23 ...

Our seats were in a second-level box, almost directly facing centre stage. Mondrian sat quietly on my left, nattily dressed as always, legs crossed, reading the programme. We were here in the Teatro dell'Opera di Roma to see the American Ballet Theater's production of Giselle – a rare opportunity to see this outstanding company perform here in Rome.

Mondrian and I had a few things in common. He was born in Amersfoort, in the Netherlands province of Utrecht, and moved to America as it became clear that Europe was heading for World War II; my father's ancestors emigrated from the neighbouring Dutch province of Gelderland to New York City, then New Amsterdam, in 1659. So, we had a feeble Dutch connection. We were both painters, and we shared a tendency toward neatness, although in that regard I was a rank amateur compared to Pieter, an obsessive perfectionist. In any case, each of us seemed to enjoy the company of the other on occasion. 

This was a perfect perch for some serious people watching. Two little Italian girls chattered away excitedly in the next box. Piet looked up from his programme and smiled at the youngsters. With only five or six minutes to curtain, I was relieved when the door behind me opened abruptly, and in burst Donatello and Michelangelo, looking frazzled and breathless from their rush to arrive on time.

After hurried introductions, everyone took their seats just as the director approached the orchestra and took his podium to polite applause, and lights dimmed.

Along with the rest of the audience, we stood to applaud and cheer as the performance ended. The dancers in the four principal roles were astonishingly good, and it was a very long ovation. Finally we made our way out of the theatre to the small Piazza Beniamino Gigli where, after a short discussion, we decided to have a bite to eat just across the street at Trattoria Matriciana.

" The chorus were really amazing, don't you think?" asked Piet as we lifted our glasses of prosecco to toast the evening.

"Oh, they were incredible," I said. "Absolutely synchronized, and so consistent."

“I must confess that the art of this current period sometimes baffles me,” declared Donatello as he set down his glass. What, for example, distinguishes today’s performance art from the art we all saw in tonight’s ballet?"

22 ...

A faint "ping" announced to Bandone that he had received an email. He swung around in his chair, tapped once to open it and was quiet for a moment. 

"Tenente. One problem has been solved, I think. This is from the Carabinieri who were called to investigate the disappearance of 'Monet' from the Hotel Domus Romana. They've arrested a suspect. He had a fake beard and some period clothing in a backpack. Turns out this guy is a failed artist who likes to impersonate his heroes. He's done this sort of thing in several other cities in Europe. The photo we received earlier was a best guess, as the concierge swore that the suspect looked identical to Monet, whose picture he had seen in many art books. That's why we didn't have a positive I.D. earlier. Anyway, we don't have to worry about a kidnapping, it seems."

"Well that at least is good news," added Marchese. "Now, David, we'll let you get on with this other thing, and will expect to hear from you by the end of the day." He stood, signalling that the interview was over.

Newkirk rose from his chair, lost in thought, but smiling feebly. "Thank you, Tenente. I can use some fresh air. I need to clear my head."

"Paolo, please escort Signore Newkirk to the street entrance and hail a taxi for him." He turned to Newkirk, his hand extended. "Thank you for you cooperation, David. This is my card. I'll expect your call."

Returning to the office, Bandone sat down again at his computer and found the file that contained the early morning recording of the five men in the Sistine Chapel. Out of simple curiosity, he opened the file and pressed 'play.' Newkirk appeared as before. The others were nowhere to be seen.

*

That night, Newkirk issued the same mysterious invitation that, the previous September, had resulted in the big event in Venice. This time, he urgently advised everyone to meet at the church of San Pietro in Vincoli the next morning. 

Nave of San Pietro in Vincoli, Rome

Marchese had arranged with church officials to have the site closed to the public for the morning. He also enlisted the help of the Carabinieri in setting up a perimeter that could be monitored easily as the expected guests arrived and left.

At 7 a.m. on the morning of June 1st, Marchese and Bandone approached Newkirk where he stood alone to the right of the altar, staring at Michelangelo's Moses.

"Good morning, Signori." Again Newkirk shook hands with the two Guardia officers. "I'm sorry you missed everyone, but it all went well."

