The Girl With the Botticelli Eyes (2 page)

Manship continued to sit with his hands folded in his lap. He seemed as removed from the bidding as he was from anything else going on at the moment. He gazed everywhere but at the drawing. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed his counterpart at the prestigious Getty Museum smiling sardonically back at him. Manship nodded to the man and received a deep, ceremonious nod in return.

“I believe that was your hand then, Mr. Manship?” said the auctioneer.

“It was.”

“Splendid,” the auctioneer enthused, for he knew the real bidding had at last begun. “Ninety is now the bid of the Metropolitan Museum,” he croaked happily.

The presence to Manship’s left moved abruptly. “Ninety-five.”

“Ninety-five from Mr. Allenby of the Getty.”

The action in the hall froze for a moment while everyone gazed at Manship.

“One hundred thousand,” came the bid.

“One hundred. We have one hundred thousand pounds, ladies and gentlemen.”

“One hundred and five,” cried a heretofore-unheard voice behind Manship and to his right. It was Carstairs of London’s National Gallery.

“One hundred and five from Mr. Carstairs.”

By then, most of the private, unaffiliated bidders had dropped out. Several of the attendants, including the charwomen and even the gray-uniformed guards, sensing drama, had gathered at the entrance.

Mr. Philpot, showing a large gap-tooth smile, beamed down from his place on the block. Manship’s hand rose again.

“One hundred and ten,” cried the auctioneer. His eyes swept the room, darting back and forth from Carstairs to Allenby. “We have one hundred and ten. Do I hear fifteen? Fifteen. Let’s hear fifteen.”

A Japanese gentleman, up until then a silent presence, hoisted a tremulous finger. If there was anyone Manship feared, it was that one.

The man on the block pounced. “One hundred and twenty,” he cried, his cheeks flamed. “We have one hundred and twenty thousand pounds.”

“Twenty-five,” Carstairs countered. Nothing of his face moved but an eyebrow.

Manship sat quietly. They were carooming toward two hundred and thirty thousand dollars now. He felt the spiteful smile of his colleague from the Getty and imagined with some-amusement the “shocked indignation” of the Metropolitan trustees. His finger rose again.

“Is that thirty, Mr. Manship?” said the auctioneer.

“It is.”

“One thirty, then. We have one thirty.”

“Thirty-five,” said Allenby, but this time Manship was certain he detected hesitation.

“We have thirty-five from Mr. Allenby,” the auctioneer cried, and stared hard at the curator from the National Gallery. But by then, Carstairs had little stomach for more. He shrugged and shook his head.

“Thirty-five, then. The bid holds at one thirty-five.” Mr. Philpot’s gavel inched upward above his head. He was watching Manship, who was watching the ascent of the gavel.

Just then, the finger of the silent Japanese gentleman rose again, this time to one forty, intended as a preemptive strike. A gasp pulsed through the hall.

Trustees be damned—Manship’s finger cocked up to meet the challenge. “One forty-three, three.” He heard his voice come back at him across vast distances.

The auctioneer was in a transport of ecstasy. People at the back of the hall had risen from their seats to see better.

The ball was once again in the Japanese gentleman’s court. The man on the block gazed intently at him. “One fifty. One fifty is the call.” The gavel resumed its slow ascent. An unearthly silence roared in on them. “Going … going …” All eyes watched the Japanese gentleman, his face an impassive mask as the gavel reached its apogee then plunged downward, striking the block with an awesome crack. The challenge had gone unanswered.

“One hundred and forty-three thousand three hundred pounds it is. To Mr. Manship and the Metropolitan Museum.”

He was suddenly surrounded by a flood of well-wishers—perfect strangers surging forward, pumping his hand, mumping his back.

“Bravo.”

“Well done, sir.”

A band of gallery officials swarmed down upon him. There were papers to sign, questions to answer, forms to complete. Sotheby’s director, Hiram McCallish, came steaming up. He was a large Scot with a ruddy face and a scrawl of veins raking each jowl.

“I knew you’d take it, Mark. Once you get something in that pigheaded mind of yours. And frankly”—he glanced sideward at the Japanese gentleman in the corner—“I’m always delighted to see one of that lot routed for a change.” McCallish had been a prisoner of the Japanese in Malaysia during the closing months of the big war, and there was no love lost there.

