The Bergamese Sect (17 page)

‘
I fear this day for over seventy years,’ Lanza said eventually. He continued to stare into the distance. ‘I wait for someone like you to find me; to ask me about Bellini’s painting. To remind me of a terrible thing.’

‘
What terrible thing? Regarding the painting?’ asked Castro, trying to draw Lanza’s attention back to the table.

It worked and Lanza turned to look at the American. A sadness and fear reflected in his dark eyes. ‘It is difficult to talk about.’

‘
But you recognised the portrait of de Morillo?’

‘
Yes, I know the Bellini painting.’

‘
You remember it being in the Moscadelli collection?’

‘
Yes. It is more than just a memory. Every stroke of the artist’s brush is in here.’ Lanza tapped his head. ‘If I close my eyes, I see every detail of de Morillo’s face. He haunts me; his cold stare, the sadness in his face.’ The old man closed his eyes, just for a moment, but snapped them open again.

‘
Why should a harmless painting bother you, Signor Lanza?’

‘
It is not the painting that scares me. It is something that happened many years ago because of it.’

Castro paused, but Lanza had gone silent. ‘Signor Lanza, it may seem strange to you, but I’m desperate to find out what happened to Bellini’s painting. There’s something depicted in that painting that holds some significance for me. I need to find the painting or discover more about its subject. Can you tell me where it is?’

Lanza shook his head. ‘No, I can’t.’

‘
I see,’ Castro said with clear disappointment in his voice. He looked away.

‘
But I tell you what happened to the painting when it was in my care. Maybe it helps you.’

Castro nodded.

The waiter returned with another glass of wine. He swung his arm around in an exaggerated loop and smoothly placed the glass in front of the curator. Lanza reached for the glass and took a sip of the ruby liquid, then looked directly at Castro.

‘
I arrange the acquisition of the portrait from the church in Gorlago. I think it was in ‘38, or perhaps ‘37. I believe it is in Gorlago for some time, maybe since soon after it is painted. The church there have many fine paintings from the renaissance. Mostly they are clerics from the monastery of
Santo Stefano
here in the
Città Alta
. I never discover why so many fine paintings go to a small church in Gorlago, but there they are. Anyway, the de Morillo painting is not much known. It is only known as Bellini’s work a few years when I get it. I think there is always a question about its authenticity. It is certainly painted during Bellini’s lifetime, and if not by him, certainly by one of his pupils. It is once said to be the work of Antonello da Messina. But I never agree with this. Whatever its origin, the church at Gorlago was happy that Moscadelli wants it. Wants to conserve it. Many of their other paintings go to Venice and Milan at this time. To us the portrait is important, but only one among many. The subject is an obscure Spanish cleric, the painting not one of Bellini’s best, but it is worthy of our collection. We do not display it. It is catalogued and put in our archives. After its purchase I completely forget about the portrait, for a few years anyway.’

The old man took another sip of wine. He paused, his gaze again wandering to the worn carvings above. He collected himself, turned back to Castro.

‘
Some years later, after the war comes, this area is full with German troops, sadly our allies in those dark years. Of course, there is little conflict to begin with, Bergamo just a station on the journey from coast to coast, or from the mountains down to the big cities. But many here think the Germans are invaders. And even those who sympathised with their aims, disliked their arrogance, their, how do you say, hijacking, of the countryside. They are unpopular but we see little brutality in those early years. But there are exceptions.’ Lanza gave Castro a telling glare.

‘
In the summer of 1940 a German officer, a Captain called Gerhard Schlessinger comes to me at the Moscadelli residence.’ The curator’s face wrinkled as he recalled the memory. ‘I am there alone, the family now gone to Rome and many of the young staff now in the army. Only a gardener, a house servant and me are there, and I never see the others. At this time, I am organising the shipment of most of the Moscadelli collection to Rome. For safekeeping, you see. Schlessinger comes one Saturday morning with a truck full of young troops. Very young men.’

‘
What did he want?’

