. He’s probably a failed painter who’s taking his revenge on the art world by fooling the connoisseurs and the collectors.”
“The connoisseurs and collectors,” said Gabriel, “haven’t seen anything yet.”
He spent his days in his studio with his monographs and catalogues raisonnés and photographs from past restorations, including several that he had conducted for Francesco. Together, after much debate, some of it conducted with raised voices, they settled on the subject matter and iconography for the four forgeries. Gabriel produced a series of preparatory sketches, then turned the sketches into fourswiftly executed rehearsal paintings. Francesco declared the Gentileschi, a reworking ofDanaë and the Shower of Gold, to be the finest of the lot, with Veronese’sSusanna in the Batha close second. Gabriel agreed with Francesco’s assessment of the Gentileschi, though he was fond of his reinterpretation of Tintoretto’sBacchus, Venus, and Ariadne. His Titian, a pastiche ofThe Lovers, wasn’t bad, either, though he thought the brushwork was a touch tentative.
“How can onenotbe tentative when one is forging a Titian?”
“It’s a dead giveaway, Francesco. I have tobecomeTitian. Otherwise, we’re sunk.”
“What are you going to do with that one?”
“Cremation. The others, too.”
“Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“Clearly.”
Early the following morning, Gabriel uncrated one of the paintings he had pillaged from Julian’s storerooms, an early sixteenth-century Venetian School devotional piece of no value and little merit. Even so, he felt a stab of guilt as he scraped the unknown artist’s work from the canvas and covered it in gesso and animprimaturaof lead white with traces of lampblack and yellow ocher. Next he executed his underdrawing—with a brush, the wayhewould have done it—and meticulously prepared his palette. Lead white, genuine ultramarine, madder lake, burnt sienna, malachite, yellow ocher, red ocher, orpiment, ivory black. Before commencing work, he once again reflected on the shifting fortunes of his career. He was no longer the leader of a powerful intelligence service or even one of the world’s finest art restorers.
He was the sun amidst small stars.
He was Titian.
For the better part of the next week, Chiara and the children saw little of him. On the rare occasions he emerged from his studio, hewas on edge and preoccupied, not at all himself. Only once did he accept an invitation to join Chiara for lunch. His hands left smudges of paint across her breasts and abdomen.
“I feel like I just made love to another man.”