Taken completely by surprise, Marchese and Bandone exchanged glances. "What do you mean, we missed everyone?" asked Marchese.

"I suggested to them that an early start would be most discreet, so they arrived at 6 this morning, more or less, and everyone left just a few minutes ago."

Still puzzled, Marchese offered, "But the Carabinieri have been here since 4 a.m. They would have seen anyone entering or exiting. I was told that you arrived alone at about 5:30, and that no one else has entered since that time." Now all three seemed confused.

"But of course that's not possible, Tenente. I issued my invitation. They came. They left. It's as simple as that."

"Then how do you explain the fact that twenty highly trained policemen and women saw no one but you enter the church?"

Newkirk slumped against the iron railing that surrounded the sculpture. He remained silent for a long time, staring at the floor.

Finally he spoke. "Tenente. This place was packed. Are you telling me that no one else saw the hundreds of artists who came here this morning?"

"That is precisely what I'm saying, David ... Are you feeling well?"

Slow to respond and sagging even more, Newkirk said, "Oh yes. I'm fine. At least I think I'm fine." Another long pause. "It's me. It's just me, I guess."

"What do you mean, David?"

"I don't know. Maybe I am crazy. Maybe this is the grand delusion of a madman – harmless, I think, but also insane? No one sees these artists but me?"

"There is the small matter of our having recorded Michelangelo, Raphael, Bernini and Picasso with you in the Sistine Chapel. Are we all insane? Explain this please."

Bandone now reluctantly entered the conversation. "Tenente, I am sorry. I hoped that everything would be clear this morning. I neglected to tell you that I reviewed the tape from the Sistine last night. Only Newkirk appears. The others are not there. I can't figure it out."

Marchese's jaw dropped. Before he could respond, Newkirk uttered a single word ...

"Ghosts."

The other two took a step back from Newkirk. Marchese crossed himself, muttering "Dio mio." What was it that registered on their faces at that moment? Fear? Superstition?Disbelief?

"What more likely place is there in the world to see ghosts, if there are such things?" asked Newkirk. "And for a moment, they revealed themselves to you, as well as to me. Do you have a better explanation?" He looked at each of the policemen in turn. They were still dumbstruck. "Look," he continued, "until now, this whole thing – from Venice to the Sistine – it has all been mine: my metaphor, my fantasy, my hallucination. Call it what you wish. I told you that I felt the presence of these masters while I worked in my studio, and they are still with me. I suppose I have projected their presence, their influence into situations where they seem to fit. The fact that you too saw several of them – if you still believe that you saw them – I think it just means that one cannot dismiss their powerful presence in Rome, even though that presence may not actually be physical in nature. You were both sufficiently convinced of what you saw that you had me picked up by the Swiss Guard and delivered to your doorstep by the Carabinieri. That is hard to discount, don't you think? Are we all crazy? We keep asking that question. I think the answer is no, we are not crazy." The three exchanged nervous glances; their shared anxiety was palpable.

Bandone turned to cover a nervous cough and quite by accident … he farted. In that vast, marbled nave. 

Silence and looks of horror lasted for 4 seconds. And on 5, unrestrained hilarity exploded (as well). The three laughed so hard that they needed the support of walls and railings to remain standing. None could see clearly for the tears streaming down his cheeks. 

"Stop! Stop! Please ... it hurts ... I can't catch my breath ..." escaped one spitting, drooling mouth after another. Then, induced by the powerful laughter, a burst of 'aftershocks' shook Bandone, and all hope was lost of regaining anything that resembled composure. The three fell to the floor, and sat or lay there wiping away the tears, alternately quieting and bursting helplessly anew into giggles and brash laughter until a priest appeared from somewhere. With much trial and error, a fanfare of hearty guffaws, and streams of staccato 'tut-tuts' the priest finally was able to shoo the three offenders out of the church as they continued to struggle with their laughter.

Sunlight, and twenty staring and incredulous Carabinieri seemed to have a sobering effect. Newkirk, Bandone and Marchese stood gazing through the arches and over the pavement and the police cars. The air was cool and fresh. A small flock of birds circled overhead in a clear blue sky. All seemed right with the world, and apparently the universe, as Pierre Trudeau once suggested, was unfolding as it should. Reality or imagination? The debate was irrelevant for the moment. Calm returned, and the three stood quietly pondering their recent conversation.

