Читать книгу The Heist - Daniel Silva - Страница 19

TWO CENTURIES AFTER HIS DEATH, he was all but forgotten. His paintings gathered dust in the storerooms of galleries and museums, many misattributed, their dramatically illuminated figures receding slowly into the emptiness of their distinctive black backgrounds. Finally, in 1951, the noted Italian art historian Roberto Longhi assembled his known works and displayed them for the world at the Palazzo Reale in Milan. Many of those who visited the remarkable exhibit had never heard the name Caravaggio.

The details of his early life are sketchy at best, faint lines of charcoal on an otherwise blank canvas. He was born on the twenty-ninth day of September in 1571, probably in Milan, where his father was a successful mason and architect. In the summer of 1576, plague returned to the city. By the time it finally abated, one-fifth of the Milan diocese had perished, including young Caravaggio’s father, grandfather, and uncle. In 1584, at the age of thirteen, he entered the workshop of Simone Peterzano, a dull but competent Mannerist who claimed to be a pupil of Titian. The contract, which survives, obligated Caravaggio to train “night and day” for a period of four years. It is not known whether he lived up to its terms, or even if he completed his apprenticeship. Clearly, Peterzano’s limp, lifeless work had little influence on him.

The exact circumstances surrounding Caravaggio’s departure from Milan are, like almost everything else about him, lost to time and shrouded in mystery. Records indicate his mother died in 1590 and that, from her modest estate, he claimed an inheritance equal to six hundred gold scudi. Within a year the money was gone. There is no suggestion, anywhere, that the volatile young man who had trained to be an artist ever placed a brush to canvas during his final years in Milan. It seems he was too busy with other pursuits. Giovanni Pietro Bellori, author of an early biography, suggests Caravaggio had to flee the city, perhaps after an incident involving a prostitute and a razor, perhaps after the murder of a friend. He traveled eastward to Venice, wrote Bellori, where he fell under the spell of Giorgione’s palette. Then, in the autumn of 1592, he set out for Rome.

Here Caravaggio’s life comes into sharper relief. He entered the city, like all migrants from the north, through the gates of the Porto del Popolo and made his way to the artists’ quarter, a warren of filthy streets around the Campo Marzio. According to the painter Baglione, he shared rooms with an artist from Sicily, though another early biographer, a physician who knew Caravaggio in Rome, records that he found lodgings in the home of a priest who forced him to do household chores and gave him only greens to eat. Caravaggio referred to the priest as Monsignor Insalata and left his home after a few months. He lived in as many as ten different places during his first years in Rome, including the workshop of Giuseppe Cesari, where he slept on a straw mattress. He walked the streets in tattered black stockings and a threadbare black cloak. His black hair was an unruly mess.

Cesari allowed Caravaggio to paint only flowers and fruit, the lowliest assignment for a workshop apprentice. Bored, convinced of his superior talent, he began to produce paintings of his own. Some he sold in the alleyways around the Piazza Navona. But one painting, a luminous image of a well-to-do Roman boy being cheated by a pair of cardsharps, he sold to a dealer whose shop was located across the street from the palazzo occupied by Cardinal Francesco del Monte. The transaction would dramatically alter the course of Caravaggio’s life, for the cardinal, a connoisseur and patron of the arts, admired the painting greatly and purchased it for a few scudi. Soon after, he acquired a second painting by Caravaggio depicting a smiling fortune-teller stealing a Roman boy’s ring as she reads his palm. At some point, the two men met, though at whose initiative remains unclear. The cardinal offered the young artist food, clothing, lodgings, and a studio in his palazzo. All he asked of Caravaggio was that he paint. Caravaggio, then twenty-four, accepted the cardinal’s proposal. It was one of the few wise decisions he ever made.