Manship signed several documents while a wolf pack of shouting reporters encircled him.

“When does New York get to see your show, Mr. Manship?” asked the correspondent of the
Daily Mail.

“With any luck at all, the third week in September.”

“Do you think you’ll have everything you planned by then?”

“If I know him, he will,” McCallish said. “He might even resurrect old Botticelli for the event.”

They laughed and Manship handed the big Scot the Metropolitan Museum’s check for $229,000. McCallish held it at arm’s length, inspecting it.

“May we have one of you smiling at the check, Mr. McCallish?” asked a photographer. A flashbulb ignited before anyone could refuse.

A man from Lloyd’s came up. He already had the drawing in tow. It was wrapped in simple brown tar paper. Two armed guards stood behind him.

“You’ll take good care of that now,” said Manship.

“Yes, sir. It leaves tonight for Florence by special courier.”

“Mr. Torelli will be at the airport to receive it.”

“He’d better be,” said the Lloyd’s man, laughing. “Just sign here, if you will, sir.” He held a standard policy form out for Manship. “You’ll want the same half million again, I presume.”

McCallish shooed them all away. He took Manship by the arm and steered him through the lingering crowd just starting to drift off. “Come on up. I’ve something nice chilling on the ice.”

Manship let himself be guided into a narrow little coffin of an elevator that swayed and cranked its way haltingly up to the penthouse of the Sotheby building where McCallish’s private suite of offices was located.

“Claude says you have the Lemmi frescoes. How’d you manage that?”

“It wasn’t easy.”

“I don’t doubt it.” McCallish dabbed at his neck with a wad of tissue. “Old Baudreuil is damned near impossible. You must have promised him all of Eighty-sixth Street.” He sighed. “And the
Duveen Madonna?
I suppose you’ve got that, too?”

“Hollander ran it down for me in Bruges. Needs a bit of retouching, but otherwise …”

“Wizard, dear boy. Wizard.” There was a look of genuine wonder in the old Scot’s rheumy eyes. “And the Chigi sketches? What number are you up to now? There must be some fifteen, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Thirteen. With this one, I’ve now got nine.”

McCallish hummed in admiration. “Hard to believe that thirteen Botticelli drawings could have gone unseen for so long.”

“Not all that hard when you consider they’ve been scattered all over the map for five centuries. No one knew what they were.”

McCallish laughed scornfully. “Incredible. Simply incredible.”

The director’s long red nose whistled as he peeled the lead capsule from a bottle of Pol Roger. The cork popped. “Commissioned by Lorenzo himself, were they not?”

“Lorenzino, actually. Lorenzo the Great’s cousin, the fellow who commissioned the
Primavera
and the
Venus.
”

McCallish’s face purpled as he bent stiffly from the waist to pour champagne into a pair of chilled flutes. “Done before 1500, I should say.”

Manship’s brow wrinkled in thought. “Somewhere between 1490 and 1497.” He reached up to accept a glass. “The line is quite different from the sort of thing Sandro was doing after 1500.”

“Christina of Sweden figures in there somewhere, doesn’t she?” McCallish smacked his lips, savoring the wine. “Oh, I dare say, that’s lovely.”

“She bought eight and bequeathed them to the Vatican.”

“Those beggars give you much trouble?”

“They were very decent, actually. No problem.”

McCallish sipped. “They can be prickly about loans, you know.”

A police siren went whooping past outside.

“And the remaining four? Where were they?”

“In the hands of an Italian bookseller in Paris. Fellow called Molini, who sold them to William Beckford.”

“Oh yes, of course. My father knew Beckford. Great collector. First-rate eye. Odd sort of chap.”

“And Beckford’s estate passed them on to his daughter.”

“The Duchess of Hamilton. Well … you know the rest” Manship raised his glass to permit another half flute to be poured.

When they had settled into the pair of commodious facing settees, McCallish extended an open humidor of Churchills, one of which Manship accepted. There followed some fumbling with a balky butane lighter. Shortly, the air grew thick with the rich, earthy odor of good Havana.

