Wayward Son (6 page)

Oddly enough, it was often at parties that Amanda felt most remote and disconnected. Since graduation from college, she had been no stranger to loneliness, and it was starting to take its toll.

CHAPTER 4

Villa Colosseum

AT FIVE MINUTES TO seven, the orchestras fell silent. After a short pause, three differently pitched gongs reverberated throughout the great hall, signaling that the unveiling ceremony was imminent. Amanda found herself standing next to Dr. Giorgio De Luca, former director of the Cotsen Institute of Archaeology at UCLA. Amanda had known him from her grad school days. This year, she’d read he had been given the Trowel Award, the Institute’s highest honor. He greeted her warmly, and accepted her co[back]ngratulations.

But they had no time for shoptalk, as a final series of even more resonant gong notes rang out. Striding to the center of the dais, Luc Renard grasped the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great pleasure to welcome you to Villa Colosseum. As I look around the room, I am overwhelmed by the number of distinguished guests who have united here this evening to grace me with your presence and to support the Getty. Please forgive me if time precludes the individual recognition of so many luminaries. But I cannot overlook two gentlemen whose leadership has been invaluable in the effort to ensure that the Getty remains one of our most vital cultural institutions.”

Luc gestured to the row of chairs installed behind the podium.

“Please join me in saluting Dr. Richard Hamilton, the president and chief executive officer of the J. Paul Getty Trust.”

A scattered wave of applause swept the room.

“And we also welcome Dr. Michael Winslow, the esteemed director of the J. Paul Getty Museum.”

Another scattered wave.

“This evening’s benefit marks a very special milestone in my life. Several years ago in Rome, I had the privilege of meeting a remarkable painter, Giovanni Genoa. Such an artist, I am convinced, comes along only once in a century, perhaps in an epoch. I knew at once that his towering talent was the lens through which I needed to project my vision of humanity, in all its power and glory. Please join me in saluting Signor Giovanni Genoa.”

Slowly and smoothly, Giovanni Genoa rose from his seat as the great hall resounded with applause.

“It is now my privilege,” Luc continued, “to introduce a man who needs no introduction. He has graciously consented to carry out the unveiling of the Villa Colosseum murals painted by Signor Giovanni Genoa this evening. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Honorable Arnold Schwarzenegger, former governor of the Golden State of California!”

As
The Governator
took the microphone, the applause grew more robust. Whatever unpredictable political winds blew in California, it was impossible not to admire this Austrian native’s tenacity and poise.

“Good evening, friends! I am honored to be invited to this assemblage. As the National Endowment likes to say in Washington DC, ‘A great nation deserves great art.’ Well, so do a great state and a great city! The Getty, which we are supporting tonight, is truly a jewel in the crown of Los Angeles. And our host, Luc Renard, has worked tirelessly to keep it so. Mr. Renard’s vigor in industry is matched only by his dynamism as one of our region’s most effective patrons of the arts. It is therefore with the greatest pleasure that I will now throw the switch that will reveal the murals in this great hall to public view for the very first time.”

He held up a silver oblong box, perhaps three times the size of a TV remote. The gongs sounded once more. Then, all around the room, the satin drapes plunged to the polished granite floor. After a second or two of silence, the intake of breath was palpable.

“
Funtaahstic
!” echoed off the walls in the great hall, Schwarzenegger’s pet phrase filling the void as the crowd braced itself. Then, a torrent of applause. This was, after all, what they had all come for. The TV cameras and paparazzi photographers quickly captured the moment of awe for the evening news, blogs, and tabloids.

The ancient world was Giovanni Genoa’s theme. But his murals did not exactly evoke Edgar Allan Poe’s homage to “the glory that was Greece / And the grandeur that was Rome.” Instead, the painter’s focus was on man’s bestial nature.

Next to Amanda, Dr. De Luca let out an audible gasp as he gazed at perfectly rendered soldiers and slaves splattered in gore. He clasped the cross around his neck and whispered a prayer in Italian that Amanda recognized.