After settling in to his rooms at the palazzo, Caravaggio produced several works for the cardinal and his circle of wealthy friends, including The Lute Player, The Musicians, Bacchus, Martha and Mary Magdalene, and St. Francis of Assisi in Ecstasy. Then, in 1599, he was awarded his first public commission: two canvases depicting scenes from the life of Saint Matthew for the Contarelli Chapel in the Church of San Luigi dei Francesi. The paintings, while controversial, instantly established Caravaggio as the most sought-after artist in Rome. Other commissions soon followed, including The Crucifixion of St. Peter and The Conversion of St. Paul for the Cerasi Chapel of the Church of Santa Maria del Popolo, The Supper at Emmaus, John the Baptist, The Betrayal of Christ, Doubting Thomas, and The Sacrifice of Isaac. Not all his works met with approval upon delivery. Madonna and Child with St. Anne was removed from St. Peter’s Basilica because the church hierarchy apparently did not approve of Mary’s ample cleavage. Her bare-legged portrayal in Death of the Virgin was considered so offensive that the church for which it was commissioned, Santa Maria della Scala in Trastevere, refused to accept it. Rubens called it one of Caravaggio’s finest works and helped him to find a buyer.

Success as a painter did not bring calm to Caravaggio’s personal life—indeed, it remained as chaotic and violent as ever. He was arrested for carrying a sword without a license in the Campo Marzio. He smashed a plate of artichokes against a waiter’s face at the Osteria del Moro. He was jailed for throwing stones at the sbirri, the papal police, in the Via dei Greci. The stone-throwing incident occurred at half past nine on an October evening in 1604. By then, Caravaggio was living alone in a rented house with only Cecco, his apprentice and occasional model, for company. His physical appearance had deteriorated; he was once again the unkempt figure in tattered black clothing who used to sell his paintings on the street. Though he had many commissions, he worked fitfully. Somehow he managed to deliver a monumental altarpiece called The Deposition of Christ. It was widely regarded as his finest painting.

There were more brushes with the authorities—his name appears in the police records of Rome five times in 1605 alone—but none more serious than the incident that took place on May 28, 1606. It was a Sunday, and as usual Caravaggio went to the ball courts at the Via della Pallacorda for a game of tennis. There he encountered Ranuccio Tomassoni, a street fighter, a rival for the affections of a beautiful young courtesan who had posed for several of Caravaggio’s paintings. Words were exchanged, swords were drawn. The details of the mêlée are unclear, but it ended with Tomassoni lying on the ground with a deep wound to his upper thigh. He died a short time later, and by that evening Caravaggio was the target of a citywide manhunt. Wanted for murder, a crime with only one possible punishment, he fled into the Alban Hills. He would never see Rome again.

He made his way south to Naples, where his reputation as a great painter preceded him, the murder notwithstanding. He left behind The Seven Acts of Mercy before sailing to Malta. There he was admitted into the Knights of Malta, an expensive honor for which he paid in paintings, and for a brief time he lived as a nobleman. Then a fight with a fellow member of his order led to yet another spell in prison. He managed to escape and flee to Sicily where by all accounts he was a mad, deranged soul who slept with a dagger at his side. Even so, he managed to paint. In Syracuse he left The Burial of St. Lucy. In Messina he produced two monumental paintings: The Raising of Lazarus and the heartbreaking Adoration of the Shepherds. And for the Oratorio di San Lorenzo in Palermo he painted The Nativity with St. Francis and St. Lawrence. Three hundred and fifty-nine years later, on the night of October 18, 1969, two men entered the chapel through a window and cut the canvas from its frame. A copy of the painting hung behind General Cesare Ferrari’s desk at the palazzo in Rome. It was the Art Squad’s number-one target.

“I suspect the general already knows about the connection between the Caravaggio and Jack Bradshaw,” Maurice Durand said. “That would explain why he was so insistent you take the case.”

“You know the general well,” said Gabriel.

“Not really,” replied the Frenchman. “But I did meet him once.”

“Where?”

“Here in Paris, at a symposium on art crime. The general was on one of the panels.”

“And you?”

“I was in attendance.”

“In what capacity?”

“A dealer of valuable antiques, of course.” Durand smiled. “The general struck me as a serious fellow, very capable. It’s been a long time since I’ve stolen a painting in Italy.”

They were walking along the gravel footpath of the allée centrale. The leaden clouds had drained the gardens of color. It was Sisley rather than Monet.

“Is it possible?” asked Gabriel.