Succumbing to the effect of vintage champagne and a fine cigar, McCallish closed his eyes and leaned back into the cushions. “Where to from here?”

“I’m off to Paris tonight to pick up another of the drawings.”

“Old DeMornay, I imagine. That leaves three to go.”

“That’s the rub. I don’t know where those last three are. I’ve got a few leads, but they’re thin, and I don’t have much time. Right after Paris, I’ll make a dash over to Berlin.”

“Berlin?”

“The German police. The last they heard of the sketches, they were in Leipzig. Probably stolen during the war.”

“Their art-theft division might be helpful there.”

“I’m already on to them. They’ve very generously promised to open their files to me.”

McCallish blew a luxurious column of smoke into the air, then grew solemn. “Heard all about that mess in Istanbul last week. Nasty business. What do you make of it?”

Manship thought a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t know what to make of it”

When he reached his hotel in Carlos Place, the concierge handed him his cables and a list of phone messages. Manship went directly up to his room and drew a hot bath. Immersing himself in the healing potion of suds and steamy water, he gradually felt the jagged shards of nerves subside and nearly drowsed.

But into those easeful moments crept the thought of the attack on the
Centurion
the week prior in Istanbul. He wondered if it was an isolated incident or if it had something to do with the upcoming Botticelli show. He knew that there were people in the art world, so-called colleagues in lofty positions in other museums, even his own at the Metropolitan, who resented the show, whose smiles were venomous, and who cordially wished to see it fail—for no better reason than that it wasn’t their own. Manship didn’t whine about such things. He simply took it as a fact of life. Call it envy, competitiveness. In the museum world, it went with the territory. But would a colleague go so far as to vandalize a world-class painting in order to detract from the good fortune of another curator? Manship found that far-fetched and put the thought out of his head.

He turned instead to more pressing matters—namely, the show scheduled for an opening in New York in late September. He’d been given the job of mounting a Botticelli retrospective on the occasion of the 550th birthday of the great Renaissance master. It was to be the largest and most comprehensive exhibition of the Florentine painter’s work ever assembled under one. roof.

Manship had worked feverishly on the project over the past five years—buying, borrowing, tracking down all of the major paintings the world over—something over one hundred canvases. Most of them were already in New York, or else in Florence undergoing restoration. Those already in New York were being cataloged by scholars and assembled by the leading specialists in the field. Lighting experts were even then at work rewiring the entire second floor of the Metropolitan in order to present the paintings in the most advantageous illumination. Lawyers were drawing up contracts, hammering out terms for both sales and loans.

All of the major museums of the world were contributing to the show. The Louvre had promised the
Guidi Madonna.
The Lemmi frescoes were coming from Belgium and the
Corsini Madonna
from the National Gallery in Washington. The
Saint Sebastian
had just been flown across the Atlantic from the Staatliche Museum in Berlin. The papal frescoes were due from the Vatican and the predella panels were coming from the Accademia in Florence. The Uffizi itself was to make the major presentation with the medallion portrait of Cosimo de’ Medici, the tondo
Madonna of the Pomegranate,
the
Adoration of the Magi,
and the two breathtaking masterpieces, the
Primavera
and the
Birth of Venus.

The final and most difficult job was still incomplete. It had been left to Manship to gather from a host of widely scattered sources some thirteen drawings, all executed by Botticelli as warm-up exercises in preparation for the painting of the
Chigi Madonna.
The painting itself was en route from the Gardner in Boston. Having all thirteen drawings was considered by the museum directors to be an absolute imperative. The drawings had literally been lost for centuries; hence, their appearance at the museum was generating the most excitement. Every major newspaper, periodical, and scholarly journal was sending representatives. The media coverage planned was rumored to be staggering, since the show was to be the highpoint of the Metropolitan’s year. On the success of it depended whether or not Manship would replace soon-to-retire William Osgood as the next director of the Metropolitan.

Manship had been a curator for the past dozen years of his life. In and out of several notable museums until, at twenty-six, he was catapulted into the sort of splashy fame that only the arts seem able to bestow. A wunderkind, he was appointed curator of Renaissance painting at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and, in a short time, as everyone had warned, he’d roused the ire of older generations of curators whose careers were then sliding into the twilight.