“No, you’re right. The colors are similar. You can’t tell properly because this is a reproduction, but you can still see they are muddy, green, gray, beige, and depressing, same as this painting. The theme, too, the mood, the size even. You saw the likeness before the differences, same as me.”
Caterina looked at the cover of the book she was holding. “Giorgio de Chirico,” she said. “I thought he only did surreal paintings.”
“What you’re looking at is a view of Villa Falconieri,” said Blume.
“Which?”
“The one in the book. De Chirico’s,” said Blume. “Now, listen to this,” he pulled over a battered old blue hardback and read:
“During his second visit to the Eternal City, Diego Velazquez was an honored guest at the graceful Villa Medici, where it was only natural that a mind of refined artistic temperament and an innate sense of the aesthetic…”
“God.” He tossed the book aside. “I can’t stand that sort of drivel. The point is when Velazquez was in Rome and painted the portrait of Pope Innocent X which we saw a few days ago, he was staying at the Villa Medici. Where the French Academy now is.”
She nodded.
“And when Velazquez was there, he did a painting, of the gardens. It’s not as well-known as his portrait works. Now listen: In 1946, Giorgio de Chirico painted two landscapes, one of Villa Falconieri, which I’ve just shown you, and one of Villa Medici. Both of them reference Velazquez’s painting. If you take the two de Chirico paintings and merge them, you get a sort of reproduction of Velazquez’s painting. It was de Chirico paying homage to but also copying the master. Treacy went on about it in his notes.
“Now, we also know from his notebooks that Treacy was a great fan of de Chirico, he talks about a sense of affinity. More to the point, he turned down a chance to pass off forged de Chirico works to de Chirico’s niece when they were stolen.
“Now that ugly painting there is not just homage to Angela, it’s a message, too. Personal and professional. It is also a variation on the de Chirico painting.”
“Which is a variation on Velazquez’s.”
“Right. But Treacy’s painting isn’t a casual variation. It’s a landscape of a specific place. A park, in which he used to live as a guest. A park that is now open to the public, but belonged to the Pamphili family for centuries. The park where he and Angela kissed and were interrupted by an Englishwoman with dogs.”
“Villa Pamphili,” said Caterina.
“That is where we’re going now. Bring the painting and the tactical bag.”
Chapter 51
Blume drove across town, struggling to keep a light foot on the accelerator. At the San Pancrazio entrance he drove into the park. “Nice and slowly. Don’t want to kill any joggers,” he said. “Though those cyclists weaving in and out among people trying to walk are fair game.”
He drove slowly up the pebbled path toward the Quattro Venti triumphal arch.
“We’re going to go as far as the palace itself,” said Blume.
Blume stopped talking and they listened to the crunch of pebbles under the tires. “Looks like we’ve been spotted.”
A Municipal Police car had stopped in front of them, and the two occupants were getting out.
“Is this some sort of mix-up?” asked the Vigile. “As far as I know we’re patrolling the grounds this week, next week it’s the Carabinieri, and the week after it’s you guys.”
Blume took his hands off the wheel and noticed for the first time he was in a squad car with all the markings.
“No. It’s not a mix-up. We’re here for an investigation,” said Blume. “We were going to park over there by the chapel.”
“Fine, I’ll get out of your way then,” said the Vigile.
Blume allowed the car to roll a few more meters and then pulled onto the grass underneath a rotting holm oak. They sat side by side looking over the grounds, half-heartedly landscaped and lazily vandalized.
“You know who has a lot of pentimenti in his paintings?”
“Velazquez?” said Caterina.
“Yes.”
Blume climbed out of the car, looked across the lawn. He popped the trunk, took out the painting. “I’ve been thinking about the letter Treacy sent Angela where he talks about poisonous yew berries and them sitting together. Grab the bag of tools and follow me.”
He led Caterina across the lawn onto a pebble path and then followed a wall until it curved inward and then out again making a large U-shape, like the apse of a church. Vandalized bas-reliefs and niches were spaced at regular intervals, separated from the pathway by a small moat. In the center of the concave area was an enclosed rectangular chamber, which was closed off with a padlocked gate.
“This is called the ‘theater,’ ” said Blume. “I don’t know if it was ever used to stage outdoor plays, but if it was, the audience would have sat over there.” He pointed to a circular area with patches of grass and scree surrounded by dark green trees with orange berries.
“Are those yew trees?” asked Caterina.
“Yes, they are,” said Blume. “Let’s go over and sit there, shall we?”
Caterina hefted the bag over and sat down on the remains of a cracked stone bench defaced by graffiti. Blume sat beside her. A jogger went puffing past, and then they were alone.
“This is where Henry Treacy and Angela sat together in 1974, when Henry lived at the porter’s lodge, and they had all this park land to themselves. They sat on this bench and, according to his memoirs, they kissed for the first time.”
Caterina put the palm of her hand on Blume’s cheek and, hooking her finger over his ear, pulled his face toward hers. His lips were dry and his neck was tense, but it still felt good, and she liked his breath. But then he turned away.
“I still need you to look in front of you. Look at the scene in front of us now.”
Caterina examined the concave area, the pine trees in the background, the embankment that formed a proscenium, the white marble wall curving away from them, the niches, the masonry. It was the scene in Treacy’s picture.
“Give me the picture.”
“Here,” said Blume.
She held it in front of her.
“It’s here. It’s the view from where we are now. That tree is a little taller now, and there seems to be an extra-no, wait… ” She stood up and walked a few paces to her right. “From here it’s perfect. Like he was standing here. Come and see.”
Blume came up behind her and they looked at the painting. “Treacy knew this park like no one else. He walked through it undisturbed. He would have explored its hidden nooks and crannies and hiding places. The pentimenti converge in the middle of the painting, which corresponds to the chamber there.”
“Do you think Henry Treacy hid his Velazquez in that grotto? What about damp?”
“The oldest paintings in the world are in caves,” said Blume. “Rock often creates very dry environments.”
“Why did he not just give the painting to Angela?” said Caterina. “Wouldn’t that have been easiest?”
“Who says he wanted it to be easy? If she kept the painting and if she also read his notebooks or autobiography or whatever it was intended to be, all the clues were there. He hid it where they fell in love.”
“And if she hadn’t kept the painting or the letter or read his autobiography?” asked Caterina.
