The Italian Girl (11 page)

Roberto Rossini deserved to be a major star. She would help him, not only because of his obvious talent, but because – Donatella could hardly believe the thought that had popped into her head – she was falling in love with him.

One thing was for certain: she had to keep Roberto in Milan.

‘Wonderful news, Rosanna!’ Luca passed the letter across the table to his sister. ‘It’s from Signora Moretti, Abi’s aunt. She says her committee has agreed to the idea of a recital at Beata Vergine Maria.’

Rosanna read through the letter quickly. ‘Luca, I’m so pleased for you.’

‘I must go and tell Don Edoardo. He’ll be very happy.’

‘Of course. But they say the recital will be at Easter, Luca,’ frowned Rosanna. ‘We were planning on going home to see Papa and Carlotta.’

‘We can go home the day after the recital, Rosanna. I’m sure Papa will understand. This means so much to me. Signora Moretti has said that two members of the La Scala opera company have agreed to perform.’ Luca’s eyes were shining as he spoke. ‘She’s suggested we charge fifty thousand lire a ticket. With two hundred or so guests, it’ll mean we’ll raise almost enough to restore the fresco. But, Rosanna, there’ll be so much to do! We’ll have to arrange for extra seating, decorate the church with flowers, organise refreshments . . .’

Rosanna watched her brother as he talked animatedly about the work involved. ‘Luca, what is it about Beata Vergine Maria that means so much to you? I’ve never seen you happier than you are this morning.’

Luca looked at his sister, searching for the words. And discovered it was impossible to find them. ‘It’s hard to explain, Rosanna. It’s very special to me, that’s all I can say. Now, if you’ve finished breakfast, I’ll walk with you to school. I want to tell Don Edoardo the news immediately.’

Luca waved goodbye to Rosanna as she walked into the school, then quickly made his way to Beata Vergine Maria.

Don Edoardo was hearing confession, so Luca sat in a pew and waited until he emerged from the box and his parishioner left.

‘Excellent news!’ Luca said as he handed Don Edoardo the letter from Sonia Moretti. ‘We shall raise a lot of money, surely?’

‘Yes,’ the old priest nodded, enjoying the happiness on the face of the young man he’d become so fond of. ‘I think your Madonna will be very happy.’

‘I hope so.’ Luca stared towards the altar. His shoulders sagged and the smile drained from his face. He shook his head. ‘Even though, by organising this recital, I’m in some small way helping, sometimes I become so frustrated.’

‘I know, Luca, I understand.’ Don Edoardo put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

‘But I must be patient and wait. It’s part of His plan to test me, I’m sure.’

‘Well, let us pray together, for a blessing on this church and what we try to do to restore it.’

The two heads, one grey, one dark, bowed together in prayer. Afterwards, Don Edoardo made coffee and they began to plan for the recital.

‘We’ll need many more chairs, Don Edoardo. There is room for another twenty at the back by the font,’ said Luca.

‘There are some chairs in the crypt, but they’re old and dirty. Have a look, and if they are no good, perhaps we could ask the school to lend us some for the occasion.’ Don Edoardo passed Luca a large key. ‘There’s no electricity down there. Use the oil lamp hanging on the hook by the door. There are matches on the shelf next to the lamp.’ He checked his watch. ‘I must leave now – I have a bereaved mother to visit.’

When the priest had gone, Luca sat and stared at the statue of the Madonna on the altar. She hadn’t spoken to him again since that first wonderful day, but he could feel her calming influence all around him. Eventually, he stood up, walked to the door of the crypt and unlocked it. As Don Edoardo had suggested, he took the oil lamp off its hook and lit it before walking carefully down the creaking stairs, the lamp emanating a shadowy glow. He stood on the bottom step and cast the light around.

The crypt was not big, and was jammed with all manner of discarded junk. A layer of dust covered everything and spiders had been allowed to create elaborate webs undisturbed. As he picked his way carefully through the clutter, he decided that sorting out the crypt would be another task he could complete. He found the wooden chairs Don Edoardo had mentioned and began to unstack them, only to discover that all of them had either a leg missing or no back. He turned round and knelt down to pick up a rotting prayer book from a pile on the floor. As he opened it, the pages disintegrated in his fingers.

