Cat O'Nine Tales: And Other Stories (34 page)

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
Angelinas
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.

The tabloids,
unwilling to mourn the lady for a single day, went on to inform their readers
in the second paragraph that she had left her entire fortune to her husband. A
photograph of a smiling Paolo–taken long before her death–ran alongside the
story.

Four days later
Gian
Lorenzo flew to Venice to attend the funeral.

The little
chapel in the grounds of the Villa Rosa was packed with
Angelinas
family and friends, some of whom
Gian
Lorenzo hadn’t
seen since the wedding celebration, a generation before.

When the six
pallbearers carried the coffin into the chapel, and lowered it gently on a bier
in front of the altar, Paolo broke down and sobbed. After the service was over,
Gian
Lorenzo offered his condolences, and Paolo
assured him that he had enriched
Angelinas
life beyond recompense. He went on to say that he intended to continue building
the collection in her memory. “It is no more than my little angel would have
wanted,” he explained, “so it must be done.”

Paolo didn’t get in touch with him again.

Gian
Lorenzo was about to dip a spoon into a pot of Oxford
marmalade–another habit he had acquired from his father–when he saw the
headline. The spoon remained lodged in the marmalade while he read the words a
second time. He wanted to be sure that he hadn’t misunderstood the headline.
Paolo was back on the front page, declaring it was “love at first sight–turn to
page 22 for details.”

Gian
Lorenzo quickly flicked through the pages to a column
he rarely troubled himself with.
“Gossip
Roma,
we give you 587/595 the truth behind the stories.” Paolo
Castelli
, former captain of Roma, and the ninth richest man
in Italy, is to marry again, only four years after the death of his little
angel. “There’s more to her than meets the eye,” declared the headline.

The paper went
on to assure its readers that there couldn’t be a bigger contrast between his
first wife, Angelina, a
billionairess
, and Gina, a
twenty-four-year-old waitress from Naples, and the daughter of a tax inspector.

Gian
Lorenzo chuckled when he saw Gina’s photograph, aware
that many of Paolo’s friends wouldn’t be able to resist teasing him.

Every morning
Gian
Lorenzo found himself turning to
Gossip Roma,
in the hope of learning some new
titbit
about the forthcoming marriage. The wedding, it seemed, would be held in the
chapel of the Villa Rosa, which only had enough space to seat a mere two
hundred, so the guests would be restricted to close family and friends. The
bride could no longer leave her little home without being pursued by a legion
of paparazzi. The groom, they informed their readers, had returned to the gym,
in the hope of losing a few pounds before the ceremony took place. But the
biggest surprise for
Gian
Lorenzo came when
Gossip Roma
claimed–in an exclusive–
that
Signor
Gian
Lorenzo
Venici
, Roma’s leading art dealer, and old school chum of
Paolo, would be among the fortunate guests.

An invitation
arrived in the morning post the following day.

Gian
Lorenzo flew into Venice on the evening before the
ceremony and checked into the Hotel
Cipriani
. He
decided a light meal and an early night might perhaps be wise when he thought
about the previous wedding.

Gian
Lorenzo rose early the following morning and took some
time dressing for the occasion. Despite this, he still arrived at the Villa
Rosa long before the service was due to commence. He wished to stroll among the
statues that littered the lawn and become reacquainted with some old friends.
Donatello smiled down on him. Moore looked regal.
Miró
made him laugh, and
Gia-cometti
stood tall and thin,
but his favorite remained the fountain which graced the center of the lawn. Ten
years before he had removed each piece of the fountain, stone by stone, statue
by statue, from a courtyard in Milan. Bellini’s
The Escaping Hunter
looked even more magnificent in its new
surroundings. It gave
Gian
Lorenzo particular
pleasure to see how many other guests had also arrived early, clearly with the
same thought in mind.

A single usher
in a smart dark suit walked among the guests suggesting that they might like to
make their way to the chapel as the ceremony was about to begin.
Gian
Lorenzo was one of the first to heed his advice, as he
wanted to be well placed to watch the bride make her entrance.

Gian
Lorenzo found a vacant seat on the aisle about halfway
back that would allow him an uninterrupted view of the proceedings. He could
see the little choir in their stalls, already singing vespers accompanied by a
string quartet.

At five minutes
to three Paolo and his best man entered the chapel and walked slowly down the
aisle.
Gian
Lorenzo knew he’d been a well-known
footballer, but he still couldn’t remember his name.

They both took
their places by the side of the altar, while Paolo waited for his young bride
to appear. Paolo looked fit, tanned and trim, and
Gian
Lorenzo noted that women still stared at him with adoring eyes. Paolo didn’t
notice them and a grin that would have excited comment from Lewis Carroll never
left the bridegroom’s face.

There was a
buzz of expectation as the string quartet struck up the opening chords of the
Wedding March, to herald the entrance of the bride. The young woman walked
slowly down the aisle on the arm of her father, and drew intakes of breath as
she passed each new row.

Gian
Lorenzo could hear her approaching, so he turned to
look at Gina for the first time. How would he respond, when asked to describe
the bride, to someone who hadn’t been invited to the ceremony? Should he
emphasize her beautiful long, thick, raven hair, or possibly comment on the
smooth olive texture of her skin, or even add some remark about the magnificent
wedding dress that he remembered so well? Or would
Gian
Lorenzo simply tell all those who inquired that it had become immediately clear
to him why Paolo had declared that it was love at first sight. The same shy
smile as Angelina, the same bright enthusiastic twinkle in her eyes, the same
gentleness that was clear for all to see, or was it, as
Gian
Lorenzo suspected, that the journalists would only report that she fitted
snugly into
Angelinas
old wedding dress–the yards and
yards of silk forming a magnificent train behind the bride as she walked slowly
toward her lover.