The Bergamese Sect (16 page)

The modern, cramped city cowers on the slopes below the old walls, spreading like lava into the hazy distance. The traffic is unrelenting, the noise a monotone of engines as it races up and down the
Viale Giovanni
. The people shout, beep their horns and argue with each other, forgetting the serenity that huddles on the summit above them.

The
Città Alta
, the high city, is an enormous open-air museum. Ancient walls of pleasing grey stone skirt around the hill, protecting the renaissance treasures that gather within. Colonnades and arcades line many of the buildings, their colourful rock and marble inspiring in their variety. The spires that rise above the mêlée of narrow streets look like they were sculpted from the Alps themselves. Their geometry is exquisite, their proportions as natural as the granite from which they spring.

Bergamo is unmistakably an
Italian
city – the medieval backdrop mingling with an upbeat and polished attitude, the people jovial and easy living. They wander between shops that hide away in ancient frescoed buildings. Some gather to watch street entertainers; fire-eaters, jugglers or artists chalking the pavement slabs with remarkably accurate Botticelli masterpieces. Intellectuals and business people frequent the welcoming restaurants. In that deceptive Italian way, no one seems busy, or concerned. Or hurried. They sip on sweet, bitter coffee, nibble on chocolate and cream delicacies and squabble, jokingly, about friends and family. They speak passionately of politics and art, how the city should be run, but when pressed, they shrug their shoulders, smile and turn to their drinks.

―
§ ―

At the edge of the modern city lay a small, three-storey building of red stone. It was an expensive retirement home, surrounded by beautiful gardens. Lime trees and willows lined the gravel paths, colourful borders running along the black wrought-iron fences.

At one end of the garden, where the path ended abruptly before a wooden bench, sat an old man. Wearing baggy trousers, a grey shirt and loose waistcoat, he leant on a carved walking stick and squinted at the sunshine filtering through the leaves. He was wrinkled and bent, his grey hair almost completely gone, but his great age hadn’t diminished the light in his eyes, which were deep and dark brown, almost black. His face was delightfully simple, the features in perfect proportion.

A young man was walking down the garden path. He approached the wizened Italian relaxing in the dappled sun.

‘
Signor Lanza?’ he enquired.

The old man eyed him with curiosity. ‘Si?’ he said.

‘
Buon giorno, Signor Lanza. Mi chiamo David Castro. Parla inglese?
’

‘
Si,’ the man said again as he inspected his unexpected guest.

David Castro took a seat by the old man and placed his bag carefully on the grass. He stared at the Italian. Lanza looked exactly how he’d pictured him. The balding head covered with red and brown splotches, the wispy grey hair, the penetrating eyes.

‘
Signor Lanza,’ he said, ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions. I’m sorry to disturb your afternoon walk, but the nurse said I could come down and talk with you.’ Castro pointed to the door of the building where a nurse could be seen skulking by the drapes, intrigued by the arrival of the young tourist.

Lanza leant toward Castro surprised. He placed his walking stick against the seat and smiled. ‘You are American?’ Lanza asked with a slow and stilted accent.

‘
Yes.’

‘
Why do you come to Bergamo, Signor Castro?’

‘
I’ve come because I think you can help me.’

Lanza laughed, his eyes wide with astonishment. ‘You come all this way to see me?’

‘
Yes.’

‘
You think an ageing fool can help you, Signor Castro?’ Lanza asked, still laughing. ‘Or maybe you are the fool. Si?’ The man raised his strong eyebrows.

Castro smiled back at the old man. He was an engaging character, a relaxed humour surrounding him. Ancient beyond calculation, he retained a vitality only hampered by his sore bones.

‘
I understand you were once curator of the Moscadelli private art collection.’

Again, Lanza expressed his surprise. ‘Yes, this is true.’

‘
Were you there during the war?’

The old man hesitated a moment. ‘Yes, from 1936 to 1944,’ he said, ‘if my head has things correct.’ He smiled again, the dark eyes flashing.