Suddenly, the oil lamp went out and the crypt descended into complete darkness. He ferreted in his pocket for his lighter and reignited the wick, but the lamp went out again almost immediately. As he did his best to stumble back to the entrance, deciding a torch would serve him better, Luca caught his foot on something. Letting out a yelp of pain, he fell with a thump, his ankle taking the brunt of his fall.

Luca lay in the darkness, unable to move until the pain lessened. Something crawled across his hand and he pulled it back quickly. Trying to keep calm, he eventually retrieved his lighter from his trouser pocket and managed to rekindle the oil lamp. Looking down, he saw he’d tripped over the corner of an ancient leather-bound trunk which had been partially hidden by a pile of moth-eaten vestments. Putting the lamp down beside him, he hauled the garments to one side, coughing as a cloud of dust filled the dank air. Gingerly, he lifted the heavy lid off the trunk.

The interior was lined with purple velvet, and as Luca put his hands tentatively inside, they grasped a large, heavy object. He struggled to pick it up and out of the trunk, and shining his lamp upon it, saw an ornately engraved chalice, tarnished by age and neglect. Taking out his handkerchief, he spat on the fabric to moisten it, then rubbed a small spot of the metal to clean it, revealing the lucent gleam of what he was sure must be silver. With a sense of growing excitement, he placed the chalice carefully on the floor beside him, then began to remove the rest of the trunk’s contents.

The next item was a prayer book, the pages yellowing and fragile, but, protected from the damp by the thick leather of the trunk, still in one piece. Next out of the trunk was another set of priest’s vestments. As Luca lifted them out, he felt something solid wrapped inside. At that moment the oil lamp flickered ominously and, not wishing to be plunged into darkness again, Luca gathered the chalice and prayer book from the floor, and rolled the vestments under his arm. Hooking the wire handle of the lamp over one finger, he groped his way towards the stairs.

In the vestry, Luca laid the vestments on the floor and unfolded them slowly. In the centre of one of the garments he found a small, battered leather pouch, not much larger than his hand. Carefully extracting the contents of the pouch, Luca saw he was holding a small canvas drawing mounted on a crude wooden frame. He stared down at the instantly familiar face.

It was as if the artist had managed to capture her grace, her serenity and her soul. This was how he
himself
imagined the Madonna when he closed his eyes and prayed. The drawing, executed in fine, delicate lines of a reddish-brown colour, was simple, yet so perfect that Luca could not tear his eyes from it.

He stared at it for a long time. Miraculously, having been so well shrouded from light and damp, the drawing itself hardly showed signs of age. Turning the edges of the canvas gently over, taking care to touch it as little as possible, Luca searched for something to give him a clue as to the artist.

Maybe his find was worthless, but Luca nonetheless felt a shiver slide unbidden up his spine. Don Edoardo would be back later and he could show him the drawing and the chalice and see if the old priest knew of their existence. Until then . . . Luca reverently replaced the canvas in the pouch. He stowed the chalice, the prayer book and the drawing inside the sacrament cupboard, then turned the key and locked it.

11

‘So, the performers will stand around the altar?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the grand piano will be placed here?’

‘Yes.’ Luca watched as the woman prowled round the church.

‘And we will serve wine over there by the font? What do you think?’

‘It’s a good idea, Signora Bianchi,’ replied Don Edoardo, surreptitiously raising an exasperated eyebrow at Luca.

‘Good. So, everything seems to be under control. Demand for the tickets has been excellent. I think we’ll have a full house for our little recital.’ Donatella advanced towards the altar and looked in distaste at the tattered altar cloth that had clearly seen better days. ‘Have you another piece of material we could use for the evening? This looks rather . . . shabby.’

‘No, we haven’t another. This is what the recital is all about, is it not, signora? To raise funds for new altar cloths and other renovations,’ Don Edoardo reminded her patiently.

‘Of course. Well, we can dress the church with candles, and stand flower displays on either side of the statue of the Madonna.’

‘Yes,’ Don Edoardo agreed once more as he watched Donatella pick up the silver chalice, which had been lovingly polished since Luca’s discovery and placed on the altar.

‘This is a beautiful piece of workmanship. And very old, I should imagine.’ Donatella turned it round in her hands as she studied it.

‘Luca found it in the crypt some weeks ago. I’ve been meaning to get someone to value it – for insurance purposes, you understand – but my mind has been on other things.’

