niece, a person I am proud to call my friend.
Giorgio de Chirico, as it happens, had been something of a hero of mine. Not only did he share my belief that the only true art is an imitation of past art, he even liked to put false dates on his works. Sometimes he signed paintings that imitated his style. He forged himself. He encouraged me, was kind to me, and was a man of great integrity.
When the Carabinieri unit arrived to investigate the theft, Farinelli made his usual recommendation, which was to keep the whole thing as quiet as possible. Angelica Savinio was told that the best way to get her paintings back was simply to wait. Then, with any luck, when the thieves made a false move or tried to sell the paintings, Farinelli and his team would pounce.
Then he told her that a lot of stolen art was recovered by means of negotiation. It was a sort of plea- bargaining system, he explained. The system was to catch one of the dealers trying to fence a stolen work, find out from him about other works, and if he cooperated, not press charges. Maybe he would even be allowed to pass on some small stuff in exchange for the Carabinieri getting the big items. Angelica told me the more Farinelli spoke, the more it seemed her uncle’s works were being held to ransom. To get back what was hers, Farinelli seemed to be demanding a kickback.
So she agreed to all he said, then went and did the exact opposite. She went straight to the press. She told everyone. Every newspaper, every TV station. She even called in the foreign press. Her husband spoke English and talked to the British and American newspapers. She kept this publicity campaign going and going, reasoning that de Chirico was so famous that his paintings would be unsalable once word was out that they had been stolen. And she was right. They never got to the market.
This act of defiance was a catalyst, or a signal of something, for Farinelli’s power finally began to ebb. First, he got a sideways transfer to headquarters in Piazza Sant’Ignazio, removing him from direct access to some of the recovered works of art and reducing his interaction with the criminal underground. He did not lose much power, and it was only the beginning of the end. But he recognized it as such, and it was in the middle of Savinio’s press campaign that he visited me.
Having arm-twisted some pusillanimous magistrate into accusing me of being involved in art theft, he arrived with a warrant to search my home, which he did with more brutality than efficiency, ripping my signed works from the walls, overturning furniture, emptying drawers without even looking at the contents, opening my food press, and sweeping his arm across the bottles, sending them all crashing to the floor. I am pleased to say I remained impassive throughout. Then he started destroying the tools of my trade and I began to lose equanimity. Finally, he took out a paring knife to slash the work on my easel, something on which I had been working for a considerable time, and of which I was not only proud, but extremely fond. The work in question was a restoration of a religious painting by Bassano which had been stolen decades ago and then cut up into smaller pieces, each of which had been sold separately to crooked dealers. With Nightingale’s approval and assistance, I had acquired three, perfectly legally, and was completing the missing fourth. The deal was that we would either sell the newly united and completed work (we had not decided whether the missing piece was to be attributed to me or not) or, once I had finished my project, the work would be redivided and sold onwards at a profit.
So when I saw this overweight, swaggering bully approach my work with a knife, I hurled myself upon him. It was all planned of course, and I was soon hauled off and kicked half senseless by three of his men, but not before I managed to land two very rapid punches to his pudgy face, one of which had produced a satisfying crack from his nose. Evidently he had underestimated my speed.
I spent four weeks in Rebibbia, the scariest four weeks of my life. I was charged with resisting arrest, outrage against a public official, and some other minor charges. I sat there waiting for the charges of forgery, fraud, deception, illegal export, and so forth to be brought, and was expecting to be brought face-to-face with Nightingale any moment. Instead, to my amazement, the PM then charged me with possession of illegal substances and dangerous chemicals with the intent to cause injury. I was remanded again on charges relating to bomb-making and terrorism. Looked at in a certain way, said Farinelli, the kerosene, petrol, oils, chemicals, boilers, gas canisters, bleaches, the bottles of nitrocellulose, white spirit, and the plant fertilizers outside, the tins, pots, and cans in my house-they all pointed to one conclusion only. “It’s a miracle that cottage of yours has not self-combusted,” said Farinelli. I fully expected to go back to Rebibbia. At least if I declared myself a political prisoner, I might gain some respect and protection.
Instead I was led out into a small room with compensato on the walls. A room from which not much noise could escape. My hands were handcuffed behind a chair and Farinelli came in. I looked in vain for a sign of the black eye or bent nose from my fists, but his face showed no sign of injury. He took out the same sharp little peeling knife with which he had attacked my painting, watching me all the time, smiling. Then he dug his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a peach. He skinned it, then cut off a slim disk, and popped it in his mouth.
When he had finished, he said “sticky,” and walked out, leaving the wet peelings on the table.
A few minutes later he was back.
Speaking in a murmur, and nodding as if we had already made a covenant, he told me he could get me out of here immediately, and I did not doubt it for one moment.
“I have a proposal that I think will resolve our problems.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Of course you do. Humans always have a choice.”
“If I agree, how much longer do I spend in detention?”
“The time it takes me to walk behind you and take off your handcuffs.”
“Does it involve my artistic skills?”
He nodded.
“Does anyone get hurt?”
“Definitely not.”
I agreed.
Farinelli brought me straight back to my place. Leaning against the wall of my living room, plastic wrapped and protected by one of my own bed sheets, were eight plywood packing cases containing as many paintings carefully attached to backboards with foam cushioning. He explained that the works were by de Chirico and Guttuso and I was to copy all eight.
I protested of course, saying I never did direct copies of living artists. Instead of threatening me with jail again, he spoke encouragingly of the proceeds we would reap. But I understood that his motivation was revenge, pure and simple.
He gave me two months.
Colonel Farinelli, as you now are, I don’t know if you will be reading this someday. If you are, did you really think marking the backs of each original canvas with a matrix of pinprick points and the dots visible under UV light would escape my notice? You clearly had no idea of the care I invested in my work. Before even considering the painting itself, I examined everything about the canvas, its translucence and sizing, the gesso and the warp and weft of the fibers, the ridges and pits and imperfections and strains. You were no cleverer than Monica and her ignorant blob of ink. One of the very first things I did was to close the shutters of the room and examine the works with a tube of UV light. All it takes is a single purple dot shining in the darkness, and it is clear the canvas has been marked. And Guttuso, Colonel? Do you think I had no moral compass? An artist dedicated to resisting the fascists, the Mafia, and people like you.
I was into the second month on my unwanted commission, splashed with Indian ink as I struggled to imitate the sexy curves of all those thighs in Swimming Party, when it struck me with total clarity that you intended to complete your revenge on Savinio, de Chirico, and Guttuso by selling to exactly the sort of buyer Guttuso despised. I warned John Nightingale about it, and all he did was wave his hands about like a pansy and deny it.
Then, to make your revenge complete, you decided to bring us along to the meeting, all in a hotel room on Via del Tritone, and force us to watch the surrender of the paintings to the Mafia and make sure we were as compromised and hostage to fortune as you. A Sicilian-Canadian Mafia boss. Until that meeting I didn’t even know Canada had a Mafia.
Nightingale’s job was to give the authenticity and provenance lecture which he delivered like an adolescent with a squeaky voice, as the Colonel watched smiling like a teacher proud of a gifted queer student. The buyer sat there in yellow sunglasses in a room with three other men, and nodded each time a painting was pulled out.
Then suddenly the Colonel introduces me as a leading dealer and expert. He tells the men I am about to