“An object lesson, or a pandering to our baser instincts?” Amanda wondered as she spent the next half hour circling the great hall. There, thrusting upward from the floor to the vaulted ceiling, image after image testified to cruelty and bloodlust. “This stuff makes waterboarding seem like child’s play,” she thought.

As she moved from scene to scene, however, she had to acknowledge the technical facility of Giovanni Genoa. Color, form, composition, scale, perspective, decorum: there was not a point she could fault. However unknown the diminutive painter may have been to this point, he nevertheless possessed the skills of a master. Three murals, in particular, caught her attention.

The first was a sensuous tableau that juxtaposed cruelty and languor. On the left, the artist depicted a pair of ancient Egyptians carrying off a dead slave, as another captive, presumably soon to die, writhed under the lash of an overseer. Behind, in a seemingly endless procession, loomed gigantic temple pillars recalling those at Karnak near Luxor in Egypt. Foregrounded on the right, reclining on a spacious couch in an ornate pavilion, a young noblewoman stretched luxuriantly. An exquisite bloom dangled from her right hand. Her arm extended over the cushions that supported her as she surveyed the scene. A scantily clad handmaid, her bare back to the viewer, wielded a fan. In front of the pair, crouched on the pavilion’s carpet, was a leopard—an incidental touch of menace?

Amanda’s second choice was a depiction of the ancient naval Battle of Salamis. Here, not far from Athens in 480 BC, the Greeks had scored what must have seemed to Persian
King Xerxes
a miraculous victory. How could their puny forces have defeated the greatest armada in the ancient world? Spaniards of the Armada would pose the same question in 1588, a little over two thousand years later. The Greeks, like the English, had done it through a combination of cunning and pure, dumb luck. Giovanni Genoa conveyed the chaos—and perhaps the exultation—of spears, shields, helmeted crests, and swords with a brio that left the viewer in awe. “Score one for western civilization,” Amanda thought—otherwise the Iranian president might not need an interpreter on his visits from Tehran to the United Nations in New York.

And, finally, there was the series on ancient Rome. The artist had clearly favored this time period, with more scenes devoted to Roman subjects than to any other. Cannae was there, with the humiliating defeat of Rome by the would-be conquistadors, the Carthaginians, in 216 BC, when over seventy thousand men perished in less than six hours. Next was Julius Caesar, falling at the base of Pompey’s statue in the Senate House on the Ides of March, with Shakespeare’s “three and thirty wounds” all too visible. A depiction of the Jewish uprising in Israel highlighted the slaughter by the Roman army.
Emperor Nero’s
persecution of the Christians, executed in thorn baskets and illuminated as human torches, displayed his horrific reprisal after the Great Fire of Rome in AD 64. Genoa had clearly read his Roman history in Tacitus. Even the sack of Rome four centuries later, when poetic justice reared its head, was painted in excruciating detail, with barbarians looting and burning the city as they exterminated its population.

One of the largest Roman murals struck Amanda as especially notable. Occupying a central position in the group, it seemed as if the artist had given it primacy. The mural depicted a scene in the Colosseum, Vespasian’s amphitheater completed by his son, Titus, in AD 80. The proverbial venue for early persecution of the Christians, the Colosseum still figured on the top ten tourist sites in modern Rome—and, she reminded herself, it had given its name to Luc Renard’s villa.

What distinguished this mural from many of the others, though, was the individualized presentation of one of the Christian captives. A semi-clad, red-haired woman, surrounded by snarling lions, stood stoically in the face of certain death. Others crawled around her in the dust of the arena. It was as if she were an island of peace in a stormy sea of suffering. Amanda briefly wondered if she could be so composed in such horrifying circumstances.

“So you think my rendering of the Colosseum is
giusto
, Signorina James?”

The white-jacketed artist was at her elbow, so abruptly as if to resemble an apparition. His bushy eyebrows seemed to bridge the space between them.

Amanda extended her hand. “It is an honor to meet you, Signor Genoa. What a magnificent occasion. A triumph for your talent. Your portrayal of the Colosseum is certainly…powerful.”

The painter received her assessment with a courtly bow. “It is my signature mural.”

“I could not help notice that it alone remains unnamed,” she politely stated.

