Read Online The Girl With the Botticelli Eyes by Herbert Lieberman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Herbert Lieberman
Tags: Suspense
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very tatters and ribbons of canvas spilling out from beneath the frame, vivid glimpses of the glory of the painting still endured.
“Tragico,” old Torelli murmured again.
“What can you do for it?” Manship asked after a while. His mouth dry as cotton, he stood with his back to the two men, staring up transfixed at the destruction. But he knew the answer already.
Both of them cleared their throats, but it was Signor Panuzzi who spoke. “We can sew it back, match threads and paint to the original canvas. But I must be honest. It will never be right. Too much of the material is destroyed. The eyes—just look at the eyes.”
Manship gazed up at the gaping holes in the canvas where the eyes had once been.
“I can repaint the eyes, Signor Manship,” the voice stammered behind him. “But they will never be Botticelli eyes. The same with the Pallavicini. I can’t replace those eyes. I’m merely a restorer. Botticelli was a god.”
They finished off with some minor details, then walked out of the shop. At the moment, the workmen were outside, having their lunch at a long stone table in a grove of lemon trees at the back.
Manship grew suddenly grave. “You will promise me, Signor Panuzzi, and you, too Signor Torelli, never to let the paintings out of your sight while they’re here in your possession.”
“That, I can assure you, Signor Manship,” Panuzzi said.
“Surely.” Old Torelli nodded, touched by the solemnity of commitment.
“If someone comes nosing about, asking questions,” Manship went on, “you will notify the carabinieri at once. And call me.” He pressed his personal business card into Panuzzi’s big paint-spattered hands.
At the conclusion of their business, Panuzzi invited him and Signor Torelli to sit down and join him and the work crew for lunch. There were flasks of ice-cold Frascati, loaves of crusty round Tuscan bread, bottles of mineral water, plates of hard, tangy goat cheese, black and green olives. Over a small fire nearby, the men were roasting chunks of sweet fennel sausage. The savory odor of burning fat and apple wood made Manship hungry.
Nine
“I WAS SURE YOU wouldn’t come.”
“I didn’t intend to.”
“But you did all the same.”
“To be perfectly frank, I was fiendishly hungry.”
He looked at her as if to gauge the depth of her seriousness, then laughed out loud. “Well, you’re nothing if not blunt. Let’s order.”
The place he’d chosen was on the left bank of the Arno in that vaguely arty section of narrow alleys clogged with cafés, boutiques, and craft shops, lying between the river and the Boboli Gardens.
Recalling how she had bridled the afternoon before when he’d tried to tempt her with a hint of influential friends, he was careful not to select anything too flashy or imposing. Small, cozy, informal, warmed by a large woodstove on which bread was baked, the restaurant was what the Florentines call an enoteca. They offered good wine, better-than-average Tuscan fare, and the waiters were friendly.
He told her about his day with Torelli and his plans for the show in New York, scheduled to open in a few weeks. Careful to avoid any discussion of the part she might play in this, he spoke instead of the logistics of acquiring the necessary paintings—a job made up of equal parts of wheedling, begging, and twisting arms.
The work yet to be done in barely four weeks’ time was formidable. Publicity, advertising, and, most crucial of all, hanging the show so that its arrangement would not only flow smoothly from one gallery to the next but also track chronologically the stylistic development of the artist.
He told her about the incidents in Istanbul and Rome but later regretted it. Mutilated old masters and near-fatal human injuries were not exactly the sort of enticements designed to encourage a young woman to cast her lot with you.
Lastly, he spoke of the three missing Botticelli drawings and the unfortunate gap they would cause in the full
“Tragico,” old Torelli murmured again.
“What can you do for it?” Manship asked after a while. His mouth dry as cotton, he stood with his back to the two men, staring up transfixed at the destruction. But he knew the answer already.
Both of them cleared their throats, but it was Signor Panuzzi who spoke. “We can sew it back, match threads and paint to the original canvas. But I must be honest. It will never be right. Too much of the material is destroyed. The eyes—just look at the eyes.”
Manship gazed up at the gaping holes in the canvas where the eyes had once been.
“I can repaint the eyes, Signor Manship,” the voice stammered behind him. “But they will never be Botticelli eyes. The same with the Pallavicini. I can’t replace those eyes. I’m merely a restorer. Botticelli was a god.”
They finished off with some minor details, then walked out of the shop. At the moment, the workmen were outside, having their lunch at a long stone table in a grove of lemon trees at the back.
Manship grew suddenly grave. “You will promise me, Signor Panuzzi, and you, too Signor Torelli, never to let the paintings out of your sight while they’re here in your possession.”
“That, I can assure you, Signor Manship,” Panuzzi said.
“Surely.” Old Torelli nodded, touched by the solemnity of commitment.
“If someone comes nosing about, asking questions,” Manship went on, “you will notify the carabinieri at once. And call me.” He pressed his personal business card into Panuzzi’s big paint-spattered hands.
At the conclusion of their business, Panuzzi invited him and Signor Torelli to sit down and join him and the work crew for lunch. There were flasks of ice-cold Frascati, loaves of crusty round Tuscan bread, bottles of mineral water, plates of hard, tangy goat cheese, black and green olives. Over a small fire nearby, the men were roasting chunks of sweet fennel sausage. The savory odor of burning fat and apple wood made Manship hungry.
Nine
“I WAS SURE YOU wouldn’t come.”
“I didn’t intend to.”
“But you did all the same.”
“To be perfectly frank, I was fiendishly hungry.”
He looked at her as if to gauge the depth of her seriousness, then laughed out loud. “Well, you’re nothing if not blunt. Let’s order.”
The place he’d chosen was on the left bank of the Arno in that vaguely arty section of narrow alleys clogged with cafés, boutiques, and craft shops, lying between the river and the Boboli Gardens.
Recalling how she had bridled the afternoon before when he’d tried to tempt her with a hint of influential friends, he was careful not to select anything too flashy or imposing. Small, cozy, informal, warmed by a large woodstove on which bread was baked, the restaurant was what the Florentines call an enoteca. They offered good wine, better-than-average Tuscan fare, and the waiters were friendly.
He told her about his day with Torelli and his plans for the show in New York, scheduled to open in a few weeks. Careful to avoid any discussion of the part she might play in this, he spoke instead of the logistics of acquiring the necessary paintings—a job made up of equal parts of wheedling, begging, and twisting arms.
The work yet to be done in barely four weeks’ time was formidable. Publicity, advertising, and, most crucial of all, hanging the show so that its arrangement would not only flow smoothly from one gallery to the next but also track chronologically the stylistic development of the artist.
He told her about the incidents in Istanbul and Rome but later regretted it. Mutilated old masters and near-fatal human injuries were not exactly the sort of enticements designed to encourage a young woman to cast her lot with you.
Lastly, he spoke of the three missing Botticelli drawings and the unfortunate gap they would cause in the full
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