‘I see.’ Donatella replaced the chalice and glanced at Don Edoardo. ‘Although my husband is an art dealer, he has friends who would be well placed to give an opinion on something like this. Shall I ask him to find someone to value it for you?’

‘That would be very kind,’ agreed Don Edoardo. ‘You say your husband is an art dealer?’

‘Yes, he is.’

‘Then Luca, I think you should go and get the drawing you found.’

Luca made off in the direction of the vestry.

‘Signor Menici also found a line drawing,’ Don Edoardo explained. ‘It may be of no value, but perhaps your husband would take a look at that too?’

‘Of course,’ Donatella said, nodding.

Luca was soon back with the drawing. ‘Here.’ He handed it to her carefully.

Donatella stared at the canvas. ‘Why, it’s such an exquisite sketch of the Madonna,’ she exclaimed admiringly. ‘You say you found this down in the crypt of this church?’

‘Yes, in an old trunk. We checked the records and from the inscription in his prayer book, we are sure it was the property of Don Dino Cinquetti. He was
il parroco
, the priest here, during the sixteenth century.’

‘So this drawing could be hundreds of years old? Yet it looks virtually unmarked,’ breathed Donatella.

‘I think it must be because it was so well protected. It probably hasn’t seen any light for three hundred years.’

‘Well, I promise I’ll take the greatest care of it. Would you wrap the chalice for me?’

Don Edoardo looked uneasy. ‘Could your husband not come here to the church to look at both artefacts?’

‘He’s a busy man, Don Edoardo, and is only home for the next few days before he flies to the United States. You have my word no harm will come to either the chalice or the drawing; and this way I should have an answer for you quickly. I’ll take them straight home, where I assure you we have excellent security. Surely you trust me?’ Donatella queried.

‘Of course, signora,’ the old priest murmured in embarrassment.

Giovanni Bianchi stared at the two objects on the table in front of him.

‘Where did you say these were found?’

‘La Chiesa Della Beata Vergine Maria. Apparently they were packed in an old trunk in the crypt with the belongings of a dead priest. Indications are that the priest lived in the sixteenth century. I thought the chalice might be worth something,’ Donatella explained.

‘Yes, yes, I’m sure it will be, but this’ – Giovanni picked up the drawing – ‘this is quite breathtaking. You say the sixteenth century?’

‘That’s what the priest told me.’

Giovanni pulled a magnifying glass out of his jacket pocket and studied the drawing carefully. When he looked up at his wife, Donatella saw the glint of excitement in his eyes.

‘When you look at this, does the face seem familiar?’

‘Of course. It’s the Madonna,’ she replied scornfully.

‘So,’ continued Giovanni patiently, ‘how do you define the image you have in your mind’s eye of the Madonna?’

‘Through the paintings and drawings I’ve seen of her, I suppose.’

‘Exactly. And who has given us one of the most famous images of the Madonna?’

‘I . . .’ Donatella shrugged. ‘Leonardo da Vinci, of course.’

‘Yes. Wait one moment.’ Giovanni left the sitting room and returned a few minutes later with the catalogue of the National Gallery, London. He turned the pages until he found what he was looking for. ‘There.’ Giovanni laid the catalogue next to the drawing on the table. ‘Study the face, the detail. There are strong similarities, yes?’

Donatella looked carefully. ‘Yes, Giovanni, but . . . I . . . surely it can’t be . . .’

‘I’ll need to make the most careful enquiries, but my instincts tell me this is either the most excellent fake, or we may have discovered a lost Leonardo drawing.’

‘You mean, the old priest and the young man have discovered it,’ corrected Donatella.

‘Of course,’ Giovanni agreed hastily. ‘I must take this with me to New York. I want a friend of mine to see it. He’s an expert in the verification of the great masters. He’s also discreet – for a percentage of the profits, that is,’ he added slyly.

‘Well, I must ask Don Edoardo for his permission before you do that, of course,’ countered his wife.

‘But surely the priest doesn’t need to know just yet? You could tell him that both the chalice and the drawing are being appraised and that I’ll have an answer for them in a week’s time. And, Donatella?’

‘Yes,
caro
?’

‘I do not want you telling anybody else about this until we know the truth.’

‘Of course.’ Donatella registered the gleam of avarice in her husband’s eyes. ‘I shall do as you ask.’