I stand in the nave and watch Rufus sitting on scaffolding as he sands the wall where the stations of the cross will hang. I’ve seen how much he loves what he does, and it’s heartbreaking to think he won’t be able to finish his masterpiece. I look around the empty church, imagining what might have been. The dust from the plaster makes me sneeze.
“God bless you.” Rufus looks down at me.
“Rufus, I need to talk to you.”
He climbs down the ladder and meets me on the floor. “Sounds serious.”
“We’re in trouble.”
“What’s the matter?” He wipes the sweat from his face with a bandana.
“The funds have been pulled.”
“What do you mean?”
“Aurelia cut us off because she’s furious about Capri and Pedro. I went to Father, who went to the diocese. The bishop said he wouldn’t give us the money. He said the renovation was too ambitious. He told Father to paint the joint and put the pews back in and call it a day.” I have to force the words out.
“Great. What if the popes during the Renaissance had said the same thing?”
“I went to four of my biggest clients today and raised twenty thousand dollars, which buys us the baptismal font. The windows are safe because we paid for those supplies up front. I want you to finish. But we’ll have to forgo the Wall of Water. I’m sick about it, but it’s too labor-intensive. We need a big crew to pull it off, and we just can’t afford it now. It’s the most expensive item in the design.”
Rufus digs into his pocket and finds his pack of cigarettes. He offers me one. I take it. He lights his cigarette, then mine. Rufus exhales a cloud of smoke that disappears into the darkness.
I look around at my beloved church, in shambles. There are slabs of wood where the stained-glass windows used to be. A pile of rubble sits in the altar’s place. The sacristy is filled with Sheetrock, tubs of dry plaster, and cans of paint. “I’m sorry, Rufus.”
“It would’ve been something. Hey, this isn’t the first time commerce won over art, and it won’t be the last.”
Eydie’s town car pulls up in front of the Villa di Crespi on the dot of seven. I’ve prepared a lovely supper of tortellini stuffed with mushrooms in a spicy arrabiata sauce followed by a roasted rosemary chicken and a fresh escarole salad. I’ve been thinking about Eydie a lot. The crushing disappointment over the church has really depressed me, and I need to replenish my spirits with an evening of good food, expensive wine, and the company of a beautiful woman.
I greet Eydie at the door. She kisses me on both cheeks and hands me her mink. She wears winter-white wool trousers and a pink cashmere sweater. Her long black hair is separated into two pigtails, loosely braided on the ends. “My God, that’s extraordinary,” I say catching a whiff of her perfume.
“I know, I smell like cookies, don’t I?” she says, laughing. “I make my own perfume, you know. Right in my apartment. I buy the pure essence oils in Chinatown from a vendor I know. I take a drop of this and a drop of that in a base of pure alcohol. Then one day I tried a spicy Oriental mist and added a few drops of crème de cacao. That’s what you’re going gaga over,” she explains.
“I knew it!”
“And I can’t keep the men away!” She laughs.
I invite her into the living room, where I’ve set up a small table for dinner. “This is lovely,” she says, pointing to the table. I pour her a glass of wine.
“Where did you get this?” She points to the marble statue of the Blessed Mother on the mantel.
“You know the statues that Asher sent me from England? Well, one of them was defective, and inside was that little statue.”
Eydie picks it up carefully and turns it over. “This is a Modigliani.”
“What?”
“It is. Here’s his marking.” She points to it.
“How is that possible?”
“World War II, the bombings? Asher said they hid things—”
“But inside the statues?”
“Obviously.” Eydie is so excited, she places the statue down on the mantel and peers at it closely. “There was a story that Modigliani got so angry once in Venice that he threw a bunch of sculptures into the canal. They’re still searching the canals for them. This statue could be from that period.”
“I’ll have to return it to Asher.”
“You’ll do no such thing. You found it.”
“By accident. I paid for Lucia dos Santos, not this.”
“Don’t be an idiot. It would be generous of you to give him a finder’s fee, maybe fifteen percent of what you sell it for.”
“I don’t want to sell it. I like it.”
“I don’t blame you. Lots of people like having great art in their homes, but the museums would fight over this.”
“Really? Do you think it’s actually that valuable?”
“It’s one of the few sculptures of his that remain. He was known as a great painter, mostly.”
“How much do you think it’s worth?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars, at least,” Eydie says. “Or more.”
“You’re joking! I’ve never been lucky in my life. I’ve never won at bingo, or guessed the right amount of jelly beans in the jar, or been the one hundredth customer at the free shopping spree at the Ben Franklin’s. This is crazy!”
“You’re going to be rich, my friend.” Eydie smiles.
I can hardly eat my dinner. Eydie chatters on about Modigliani’s life—what a handsome, temperamental cad he was, how he became a legend in the Parisian art world and a fixture in that city’s wild nightlife. All I can do is look at the statue of Little Mary and dream.
