many of the others.

‘You are English? But your Italian is excellent.’

‘Half Irish,’ he said. ‘I’ve travelled a bit, that’s all.’

‘Well, Signor Hope, I must thank you again. Are you living nearby?’

‘Just passing through,’ he said. ‘What is this place?’

‘The Academia Giordani,’ she said. ‘One of the most established and respected schools of fine art in the region. They’re celebrating the opening of the brand new exhibition wing, which has just been finished.’

‘The modern bit. I saw it from the road.’

She smiled. ‘Modern monstrosity, you wanted to say.’

‘No, modern is fine. So is old. I like all kinds of architecture.’

‘What about art, Signor Hope? Is it something you appreciate?’

‘Some. What little I know about it. Not sure I go for sheep in formaldehyde, or unmade beds and dirty underwear – or does that make me a philistine?’

Donatella seemed to approve of his taste. ‘Not in my book. You’ll be pleased to know there is nothing like that here. No gimmicks, no publicity stunts or con tricks. Just pure art. The owners have put together a wonderful collection of works from across the centuries, on loan from galleries all over the world.’

‘Hence the high security,’ Ben said. He’d already noticed the glassy eyes of the CCTV system watching from well-concealed vantage points around the room.

‘Oh, yes. Smile, you’re on camera. A state-of-the-art system, apparently. Not surprising that the galleries would insist on it, when you have hundreds of millions of euros hanging on your walls.’

‘So, do I take it you’re part of the art scene around here?’ Ben asked as he followed her through the crowd towards where the staff were checking invites and ushering guests through an arch leading to a glass walkway. He guessed it connected the old part of the building to the new wing.

‘My husband Fabio is. He’s one of the region’s top art and antiquities restorers. I just dabble in it, which is nice for me because I get to go to all the exhibitions with him.’

‘Is he here today?’

‘He’s supposed to be,’ she said. ‘But he phoned earlier to say he might not be able to get here. His company are helping to restore an old church outside Rome, and they ran into some kind of delay. He’ll be very disappointed if he can’t make it. And he’ll be sorry he didn’t get to thank you personally for what you did.’

‘I didn’t do that much,’ Ben said.

Donatella showed her ticket, explained to the woman at the desk that Ben was her guest, and they were ushered through the arched entrance to the glass corridor. At the end of it, they stepped into a bright, airy, ultramodern space that was the pristine new exhibition wing of the Academia Giordani. The floor was gleaming white stone, laid out with strips of red carpet that wove around the displays. The paintings were encased behind non-reflective glass, arranged by artist and period. A number of guests had already started doing the rounds of the exhibition, talking in low voices and pointing this way and that. As more people filtered inside behind Ben and Donatella, the murmur of soft conversation gradually filled the sunlit room. Some seemed impressed by the new building, though one or two faces showed disapproval.

‘It’s hideous,’ a stringy, white-haired woman in a blue dress was muttering to her husband. He was about ninety and walked with a stick. ‘Maybe not quite as offensive as the Louvre pyramid,’ she went on, ‘but hideous just the same.’

‘I find the concept has a very . . . organic quality, don’t you?’ one of the bohemians commented loudly to the woman he was with. ‘I mean, it’s so . . . what’s the word?’ He was padding about the gallery in open sandals, which together with his unkempt hair and beard probably attracted more offended glances from the other Italians than the design of the building. The Redford clone ignored him altogether.

‘So what do you think, Signor Hope?’ Donatella asked.

‘Like I said, I really don’t know that much about art,’ Ben said. But he knew enough to understand now why galleries across the world had been jittery about lending their pieces for this exhibition. The canvases around the walls bore enough famous signatures to pop any art lover’s cork. Picasso, Chagal, Monet. ‘And Da Vinci,’ he said, raising his eyebrows.

‘Oh yes,’ Donatella chuckled. ‘All the big names are here. They really wanted to put on a show to launch the centre. Fabio told me they wanted to get a Delacroix too, but they didn’t have the wall space.’ She touched Ben’s arm and pointed across the gallery at a man in an immaculate silk suit, forties, carefully groomed. ‘That’s Aldo Silvestri, one of the owners. And see that man over there, standing beside the Picasso?’

