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 1925. Ben wondered who Leo had been.
‘Just one of her many celebrated works here on display,’ De Crescenzo said. ‘Including a quite incredible recent discovery.’ He said this in a hushed tone of reverence, as though referring to the finger-bone of Christ. Ben waited for more.
‘During the recent restoration of my ancestral home, the Palazzo De Crescenzo – it is far too large to live in, of course – workmen came upon a secret room where it seems the young and terribly unhappy countess carried on her art behind her husband’s back. He had forbidden her to paint, you see. We found several previously unknown works of hers, which are being exhibited here today for the very first time.’ Looking even more excited, De Crescenzo added, ‘And sensationally, among the pieces we discovered in her personal collection were several items by other artists – including a most magnificent miniature charcoal sketch by the artist Goya that had long been believed lost.’
Ben turned to look as he pointed out the piece of artwork across the room. It was a small, simple, shaded monochrome image of a solitary man kneeling humbly to pray inside what could have been a monastic cell.
Again Ben could feel De Crescenzo’s eyes on him and felt expected to comment knowledgeably, but he just nodded appreciatively and tried not to think about that glass of wine Donatella had promised him. He fought the urge to glance at his watch.
‘Naturally it is almost worthless compared to some of the other works here on display,’ De Crescenzo went on rather too grandly. ‘But I founded this academy in April 1987 to honour Gabriella Giordani’s sad passing the previous year, and I cannot tell you how thrilled we are to be able to mark the inauguration of our new centre with a display of her very own collection. For me, it is what makes this exhibition so special.’
‘I’m very pleased for you,’ Ben said. ‘Congratulations.’
‘You’ll be wanting that wine now,’ Donatella whispered as they left the count to carry on the rounds of the guests.
‘I don’t know what gives you that impression,’
