Cat O' Nine Tales: And Other Stories Read online

  “I would be delighted to do so,” said Gian Lorenzo, as the head waiter placed a chocolate trifle in front of Paolo’s wife, with a bowl of créme fraîche on the side.

  “Excellent,” said Paolo, “let’s keep in touch.”

  Gian Lorenzo smiled and shook his old friend by the hand. He well remembered the last occasion Paolo had made such an offer.

  But then some people consider such suggestions nothing more than polite conversation. Gian Lorenzo turned to Angelina and bowed low before walking back across the restaurant to rejoin the Contessa.

  “Time for us to leave, I fear,” said Gian Lorenzo, glancing at his watch, “especially if I’m to catch the first plane to Rome in the morning.”

  “Did you manage to sell my Canaletto to your friend?” asked the Contessa, as she rose from her place.

  “No,” replied Gian Lorenzo, as he waved in the direction of Paolo’s table, “but he did suggest that we keep in touch.”

  “And will you?”

  “That might be quite difficult,” admitted Gian Lorenzo, “as he didn’t give me his number, and I have a feeling Signor and Signora Castelli will not be listed in the Yellow Pages.”

  Gian Lorenzo took the first flight back to Rome the following morning. The Canaletto was to follow him at a more leisurely pace. No sooner had he set foot in the gallery than his secretary rushed out of the office, spilling out the words, “Paolo Castelli has already called twice this morning. He apologized for not giving you his number,” she added, “and wondered if you would be kind enough to phone him, just as soon as you get in.”

  Gian Lorenzo walked calmly into his office, sat down at his desk and composed himself. He then tapped out the number his secretary had placed in front of him. The call was first answered by a butler, who transferred him to a seeretary, before he was finally connected to Paolo.

  “After you left last night, my little angel spoke of nothing else,” began Paolo. “She has never forgotten her visit to the Contessa’s home, where she first saw her magnificent art collection. She wondered if the reason you were meeting with the Contessa was—”

  “I don’t think it would be wise to discuss this matter over the phone,” said Gian Lorenzo, whose father had also taught him that deals are rarely made on the telephone, but almost always face to face. One needs the client to view the picture, and then you allow them to hang it on a wall in their home for several days. There is a crucial moment when the buyer considers the painting already belongs to them. Not until then do you start to negotiate the price.

  “Then you’ll have to return to Venice,” said Paolo matter-of-factly. “I’ll send the private jet.”

  Gian Lorenzo flew to Venice the following Friday. A Rolls-Royce was parked on the runway, waiting to take him to the Villa Rosa.

  A butler greeted Gian Lorenzo at the front door before escorting him up a large marble staircase to a suite of private rooms that exhibited barren walls—an art dealer’s fantasy Gian Lorenzo was reminded of the collection that his father had put together for Agnelli over a period of thirty years, now considered to be one of the finest in private hands.

  Gian Lorenzo spent most of the Saturday—between meals—being escorted round the one hundred and forty-two rooms of the Villa Rosa by Angelina. He quickly discovered that there was far more to his hostess than he had anticipated.

  Angelina showed a genuine interest in wanting to start her own art collection, and had clearly visited all the great galleries round the world. Gian Lorenzo concluded that she only lacked the courage of her own convictions—a not uncommon problem for the only child of a self-made man—although she didn’t lack knowledge or, to Gian Lorenzo’s surprise, taste. He felt guilty for making assumptions based only on comments he had read in the press. Gian Lorenzo found himself enjoying Angelina’s company, and even began to wonder what this shy, thoughtful young woman could possibly see in Paolo.

  Over dinner that night, Gian Lorenzo could not miss the adoration in her eyes whenever Angelina looked at her husband, even though she rarely interrupted him.

  Over breakfast the following morning, Angelina hardly uttered a word. It was not until Paolo suggested that his wife show their guest round the grounds that his little angel once again came alive.

  Angelina escorted Gian Lorenzo round a sixty-acre garden that possessed no immovable objects, or even havens where they might rest to cool their brows. Whenever Gian Lorenzo made a suggestion, she responded with enthusiasm, clearly willing to be led, if only he would take her by the hand.

  Over dinner that night, it was Paolo who confirmed that it was his little angels desire to build a great collection in memory of her late father.

  “But where to begin?” asked Paolo, stretching a hand across the table to take his wife’s hand.

  “Canaletto, perhaps?” suggested Gian Lorenzo.

  Gian Lorenzo spent the next five years commuting between Rome and Venice as he continued to coax pictures out of the Contessa, before rehanging them in the Villa Rosa. But as each new gem appeared, Angelinas appetite only became more voracious. Gian Lorenzo found himself having to travel as far afield as America, Russia and even Colombia, so that he could keep Paolo’s “little angel” satisfied. She seemed determined to outdo Catherine the Great.

  Angelina became more and more captivated by each new masterpiece Gian Lorenzo put before her—Canaletto, Caravaggio, Tintoretto, Bellini and Da Vinci were among the natives. Not only did Gian Lorenzo begin to fill up the few remaining places on the walls of the villa, but he also had statues crated and sent from every quarter of the globe to be sited alongside other immigrants on the vast lawn—Moore, Brancusi, Epstein, Miró, Giacometti and, Angelina’s favorite, Botero.

  With every new purchase she made, Gian Lorenzo presented her with a book about the artist. Angelina would devour them in one sitting and immediately demand more. Gian Lorenzo had to acknowledge that she had become not only the gallery’s most important client but also his most ardent student—what had begun as a flirtation with Canaletto was fast turning into a promiscuous affair with almost all the great masters of Europe. And it was Gian Lorenzo who was expected to continually supply new lovers. Something else Angelina had in common with Catherine the Great.

  Gian Lorenzo was visiting a client in Barcelona, who for tax reasons had to dispose of a Murillo, The Birth of Christ, when he heard the news. He considered that the asking price for the painting was too high, even though he knew that Angelina would be willing to pay it. He was in the middle of haggling when his secretary called. Gian Lorenzo took the next available flight back to Rome.

  Every paper reported, some in great detail, the death of Angelina Castelli. A massive heart attack while she was in her garden trying to move one of the statues.

  The tabloids, unwilling to mourn the lady for a single day, went on to inform their readers in the second paragraph that she had left her entire fortune to her husband. A photograph of a smiling Paolo—taken long before her death—ran alongside the story.

  Four days later Gian Lorenzo flew to Venice to attend the funeral.

  The little chapel in the grounds of the Villa Rosa was packed with Angelinas family and friends, some of whom Gian Lorenzo hadn’t seen since the wedding celebration, a generation before.

  When the six pallbearers carried the coffin into the chapel, and lowered it gently on a bier in front of the altar, Paolo broke down and sobbed. After the service was over, Gian Lorenzo offered his condolences, and Paolo assured him that he had enriched Angelinas life beyond recompense. He went on to say that he intended to continue building the collection in her memory. “It is no more than my little angel would have wanted,” he explained, “so it must be done.”

  Paolo didn’t get in touch with him again.

  Gian Lorenzo was about to dip a spoon into a pot of Oxford marmalade—another habit he had acquired from his father—when he saw the headline. The spoon remained lodged in the marmalade while he read the words a second time. He wanted to be sure that he ha