Emma stopped talking and looked down at the picture. “The painting he was looking for is this one here.”
Caterina looked at it again. It still seemed unremarkable. “Was it hidden somewhere?”
“No. It was in plain sight,” said Emma. “He held it in his hands, looked it over, smirked, and put it back on the wall. It was one of the works he treated with most contempt, telling my mother she was a deluded incompetent. He didn’t even seem to notice that of all the paintings in the house, it was the one that had the most space to itself. I looked at my mother to see what effect his insults were having. She was keeping a neutral expression, but I could see that inside she was happy.”
“Happy?”
“Happy—triumphant. It was in her eyes. But he didn’t see it, because he was squinting at the painting with exaggerated distaste. Now I suddenly remembered the way she looked at it, tilting her head to the side, sometimes frowning, sometimes smiling. She even touched it sometimes. She never did that with any of the others.”
“What’s special about it?” asked Caterina.
“I’ve no idea. Except it was the only one he sent. I remember its arrival, even though I was only a little girl.”
“Your mother allowed you to take it after they had left?”
“She didn’t try to stop me, if that’s what you mean. But I didn’t ask her permission. She doesn’t deserve it.”
“A moment ago, it sounded like you were admiring her.”
“I don’t think she’s a good mother. She’s not responsible enough. I paid for her artistic self-indulgence.”
“You seem OK.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“She’s the only mother you’re going to get,” said Caterina. “You’re young. Maybe when you’re a bit older you’ll forgive her. She is human and humans are deluded. She probably thinks she was a good mother.”
“She doesn’t think about it. All she thinks about is herself.”
In the pause that followed, Caterina listened for Elia’s breathing, but he was too far away.
“Treacy only ever sent one painting,” said Emma. She touched it with her foot. “And that’s it there. I remember it coming to the house, just before we left for Pistoia. The others, the ones the Colonel took, were always there. As I was leaving, my mother gave me this, as if it would justify things. I balled it up and threw it away. But it has to do with me, too, so I picked it up again.”
She pulled out a piece of crinkly blue writing paper of the sort Caterina had not seen in years and handed it to her. She recognized Treacy’s handwriting at once. On this occasion, he wrote in Italian.
Dear Angela,
I am keeping my promise and my distance. Some time ago, I found myself trying to copy some de Chirico works, and it turned out to be harder than it looked. I had more success in painting originals after de Chirico, and I am sending you the best result of my efforts. It was not until I tried to paint him that I realized what you were trying to achieve in your work. You were seeking expressiveness and therefore a truth that I stopped looking for too many years ago, and this is why I derided you. I never should have done so. And I also know that deriding your work was not even the worst thing I did to you. I am glad you found Nightingale, though I wish you had found someone better than him.
I should not have written that, but I won’t score it out either, because it’s right that you should hear echoes of the sort of person I used to be. I have always tried to tell you what was best for you, when all I really meant was that I was best for you. And I wasn’t. That’s not news to you, of course. I am glad you realized it long ago. Please destroy the various insulting notes and eliminate from your mind the punches, slaps, and moments of exquisite torture based on neglect and denigration. I don’t know why I did those things. I shall never know why. Not everything has its reason, not everyone has his place in the world.
I have failed. I am still the best draftsman you will ever know, perhaps the best of my generation, and I have a good eye for color, but I have never found my own voice. I am a mere copyist, a plagiarist, a forger, and a cheat. I still say today’s artists are no good, and the true greats belong to the distant past, but if I were less of a coward, perhaps I might have tried to create my own style.
This is my bequest to you. If you look at it carefully, you will see a thousand second thoughts, a thousand regrets, and a thousand “pentimenti” in it. Take them as referring to all the harm I ever did to you. If you forgive me, you will keep this painting, and perhaps hang it on a wall where it should sit happily with your own original works.
Someday, you will understand even better why I have sent this to you. Imagine ourselves in the foreground, sitting on a stone bench. I take a berry from a yew tree, and you tell me that a yew is pure poison from the leaves to the fruit. Your mother had warned you not to touch it. Then I put it in my mouth and eat it, and you panic, and I allow you to panic to see how much I mean to you. It was just one of a thousand cruel gestures, one of a thousand regrets. Yew trees last a thousand years. They will still be there, exactly where we left them. Go back there someday and think of me.
Your art was wonderful. The yew leaf and its seed are poisonous, but not its fruit.
Yours with love,
Henry
Caterina folded up the letter and handed it back to Emma who took it, making tongs of her fingers and dropping it on the floor at her feet. “I am the fruit, you see? His fruit. It’s so creepy that ‘poetic’ way of talking and thinking. My mother does it, too. Hippies, isn’t that what they were called? But he was wrong about the fruit. The fruit is pure poison, too.”
“I am not following you, Emma.”
“I killed him,” said Emma. “I killed Henry Treacy.”
As emma pronounced the words, Caterina sat back, only now realizing that she had been leaning forwards and waiting for this confession. She had essentially known it since Emma’s craven boyfriend withdrew his alibi.
Emma continued: “It was an accident. I didn’t even mean to hurt him. He was drunk.”
Caterina believed her at once. She tried to suppress the immediacy of the belief as unbecoming for a police officer, but it simply felt true. The incongruity of Emma killing someone was too great. But it wasn’t just that. Emma’s main concern now did not seem to be to claim innocence for herself, but to confess the reasons for her actions. The girl was telling the truth. She was reliving the moment.
“Henry tried to hug me, and he tried to kiss me, and then he started weeping like a child. It was revolting. The folds in his skin, the bristles, and the smell of beer, wine, urine, and old man’s breath.”
“He tried to assault you?”
