The Bergamese Sect (6 page)

Earlier that day he’d taken the book to an art dealer on US15. Not a small dealership, but one busy procuring vastly expensive artworks for clients rich on the proceeds of gambling. A man dressed from head to foot in purple velvet had inspected the image of the monk and nodded sagely.

‘
Ah,’ he’d said, ‘Giovanni Bellini. Yes. Bellini was the founder of the Venetian school of painting and one of a family of successful artists. His name is well known to art historians, but less so to the uneducated.’ The art dealer had eyed Castro with an unmistakable superiority as he’d finished the sentence. Castro ignored the rudeness.

‘
His works can be found in many collections as well as within the Venetian churches. He was highly regarded for his landscapes as well as his mythological and biblical scenes.’

He’d inspected the portrait more closely, pulling a pair of tiny rectangular glasses over his enthusiastic eyes. ‘You can see the signs of transition between medieval simplicity and the reality of tone and texture.’

Castro had been uninterested in the finer points of the painter’s technique and had pressed the dealer on the subject of the portrait, brushing aside his professional interest.

‘
Um,’ he’d mused, ‘I’m not familiar with this particular portrait.’ The man had put the book down and disappeared into the back room of his spacious studio, ignoring the calls from an assistant clearly perturbed by some well-dressed clients now questioning him over the price of an African effigy. A few minutes later, he’d returned with more books and catalogues in his hand.

‘
Here it is – the Moscadelli collection.’ He’d flicked slowly through a small, soft-bound volume. ‘No,’ he’d said at length, ‘there’s no listing for this painting in their most recent catalogue.’ He’d thrown the thin book onto his desk and gone to talk with a colleague who was also ignoring the languishing assistant. Before the dealer had returned, Castro had slipped the Moscadelli catalogue into his pocket and headed calmly out the door.

Castro ran his finger over the portrait, hesitating over the cleric’s ornate pendant. He slammed the book shut, threw it on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. He noticed the glass of whisky, picked it up and drained its contents into his parched mouth. Standing, he wandered over to the window, parted the net curtains and peered out.

The parking lot was full and the freeway busy, even at this late hour. He got the usual urge to fire up the Dodge and head off down the road, to be moving again. He resisted the temptation and stretched his back, flexed his aching shoulders.

Bergamo. Alfonso. The words circled in his head, confusing him again. It was too obscure; too circumstantial. What was the link? What does the symbol mean? Again, the doubt flooded in on him; it was coincidence. It didn’t mean anything. He threw himself on the bed again, closing his eyes. But all he could see was the symbol, floating menacingly behind his eyelids. It glared at him from within those dark memories, and it scared him. It had to mean something. Something.

―
§ ―

Early next morning, Castro woke with an almighty hangover. His head throbbed and his throat was rough and dry, scorched by the neat liquor. He didn’t often turn to drink, but when he did, it was because he really needed to. The portrait, the symbol, had unnerved him again. He’d needed to forget, just for those few hours. But he was paying for it now.

Dragging himself out of bed, he stood motionless under the lukewarm shower for ten minutes. It didn’t help; nor did the three cups of hot coffee he hurriedly gulped down. He dressed, brushed his jet-black hair and stared at himself in the mirror. Castro was in his early thirties. He’d always prided himself on his youthful look – the vitality and freshness of his features. But recently, he’d seen a change in them. They seemed to be losing focus, melting. There was a new hint of grey at his temples that made him nervous.

He pulled back the curtains. It was a pleasant morning, the sun partially muted by a thin, white layer of cloud. Beyond the trees surrounding the parking lot, the traffic was still thundering along the freeway, gearing up for another morning’s congestion.

Turning back to his dismal motel room, Castro slurped down the last of his coffee. He felt hungry, but breakfast would have to wait. Checking his wristwatch, he pulled out the Moscadelli catalogue, picked up the phone and dialled the number on the back cover. The phone struggled to connect for a moment. Then a foreign-sounding tone told him a phone was ringing at the other end.

‘
Pronto,’ a voice said.

