He did eventually, looking at her properly for the first time with an almost defiant look.
‘It was a good idea. I went to the local library and found a picture of the bronze copy of the bust in Copenhagen…’
‘So that was how you knew about that,’ she said, speaking for almost the first time.
‘Yes, that’s right. And I studied it carefully, and made drawings. Dozens of them. Then I went to my workshop in the Vatican.
‘I didn’t have much time, so the workmanship was not my best, but it was passable. I used old fragments of marble that were left over from a job we’d done repairing bomb damage. In three days I had enough to pass muster. I made an appointment at the Borghese and went round, with my notepad and my fragments.
‘I was shown into the office of a little man in the museum. I must say, I didn’t like him. One of those cold, arrogant, snobbish little men you come across sometimes. The sort who rhapsodise about sculpture but sneer at sculptors. I was a communist in those days, and perhaps a bit more sensitive to these things. It made me all the more determined, especially when it came out that he was the man who’d been assessing Hector’s Bernini.
‘So I ask him, “Are you finished?”
‘“Oh, indeed,” says he.
‘“And what do you think?”
‘“I don’t see how it concerns you. But, if you’re interested, it’s a very fine piece. One of The Master’s best early works. It would have been scandalous had it been lost to the country.”
‘“I’m sure Hector didn’t mean…”
‘“Signor di Souza is a scoundrel and a crook,” he says, in a nasty tone. “And I intend to ensure personally that he pays the price. I had a word with the prosecutor only this morning, and he is in full agreement. This sort of behaviour must be stamped out. An exemplary punishment will warn others.”
‘So you could see, that it didn’t look good for Hector at all. This man was out to get him. I hated him, I must confess. There he was, all sleek and well-dressed. He didn’t have to search around for food or worry where the next meal was coming from. He, with his family and his connections and his money, didn’t have to concern himself with making a living. And he was so sure of himself. So self-righteous.
‘“You’re impressed by the bust, then?” I ask him.
‘“Yes,” he replies. “Bernini has been my life’s work, and I have never seen a better example.”
‘So I say: “Well, I’m flattered. Thank you. I must say I was pleased as well. Though I say it myself.”
‘“What do you mean?”
‘“What do you think I mean? I sculpted that bust. Me. In my workshop. It’s not Bernini at all.”
‘Now, that rattled him good and proper. But he wasn’t having it. “You?” he says with a nasty sneer in his voice. “A common labourer? You expect me to believe a cock-and-bull story like that.”
‘“Common labourer I may be,” I say, proper mad now. “But an uncommon sculptor, if I might say so. Good enough, it seems, to make a fool out of a man who’s spent his life studying The Master, as you put it.”
‘You see, signorina, I’d all but forgotten Hector by now. I didn’t like being called a common labourer. Originally I just wanted to get him to leave Hector alone. But now, I was determined to humiliate him. He still didn’t believe me, so I whip out my drawings, and show them to him. Then I bring out my little pieces. A nose, an ear, a chin. You know. Practice pieces, I say. To get it just right on the finished marble.
‘You could see him getting uncertain, all his arrogance draining away. He looked at the drawings – I’m a good draughtsman – then at the lumps of stone I’d carved, and you could see him worrying. Maybe, he was thinking. Just maybe. You must remember what turmoil the art world was in. It wasn’t long since the Van Meegeren business in Holland, where the greatest experts had authenticated the most awful fakes. And everyone had a good laugh at their expense. This Alberghi man was not the sort to take a joke.
‘So I ploughed on with my story. I did my very best to convince him that I’d made the bust for Hector to sell to a foolish collector in Switzerland, who thought it was a great bargain. There was nothing illegal in it; you didn’t need a permit to export modern works. And then the Borghese comes in and authenticates it. Thank you very much, says I. Greatly increased in value now, I tell him. Hector will be pleased.
‘This was where I went too far, wanting to rub his nose in it. He snaps his head up and says, “What?”
‘And I say, “Well, in the letter you wrote to Hector you say it’s genuine. So, a bust with an authentication by you…”
‘“You will not use that letter…” he says, furiously.
‘And I smirk at him. “Try and stop us,” I say. “I will,” he replies.
‘So he calls a guard from the museum, and they go into the next room. Where the Bernini was. The first time I’d seen it, and it really was beautiful. Everything Alberghi and Hector said was true. Obviously the real thing. I could tell, just by looking. A lovely, lovely piece…’
He stopped again for a while before restarting, clearly hating every word that he uttered.
‘Anyway, Alberghi gestures at the bust, and tells the guard to pick it up. He does, even though it’s heavy, and Alberghi leads the way out. They go all the way through the museum, out to the back, to a little courtyard where some builders are doing work, and the guard puts it on the ground. I followed after them, you see. And Alberghi goes up to a workman, and takes a heavy sledgehammer from him. It was before I could do anything to stop him, you see…’
‘What happened?’
‘What do you think? He hit it just once, with enormous force. Right on the head. The blow spread straight through the marble, and the entire bust broke into pieces. A dozen, maybe more, and hundreds of shards. Irreparable damage. I just looked at what he’d done, and Alberghi threw the sledgehammer down and came up to me.
‘“Well, sculptor,” he says, all the nastiness back in his voice. “So much for that. That’s what you get if you try to pull a fast one on me. Now take your work and go.”
‘And he dusted off his hands and walked off. If I hadn’t goaded him, it might never have occurred to him to destroy it. I don’t know why I did it. I collected a few fragments, the least damaged bits, but there was nothing to be done with them.’
There was a long pause, during which Borunna didn’t feel like talking and Flavia could think of nothing to say.
‘How very unfortunate,’ Argyll put in rather lamely. Borunna glanced at him.
‘Unfortunate? Yes. But the trouble is…’
‘Yes?’
‘I don’t know how to tell you. You’ll think I’m a monster…’
‘Just try us.’
‘I felt happy.’
‘Happy?’
‘Yes. When that sledgehammer came down and that beautiful work was smashed into pieces, I was exultant. Triumphant. I can’t explain it. I’ve felt guilty about it ever since.’
He looked at her as though she could confer some form of absolution for his feeling. Which she felt unable to offer.
‘And Hector wasn’t prosecuted?’
‘Oh, no. There were no charges. Alberghi thought that any defence would have involved saying the bust was a copy and that could have made him a laughing-stock. Hector still had the letter. So all Hector heard was that the bust had been confiscated. And that was it.’
‘And you never told him?’
‘How could I? It would have broken his heart. I was destroyed by it. And Maria said it was best forgotten. So I forgot it all, until you turned up. I should have told you everything then. But as I knew that the bust in America couldn’t be genuine, I assumed Hector had been forging again. But if I had said something, at least he would still be alive.’
‘Is that what worries you most?’