“No. Not like that. All evening I had stayed with him waiting for him to reveal this really important thing he said he needed to tell me, but all he did was go on about how beautiful I was. How intelligent, how elegant and perfect until I thought I could take no more. It was so much better when he was sober and ironic, making jokes at my expense. Then we got to that piazza, and he started talking about the self-portrait in his office and asking me what I saw in it. And suddenly he grabbed me and pulled me toward him and he tried to kiss me, not on the mouth, but on the face, on my forehead. I struggled and pushed at him, but he kept begging me to listen to him for a moment, so I told him I would if only he would let me go, which he did.
“ ‘Nightingale thinks I don’t know about you. He thinks he has me fooled and blinded and that I’m no better than a bewildered wreck, which may be true. But I knew who you were even before Nightingale brought you to the gallery with his false provenance stories, pretending he had just happened to find a treasure like you lying about. And he thought I would not see the way he treated you and looked proudly at you, the way his breast puffed up like a pigeon every time he was watching you. Anyone would have noticed how he behaved toward you. His cover story was pathetic.’
“ ‘Is that what you needed to tell me?’ I asked him. ‘Why didn’t you confront Nightingale first? I never saw the need for all the deception.’
“Then Treacy, he gives me a look which . . . I can’t describe it. Proud and sad at the same time. Partly a leer, partly a look of pity, and he says, ‘John Nightingale is an English cuckold. Three months after he took Angela from me, I went back and took Angela from him, only he never knew it. And I took her back time and time again. Ask her. Ask your mother. John Nightingale is not your father. I am.’
“I think I screamed,” continued Emma. “I pushed him hard. Really hard, in the chest with the heel of my hand. I hit him there three times, and he fell backwards. I heard his head crack against the cobbles, only I didn’t believe then that sound could have been made by his head. I only heard the crack afterwards, thinking back. I hear it now. But at the time I didn’t hear it and Treacy wasn’t even unconscious, because he kept calling my name as I ran away.”
Emma sat with her hands folded in her lap as she spoke, her voice calm. She even gave a deeper and heavier intonation when repeating Treacy’s words, and she would have been a model of perfect composure had it not been for the tears on the sides of her face.
Caterina thought of the handsome fair-haired youth that sat above Treacy’s desk in the gallery, and wondered how neither Emma nor Nightingale had ever seen the likeness. She wondered how Emma’s mother could have hidden the story from her daughter all these years, and why.
Emma asked for the bathroom and when she came back she had washed her face clean. She went back to the chair, picked up her purse, and pulled out her BlackBerry and showed it to Caterina, saying, “Look. It’s switched off. That way she can’t call me and the Colonel can’t find me.”
“So your mother can’t call you?” said Caterina. She did not bother mentioning that Emma would need to remove the batteries, too, if she didn’t want to be traced.
“I need to find a place to stay,” said Emma. “But where? With my lying mother, my pathetic boyfriend Pietro . . .”
“What about your own place?” said Caterina.
“The apartment paid for by the gallery? In other words, by my dead father and my ex-father or whatever I am supposed to call them. I’m not going there.”
“Sooner or later you are going to have to talk to them about it.”
“Why should I? My mother didn’t tell Nightingale, Nightingale thought he was fooling Treacy. I kill Treacy, and now it’s up to me to stage some sort of family reconciliation? Nightingale, Treacy. I don’t even use their first names.”
“Emma, if you say once more that you killed him, if you indicate to me that what you did was deliberate, I will arrest you now and have you taken to the station to be charged.”
Emma looked at Caterina in shock.
“So, tell me, did you deliberately kill Treacy?”
Emma shook her head. “No. I . . . no. I was just clearing space between us . . . no.”
“Did you think he was badly hurt when you ran away?”
“I didn’t care.”
“I repeat: Did it occur to you that he might be badly hurt?”
Emma closed her eyes and let out a long breath. “No. It did not. I have never hurt anyone physically in my life. I had no idea it could be so easy.”
“People are frail,” said Caterina. “Even so, you withheld vital information from us when we arrived the following day, and that is an offense with which you will be charged. But we can do that tomorrow some time.”
“Can I stay here?” said Emma.
“What? No. Of course not.”
“Just for tonight?”
“There are two bedrooms. My son is in one. I’m in the other.”
“I could sleep on the sofa you’re sitting on.”
“Out of the question,” said Caterina. “Apart from everything else, there’s the legal aspect. I am a police inspector. You have just admitted to what could be construed as involuntary manslaughter . . .”
“Oh. You just said . . .”
“Forget what I just said. I’m sure there is a hotel you could check into. I don’t think money is much of a problem for you, is it?”
“No. That’s not my problem. It’s just I get this feeling I’m being followed. The Colonel frightens me. You can’t send me out there.”
“I am expecting Commissioner Blume to arrive soon. He can accompany you somewhere. You’ll be safe with him.”
“Will he arrest me?”
“I don’t know, Emma. He might have to.”
Caterina’s cell, set to silent, began to vibrate against the glass coffee table between them, and rotated around till it faced Emma who leaned over to look at the name on the display. “That’s your Commissioner now.”
Caterina wondered how Blume would react to her proposed change of plans for the evening, and was anxious about what he would say to her having Emma in her apartment like this. But she need not have worried. As soon as she answered, he announced, “Can’t make it. Something else has come up.”
Then he hung up without waiting for a response, without asking her whether she and Elia were OK.
Bastard.
Half an hour later, as she applied cold cream to her face and massaged the tense area around her eyes with her fingers, she thought of the almost elegant movement with which old Corsi had knelt down before stretching out on the floor of his dilapidated palace, stabbed in the back by his clumsy, unhappy child. She wiped the sink shiny with the towel she had just used and set out a fresh towel over the edge of the bathtub.