‘
Hello,’ Castro replied, waiting a moment for the Italian to recognise the English, ‘I’d like to talk to someone concerning a painting in your collection.’

‘
Si,’ the man responded jovially, ‘can I help you? I am the curator.’ The man’s English seemed good but he had a heavy accent.

‘
Oh good, yeah, I’m looking for some information about a portrait of Alfonso de Morillo by Giovanni Bellini. I believe the painting was once in your collection.’

‘
Bellini?’ the curator asked.

‘
Yes.’

The Italian’s voice became louder and slightly muffled as he held the telephone under his chin. ‘What was the subject of the painting?’

Castro thought he heard some papers rustling. ‘It was a portrait of a cleric named Alfonso de Morillo.’

The curator seemed confused and could be heard whispering the details to himself as he rummaged around, checking his lists. ‘I do not know this painting,’ he said after a short pause. Then he went silent.

Castro could hear frantic movements at the other end of the line. He waited.

‘
Ah, Si,’ came the eventual response, ‘this painting is no longer in our collection.’

Castro wasn’t surprised; the art book he’d picked up was printed in the early ‘30s. The Moscadelli catalogue he’d stolen also didn’t list the painting.

‘
Can you tell me where the painting is now?’

Again, there was a long silence, some rustling of papers and muffled Italian phrases as the curator spoke to someone else in the room.

‘
Signor?’

‘
Yeah.’

‘
We believe the portrait of de Morillo disappeared in the 1940s.’

Castro waited for more explanation but the curator had gone silent again. ‘You don’t know what happened to the painting?’

‘
No, Signor,’ the curator said with sadness in his voice. ‘My colleague thinks it may have been taken by the Nazis. Many of Italy’s artworks and architectural pieces were destroyed, stolen or lost under the fascist regime. There’s been no trace of Bellini’s painting since the war.’

Castro sighed, feeling this slender and improbable clue was slipping beyond his grasp. ‘Do you know anything about Alfonso de Morillo?’

There was another long silence. ‘No, Signor, we do not know anything about this man,’ the curator answered.

‘
Is there anywhere else I could get some information?’

On the end of the line were voices, several people debating passionately in Italian. Then the curator was back on the line. ‘Er…, you could ask the curator at the time. We believe he is still alive. Or you could ask at the church of Gorlago, near Bergamo. The portrait originally hung there before the Moscadellis acquired it.’

Castro thanked the Italian, hung up the telephone and headed out the door in search of breakfast.

―
§ ―

Castro knew what information could do to people. He also knew what people could do to information. Connect billions of people together at the click of a button, feed them a lie or two, and they’d invent just about anything. Hell, they’d invent everything! Who needed an infinite number of monkeys, when you had the Internet? A billion humans with Wi-Fi had the same effect.

It was a dangerous place to put your trust. Sometimes what they came up with amused him – but mostly it astounded him, shocked him. Just take a few simple words, like ‘conspiracy’ or ‘abduction’, and see what they mean to the digital world. Let them go to work on those simple words and see what they become. Then plug yourself in and listen to those crazy ideas. Jesus Christ! It was like watching late night TV.

Castro sat in his motel room, eating a donut, searching the web on his laptop. He was an experienced surfer. He could make good use of the tiny fraction of useful information in cyberspace, avoiding the garbage. But he always remained wary. Where his experiences were concerned, it was all garbage. Get a phone number – that was about all you could trust it for.

When he’d finally got the number and rung the small, rural church in Gorlago, Lombardy, Castro had spoken with a priest whose English was only just adequate. The young man had explained that he knew very little about the church history or its works of art but would ask one of his seniors to call him if Castro left his number.

About three hours later the phone rang.

‘
Yeah,’ Castro said on picking up.

‘
Mr Castro,’ said a shaky voice, ‘I understand you are interested in a portrait of Alfonso de Morillo.’ The man sounded extremely elderly but his speech was clear and precise. His Italian accent could hardly be detected.

‘
That’s right – whatever you can tell me about him would be very helpful.’

