The Collector
Page 102
Bastone lifted his glass. “May your music be sweet. Salute.”
Gradually Ash guided the conversation back. “It was interesting meeting Miranda. Both Lila and I found the story about your grandfather and the poker game with Jonas Martin fascinating.”
“They stayed friends, though rarely saw each other when my grandfather came home to work the business. Jonas Martin loved to gamble, so my grandfather said, and almost always gambled poorly. They called him, ah . . .”
“Hard Luck Jonnie,” Ash supplied.
“Yes, yes.”
“And betting a family treasure? Was that his usual way?”
“Not unusual, you understand. He was, ah . . . spoiled, is the word. Young, you see, and a bit wild in his youth, so my grandfather told us. My grandfather said the father of Martin was very angry about this bet, but a wager is a wager. You have interest in writing about this time?”
“I’m very interested,” Lila answered. “Miranda didn’t know what the bet was—what family heirloom was lost. Can you tell me?”
“I can do more. I can show you. You would enjoy to see?”
Lila’s heart rammed into her throat. She managed to nod, swallow it down. “I’d love to.”
“Please come.” He rose, gestured to all. “Bring your wine. My grandfather loved the travel and art. He would travel on business, you see, what we would call networking now.”
He led them back, over travertine tiles, under archways.
“He would search for art, something intriguing, wherever he went. This interest he passed on to my father, and so my father to me.”
“You have a wonderful collection,” Julie commented. “This.” She paused a moment by a portrait of a woman—dreamy and romantic. “Is this an early Umberto Boccioni?”
“It is indeed.”
“And this.” Julie shifted to a painting of deep, rich colors, mixed shapes, which Lila realized were people. “One of his later works, when he’d embraced the Italian Futurist movement. Both are glorious. I love that you display them together, to show the evolution and the exploration of the artist.”
“You’re knowledgeable.” He slid her hand in his arm as he’d done with Lila’s earlier. “You have an art gallery.”
“I manage one.”
“A good manager has an ownership. I think you are a good manager.”
When they passed through the next archway, Julie stopped dead.
It wouldn’t be called a sitting room, Lila thought. That was much too ordinary and casual a term. “Salon,” maybe. But “gallery” wouldn’t have been wrong.
Chairs, sofas in quiet colors providing seating. Tables, cabinets, commodes from the simple to the ornate gleamed with age. A small fireplace filled with a display of bright orange lilies was framed with malachite.
And everywhere was art.
Paintings from faded religious icons to old masters to contemporary filled the walls. Sculptures, smooth marble, polished wood, rough stone, stood on pedestals or tables.
Objets d’art glittered and glowed in displays or on shelves.
“Oh.” Julie laid a hand on her breast. “My heart.”
Bastone chuckled, drew her in.
“Art is another song that must be sung. You agree, Ashton? Whether the song is of woe or joy, of love or despair, of war or serenity, it must be sung.”
“Art demands it. And here, you have an opera.”
“Three generations. Lovers of art, and not one artist among us. So we must be patrons and not creators.”
“There’s art without patrons,” Ash commented, “but the artist rarely thrives without their generosity and vision.”
“I must view your work when we are next in New York. I was intrigued by what I saw on the Internet, and some made Gina sigh. Which was the one, cara, you wished for?”
“The Woods. In the painting the trees are women, and at first you think, oh, they are captured, under a spell. But no, you see when you look deep, they are . . .” She fumbled, spoke to Bastone in Italian. “Yes, yes, the casters, the magic themselves. They are the woods. It’s powerful, and ah, feminist. Is that correct?”
“There’s no wrong, but you saw what I did, and that’s a great compliment.”
“You may pay me the great compliment of painting my daughters.”
“Ah, Gina.”
She brushed her husband aside. “Giovanni says I shouldn’t ask, but if you don’t, how can you get what you want?” She winked at Ash. “We will talk.”
“But you’re here to see the gaming prize.”
He led them to a painted vitrine with serpentine-fronted shelves and a collection of jeweled and enameled boxes.
He lifted one out. “A lovely piece. The cigarette case is gold-mounted, enameled citrine, fluted, with the cabochon sapphire as the thumb piece. You will see it carries the initial of Fabergé workmaster Michael Perchin. A great loss for the Martins.”
“It’s beautiful.” Lila looked up from it, into Bastone’s eyes.
“And the cause of a feud between the families, so I have no American wife.” He winked at Gina.
“Signor Bastone.” Lila laid a hand on his. “Sometimes you have to trust.” She shifted, just a little, looked at Ash. “You have to trust. Signor Bastone, do you know a man named Nicholas Vasin?”
Though his face stayed completely composed, she felt his hand flinch under hers. And saw the color drop out of Gina’s cheeks.
“The name is not familiar. So.” He placed the case down carefully. “We have so enjoyed your company,” he began.
“Signor Bastone—”
“We appreciate your hospitality,” Ash cut in. “We should make our way back to Florence. Before we do, you should know my brother Oliver acquired certain documents and an objet d’art while working on Miranda Swanson’s estate sale, her father’s property—her grandfather’s before him. My brother acquired this object for himself, not for the uncle, the company he worked for.”
Ash paused only a moment, noting the hard lines in Bastone’s face.
“At one time the Martin family owned, privately, two of the lost Imperial eggs. One was lost in a poker game, the other my brother acquired as Miranda, it appears, had no knowledge or interest in what she had. My brother, the uncle he worked for and the woman he lived with are all dead.”
