greeted an honored guest—Albrecht Durer.”
“Durer actually visited the city several times,” I corrected him. I’d learned this while researching some pieces in Peter Vanderlin’s collection. “His eyes were opened in Venice. He loved Bellini’s work.”
Phillip directed another beatific smile Laurel’s way, as if she’d been the one to point this out. “He did. His exposure to Italian Renaissance culture fundamentally changed his artistic vision. The gothic stiffness of his early work gave way to more natural forms.
“Hermetic thought was absorbed by the great cultural and scientific minds of the Renaissance.” Once more, Phillip’s arm swept toward the ceiling. “My own artists, Michelangelo, Raphael, Botticelli, and Tintoretto, among them. Like them, Durer was captivated by Hermetic philosophy.”
I waded in, still anxious to get back to our original question. Phillip, anticipating me, held up his hand. “Yes, the picture.” He walked over to a Mylar cabinet, selected a book, flipped it open. It was a catalogue raisonne. He held it out, pointing to the upper right-hand corner of Durer’s woodcut. “The symbols in
Phillip pointed to the top left-hand corner of the woodcut. “The rainbow illustrates the same principle: white, which transforms to the spectrum of colors. Have you heard of a condition called synaesthesia?”
“Where some people see music as colors?” Laurel said.
“That’s one type. A perfect example of interchangeability. In Durer’s picture the ladder symbolizes the connection between heaven and earth. Renaissance masterpieces were regarded not simply as images but also as actual talismans with magical properties.”
Phillip flashed his pearly whites at Laurel again. “There’s a long list of notables—Dante, Mirandello, Durer, Goethe, and my own English Edmund Spenser—who carried forward the fundamental notion of the ‘one.’ The great Isaac Newton was the last before that heretic Descartes drew down the dark curtain of rationalism.”
“Can you explain some of the other symbols?” she asked.
“It would make more sense to consult someone better versed in that field. I do know, however, that Durer played a few tricks on his audience.”
“Tricks?” Laurel raised her eyebrows.
“It was not at all typical for Renaissance artists to sign their work. In fact, many were forbidden to, so they were forced into subterfuge. In
He stretched out long, bony fingers to give Laurel a friendly pat on the cheek. “You have until tonight to figure out how he signed the work. If you’re successful, dinner’s on me.”
“Any first-year art history student knows that,” I said. “You’re talking about his magic square. All the rows and columns add up to thirty-four. On the bottom row are a four, fifteen, fourteen, and one. The one and four stand for
This failed to wipe the smug look off Phillip’s face. “Your origins are dubious, John, and your manners show it. That’s only the first. There are actually eighty-six ways Durer signed his name, but I suspect anything deeper will elude you. You’ll need help. Claire was just here for our fundraiser. Why not call on her? She’ll get it sorted out for you.”
Laurel did not look amused. “If it’s all the same to you, we’d appreciate knowing now.”
This time Phillip waggled his finger at her. “Ah, what’s the rush? I guarantee you I’m acquainted with some of the best dinner spots in town.”
Fourteen
At Laurel’s suggestion, we headed for Washington Square Park to work on the Durer puzzle. The park had a good cluster of people, and we’d be safe among the throng.
“What an ass Phillip is,” I said. “He’s got a rep as a total loser with women.”
“It shows. Who’s Claire?” Laurel asked.
“Phillip’s ex-wife and an old friend of mine. I’m surprised he suggested her; I thought they were on the permanent outs. She co-owned the gallery with Phillip, and later started her own. She’s a curator at the Museum of Modern Art now with a long trail of creds—degrees from Cambridge and the Sorbonne, that kind of thing. Her father has one of the most important collections of occult literature in the country. If she senses some interesting gossip she won’t let it go, so let’s see if we can figure this out on our own. I’d rather not call her unless I have to.”
We wandered through the Waverly Place entrance and into the circle of chess players. We stopped to watch two men playing, their heads bent over the board, focused on the match as if their lives depended on it. I leaned over to the one nearest me and whispered Knight f3. The guy didn’t even blink.
“Do you play chess a lot?” Laurel asked when we moved away.
“Once. I never played again because I didn’t want to destroy a perfect record.”
She gave me a pretend slap.
We sat on a bench near the dog runs. In a truly civilized gesture the park offered separate enclosed runs, one for the small guys and another across the path for the big boys. We stopped to watch a Yorkie wrestle his ball away from a longhaired dachshund.
Farther on, people cooled their feet in the fountain. Park workers zipped past in golf carts. Washington Square had lost most of its zing since the sixties, when Pollock and de Kooning had studios nearby and Allen Ginsberg and Dylan were the local bards. The way I heard it, back then pot practically grew on the lawns.
If Durer really had signed his name eighty-six different ways, I despaired of ever finding the correct one. We took another look at
“The bell,” Laurel said, “and the magic square. Magic squares were originally Chinese, weren’t they?”
“Yes, Babylonians had them as well, fifth- and sixth-order squares used for astrology. In Durer’s magic square, the two numbers of the constant, three and four, add up to seven. Multiply them and you get twelve. Seven and twelve are the most sacred numbers.” I checked another website and read the text aloud to Laurel. “‘Seven was revered by Mesopotamians because of the seven celestial bodies visible to the naked eye: the Moon, Mercury, Venus, Sun, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn. Pythagoras believed seven to be the ultimate expression of harmony, and Judaism considered it the perfect number as reflected by the seventh day—Shabbat, the day of worship.’”
“There’s music too,” Laurel added, “seven notes on the diatonic scale.”
“Right. And you’ve heard of the seventh heaven? It’s the Muslim concept of supreme heaven, the one of absolute purity. But this doesn’t help us,” I said. “Seven won’t work with only two spaces to be filled in.”
“What does Durer’s entire name add up to?” Laurel asked.
I counted out the numeric value of each letter in his name and added them up. “A hundred and thirty-five. You’d need three squares for that, and we have only two.”
“I guess there’s no point trying the constant, thirty-four, because that would stand for the letters
I nodded absentmindedly. After another half an hour we’d gotten nowhere and decided to leave. The sun had disappeared behind a heavy bank of clouds, turning the late afternoon sky to mottled purples and grays without taking the heat away. Rivers of perspiration slipped down my spine, pooling in the hollow at the small of my back.
Laurel stopped as we neared the park’s west exit. Two figures caught her attention. She half turned toward