The old man paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. ‘The portrait of de Morillo used to hang in the apse of our church here in Gorlago; until the end of the 1930s. I think Georgio Moscadelli, an important businessman in this region, eventually bought it. It is a long time ago now, but I can remember the painting on the wall when I was a novice. It was very striking. As far as I know, de Morillo was a Spanish Dominican who came to serve in the monastery of
Santo Stefano e Domenico
. That was in Bergamo. I understand de Morillo may have had some previous association with the Inquisition in Spain, but I don’t know anything about his career before coming to Italy.’

‘
What about his career in Bergamo? Are there any facts about him?’

‘
Not really,’ replied the old man, apologetically. ‘He served at the church and monastery in Bergamo. He didn’t have any significant achievements, certainly none to warrant a portrait by the great Giovanni Bellini. I remember the curate saying it was strange that the obscure monk should ornament our church walls, and even stranger that the portrait was by such a renowned artist.’

‘
There’s nothing else of note about this man?’

‘
No, I don’t think so,’ the old priest responded, ‘except that his name is sometimes associated with a local legend remembered here.’

‘
A legend?’

‘
Yes, a story about the monastery in Bergamo that’s been handed down over the years. I should point out that the monastery no longer exists. It was destroyed in 1561 to make way for new city walls. So, it’s difficult to say what truth there is in the stories about the monks of
Santo Stefano
. It’s not important really, just a story.’

‘
What happened? I’d really like to know.’

The old man cleared his throat gently. ‘Well, at the end of the fifteenth century, a group of monks went missing from the monastery.’

Castro’s forehead folded into a frown. He couldn’t help thinking the impossible. ‘Went missing?’

‘
Yes, they just disappeared. Alfonso de Morillo was one of them. They left no clues about where they’d gone and no trace of them was ever found. It seems the Abbott concluded they’d gone into the wilderness to contemplate the Lord, but no one really knows what happened. It was a mystery. The story is sometimes still told by our brothers in Bergamo.’

‘
These monks – they were never tracked down?’

‘
No, never.’

Castro paused for a moment. This was unbelievable. Suddenly, the doubt evaporated. He glanced over at the book. It lay on the desk beside him, open at de Morillo’s portrait. The cleric’s cold eyes bore into him again, daring him to conclude the inevitable.
Speak
, thought Castro,
speak to me Alfonso
.
What happened to you?
His gaze dropped down to the silver pendant on the monk’s chest.

‘
de Morillo was wearing a pendant in the portrait,’ Castro said. ‘A very peculiar kind of pendant.’

The old man listened intently, but gave a gentle sigh. ‘I’m afraid I can’t recall that much detail; it was many years ago.’

‘
It’s a strange symbol. I’ve been trying to find out what it means but no one has been able to help me. I’ve asked several experts but I’ve drawn a blank. Perhaps you know what the symbol is for?’

‘
I can’t remember a symbol. Can you describe it?’ the old man asked.

‘
Sure, it’s like a capital ‘e’, but with the horizontal strokes going both ways, like it has a mirror image.’ Castro could almost hear the man shaking his head.

‘
No, Mr Castro, I am not familiar with this symbol. I’m sorry, I can’t help.’

‘
Okay,’ Castro said, ‘thanks all the same.’

The priest wished Castro well and hung up.

Castro felt numb. He stood and walked over to the window, almost in a daze. He parted the net curtain and peered out. The white clouds had thinned and the afternoon was growing brighter and hotter. The cars and trucks were racing along the freeway beyond the parking lot.

Suddenly, a feeling of claustrophobia took hold of him. He didn’t want to be here anymore. Letting the curtain fall again, he came away from the window, stuffed his few belongings into his bag, tucked the precious book under his arm and grabbed the laptop. He headed for the motel lobby.

Chapter 5

Matt woke with a start. The roar of the plane’s engine throbbed through him. The sound was almost deafening. Next to him sat Clara, leafing through some papers, a penlight picking out the lines of text in the darkness. Up front, Gerry was flying, Henric navigating.