‘
I’m trying to find a painting that was once part of the Moscadelli collection,’ Castro said. ‘My research shows it was in Bergamo in about 1939 but it was lost sometime during the war. Do you…’

The old curator interrupted him with a hand quickly raised. ‘Do you speak to the present curator? He knows more than is in here.’ The Italian tapped a bony finger on his bald temple. Another well-practised smile crossed his face.

‘
I did, but he couldn’t help. I thought you might remember something about the painting.’

‘
1939? This is a long time ago, Signor Castro. I deal with many paintings in my life – with the Moscadellis, in Rome and at the
Accademia Carrara
. You think I remember one painting?’

Castro got comfortable on the hard bench. ‘I realise it may be difficult to recall, but any clues would be helpful.’

‘
Why do you want this painting?’ the old man enquired, his face now showing disbelief as well as amusement.

‘
It’s an obsession if you like. It’s missing and I want to find it.’

Lanza took a deep breath, raised his hand and gently scratched the wrinkled skin of his chin. He looked across the garden, as if reminiscing. ‘Many treasures are lost in the war, Signor Castro.’ He looked back at his visitor, a wry smirk on his lips. ‘If the Nazis don’t destroy it, it is probably forgotten in German bank vault. Or on the wall of a family home. Many people have property stolen during the war. Many important artworks. And of course, all the gold!’ Lanza’s eyes bulged with his sarcasm and he laughed again. ‘If this painting go missing, it is difficult to find.’

‘
I realise that,’ Castro replied, ‘but until I’ve explored every lead, I’ll keep looking.’

The Italian shrugged his shoulders. ‘Okay, I tell you what I know. Who is the artist?’

‘
Giovanni Bellini.’

There was recognition in Lanza’s eyes but a serious look came over him. He pulled himself upright. ‘Moscadelli have more than one Bellini, Signor Castro,’ he said sternly.

‘
This one originally hung in the parish church of Gorlago.’

Suddenly, the old man jolted. His eyes narrowed, as if a bright light were thrust in his face. He stared at Castro, the smile vanishing from his lips.

‘
Perhaps you can remember acquiring it, sometime in the thirties?’

Lanza didn’t answer. He shifted on the seat, pulling his legs away from Castro. The healthy red glow vanished from his wrinkled skin. ‘Sorry, I not remember,’ he said abruptly. The humour in his voice had gone. He grabbed the ornate walking stick and looked across the lawns to the door of the building. The nurse had disappeared. ‘Now, you excuse me, Signor Castro. I take my rest indoors.’

Castro ignored the words. ‘It was a portrait of a Spanish Dominican called Alfonso de Morillo.’

Lanza’s body went taught as he continued to stare at the open door. ‘No,’ he shouted. He pulled himself up on the walking stick, steadied himself and began a slow shuffle down the gravel path.

Castro also stood, confused by the man’s sudden change of attitude, and grabbed his bag from the ground. He reached inside and quickly whipped out a book. ‘Perhaps if I show you the painting…’ he said as he followed Lanza down the path, leafing through the pages.

‘
No, please Signor, I do not know it,’ Lanza said, his voice now strained.

Castro looked at the old man’s face but he was avoiding Castro’s gaze in his attempt to escape. He continued to walk painfully slowly, turning his head away from the visitor.

‘
At least look at the painting,’ Castro pleaded.

‘
No.’

Castro found the page with de Morillo’s portrait and thrust it before the Italian’s eyes. ‘Here. Do you recognise it?’

Suddenly Lanza dropped his walking stick and made a grab for the book. He wrenched it from Castro’s hand, his teeth grinding in anger, a terrified yell coming from his throat. But the rapid movement was too much for his frail legs. He toppled over, crashing onto the gravel, the book flying across the grass.

Castro knelt to help but the old man sprang at him, knocking him in the side of the head, another agonised cry piercing the air. Pulling himself up, Lanza lunged at the book. He picked it up and ripped out the pages in a single tear. Collapsing in a heap, he continued to rip at the paper, handfuls of confetti flying from his fists.

The nurse had heard the commotion in the garden and came bounding through the door. She ran over, screaming something in Italian, and helped Lanza to his feet.

