The Secret of Colors

Paris, France

1892

The stone streets were slick with rain, reflecting the flickering gas lamps and the hunched shadows of the pedestrians hurrying to find shelter. Above them, the grandiose buildings of the city’s aristocracy stood tall, unbothered by the dreary weather. Tullio Mastronardi stepped out of a carriage, his eyes fixed on one such building: the Leblanc House, where the most anticipated art auction of the season was about to begin. The scent of wet wool and cigar smoke filled the air as he adjusted his top hat and made his way towards the entrance.

The lobby of the Leblanc House was a flurry of activity. Elegant men and women in their finest attire whispered in hushed tones, their eyes scanning the room for familiar faces and potential rivals. Tullio recognized a few from his days as an art student in Manhattan, but the woman who caught his eye was an adversary he knew all too well. She had a regal air about her, with a sharp nose and piercing dark brown eyes that seemed to bore into the very soul of anyone who dared to meet her gaze. Her name, was Isabella Stewart Gardner.

They had crossed paths before, bidding on the same treasure in the salons of New York and Boston. Each time, she had emerged the victor, leaving him with a burning desire to outdo her. Now, in this grand French auction house, he was determined not to lose again. He straightened his tie and approached her, a false smile plastered on his face. “Mrs. Gardner, a pleasure to see you,” Tullio said, his Italian accent thickening slightly with irritation. “I trust you’ve found Paris to your liking?”

Isabella’s smile never wavered as she replied, “Ah, Mr. Mastronardi. As charming as ever. And yes, Paris has been quite... enchanting. But I’m sure you didn’t come to discuss the weather.”

Before Tullio could respond, a figure emerged from the shadows. “Ah, if it isn’t the two most discerning art enthusiasts of the evening,” said a dapper man with a goatee, extending his hand.

“Bernard Berenson,” he introduced himself with a flourish. “I couldn’t help but overhear your little tête-à-tête.”

Isabella’s smile grew even more enigmatic as she took the man’s hand. “Mr. Berenson, your reputation precedes you. A connoisseur of fine art, are you?”

“Indeed, Mrs. Gardner. A humble one at that,” Berenson replied with a knowing wink. “And you, Mr. Mastronardi, I see you’re as eager as ever to add to your collection.”

Tullio’s eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of his collection, a clear jab at his previous defeats. He took the man’s hand firmly. “A man must have his passions,” he said, the challenge clear in his voice.

The auction began with the sound of a gavel, and Tullio and Isabella found themselves seated across the room from each other, both with their eyes fixed on the prize of the evening: “The Concert” by Johannes Vermeer. As the bids began to climb, Tullio felt his heart race. This was the moment he had been waiting for, the painting that would finally give him the upper hand in their ongoing rivalry.

Bernard Berenson, however, had other plans. He had been quietly observing the room, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. As the price of the painting climbed higher and higher, he leaned in closer to Isabella beside him, whispering something in her ear. He nodded, then turned to the auctioneer, raising his paddle. The bid shot up, and Tullio felt a cold sweat break out on his brow.

“Fifty thousand francs,” Berenson called out, his voice strong and clear, cutting through the murmurs of the shocked audience. Tullio stared at him, unable to believe his rival had found an ally here, of all places.

Isabella raised an eyebrow, a smug smile playing on her lips as she watched the room react. She leaned back in her chair, the picture of poise and confidence, while Tullio clenched his fists.

“Fifty-five thousand,” Tullio called out, his voice steady despite his racing thoughts.

Berenson chuckled. “Ah, the thrill of competition,” he murmured, not bothering to hide his delight. “It seems we have quite the spirited bidding war on our hands.”

Isabella’s eyes never left the painting, her expression unreadable. She raised her hand, and the auctioneer’s eyes flicked to her. “Sixty five thousand francs,” she said, her voice cool and composed.

The room fell silent, and Tullio’s heart sank. He had no more to give. He watched in fury as the auctioneer’s hammer came down with a final, echoing thud. The painting was hers.

“The Concert is sold to Mrs. Isabella Stewart Gardner for sixty-five thousand francs!” the auctioneer announced, a note of surprise in his voice.

Tullio’s anger was palpable as he watched Isabella and Berenson share a knowing look. He knew then that they had been in cahoots all along, playing him like a fiddle to drive up the price. He couldn’t let this stand. He waited, seething, as the next few items were brought out and sold off. The room was ablaze with whispers and sneers, all directed at the two Americans who had outbid everyone for the Vermeer. Finally, the auctioneer called for a recess, and Tullio took his chance. He marched backstage, where he found Isabella and Bernard gloating over their victory.

“What kind of lowdown trickery is this?” Tullio bellowed, his cheeks red with anger. “You two had this all planned, didn’t you? You can’t fool me.”

Isabella looked at him, feigning innocence. “Why, Mr. Mastronardi, I’ve done no such thing,” she protested.

“Don’t play coy with me!” Tullio snapped. “I saw you whispering to Mr. Berenson!”

Isabella’s smile grew wider. “Whispering? Perhaps he was merely offering his congratulations. After all, we’ve known each other for some time. And as for the bid, I assure you, it was all fair and square.”

Bernard shrugged, playing the part of the nonchalant connoisseur. “Indeed, Mr. Mastronardi.”

The auction house staff, noticing the commotion, began to usher Tullio away. “Sir, you need to leave the premises,” one said firmly.

Furious and embarrassed, Tullio stormed out into the rain-soaked streets of Paris, the cold droplets doing little to cool his heated cheeks. He couldn’t believe he’d been outplayed by Isabella and this Berenson character. The betrayal stung deeper than any loss he’d ever suffered.