Marchese broke the silence. "Alora. David, as you explained, this ... whatever this is ... it is yours. Maybe Paolo and I shared in it for a moment; maybe we did not." He shrugged, and his hands flew through several eloquent gestures as only Italian hands can do. "My advice? Don't worry about it; enjoy it. This is a gift for you, carrying these passengers of yours. How many others would like to have such feelings to cherish? Get back to your conversations with these people for whom you have such respect. Forget about us, and although I doubt that we shall forget about you, there is no reason for us to involve ourselves in your, uh, your ongoing metaphor ... your conversations. And believe me, this is far from the strangest thing we have seen in our years as policemen, eh Paolo?" He was smiling broadly now.

"È vero, Tenente."

“I’m curious, though,” Marchese continued. “What happens to these people when they are not with you? Have you ever asked one of them about just how they experience these things?”

Newkirk looked at the pavement, took a deep breath and answered. “I have, in fact. When we were in Venice, I had a moment alone with the great Diego Velázquez – such a charming and gracious man, and a giant of a painter of course. Anyway, I did ask him that very question. He smiled and shrugged, and said that in his case at least, his experience of time was seamless. He had no idea when or how he apparently shifted from his own time to ours, or vice versa, or if he were in both places simultaneously. When he found himself at home in the 17^th century, he had no memory of this adventure in the 21^st, although when he was here, memories of his real life were entirely intact. He laughed, and added that if too many dreamers were to summon him to other times and places, he’d never get any work done. “But how am I to be certain that it’s not happening all the time?” he chuckled. Frankly, I doubt that the artists who were here early this morning have any clearer understanding of this thing than you or I.”

Marchese retrieved a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, and offered it to each of the others in turn. Both declined. He shrugged, and smiled again. "I too have almost quit. Almost. Now I have a cigarette perhaps three times a week. That's big progress for a man who smoked three packs a day for many years, no?" He lit up and inhaled deeply. The others both felt a twinge of envy along with sympathy for Marchese's effort to quit. Smoke curled lazily upward in the still air. It smelled delicious.

*

21 ... 

"Your other friends are in danger as well, if my assumption is correct," said Marchese. 

Suddenly agitated, his eyes full of fear, Newkirk blurted "Of course. It's so obvious. Someone has caught wind of the presence of these artists in Rome, or perhaps in other cities, or in the countryside. My god, can we ever figure out how to contact them? You're right. They are all in real danger. Whoever snatched Monet is planning more of the same, I'm sure. Just imagine ... you assemble history's greatest artists together in some remote location, and then ... oh god."

"You've got the idea," said Bandone, animated at last, and now completely engaged in the conversation. "This person, or organization plans to force these artists to make new work. These would not be fakes, you understand; they'd be genuine, as yet undiscovered Monets, Da Vincis, Van Goghs, Frankenthalers ... whoever can be coerced." He thought aloud, as he assessed the possibilities. "Out of the blue, unknown paintings by these masters would appear on the market. What if their captors were also able to 'persuade' the artists publicly to authenticate only certain of the works that already exist? Who would doubt Monet if he were to claim that, as a ridiculous example, his water lilies were all painted by a studio assistant, or a distant cousin? First we have kidnapping, perhaps on a grand scale. Then torture, or bribery, or perhaps a simple appeal to an artist's ego or a combination of all of these. A slave labour camp producing original works by artists long thought to be dead? Or – and personally I find this even more disturbing to contemplate – a country spa where everyone is getting rich by mutual consent. We've got to find them."

"And then what?" Marchese removed his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose, and ran a hand through his hair. "What do we do with them? What do we do with the new paintings?" His chair squealed in protest as he leaned back. He was silent for a moment. "I think we may be getting ahead of ourselves. Let's dissect this thing and see if we really have a problem. Sit down, Paolo. We'll go through this together, and calmly, OK?

"Here's a thought that worries me. What will happen if it becomes widely known that 'dead' people somehow have returned and are enjoying the sights of Roma, and perhaps Paris and London and New York? Cazzo! Are we really in some ridiculous Hollywood zombie time warp?"