“That the Caravaggio is actually in play?”

Gabriel nodded. Durand appeared to give the question serious consideration before answering.

“I’ve heard all the stories,” he said at last. “That the collector who commissioned the theft refused to accept the painting because it was so badly damaged when it was cut from the frame. That the Mafia bosses of Sicily used to bring it out during meetings as a kind of trophy. That it was destroyed in a flood. That it was eaten by rats. But I’ve also heard rumors,” he added, “that it’s been in play before.”

“How much would it be worth on the black market?”

“The paintings Caravaggio produced while he was on the run lack the depth of his great Roman works. Even so,” Durand added, “a Caravaggio is still a Caravaggio.”

“How much, Maurice?”

“The rule of thumb is that a stolen painting retains ten percent of its value on the black market. If the Caravaggio were worth fifty million on the open market, it would fetch five million dirty.”

“There is no open market for a Caravaggio.”

“Which means it’s truly one of a kind. There are some men in the world who would pay almost anything for it.”

“Could you move it?”

“With a single phone call.”

They arrived at the boat pond where several miniature sailing vessels were careening about a tiny storm-tossed sea. Gabriel paused at the edge and explained how he had found three stolen paintings—a Parmigianino, a Renoir, and a Klimt—concealed beneath copies of lesser works at Jack Bradshaw’s villa on Lake Como. Durand, watching the boats, nodded thoughtfully.

“It sounds to me as though they were being readied for transport and sale.”

“Why paint over them?”

“So they could be sold as legitimate works.” Durand paused, then added, “Legitimate works of lesser value, of course.”

“And when the sales were complete?”

“A person like you would be hired to remove the concealing images and prepare the paintings for hanging.”

A pair of tourists, young girls, posed for a photograph on the opposite side of the boat pond. Gabriel took Durand by the elbow and led him toward the Louvre Pyramid. “The person who painted those fakes was good,” he said. “Good enough to fool someone like me at first glance.”

“There are many talented artists out there who are willing to sell their services to those of us who toil at the dirty end of the trade.” The Frenchman looked at Gabriel and asked, “Have you ever had occasion to forge a painting?”

“I might have forged a Cassatt once.”

“For a worthy cause, no doubt.”

They walked on, the gravel crunching beneath their feet.

“And what about you, Maurice? Have you ever required the services of a forger?”

“We are getting into sensitive territory,” Durand cautioned.

“We crossed that border a long time ago, you and I.”

They came to the Place du Carrousel, turned to the right, and made for the river.

“Whenever possible,” Durand said, “I prefer to create the illusion that a stolen painting hasn’t actually been stolen.”

“You leave behind a copy.”

“We call them replacement jobs.”

“How many are hanging in museums and homes across Europe?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Go on, Maurice.”

“There’s one man who does all my work for me. He’s fast, reliable, and quite good.”

“Does the man have a name?”

Durand hesitated, then answered. The forger’s name was Yves Morel.

“Where did he train?”

“The École Nationale des Beaux-Arts in Lyon.”

“Very prestigious,” said Gabriel. “Why didn’t he become an artist?”

“He tried. It didn’t work out as planned.”

“So he took his revenge on the art world by becoming a forger?”

“Something like that.”

“How noble.”

“People in glass houses.”

“Is your relationship exclusive?”

“I wish it was, but I can’t give him enough work. On occasion he accepts commissions from other patrons. One of those patrons was a now-deceased fence named Jack Bradshaw.”

Gabriel stopped walking and turned to face Durand. “Which is why you know so much about Bradshaw’s operation,” he said. “You were sharing the services of the same forger.”

“It was all rather Caravaggesque,” replied Durand, nodding.

“Where did Morel do his work for Bradshaw?”

“In a room at the Geneva Freeport. Bradshaw had a rather unique art gallery there. Yves used to call it the gallery of the missing.”

“Where is he now?”

“Here in Paris.”

“Where, Maurice?”

Durand removed his hand from the pocket of his overcoat and indicated that the forger could be found somewhere near Sacré-Cœur. They entered the Métro, the art thief and the intelligence operative, and headed for Montmartre.