‘
At first I am not sure. He has interest in the art collection, wants to know about who is working at the house, who has access to the paintings, this kind of thing. Then he ask me about the de Morillo portrait. To be honest, I have forgotten about it. But by coincidence, it is leaning against a wall as we speak. The Captain drive away his men and make me hang the painting for him. He is quite obsessed with it. Very strange. I discuss the painting with him, thinking he is just interested in the history of art. Maybe he is a fan of Bellini. But I am wrong.’

Lanza began playing with the fingers of his left hand, pulling awkwardly on the loose flesh. His eyes kept darting away and returning reluctantly to Castro.

‘
Later, Schlessinger comes back with SS men.’ Lanza narrowed his eyes. ‘They are brutal men. They demand I give them the painting. Of course, I argue, but soon it is clear they are taking it away, with or without my agreement. I am threatened. They are not interested in anything else in the collection so I give them the Bellini. I hope they leave and not come again. I never see this painting again.’ Lanza frowned and took another sip.

‘
That’s a depressing story, but I don’t understand; why does it upset you?’

A pained smirk formed over Lanza’s mouth. ‘Things get much worse then,’ he said. ‘Schlessinger is a terrible man. I come to know his evil in the months that follow.’

Lanza swallowed deliberately, pulled his shirt collar away from his neck. ‘He is very religious man. Not in the normal way. He has no, how do you say, piety or charity. No love of man, no reverence for a God I recognise. He is burning with some kind of Aryan ideal of Christianity. A fascist revelation, if you understand me. It is disturbing, terrifying. Sometimes he has furious outbursts, shouting about virtues I do not understand. About the sanctity of the Third Reich. These days, young people say they cannot understand how the holocaust happened, how man can do this to his own kind. But a few days with Schlessinger teach me much about the corruption of the fascist mind. I can see how they murder millions of innocent people, with no remorse, with no doubt in their minds. Schlessinger is a dangerous and aggressive man.’

The old man wiped his frail hands over his face, easing away the strain in his eyes. He was beginning to sweat profusely.

‘
When I give Schlessinger the painting, I think my dealings with him are over. But he returns after a few days in an evil mood, accuses me of concealing the painting, of plotting against him. He seems angry that it is in my charge. He threatens me again, says that I must forget it exists. At first, I think he is just trying to cover his tracks, so that the theft go unreported. I agree to everything he says, afraid of his fury. But it isn’t enough. Eventually, I am taken away by the Gestapo.’

Castro leant forward and nodded slightly. The curator’s features were awash with emotion.

‘
It is difficult to talk about what happens next,’ Lanza said. His expression widened and Castro detected tears collecting in the corners of his eyes.

‘
They torture me,’ he continued after a few moments. ‘Terrible things. I cannot think about them…’ Lanza drew a deep breath and steadied himself against the table. ‘Schlessinger tell me that I am serving God by giving him the portrait. He say I suffer terrible retribution if I ever admit its existence to anyone. Its removal is an act of divine decree and I am never to question it. Then he make me agree to the strangest demand. If I ever see a reproduction of the portrait, or read anything of it, I am to destroy it. He wants to, how do you say, eradicate any trace of the painting’s existence. Again and again he repeat this.’ Lanza was now speaking in a trembling voice.

Castro wanted to ease his suffering. ‘If you can’t go on, I’ll understand,’ he said.

Lanza shook his head. ‘No, I am okay.’ He took a slow sip of wine, looked away again. ‘For days they play with me, cut me, beat me, burn me. I am exhausted, close to death, but they stop before murder. It take me many months to recover. The mental scars are still here.’ He tapped his head again. ‘I live in fear of fascists ever since, of the return of Schlessinger’s men. Even now, just talking about this painting is difficult.’

‘
Why did you decide to tell me if you’re still afraid?’

‘
Because of my hatred for the people who do this to me. Because I lose control after all these years. It scares me more than their threats; threats I live with for seventy years. I am near death, David. What can they do to me now? If their threats are real, I am ready to face them. I don’t know this until you arrive here. If their threats are false, then maybe you can right a wrong by finding the painting, returning it to its home.’

