Page 9 of The Collector
“You don’t care for it?”
“I’m flying to London first thing. I’d rather not take a chance.”
“I thought you were staying in Venice for a few days.”
“Last-minute change in plan. I’m recording the Mendelssohn next week with Yannick Nézet-Séguin and the Chamber Orchestra of Europe, and I desperately need a few days of rehearsal.”
“The children will be disappointed, Anna. They adore you.”
“And I them. But I’m afraid it can’t be helped. Yannick was quite insistent I come to London straightaway. I’m thinking about having a disastrous affair while I’m there. Something that will get my name back in the gossip columns where it belongs.”
“You’ll only get hurt again.”
“But I’ll play better as a result. You know me, Gabriel. I never play well when I’m happy.”
“You were magnificent tonight, Anna.”
“Was I?” She squeezed his hand. “I wonder why.”
5
Murano
It was Chiara, on something of a dare, who had suggested that Gabriel paint a copy ofReclining Nude, Modigliani’s controversial masterwork that in 2015 fetched $170 million at Christie’s auction house in New York. Pleased by his effort, he had then executed an altogether convincing pastiche of Modigliani’s original—a change of perspective, a subtle rearrangement of the woman’s pose—if only to demonstrate his ability, were he ever so inclined, to earn his living as an art forger. On the morning after the gala, he awoke to find both canvases awash in the morning light slanting through the tall windows overlooking the Grand Canal. It was dull and gray, the light, much like the pain between Gabriel’s eyes. It had nothing to do with the red wine he had drunk with his midnight supper, he assured himself. Rainy mornings in Venice always made his head ache.
He rose slowly, so as not to wake Chiara, and surveyed the damage from last evening’s postgala proceedings. A trail of hastily discarded Italian formalwear and other assorted furnishings stretched from the doorway to the foot of the bed. A Brioni tuxedo and shirt. A strapless evening gown with a deep thigh slit by Versace. Stiletto-heeledpumps and patent-leather Derby oxfords by Salvatore Ferragamo. Gold studs and cuff links. A timepiece by Patek Philippe. A 92FS 9mm pistol by Fabbrica d’Armi Pietro Beretta. The act had been completed swiftly, with little regard for preliminaries. Chiara had gazed down at Gabriel proprietarily throughout, a half smile on her face. The rival had been vanquished, the demon exorcised.
In the kitchen, Gabriel filled theautomaticowith Illy and bottled water, and reviewed the coverage of the gala inIlGazzettinowhile waiting for the coffee to brew. The paper’s music critic had found much to admire in Anna’s recital, especially her encore, which had somehow managed to eclipse her legendary performance of the same piece two decades earlier at the Scuola Grande di San Rocco. In none of the accompanying photographs was there any evidence of Gabriel’s presence at the event, only a single image of his right shoulder, upon which rested the hand of Chiara Zolli, the dazzling general manager of the Tiepolo Restoration Company.
She was still sleeping soundly when Gabriel returned to the bedroom with two cups of coffee. Her position was unchanged; she was supine, with her arms above her head. Even unconscious, thought Gabriel, she was a work of art. He tugged at the duvet, exposing her heavy, rounded breasts, and took up his sketchpad. Ten minutes elapsed before the scratching of his charcoal pencil awakened her.
“Must you?” she groaned.
“I must.”
“I look awful.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Coffee,” she pleaded.
“It’s on your bedside table, but you can’t have it yet.”
“Don’t you have a painting to restore?”
“I’d rather sketch you.”
“You’re already behind schedule.”
“I’m always behind schedule.”
“Which is why I should fire you.”
“I’m irreplaceable.”
“This is Italy, darling. There are more art restorers in this country than waiters.”
“And the waiters earn better wages.”
