Murder at the National Gallery Read Online Free PDF Page B

early days in Milan until his tragic death at the age of thirty-nine, he created the most inspired religious paintings of all time. There were those who were less than kind in their judgment of his work. Giovanni Baglione wrote that Caravaggio had ‘ruined the art of painting.’ Another, your Mr. Ruskin I believe, no, the English person, said he found Caravaggio’s work to represent—let me see if I accuratelyrecall what he said—he said it represented ‘horror and ugliness and filthiness of sin.’ But the more enlightened admirers of his work …”
    Mason seriously wondered if he could contain himself any longer and not bolt from the room. What an insult to have this bureaucrat lecture
him
, Luther Mason, on the importance of Caravaggio. As far as he was concerned, no one in the world—including any Italian—knew more about the artist than he did. His expertise was acknowledged internationally. He’d written the definitive book on the artist’s work. His papers appeared in dozens of scholarly journals. To be subjected to this sham violated every one of his senses.
    But he stayed, his face expressionless, his posture rigid in the overstuffed chair, his belly burning.
    “You and your superiors have found the arrangements suggested to Carlo to be satisfactory?” Betti asked, as much with raised eyebrows as with his voice.
    Mason thought he might choke on the word: “Yes.”
    Betti said to Giliberti, “It will be carried out as instructed?”
    Giliberti’s reply was an enthusiastic affirmative.
    “Splendid,” said Betti, pushing himself up by placing his hands on the desk. “When reasonable men who share an appreciation of true genius and beauty can sit and rationally discuss such matters, a satisfactory conclusion is almost always reached.” He extended his hand to Mason. “It is my sincere hope that your Caravaggio exhibition in Washington will be the highlight of that esteemed institution’s long and illustrious history.”
    “I’m certain it will be, Signor Betti.”
    Mason waited in the reception area until Giliberti joined him. “You see, Luther? I told you everything had been worked out.”
    They lunched at an outside table at Piccolo Mondo, on the Corso, the famous thoroughfare once used by ancient Romans for horse racing, now home to countless restaurants and cafes. Mason ordered cold pasta with tomato and basil, while Giliberti indulged in a heaping plate of
coda alla vaccinara
; Mason found the thought of eating oxtail off-putting.
    “Are you sure you don’t want me at the meeting this afternoon?” asked Giliberti, referring to a three o’clock date Mason had at Galleria Borghese.
    “Not necessary.”
    Had he been entirely truthful, Mason would have admitted he’d had enough of his Italian friend for one day.
    “Tonight? You have plans?”
    “To read, and to go to bed early,” Mason said.
    “If you change your mind, call me.”
    As they finished their coffee and waited for the check, Giliberti leaned across the small table and said, “The minister is a sensible man,
si
?”
    “The minister is an unprincipled slob,” Luther replied.
    Giliberti recoiled in mock horror, then laughed too loudly. “Luther, even though we deal with great art, we also must recognize that it is a business, this loaning of paintings from one country to another. So a little money will pass hands from your country to ours, from someone there to someone here. Where is the harm in that? It is done every day,
si
? In your country. In my country.”
    Mason’s bottled-up anger at what had transpired that morning now came from his mouth in a low, steady stream. “Carlo, we are talking about transporting precious, priceless paintings by Caravaggio from your country to mine to be put on display at the National Gallery. Because of your arbitrary rule that no art treasure may be out of the country longer than six months, and because the exhibition will travel to the Met and to London, we must again crate those