“Patience,” was all she said.
But by then Gabriel was beginning to lose faith, not in his son but in his prediction that the Leonardo would soon resurface. The case, such as it was, had gone cold. The Carabinieri in Florence had officially categorized the murder of Giorgio Montefiore as unsolved, and their brethren in Venice were still not certain how Penelope Radcliff had ended up in the waters of thelaguna. Both deaths had slipped from the pages of the Italian papers by the time His Holiness Luigi Donati departed for America. He dazzled at the United Nations and ruffled a few conservative feathers in Washington, but otherwise his first visit to the New World as pope was undiminished by any hint of Vatican scandal. It was, thought Gabriel, the only bright spot in the entire sordid affair.
If there was another, it was the overwhelmingly positive reaction to his restoration of the Titian. Tourists flocked to Santa Maria della Salute to see the altarpiece, as did curators, connoisseurs, and dealers from the four corners of the art world. Among those who made thepilgrimage to Venice was Julian Isherwood, owner of a respected gallery in London that specialized in Italian and Dutch Old Master paintings. He arrived the following Wednesday and was wondering whether Gabriel was free for a drink at, say, three o’clock. Gabriel informed his old friend that he had a prior commitment.
“Break it,” demanded Julian.
“Can’t,” replied Gabriel. “But I might be free at five.”
“Harry’s Bar?”
“See you then, Julian.”
22
Harry’s Bar
He was bivouacked at a table in the back corner of the room, behind an empty glass and a depleted bowl of oily green olives. Spotting Gabriel coming through the door, he thrust an arm aloft and waved, as though he were in need of rescue. With his chalk stripe suit, lavender necktie, and plentiful gray locks, he cut a rather elegant if dubious figure, a look he described as dignified depravity. As was often the case, he looked slightly hungover.
Gabriel approached the table through the cocktail-hour din and sat down. A white-jacketed waiter appeared at once with two Bellinis and a fresh bowl of olives.
“It seems your reputation precedes you,” said Julian.
“What reputation is that?”
“World’s finest restorer of Italian Old Master paintings. Perhaps the greatest who ever lived.”
“I take it you approve of the Titian.”
“I would genuflect, my dear boy, but I wouldn’t want to cause a scene.”
“We’re at Harry’s Bar, Julian. It’s always a scene.”
He cast his eyes around the crowded room and smiled wistfully. “I fell in love in this bar once.”
“Wherehaven’tyou fallen in love?”
“This was different.”
“You always say that.”
“But in her case, it was true.”
“A Venetian girl, was she?”
Julian nodded. “The daughter of a viscount who lived in a palazzo not far from yours. She was far too young, of course, and dangerously beautiful. I begged her to marry me within an hour of meeting her. Much to my surprise, she turned me down.”
“I thought you were opposed to the very idea of marriage.”
“As a general principle, yes. But in her case, I was prepared to make an exception.” He took a long draft of his Bellini. “It pains me to say this, but I was never the same after she broke my heart.”
“You managed quite well, as I recall.”
“All those beautiful women, you mean?” He emitted an overwrought sigh. “What I wouldn’t give for one last fling. With any luck it will end disastrously. Those are the best kind of flings, wouldn’t you agree?”
“These days, I try to keep the disasters to a minimum.”
“Not me, petal. I specialize in them.”