The old man’s rage had subsided. The blood rushed back into his face, the veins at his temple pulsating. Standing among the debris of the book, he sobbed like a child. The girl took him by the arm and led him away. She threw a fierce glare at Castro as they passed.

―
§ ―

It was a warm Wednesday evening. Castro left the hotel that lay beneath the precipice of the
Città Alta
. He walked up the hill and jumped on the funicular railway. Hauled up the steep incline, the carriage creaked through a gaping hole gouged into the ancient walls. At the top, Castro stepped out into a quiet square.

He passed by the medieval towers and frescoed shops, and arrived at the wide
Piazza Vecchia
. The square was a bustle of strollers. Young lovers danced around each other, unaware their play fighting was an erotic prelude. Elderly lovers hobbled, cupping their hands together over walking sticks or the leash of a prancing dog. Castro couldn’t help smiling at the scene, a passion play acted out every night of the year in so many European piazzas.

He took a seat beneath the awning of the
Colleoni Dell’Angelo
taverna. To his right the three-arched
Palazzo Della Ragione
stood proud. Above rose an enormous civic tower, and beyond, the twisted columns and mosque-like dome of the
Cappella Colleoni
. A waiter bounced toward him and took his order.

It had been almost a week since Castro had seen Lanza. The old curator’s furious reaction to his questioning had confused and disturbed him. But it had intrigued him too. Why should mention of Bellini’s painting have unhinged the old man? Had his great age affected his mind, his keen and jovial intellect concealing a dangerous senility?

Since Vegas, Castro had been a changed man. The psychiatrist had changed him, but not the way he’d expected. He’d thrown out the preconceptions that had held him back, exorcised his paranoia, accepted those awful memories. Castro could feel the change within him, could almost feel the strength of logic coursing through his veins, as if his powers of deduction were faultless.

But another, sullen feeling had been growing in him. It had been almost a year now since he’d packed up and got out of that desert. A year of wandering, of part-time jobs in understaffed law firms, of constant motion. He’d journeyed on, ever eastwards, never finding a destination that meant more than a few days respite from the exhausting road.

He remembered that night in the cold, wet desert of Arizona, on his way to Campbell’s farm and his first revelation. The road that night had seemed endless. But increasingly Castro was aware he was still racing down the same desolate, lonely course. A course that led nowhere. He just wanted someone to say ‘yes David, you deserve some answers, and I’m going to give them to you’. But it was never going to happen and Castro was tiring of it.

Something caught Castro’s attention. Across the square, appearing from beneath the arches of the
Palazzo Nuovo
, two figures came into view. They slowly descended the three white marble steps. One was bent over crookedly, shuffling into the flow of people, the other assisting him. They strode toward Castro’s table.

Recognition. It was Lanza and his nurse. For two full minutes they tirelessly crossed the
Piazza
, the strollers looking hurried in comparison to the old man’s laboured gait. They came to stand on the other side of the row of potted holly bushes that fronted the restaurant.

Lanza was calm and subdued, obviously embarrassed, but the characteristic sheen was still in his eyes. He turned to the young girl and dismissed her. She bounded off across the square, unashamedly relieved to be rid of the old man. Castro noticed a youth casually leaning on a lion by the central fountain, waving at her approach.

Lanza’s eyes met with Castro’s and spoke a silent question. Castro answered it by pointing at a chair opposite.

‘
Signor Castro,’ said Lanza as he eased himself down.

‘
Call me David,’ Castro replied cautiously.

‘
David, I am happy I find you. I apologise for the other day.’

Castro tried to look sympathetic. ‘I’m sorry I upset you. I had no idea you’d react like that.’

‘
Yes, I am surprised too,’ said the Italian, shrugging his shoulders. ‘It is a shock to hear you speak of this painting.’ He looked at Castro squarely, clearly still disturbed by something.

‘
Why does it upset you?’

Lanza seemed uncomfortable. He looked around the
Piazza
, his eyes unfocussed on a distant point above. Castro followed his gaze but saw only the carvings worn flat on the façade of the
Palazzo della Ragione
.

The waiter arrived with Castro’s wine. He placed it gently on the table, watched as Lanza signalled for another glass and left the two men alone.