Newkirk's sharp intake of breath spoke volumes. "Oh, man! How could I not have thought of that?" His eyes widen. "My god, they're going to want to talk to me! Everybody will want to know how to do this. They'll think it's some kind of key to immortality."  He exhaled in a low moan, and dropped his head into his hands.

Marchese put a friendly hand on Newkirk's shoulder. "For now, I think it would be wise to have someone from our office accompany you, David. Paolo here is the logical candidate. OK with you, Paolo?" 

Bandone nods. "Certamente, Tenente. No problem."

"But let's not panic yet," continued Marchese. Very few people have resources like ours, and even fewer would imagine that Michelangelo, for example, walks among us. People will, at most, think that a few eccentrics are impersonating the artists. So far, only a very few intelligence officers are puzzling over this. And only we three know the whole story. By the way, David, can you confirm for us now that it was indeed Michelangelo we saw you with this morning?"

"Yes. And Raphael, and Bernini. Raphael was dressed formally and for some reason was carrying a sword. That's what I used to poke the camera and dislodge it." He reached into a pocket. "Here it is. I'd forgotten I had it." Newkirk seemed desolate. He passed the tiny camera to Marchese, who was clearly relieved; he pocketed the camera.

Marchese shot a knowing glance at Bandone. "We were right, Paolo. It was a sword. Dio mio!" He wrestled with his sense of reality for a moment, and then, as if to himself, "No. I simply will not think about what is real. We must stick with our agreed procedure. We'll deal with the situation as it presents itself. Do you think, David, that you can contact these artists as you did before your event in Venice?"

Newkirk looked up, and brightened visibly. "Yes! At least I think so. I hope I can ... I don't know."

20 ...

Marchese smiled, reached into his pocket and handed the waiter a one-Euro coin. "Grazie Marco." The waiter placed the tray on the desk, turned and left without a word. Marchese poured two cups, looked up at Bandone who shook his head no, and with an open hand, gestured toward the pastries. "Please," he said. After a moment or two, the Tenente continued.

"I think you can relax, Signore. If we had wanted to arrest you, your present circumstances would be quite different, I assure you. No, there's nothing very sinister about this meeting. Frankly, we have been presented with some extremely puzzling information, and it would seem that you may be able to assist us. As you have probably surmised – since you seem to be well aware of the various policing agencies in Italy, and our ranks and insignia – Paolo and I work for the Guardia di Finanza. My special area of expertise is high profile kidnappings, and Paolo here appears to have extensive knowledge of art, although he has kept this very close to his chest all these years," he smiled at Bandone who shrugged and nodded.

"Now I must ask you to help us solve a particularly troubling mystery."

"How can I help," asked Newkirk.

"When we came here this morning, this monitor had gone dark. I asked Paolo to go back through the recorded data from that camera until we saw images that would tell us when and how the camera had malfunctioned. What we saw was extraordinary. We saw you, Signore, in the Sistine Chapel, accompanied by four other gentlemen. Three of these resembled some very famous Italian artists from the Renaissance and Baroque periods of our history. We'll come back to them in a moment. The identity of the fourth man has been established, although this identification comes with certain ... uh .. shall we say, discrepancies. This man was identified as Pablo Picasso." He watched Newkirk for his reaction to this news. Was it surprise, or something else that he saw?

"But, that's impossible. Pardon me, Tenente, but Picasso died in 1973, over 40 years ago. Are you pulling my leg? I'm a gullible guy, but really ... "

Marchese raised a hand to interrupt and nodded toward Bandone. "Paolo, tell him what you found, please."

"I was able to capture a very clear image of this man's face. Of course I assumed this was some impersonator, or simply a random citizen who resembled Picasso. Just to be sure, I put the photo through the face-recognition data bases of the Guardia, the Carabinieri, Interpol, MI6, the CIA, and your Canadian CSIS. In every case, I got a positive match. It was unquestionably Pablo Picasso. These systems don't make mistakes. Picasso is in Rome. What we want you to tell us, is why he was with you this morning, and exactly who the other men were, although we think we know that too."

