Iain Pears - The Raphael Affair

‘Oh, quite. Quite. But please, I beg you. Clear this one up quickly. Every day without telling someone will be a day wasted. And, of course,’ he added, with some attempt to return to professionalism, ‘any help you need of me, just let me know.

‘Oh dear,’ he said, his face cracking with pleasure once more, ‘I wish I could be there when you tell that awful man Tommaso.’

‘Everybody says that,’ said Bottando gloomily. ‘But I’m the one who is going to have to face him. I may not survive the blast.’

The meal ended shortly after that, Janet heading back for France in good humour and with a promise to send on the log when he’d got it out of the Swiss. Bottando’s spirits were considerably lower. Before they boarded the plane that was to fly them home from Zurich to Rome at four o’clock that afternoon, he phoned the museum and asked to speak to the director. He was in a meeting, and a secretary, clearly briefed to deflect all unforeseen calls, declined to bring him to the phone, even though Bottando insisted that it was an important matter and police business.

Bottando gave up the struggle. He’d have to go to the party after all, and catch him there. The worst of both worlds, he thought morosely.

Once he arrived at the museum in the Borghese gardens, Bottando handed in his coat and made his way along to the ground-floor gallery where the reception was taking place. It was a big affair, well under way by the time he got there, and the main sculpture gallery had been thrown open to accommodate the dozens of guests. He took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, noting that, as usual, Tommaso was deploying what he always claimed were scarce museum funds in a lavish fashion.

‘Not at all,’ replied a museum member who had zeroed in on the same tray of drinks and to whom Bottando made this somewhat cynical comment. ‘Tommaso calls it investment. He has a point, in fact. This bash is in honour of those gentlemen over there.’ He pointed towards a group of half a dozen men leaning on a large statue.

‘Doesn’t anyone mind them using a Canova as a drinks trolley?’ enquired Bottando. He looked at the group closely. They had all just come in to the room with the director, and were standing around one of the giant statues in the middle of the gallery. All wore light-grey suits, blue shirts and striped ties. They were talking intensely, and Bottando suspected they were not discussing the artistic beauties which lay all around them.

‘Certainly not. You see, they’re American businessmen who are hoping to win a government defence contract.’ The man made an expansive gesture which was meant to give an impression of gigantic wealth and the machinations that go along with it. It was a broad sweep of the arm, not very well co-ordinated. Bottando decided he’d been drinking.

‘And what better way of creating the right impression than making a large donation to the national museum,’ Bottando finished for him. The young man, in his thirties with an open countenance that was currently shaded by alcoholic distress, nodded firmly.

‘Exactly. Their big white chief is currently locked in discussion with Tommaso in his office. To be followed, no doubt, by a large cheque which will cover the cost of the party and leave a considerable amount over to deal with the abominable electrical circuits in this run-down old dump. Clever, eh?’

Bottando turned towards him. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I think that you’re the first person in this place who’s ever said a positive word about Tommaso.’

The man’s face clouded. ‘Giulio Manzoni, by the way,’ he offered, holding out a hand which Bottando briefly shook. ‘Deputy restorer. I admit he’s not liked. But he’s really not as bad as he seems. And this place needed an awful good shake to knock some of the dust out. Not that my relatively favourable opinion will do me much good, alas.’

‘Meaning?’

‘You weren’t here earlier? Evidently not. He’s gone and resigned. Said he’s decided to take early retirement and go to live in his house in Tuscany. A bit of a shock, all things considered. As you no doubt know, everything in this place is done through patronage. My job, for instance, came through the assistance of Enrico Spello and I’m seen very much as his protégé.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ Bottando enquired, a little taken aback by the news. ‘I mean, Spello is next in line.’

The restorer shook his head matter of factly. ‘Not any more, he isn’t. Because Tommaso at the same time appointed Ferraro as his successor and official deputy.’

‘Goodness,’ said Bottando mildly as he considered the implications. ‘I thought he couldn’t stand Ferraro. What prompted this?’

‘Perhaps he’s sick of being disliked. Maybe he’s human after all. Besides, he’s gigantically rich, so why crack your head working? He does dislike Ferraro, but evidently he dislikes Spello more. You can never tell with him; it’s difficult to penetrate the façade. Besides, the only way people will look on his passing with regret is to make sure his successor is even more unpleasant than he is. You see why I’m heading for my fifth drink of the evening?’

Bottando nodded sagely. ‘I think so,’ he replied.

‘You think so? Well, let me show you, so there’s no mistake.’ Manzoni leant forward and poked Bottando in the chest. ‘Ferraro is a little rat, right? Spello will be his main rival. So he wants to chop Spello down to size, whittle away at his support. He can’t attack Spello himself, as he’s got tenure. So how will he get at him? Through me, that’s how.’ He now poked himself on the chest to emphasise the point, then turned and gesticulated at the new deputy director, coming through the tall oak doors on the far side of the room.

‘Look at him. He has the air of triumph on his face, don’t you think? A man who has just conquered all. An air of vulgar triumph.’

‘Are you sure the appointment will go through? After all, it’s not in Tommaso’s personal gift.’ So far, Bottando was finding the conversation decidedly upsetting. He had, on the whole, relatively few dealings with the museum. Although he never felt entirely comfortable with Tommaso, the two had at least worked out a modus vivendi so that life did not become too onerous. He doubted that Ferraro would be quite so easy.

Manzoni nodded, his aggressive mood swiftly fading into one of lugubrious resignation. ‘A few months back the succession would have been close. Spello would have been the inside candidate; the reconciler, someone everybody could work with. Then, of course, Tommaso pulls off his coup de théâtre with that Raphael and everyone in government thinks he’s the greatest thing since sliced salami. Whoever he supports will walk it now.’

The restorer looked extremely upset, and stared at his again empty glass. Then, without a further word, he shambled off in the direction of the drinks trolley. Bottando breathed a sigh of relief; sympathetic though he felt, he had other things to worry about at the moment.

But Tommaso wasn’t around; that he realised as he surveyed the room in search of him. In one corner he saw Spello, and could tell by the man’s slightly stooped shoulders that he was feeling very disappointed, and probably angry as well. He sympathised, but wasn’t in the mood to listen to another outburst of indignation, no matter how justifiable. In another corner he spotted Jonathan Argyll and Sir Edward Byrnes. He was momentarily surprised that either should be there, and that such an evidently amiable conversation could take place, but then remembered Flavia mentioning Argyll’s fellowship. There is nothing like a little money to soothe the passions. They, at least, seemed in a good mood, but he felt disinclined to talk to anyone even remotely connected with that Raphael. So, he spent the next ten minutes being talked at by some connoisseur and critic, while mainly keeping his eyes open, waiting for Tommaso’s reappearance.