Conor Fitzgerald - Fatal Touch

A Municipal Police car had stopped in front of them, and the two occupants were getting out.

“Is this some sort of mix-up?” asked the Vigile. “As far as I know we’re patrolling the grounds this week, next week it’s the Carabinieri, and the week after it’s you guys.”

Blume took his hands off the wheel and noticed for the first time he was in a squad car with all the markings.

“No. It’s not a mix-up. We’re here for an investigation,” said Blume. “We were going to park over there by the chapel.”

“Fine, I’ll get out of your way then,” said the Vigile.

Blume allowed the car to roll a few more meters and then pulled onto the grass underneath a rotting holm oak. They sat side by side looking over the grounds, half-heartedly landscaped and lazily vandalized.

“You know who has a lot of pentimenti in his paintings?”

“Velazquez?” said Caterina.

“Yes.”

Blume climbed out of the car, looked across the lawn. He popped the trunk, took out the painting. “I’ve been thinking about the letter Treacy sent Angela where he talks about poisonous yew berries and them sitting together. Grab the bag of tools and follow me.”

He led Caterina across the lawn onto a pebble path and then followed a wall until it curved inward and then out again making a large U-shape, like the apse of a church. Vandalized bas-reliefs and niches were spaced at regular intervals, separated from the pathway by a small moat. In the center of the concave area was an enclosed rectangular chamber, which was closed off with a padlocked gate.

“This is called the ‘theater,’ ” said Blume. “I don’t know if it was ever used to stage outdoor plays, but if it was, the audience would have sat over there.” He pointed to a circular area with patches of grass and scree surrounded by dark green trees with orange berries.

“Are those yew trees?” asked Caterina.

“Yes, they are,” said Blume. “Let’s go over and sit there, shall we?”

Caterina hefted the bag over and sat down on the remains of a cracked stone bench defaced by graffiti. Blume sat beside her. A jogger went puffing past, and then they were alone.

“This is where Henry Treacy and Angela sat together in 1974, when Henry lived at the porter’s lodge, and they had all this park land to themselves. They sat on this bench and, according to his memoirs, they kissed for the first time.”

Caterina put the palm of her hand on Blume’s cheek and, hooking her finger over his ear, pulled his face toward hers. His lips were dry and his neck was tense, but it still felt good, and she liked his breath. But then he turned away.

“I still need you to look in front of you. Look at the scene in front of us now.”

Caterina examined the concave area, the pine trees in the background, the embankment that formed a proscenium, the white marble wall curving away from them, the niches, the masonry. It was the scene in Treacy’s picture.

“Give me the picture.”

“Here,” said Blume.

She held it in front of her.

“It’s here. It’s the view from where we are now. That tree is a little taller now, and there seems to be an extra-no, wait… ” She stood up and walked a few paces to her right. “From here it’s perfect. Like he was standing here. Come and see.”

Blume came up behind her and they looked at the painting. “Treacy knew this park like no one else. He walked through it undisturbed. He would have explored its hidden nooks and crannies and hiding places. The pentimenti converge in the middle of the painting, which corresponds to the chamber there.”

“Do you think Henry Treacy hid his Velazquez in that grotto? What about damp?”

“The oldest paintings in the world are in caves,” said Blume. “Rock often creates very dry environments.”

“Why did he not just give the painting to Angela?” said Caterina. “Wouldn’t that have been easiest?”

“Who says he wanted it to be easy? If she kept the painting and if she also read his notebooks or autobiography or whatever it was intended to be, all the clues were there. He hid it where they fell in love.”

“And if she hadn’t kept the painting or the letter or read his autobiography?” asked Caterina.

“Then it would mean she had not forgiven him, and his pentimenti would mean nothing, and in exchange, she would have got nothing from him.”

“So it was repentance with a ‘but’ built in.”

Caterina lifted up the bag and together they approached the grotto. When they reached it, Blume peered in and said, “It would be easy to climb over this gate without removing the padlock. There’s another door in there, which must open into a cavity under the embankment behind. So, now, tell me what you think: Is there going to be a Velazquez hidden in there, or have I read this all wrong?”

Caterina watched him peering through the bars like a child at a zoo. In her hand she held a heavy pair of bolt cutters, far too powerful for the flimsy padlock holding the gate shut, and waited for him to get over his self-doubt and out of the way. Then she cut through the chain like it was made from paper clips, and they walked into the empty hollow. The sunlight from outside slanted in so that the central area was bright and the walls to the side dark. They were white and smooth, plastered without so much as a rose, flute, or scroll, but filthy and covered in graffiti. People had evidently scaled the gate to come in here simply to spray-can the place. Every building in Rome was “tagged” already, so this must have made a tempting target.

“You know,” he said, looking at the black, purple, and red squiggles of paint all over the walls, “my apartment block is covered in this shit, too.”

“Every building in Rome is. The Vigili Urbani aren’t so good at catching the kids,” said Caterina.

“You know what the message scrawled on my building is?”

“ W la fica, Fuck The Police, Debora ti amo, Lazio Merda?” asked Caterina.

“No. It’s ‘impossible is nothing.’ That’s an advertisement for a watch or a soda or something. These kids are spouting corporate messages. They aren’t rebels; they’ve no philosophy, no message, and no courage. Look, there are your putti.”

Caterina looked. Carved into a niche was a bas-relief of little boys with angel wings intent on beating each other up, same as the painting in the Pamphili Gallery. But here they had been spray-painted and their features chipped off.

In front of the entrance was a second door, warped by damp and age. There was no padlock or chain, and though closed it was not locked. The space behind was a narrower, darker version of the first chamber, and Caterina took out the flashlight and shone it around.

The room was airless and lifeless, almost without insects. A few withered leaves on the ground made an unpleasant scratching noise as they moved in the slight breeze.

“More graffiti, and an old blanket,” she said, shining the flashlight along the walls and concrete floor. “Cigarette butts and an old Rizla packet.”

“This is mostly old-style graffiti,” said Blume. “Less spray-paint, more penknife cuts and indelible pens.”

“The graffiti archaeologist,” said Caterina. “There’s an erect penis, there’s another, and, oh, look, there’s another.”

“Pair of tits over there,” said Blume. “Not bad. Some soccer scores from bygone years. Liverpool 4 Roma 2. A gloating Lazio fan spent some time in here, in the early ’80s.”

“This one Kossiga = Amerika comes from the seventies or eighties,” said Caterina. “ Juden Raus, now there’s an old favorite. Someone’s done a sweet little bunny rabbit face.”

“I got a Smurf over here,” said Blume.

“What sort of person penetrates a hidden room to deface a piece of baroque architecture with a picture of a rabbit or a Smurf?” said Caterina. “Someone’s done a picture of a dog fucking a cat. It’s pretty good, actually. So is this one. It’s a rifle sight and there’s the face of someone in the middle. Cossiga again, I think.”