"As you see," added Marchese, "there's no point denying that these men were with you. The camera that you discovered is one that we ourselves installed with some difficulty. And, if I may ask a favour of you, please do not mention the camera or its location to anyone. This could be rather sensitive should Vatican officials become aware. You understand? Now ... can you help us, Signore?"

Newkirk had become increasingly uncomfortable as the two officers spoke. When Bandone confirmed Picasso's identity, he sagged noticeably in his chair, and looking from side to side, hoped there might be some escape from this predicament. Marchese waited patiently as Newkirk's head swam, and though he tried to devise a logical strategy for escape, none was forthcoming. He took a deep breath and surrendered.

"Yes. Picasso was with me this morning," he offered with little more than a whisper. He stared at the floor, resigned to his situation. All he could do now was tell the truth as he knew it. But who could possibly believe him?

"Thank you, David. I may call you David? Grazie. We know a little more about you and your recent activities. I'm speaking of the event you hosted last fall in Venice, during the Biennale." Newkirk looked up, anxious and confused. "What can you tell us about that?"

Regaining some composure, Newkirk elaborated. "This is not going to make any sense. It makes no sense even to me. But I'll tell you what happened, and then you'll have to decide whether I need to be locked in a rubber room. The whole thing began as a kind of tribute to great artists I have always admired. I feel connected to these artists, and grateful for what they have added to my life. If you know about the event in Venice, then you know that I am a painter. These artists have influenced me and each other. It's like a legacy, almost a linear connection, a tradition or a club. These are my vocational forebearers. Does that make any sense to you?"

"Please go on," said Marchese.

"So, I was making paintings in my studio, thinking about this connection. It was as if these artists were sitting in the studio behind or beside me, one at a time, perhaps having a drink or a smoke. They were silent presences, but supportive. I know this sounds bizarre. And I thought how wonderful it would be to meet them all, to have discussions with them, to share a meal together. The Biennale was the perfect meeting place, if only I could organize a party, a get together of some kind, and include all the artists I have ever admired, living and dead – so I thought, anyway. 

"Now, this is where it gets weird.

"Without any fanfare or warning, there I was in Venice. I swear to you that this was no dream. I was in Venice, and they too were in Venice ... all of them ... Velazquez, Michelangelo, Da Vinci, Pollock, Shuebrook, Hall, Whiten, Van Gogh, De Kooning ... all of them were there. It was happening just as I had imagined. They were exchanging ideas, having fun, getting drunk together ... " he was nearly breathless as he described what had happened. "I know it's impossible. I know that this cannot have happened, but it did happen. And now, back in Rome, I have run into several of the same artists. We seem simply to have picked up where we left off in Venice. Look ... I can't explain it. I can't! If I'm harmless, you can let me continue with my fantasy. If I'm dangerously nuts ... well ... that's another matter I suppose." He fell silent, looking back and forth at his audience, waiting for some kind of reaction.

"David," said Marchese. "Based on the evidence we have, and on some disturbing bulletins we have received from Interpol, we have no choice but to believe what you've said."

Newkirk visibly relaxed, surprised and relieved, and incredulous. "You do?" he asked. "Really?"

Marchese continued. "We were just notified that this man (he consulted a file) was seen yesterday both at the Palazzo Borghese, and at a hotel – the Domus Romana – where he was evidently a guest. The concierge there contacted the Carabinieri to report that he had disappeared without paying his bill." He passed a photo to Newkirk.

Claude Monet

Wide-eyed, Newkirk exclaimed, "Monet is missing? I haven't seen him in Rome yet, but I do know the hotel. Why would he leave without paying?"

"Monet is just one of several who have disappeared." Marchese paused. "I think we have to agree," he continued "to suspend belief, as you say in English. Can we agree that we all think these events cannot possibly be taking place, and at the same time accept that they are? There is no point arguing the plausibility of what is happening. We must deal with the facts as they are presented to us. My head throbs when I try to construct any other possible course of action. So .. from this point on, we discard logic, and simply deal with events as they unfold, ... agreed?"

"Wow," said Newkirk. "You amaze me. But yes, that is exactly what I have had to do."

"Sure," offered an emotionless Bandone. "Whatever you say."

"I believe that Monet has been kidnapped," announced Marchese.