How did this stroke of luck happen to me? I always wondered what it would be like to be rich, how it would feel to know that you have so much money that work is a hobby, not a chore. I am giddy with the possibilities. There are so many things I would love to do with this money. A house on the Golfo di Genova, for starters, or a year in Hong Kong watching the local artisans make silk. Or design school in London, where I would learn how to design wall treatments to the trade. The list is endless!
“I have to get back to the city,” Eydie says after we’ve talked until midnight.
“Don’t go.”
“I have to,” she says sadly. “When do you want to bring”—she indicates the sculpture—“to town?”
“Monday morning?” I ask.
“Meet me at my apartment, and I’ll take you to the best appraiser I know at Sotheby’s.”
We stand in the doorway for what seems like minutes but is only seconds. I take Eydie in my arms and kiss her. She kisses me back, and I fill up with all sorts of emotions. I want her. This isn’t like it was with Mary Kate, who gobbled me up like an oatmeal cookie. This is grown-up stuff, complete with untapped desires and feelings.
She gently pushes me away. “Bartolomeo, this is a bad idea.” She smiles.
“Why?”
“I’m not the right person for you.”
“How do you know, if we don’t give it a chance?” I kiss her again, and this time she reciprocates with the passion I had hoped for. Her lips and skin are softer than the silk charmeuse I used to line Toot’s duvet.
“Trust me,” she says, breaking away from me. “This is a bad idea.” She opens the door and turns to me. “But I adore you,” she says with a smile. I watch her go, wishing she’d stay, but a little relieved she isn’t. I like happy endings. Always leave on a high note. How could we top that kiss?
I place the last of the clean dishes back in the cupboard. I go to the living room and put the stacking tables back in their corner. I empty the ashtrays and take them to the kitchen. As I turn out the lights and head off to bed, I think about Eydie and me. She’s probably right. We aren’t right for each other. Two artists in a romantic relationship is one too many. When we’re together, I can’t get enough of her. I’d be overbearing and smother her.
I open the window in my bedroom to let the night air swirl through. I take
my pajamas out of the dresser and lay them on the bed. I wash my face, brush my teeth, and put on the night-light in the bathroom (a habit since I was a boy). As I undress, I fold my clothes neatly and put them away. I put on my pajamas and climb into bed. I lie back on the pillows and think about Eydie. I wonder if she’s thinking about me. The phone rings loudly, nearly giving me a heart attack. I reach over to answer it.
“I had to call,” Eydie says breathlessly into the phone.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Just a little stunned.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I looked up your Little Mary statue. Oh, B.”
“Don’t tell me, it’s worth less than you thought.”
“More. How does three hundred thousand dollars sound to you?”
I can’t speak.
“B? Are you there?”
“Oh, Eydie.”
“I know. This is some news, isn’t it?”
When Aurelia went to the local police to file a missing-persons report on Capri, they gently explained that a forty-year-old woman who leaves a note saying she is running off to get married does not fall into the category of “missing.” I encouraged Father Porp to go over and have a chat with her, but Aurelia threw him out of her house, just as she did anyone who tried to reason with her.
With the news from Eydie, I skip up the stairs of the church. I holler, “Rufus! Rufus?”
“I’m over here,” he shouts. I run to him.
“You know, it’s a real shame,” he says, surveying the work in progress around us. “Pedro is almost done with the windows.”
“How do you know? You’ve heard from him?”
“They’re at the warehouse in Brooklyn.” Rufus’s eyes twinkle with the news. “They got married yesterday. City hall in Manhattan.”
“Good for them.”
“So, what do you want us to do here? Wrap things up?”
“Not quite. I have a plan.”
“A plan? Did you figure out a way to keep going?”
“Rufus, let’s just say I’ve run into some money.”
“Legal?”
“Oh yes. Legit.”
He picks up a scraper and chips away at the wall, then stops. “I’m glad. I really wanted to finish. I’ve worked on a lot of places, but this one—well, let’s just say I’m hooked on the idea of Fatima.”
“Don’t tell me RC Incorporated got under your skin?”
“Nope. Don’t sign me up yet.”
“What, then?”
“It’s her.” Rufus points to the old canvas painted by Michael Menecola. This time the Blessed Lady seems to wink at Rufus.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.” He goes to his paint can and stirs. I watch him for a few moments.
“Why do you work in churches?”
He laughs. “I’m nuts. There’s nothing worse than working for Defenders of the Faith. They’re all like Aurelia. They want it majestic, but on their terms.”
“It’s so frustrating.”
“Yeah, but there’s a lot of history in these old barns.”
“But you don’t really buy the final product: salvation.”
Rufus smiles. “Oh, I believe in that.”
“I’ve never once heard you speak of faith. You’ve told me that dogma is for idiots. So, what’s your motivation?”
“Women.”
“Oh, come on.” I throw my head back and laugh.
“What’s yours?”
“I don’t know. Beauty, I guess.”
“Maybe we’re talking about the same thing. Any man who tells you he creates something for his own pleasure or his own ego is lying. He builds and creates and struggles for one reason and one reason only: to impress a woman.”
“You would boil down two thousand plus years of Judeo-Christian religion and the art it has inspired to impressing one woman? You are crazy.”