As he struggled to light a cigarette, a middle aged Frenchman from the auction approached him, an amused smile playing on his lips. “Mr. Mastronardi, I see your evening did not go as planned,” he said, offering a lighter for Tullio’s cigar. “I am Jean-Jacques. I noticed your passion for the arts, and I have something that may interest you. A collection, lost to the ages, that is not currently on the market. Would you be so kind as to join me for a private viewing?”

Tullio, still smarting from his defeat, was intrigued despite his suspicion. “What collection could possibly interest me now?”

Jean-Jacques leaned in closer. “Ah, but this is no ordinary collection. It’s the lost works of Valentijn Van Guhnen, including a portrait of Saskia Rembrandt. It’s said to be breathtaking, a masterpiece that could rival any of the Gardner Museum pieces.”

Tullio’s interest was piqued. He couldn’t resist the bait, not after what had just transpired. “Alright, follow,” he said, his pride bruised but his spirit unbroken.

***

Manhattan, New York

1992

The smell of freshly baked bread and bubbling marinara sauce filled the air of Sal’s Pizzeria, the neon sign outside flashing in the e summer night. Arturo Mastronardi, Tullio’s descendant, was at the end of a typical Friday night rush, his kitchen a whirlwind of flour and cheese. He snatched up a stray slice of pepperoni, his eyes darting from left to right. Arturo, already let the rest of his staff go that night, aside from old man Carmine, his loyal and slightly portly chef who had been with the family for years.

The bell chimed as the door swung open, and in strutted ‘Petty Tony’ Serrano with two burly henchmen, their shadows looming large on the linoleum floor. Arturo’s heart sank as he recognized the man. He’d been hoping against hope that Tony’s visit would be pushed to another day, but hope was a fickle thing in New York City.

“Artie, my man!” Petty Tony boomed, slapping his palms on the counter. His grin was wide and white, but the glint in his eyes was pure steel. “How’s business tonight?”

Arturo forced a smile. “Can’t complain,” he said, gesturing to the empty restaurant. “But we’re closing up.”

Petty Tony’s grin never wavered. “Yeah, I can see that. But I’ve got a little something to discuss with you before you lock up. Business, you know.”

Arturo nodded wearily. He had taken over the pizzeria when uncle Salvatore died and was fighting to keep it afloat ever since. The loan he borrowed from Tony’s shady operation was a desperate move, and now it was coming back to bite him.

“Look, Tony,” Arturo began, his voice thick with resentment. “I’ve got two grand in cash. It’s all I can give you for now.” He pointed to the floor safe behind the counter. “Take it, and I swear, the rest is coming.”

Tony’s smile turned predatory. “Two grand, huh?” He leaned closer, his breath hot on Arturo’s face. “That’s a start, but it’s not enough. You know the terms of our deal. You’re late, and I need to send a message.” He snapped his fingers, and his two henchmen dragged a struggling Carmine from the kitchen. “Make an example,” Tony murmured.

The smell of burning flesh filled the room as one of them shoved Carmine’s hand onto the hot oven bed. The poor man’s screams echoed through the empty restaurant. Arturo felt his stomach turn, but he had to keep it together. “Okay, okay,” he said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. “I’ll get you the rest tomorrow. Just tell them to stop.”

Tony’s smile never left his face as he nodded to his men. The thug pulled Carmine’s hand away, and Arturo rushed over, grabbing a clean towel and wrapping it around the burn. “You’re okay, old man,” he murmured, though he knew it was far from true. Carmine’s eyes were squeezed shut, his teeth gritted in pain.

“Now, Artie,” Tony said, his voice a silky purr. “You see why I had to do that. It’s about respect. And you’re gonna show me some respect now, yeah?”

Arturo’s jaw tightened, but he knew better than to argue. “I’ll get you the rest,” he said, his voice low and tight. “Tomorrow night I promise.”

Tony leaned back, stroking his chin. “Tomorrow night, huh? That’s a mighty long time to wait. I’ve got expenses too, you know?” He glanced down at Carmine, who was still on the floor, whimpering. “But I’m a reasonable man. You get me my money tomorrow, and we’ll consider this a learning experience.”

“Tomorrow,” Arturo agreed, his voice hollow. He watched as Tony and his goons disappeared, the front door bell chiming faintly. As soon as they were gone, he turned to Carmine, his heart heavy. “You okay?” he asked, his voice strained with worry.

Carmine nodded weakly, his eyes still shut. “Yeah, boss. Just a flesh wound.” His voice was tight with pain, but there was a hint of the old Carmine in there, the stoic optimism that had kept him going through countless kitchen fires and burnt crusts. Arturo helped him up and guided him to a chair. “Let me take care of that,” he said, his mind racing. Where would he get that kind of money in such a short time?

As he dabbed at the burn with antiseptic, the doorbell chimed again. This time, it was a man in an impeccable suit, a briefcase in hand, and a look of utter incongruity on his face at the sight of Arturo tending to his cook. “I’m looking for Mr. Arturo Mastronardi,” the man announced in a crisp, formal tone.

Arturo straightened up, his hand still shaking. “That’s me,” he said, his voice hoarse from the tension of the encounter with Tony.

The well-dressed man offered a small smile, extending a card. “Mr. Mastronardi, I’m Mr. Patrick DeVries, an attorney with DeVries & DeVries. I’ve been searching for you.”

Arturo took the card, his eyes narrowing. “What do you want?”

Mr. DeVries cleared his throat. “I represent the estate of your ancestor, Tullio Mastronardi. It appears there’s been an... unexpected development concerning the Tullio Mastronardi Fine Art Museum. As the last living male Mastronardi, the inheritance has passed on to you.” He paused, watching Arturo’s reaction closely. “I’m here to inform you of your new ownership and to discuss the immediate transfer of assets.”