"But why would anyone kidnap Monet?"

"David, really ... if you could kidnap Monet, what would you want with him?"

19 ...

Their polished leather boots seemed to propel the Carabinieri in unison along the hallway, marble under foot and on the sculpted walls reflecting back a clatter of echoes. As far as Newkirk could tell, they were alone in this tired-looking office building. The air carried the faint smell of a cleaning agent, but no fresh breeze stirred; all the windows he saw were tightly closed. 

No one spoke. After what felt like ages, he was ushered down several flights of stairs at the rear of the building. In what must have been a vast basement, confusing twists and turns followed until at last the trio came to a halt before a simple, unmarked wooden door. The policeman on Newkirk's left rapped crisply on the door, and in moments it swung inward to reveal yet another dark corridor. Once they entered, the door closed behind them with an ominous click. This scenario repeated itself twice more - unmarked doors, dark hallways and the click of locks. As his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, Newkirk began to notice cameras mounted near the ceilings. They were being watched.

Finally a door opened on a brightly lit room. Several computer monitors sat on a long desk against the far wall (one displaying the hallways they had just left), and directly in front of Newkirk, leaning against the desk's edge stood a large, bald man drinking coffee. To the right, a smaller man swivelled around in his chair and with a perfunctory smile, Marchese greeted the newcomers. 

"Thank you for your assistance, constables. We'll take it from here. As you were told earlier, the two of you were chosen for your discretion. I'm sure I can count on you both. That's all, thank you." Once again demonstrating precisely how to move with grace and poise, the Carabinieri pivoted, and left the room, closing the door with a faint swish.

"Please, have a seat Signore." With a flick of the wrist, Marchese waved Newkirk toward a plain wooden chair. "Would you like coffee? It's very simple to have it brought in."

"Si, grazie, Tenente. I would very much like a cup of coffee."

"Ah, you speak Italian, Signore Newkirk."

"Very little I'm afraid. I appreciate your speaking English; I think we'll both understand each other better. You speak it beautifully, by the way."

Marchese nodded to acknowledge the compliment. "In fact, I have spent some time in Toronto, as has the Sottotenente ... excuse me, I am Tenente – as you noticed – Guido Marchese, and this is Sottotenente Paolo Bandone. Paolo, meet Signore ..."

"David, please. Piaccere." They shake hands. "You were saying that you have visited Toronto."

"Yes. I have relatives there, and I sent Paolo to stay with them when he decided to brush up his English," Marchese continued. 

"May I ask where in Toronto your relatives live?"

"Years ago an uncle moved his family to your Little Italy – Toronto's Italian community is very large, no? – Euclid Avenue, I believe, not far from an authentic little cafe, the Diplomatico. 

But he did well with a flooring and masonry business and they have long since moved to a sprawling house just north of the city." He turns to Bandone. "What was the name of the place Paolo, Woodstock?"

"Woodbridge," Bandone corrected.

"Yes, Woodbridge. I have not visited them there, but we email and occasionally they send photos. I should make time for a visit while my aunt is still with us. I like Toronto very much – so clean, and quite sophisticated now. It may not be New York, but ..." he shrugged.

"Little Italy is one of my favourite parts of the city," said Newkirk. 

"When I first began teaching, I worked at a high school in the northern part of Toronto, a kind of migration stop for the Italian population, a suburban area where families moved from Little Italy, but before they went on to bigger and better things in Woodbridge. About half of my students were of Italian descent – wonderful kids. Those students and the art of Italy were responsible for my interest in this beautiful country."

Marchese leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, marking a change in tone as he spoke. "Your interest in art is the reason we asked you to join us." Now he was all business.

"Oh. Am I visiting you here, or have I been arrested? I must say that being whisked away from St. Peter's by Swiss Guards and Carabinieri officers was confusing, and a little nerve wracking. Finding myself in the basement of a huge, empty building has not been very reassuring either, despite your congenial welcome, Tenente. Can you explain in more detail just why I'm here?"

Just then there was a knock at the door, startling Newkirk. Bandone pressed a button; the door swung open, and in walked a young man in waiter's garb, carrying a tray of fresh pastries and a pot of espresso whose aroma was irresistible.