“What is more eternal than love between two people? It’s been my experience that true love never dies. How about you?”
I cough to avoid answering him.
Rufus lifts his thermos off the Communion rail and offers me a cup of coffee. He pours a cup for me. “You ever been in love?”
“I think I’m in love with Eydie!” It spills out of me like the hot coffee out of the thermos. The second it’s out of my mouth, I want to take it back.
Rufus smiles. “We all are. Any guy who’s ever met her falls a little bit in love with her.”
“What is it about her?”
“Eydie’s wearing the best perfume they make. It’s called ‘I don’t need you.’ That is irresistible, my friend.”
“I’m glad it’s not just me.” I sigh. “She has me by the neck.”
“No, no, you’re in good company,” Rufus assures me.
“And Christina has you. Right?”
He puts down his coffee and pauses before he speaks. “She’s an angel.”
“I think so too . . . you’re not going to hurt her, are you?”
“No,” Rufus promises.
“Good. Because she’s been through a lot.”
“I wouldn’t worry about Christina.”
“She is strong,” I point out.
“I’d worry about me.” He grins and takes his paintbrush, shoves it in his back pocket, and climbs the scaffolding, reminding me of Clark Gable when he climbed the ropes on the Bounty before declaring mutiny. How I’ll miss my friend when he is gone.
Henry Baxter at Sotheby’s recommended that Eydie and I see a gentleman at Spolti Ltd. on Park Avenue. Grayson Asquith is a Modigliani expert and would be able to give us an appraisal and a list of collectors, including museums, who might want to buy the piece. Eydie wisely told me to act as though I didn’t want to sell Little Mary in order to get the most money I can. We sit in Mr. Asquith’s office, a crowded professional lounge on the corner of East Seventy-third Street. From this second-floor window, the well-heeled Upper East Side crowd goes about their business.
Last night I could hardly sleep. After the commission to Asher Anderson, I will take the rest of the money and put it into the renovation of the church.
Eydie is stunned at my decision. She thinks I should give part to the church and keep the rest. But little Lucia dos Santos did not come this far so that I might have a second home on the Gulf of Genoa. She expects a little more of me than that. I do not want to disappoint her. Father Porp is over the moon. He can’t believe anyone would give this kind of money to our church who wasn’t swimming in it (like Aurelia).
I’ve been around people who have a lot of money, and I see how it corrupts. Rich people develop a feeling of invincibility, but none of us are exempted from the pain and suffering of life. A wealthy person thinks, If I need a kidney, I’ll buy one; If I lose my career, I’ll coast; or When I’m old, I won’t need to rely on the kindness of others, I can pay someone to take care of me. Instead of building relationships that matter, the rich man nurtures his relationship with the accountant.
It’s true, this kind of money could go a long way at Scalamandré, and no one likes gold lamé more than me. Believe me. I have a moment where I envision myself flying on a plane to Italy to buy the best silks at Fortuny. But I take a deep breath and remember that I’ve managed to design gorgeous rooms regardless of budget. Besides, money spent doesn’t necessarily translate to good taste. A cheap can of paint can change the mood of your room and, thus, your attitude about life. I have found cotton velveteen for three dollars a yard that is as exquisite as the stuff that sells for seventy-five. My favorite sofa, a Georgian with carved legs, picked out of a Dumpster, was free. And it’s my favorite piece of furniture. But there are people who believe that the more they pay, the more something is worth.
When I walk along the edge of the ocean behind my house, I am the richest man in the world. I don’t need an enormous bank account to own that knowledge. I’ve come forty years living well on my means. I don’t desire to accumulate more than I can use. I don’t want my nephews
coming to see me when I’m old because they’re afraid I might cut them out of their inheritance. I want them to seek me out of love, not obligation, and not because they’re expecting a check.
So many people in my family have severed their relationships over money. I find this terribly sad. Greed is insidious; it seeps into the bones of good people when they are unaware. You might think that money doesn’t matter—until you’re left out of someone’s will. I’ve seen branches of my family collapse when that happens. I’ve noticed that bitterness and anger around money give folks health problems down to their bones. No thanks. I’ll take sleeping at night over counting pennies any day of the week.
“Bartolomeo?” Eydie nudges me and whispers. “Are you listening? I just heard Asquith on the phone. They’ll give you three hundred and fifty thousand dollars for Little Mary.”
My head spins. “I can give thirty-five thousand to Asher?”
“He’ll weep at the news!” Eydie tells me. “He’ll never be able to thank you.”
“And the rest goes to Rufus to finish our church.”
“It’s your money, baby.” Eydie puts her head in her hands. “But you’re crazy.”
CHAPTER TEN
The Real Miracle of Fatima
Eydie and I celebrate the sale of Little Mary Modigliani at Valdino’s on Hudson Street in Greenwich Village with the best bottle of wine they have. Every once in a while I take the check out of my pocket to look at it. I wave to Capri and Pedro, who just came in the front door. When I knew I’d be in the city, I called to invite them to dinner to celebrate their town hall nuptials.