Gradually Ash guided the conversation back. “It was interesting meeting Miranda. Both Lila and I found the story about your grandfather and the poker game with Jonas Martin fascinating.”
“They stayed friends, though rarely saw each other when my grandfather came home to work the business. Jonas Martin loved to gamble, so my grandfather said, and almost always gambled poorly. They called him, ah . . .”
“Hard Luck Jonnie,” Ash supplied.
“Yes, yes.”
“And betting a family treasure? Was that his usual way?”
“Not unusual, you understand. He was, ah . . . spoiled, is the word. Young, you see, and a bit wild in his youth, so my grandfather told us. My grandfather said the father of Martin was very angry about this bet, but a wager is a wager. You have interest in writing about this time?”
“I’m very interested,” Lila answered. “Miranda didn’t know what the bet was—what family heirloom was lost. Can you tell me?”
“I can do more. I can show you. You would enjoy to see?”
Lila’s heart rammed into her throat. She managed to nod, swallow it down. “I’d love to.”
“Please come.” He rose, gestured to all. “Bring your wine. My grandfather loved the travel and art. He would travel on business, you see, what we would call networking now.”
He led them back, over travertine tiles, under archways.
“He would search for art, something intriguing, wherever he went. This interest he passed on to my father, and so my father to me.”
“You have a wonderful collection,” Julie commented. “This.” She paused a moment by a portrait of a woman—dreamy and romantic. “Is this an early Umberto Boccioni?”
“It is indeed.”
“And this.” Julie shifted to a painting of deep, rich colors, mixed shapes, which Lila realized were people. “One of his later works, when he’d embraced the Italian Futurist movement. Both are glorious. I love that you display them together, to show the evolution and the exploration of the artist.”
“You’re knowledgeable.” He slid her hand in his arm as he’d done with Lila’s earlier. “You have an art gallery.”
“I manage one.”
“A good manager has an ownership. I think you are a good manager.”
When they passed through the next archway, Julie stopped dead.
It wouldn’t be called a sitting room, Lila thought. That was much too ordinary and casual a term. “Salon,” maybe. But “gallery” wouldn’t have been wrong.
Chairs, sofas in quiet colors providing seating. Tables, cabinets, commodes from the simple to the ornate gleamed with age. A small fireplace filled with a display of bright orange lilies was framed with malachite.
And everywhere was art.
Paintings from faded religious icons to old masters to contemporary filled the walls. Sculptures, smooth marble, polished wood, rough stone, stood on pedestals or tables.
Objets d’art glittered and glowed in displays or on shelves.
“Oh.” Julie laid a hand on her breast. “My heart.”
Bastone chuckled, drew her in.
“Art is another song that must be sung. You agree, Ashton? Whether the song is of woe or joy, of love or despair, of war or serenity, it must be sung.”
“Art demands it. And here, you have an opera.”
“Three generations. Lovers of art, and not one artist among us. So we must be patrons and not creators.”
“There’s art without patrons,” Ash commented, “but the artist rarely thrives without their generosity and vision.”
“I must view your work when we are next in New York. I was intrigued by what I saw on the Internet, and some made Gina sigh. Which was the one, cara, you wished for?”
“The Woods. In the painting the trees are women, and at first you think, oh, they are captured, under a spell. But no, you see when you look deep, they are . . .” She fumbled, spoke to Bastone in Italian. “Yes, yes, the casters, the magic themselves. They are the woods. It’s powerful, and ah, feminist. Is that correct?”
“There’s no wrong, but you saw what I did, and that’s a great compliment.”
“You may pay me the great compliment of painting my daughters.”
“Ah, Gina.”
She brushed her husband aside. “Giovanni says I shouldn’t ask, but if you don’t, how can you get what you want?” She winked at Ash. “We will talk.”
“But you’re here to see the gaming prize.”
He led them to a painted vitrine with serpentine-fronted shelves and a collection of jeweled and enameled boxes.
He lifted one out. “A lovely piece. The cigarette case is gold-mounted, enameled citrine, fluted, with the cabochon sapphire as the thumb piece. You will see it carries the initial of Fabergé workmaster Michael Perchin. A great loss for the Martins.”
“It’s beautiful.” Lila looked up from it, into Bastone’s eyes.
“And the cause of a feud between the families, so I have no American wife.” He winked at Gina.
“Signor Bastone.” Lila laid a hand on his. “Sometimes you have to trust.” She shifted, just a little, looked at Ash. “You have to trust. Signor Bastone, do you know a man named Nicholas Vasin?”
Though his face stayed completely composed, she felt his hand flinch under hers. And saw the color drop out of Gina’s cheeks.
“The name is not familiar. So.” He placed the case down carefully. “We have so enjoyed your company,” he began.
“Signor Bastone—”
“We appreciate your hospitality,” Ash cut in. “We should make our way back to Florence. Before we do, you should know my brother Oliver acquired certain documents and an objet d’art while working on Miranda Swanson’s estate sale, her father’s property—her grandfather’s before him. My brother acquired this object for himself, not for the uncle, the company he worked for.”
Ash paused only a moment, noting the hard lines in Bastone’s face.
“At one time the Martin family owned, privately, two of the lost Imperial eggs. One was lost in a poker game, the other my brother acquired as Miranda, it appears, had no knowledge or interest in what she had. My brother, the uncle he worked for and the woman he lived with are all dead.”