‘That little fat guy there?’

‘I’m sure he’d love to hear you say that. Luigi Corsini is Silvestri’s business partner. But the real money comes from Count Pietro De Crescenzo. Without his influence, the gallery would not have been possible, and certainly not an exhibition of this calibre.’

Donatella pointed out the man to Ben. Late fifties, tall and gaunt with thin oiled hair, he could have passed for an undertaker if it hadn’t been for the dapper bow tie. He was standing with a group of people on the far side of the room, sipping a glass of wine. ‘The De Crescenzos are one of the oldest aristocratic families of this region, with quite a colourful history,’ she filled in.

‘You know them?’

She nodded. ‘The count has funded several of Fabio’s projects in the past.’

De Crescenzo seemed to sense them talking about him. Giving Donatella a smile, he excused himself from the group and approached. Donatella explained to the count that Fabio had been held up, and introduced Ben. ‘Please call me Pietro,’ De Crescenzo said as he shook Ben’s hand. ‘I only use the title to open doors and impress stuffy politicians and museum boards. So, Signor Hope, I gather despite your extremely fluent Italian that you are not from these parts.’

‘I’m just passing through,’ Ben said.

‘You are on vacation? Remaining a few days in Italy?’

‘Sadly not. I’ll be flying to London tomorrow.’

De Crescenzo shuddered. ‘Air travel. I cannot bring myself to get on one of those things. Quite irrational, I know.’

‘It’s a very impressive setup you have here,’ Ben said.

De Crescenzo smiled widely, showing uneven, grey teeth. ‘Thank you, thank you. We have been extremely fortunate in securing such a fabulous and eclectic range of wonderful pieces.’

‘Have your family always been patrons of the arts?’ Ben asked, knowing his supply of cultural small talk was going to run out fast.

‘Far from it. My grandfather, Count Rodingo De Crescenzo, was a boorish and tyrannical man who despised culture with almost as much passion as he loathed the artistic genius of his first wife, Gabriella. It is to her that we owe the artistic heritage of my family. After doing everything in his power to suppress her talent, my grandfather ironically did the most to nurture it when he expelled her from the family home in 1925, leaving her destitute. Freed from his controlling influence, she eventually went on to find fame and fortune painting under her maiden name, Gabriella Giordani.’

Ben nodded and smiled politely, a little taken aback by De Crescenzo’s somewhat dramatic account of his family past. When he suddenly realised that the count was waiting for him to react to the mention of the name Gabriella Giordani, he shrugged apologetically and said, ‘As I was telling Donatella, my knowledge of art is pretty limited. I’m afraid I haven’t come across your grandmother’s work.’

De Crescenzo frowned sadly and shook his head. ‘Rodingo and Gabriella had no children. My father was born only after Rodingo had remarried, to a woman of great beauty but little else. Otherwise, I might have had the honour of being related in more than name to the most accomplished and admired Italian female artist of the twentieth century.’ He swept an arm enthusiastically behind him at a section of the exhibition.

Ben gazed in the direction he was pointing. ‘And that one too?’ he said, motioning at an oil portrait of a striking-looking man of about thirty, in a red velvet jacket with a high collar.

‘You have a keen eye for style, Signor Hope,’ De Crescenzo said. ‘Yes, that is also a Giordani.’

Ben took a step closer to the portrait and examined it for a moment. There was something aristocratic about the man in the painting, yet not supercilious or arrogant. The artist seemed to have captured a real sense of humility and gentleness in her subject. The little plaque below the edge of the frame simply said ‘Leo’, with the date

Вы читаете The Lost Relic
Добавить отзыв
ВСЕ ОТЗЫВЫ О КНИГЕ В ИЗБРАННОЕ

0

Вы можете отметить интересные вам фрагменты текста, которые будут доступны по уникальной ссылке в адресной строке браузера.

Отметить Добавить цитату