“Indeed, Mr. Renard has a couple of ideas in mind for this painting, but he remains undecided whether to title it after the scene or for its principal character.”

“I see, so the woman martyr represents an actual historical figure?”

“Yes, but she was known by different names,” Genoa added.

Then admiring his own handiwork and glancing up at Amanda, Giovanni quipped, “It must have been a great time to be alive—that is, if you were not the sacrifice! Grazie, signorina.” His smile was quizzical as he deftly stepped around her and continued working the room.

Amanda’s circuit of the great hall had now taken her almost 360 degrees. She was due on the balcony at seven forty-five for her second conversation with Luc Renard, and there was no way she could be late for her airport departure at eight fifteen. With such concerns, it did not even occur to her to wonder how Giovanni Genoa had known who she was.

***

Amanda threaded her way through an increasingly noisy crowd and reached the balcony at exactly seven forty-five. She looked around for Luc. Barely a minute later, she spied him exiting the library doors and walking directly toward her.

“I beg your pardon, Amanda. I was detained with the mayor. He wanted to renege on his earlier commitment to hire Giovanni for the Los Angeles City Hall renovation. I fear that angels are not Giovanni’s specialty,” Luc mused.

“Perhaps the mayor had his breath snatched away like so many others tonight,” she offered. “Maybe he’s afraid the conservative city council won’t approve of Mr. Genoa’s vivid images?”

Luc seemed to file the matter away for later, and he focused all his attention on Amanda. “I know you’re on a tight schedule,” he said. “Have you considered my proposal?”

“Yes, but I’m not sure about becoming a celebrity. It would be quite a step for me.”

“You are the perfect host for this show. I guarantee you will have all the support you need. The Tokyo people are a media executive’s dream team. Benedict does not possess a fraction of your intellect. However, they made him look and act like a movie star.”

“Ah…when would they like to interview me?”

“Right away. We’ve got to be back in production within a week. In fact,” he added, as he reached into an inside pocket of his jacket, “I have made arrangements for you to leave tonight. Please examine this envelope.”

Opening the folder inside, Amanda saw it was a one-way ticket from LAX to Tokyo on Japan Airlines. First Class.

“I know you had planned to leave LAX for Italy,” Luc continued. “But I need you to land in Tokyo. This flight departs LAX at ten thirty. You’ll be met at Narita when you arrive and taken to the five-star Mandarin Hotel. Mr. Ito, our head producer, has been authorized to take you shopping at Mikimoto on the Ginza. There is a $25,000 gift certificate there in your name. Your belongings will be collected from your apartment and air-freighted overnight. When you get the job, we can explore more permanent living arrangements.”

Amanda noticed he had said
when
and not
if
. She glanced at her watch. “Isn’t this cutting it very close?”

Luc grinned broadly. “I’ve arranged late check-in at LAX. Meanwhile, one of my limousines will take you to the airport. I took the liberty of having your luggage transferred from your car to the limo. Your jeep will be stored here.”

She extended her hand. “I still haven’t made up my mind, Luc. But I accept your kind offer of a ride to the airport. I’ll let you know what I decide.”

“Very well.” Luc clasped her hand in both of his. “I know you will make the right choice. Many of us are depending on you.”

She could barely look away from his stare as the charming host backed away and disappeared into the crowd.

Ten minutes later, Amanda emerged onto the floodlit esplanade and peered into the driveway, looking for a Renard Enterprises limo with the golden crest
RE
on the doors. Then Rob appeared, sprinting out of the darkness.

“Your limo is just coming now, miss,” the valet informed her. “I put your luggage on the backseat.”

“Thanks, Rob.” Amanda pressed a couple of bills into her young admirer’s palm.

Opening her door, the limo driver politely introduced himself as Harris and informed Amanda that he was replacing Mr. Renard’s usual chauffeur. As they passed through the gates of the estate and turned onto PCH headed south, Amanda asked if he would raise the tinted glass partition to seal off the passenger area for privacy. She might not have the time to change clothes at the business class lounge, she thought. She unzipped the Louis Vuitton, changed into a comfortable outfit for the flight, and extracted both her British Airways and Japan Airlines itineraries, as well as her passport, from the backpack.