Castro nodded, leant forward. ‘Now I think I see why you were so upset. I had no idea there was such intrigue surrounding Bellini’s painting.’

‘
You are not to know.’

‘
Has your fear now gone?’

‘
No, the fear is never going. The wound is too deep. But, I realise now that the thing I fear all these years can’t harm me. I am afraid of the fear, not of the threats. I always know one day someone would ask questions about the painting. I don’t allow myself to think about this. The denial make my fears much worse. You save me from myself, David, and I am thankful.’

Castro couldn’t help smiling at the old man’s statement. ‘That’s the first time someone’s thanked me for upsetting them.’

Lanza smiled in return, now a smile of genuine ease. ‘My reaction when you first come to see me is a release for me. It show me that I no longer need to fear Schlessinger. This last week the memories are becoming easier to handle.’

The old man reached for the cuff of his shirt, unbuttoned it, and rolled up his sleeve. He pointed to a mark on the orange, wrinkled skin of his upper arm. ‘There,’ he said, ‘this is all I have left of Schlessinger’s brutality. This burn is all that remains of an evil man. I refuse to be afraid of him anymore.’

Castro reached out for Lanza’s arm and angled it toward himself. The burn was deep, translucent but violently red. The damaged skin was taught and rough, but had a distinct shape, clearly showing the pattern of the hot object that had been pressed onto the curator’s arm. Castro knew the strange symbol, but somehow felt no surprise to see it scorched into the old man’s skin.

‘
Schlessinger did this?’ he asked the curator.

‘
Yes, like he is branding me. It is done with the end of his baton. He puts it in the fire.’

Castro sat back and took his wine glass in his hand. He looked out across the square. It was still busy, though the late evening sky was now beginning to turn a dazzling blue. The people still sauntered past, unaware of the grotesque possibilities circling in Castro’s mind. This wasn’t a mystery he was creating himself. The connections were too strong. He shook the confused stupor from his head.

‘
Why did Schlessinger do this to you?’ he asked.

‘
I don’t know. I don’t think I want to know.’

‘
But why should that particular painting have such importance to him?’ Castro had spoken the question aloud without realising it.

‘
I don’t know. He never talk about the painting, though he was clearly obsessed with it… or what it depicted. It is funny, he always avoid the subject of de Morillo, as if it is blasphemous. He never use his name. He use a German word, I think.’

The curator’s words caught Castro’s attention. ‘He called him something in German? What was it?’

‘
I never forget. He call de Morillo
metusor
.’

Castro’s mouth was agape with disbelief, fear and confusion. How could such diverse facts be associated? The half-remembered words of hypnosis, a monastery destroyed over four hundred years ago, a missing portrait, and a fanatical fascist. A disturbing memory raced through Castro’s mind. A dark enclosure, the blurry shapes of men, and a symbol burning bright and red in the depths of a nightmare. How could the hazy details falling at his feet be symptoms of that terror? Threads of evidence were teasing him. Undeniable evidence, and yet inconclusive, tenuous.

‘
Why do you want this painting, Signor Castro?’ Lanza said.

‘
It’s complicated,’ replied Castro. ‘In fact, I’m not really sure I could answer that. But there’s something depicted in that painting which, I believe, is a clue to a mystery I want to solve. The monk in Bellini’s painting had a pendant on his chest.’

‘
Yes, I remember this,’ nodded Lanza.

‘
There was a symbol on that pendant; the same symbol that Schlessinger burnt onto your arm. I’ve seen that symbol before, it’s part of the mystery, and I need to find out what it means. The painting is my only clue. Perhaps if I find the painting it will lead me to the solution.’

Lanza smiled, some of his characteristic joviality having returned after his confession. ‘It is a strange reason for coming all this way.’

‘
I agree. Sometimes I think I’m just kidding myself there’s something in all this. But each time I doubt, something crops up that gets me believing again. There’s definitely a mystery to be solved and I think the monk in Bellini’s portrait has something to do with it.’

‘
What is this mystery? Maybe I help?’