papers, most of which he had preserved after their death, remained in their study, but not gathering dust. He kept it clean, spending hours in there himself, like he did as a child, just looking at the pictures in the art books.
He went over to a leather-topped writing desk, picked up some papers, and looked through them. They consisted of bank statements, utility bills, discarded receipts, a few stubs from airplane tickets. He looked at the bank statements, and saw Treacy had a balance of € 243,722 in his Unicredit checking account. Not bad. The plane ticket stubs were all for London and Rome. Treacy had made at least two round trips in the last year. The utility bills were modest. An injunction demanding payment for a TV license lay on top of a brochure for holiday homes in Umbria.
“It’s legal to copy pictures, you know,” he said, dropping the papers back on the desk. “Only the moment a fake is offered for sale as an original does it become a crime, and even then it’s hard to prove intent. See this?” Blume pointed to a drawing of a nude male in red and black chalk on what looked like old paper.
“A naked man,” said Caterina. “He drew that?”
“It looks like a Pontormo, but it’s signed Treacy,” said Blume. “Also, it’s hanging here in his own room.”
“What does that signify?”
“Nothing. Just that he was a very good draftsman.”
Blume wandered over to a mahogany bookshelf. The lower shelves had been removed to make room for large volumes, mostly art books and reproductions, but Blume also saw coverless dictionaries, road maps, atlases, and journals piled up.
The upper shelves contained mainly novels. Amis, Arpino, Atwood, Banville, Barnes, Beckett, Brontë. An organized man. A man of leisure. A foolscap-size notebook with a marbled cover lay open on the writing desk.
“No date on this,” said Blume, looking at the spidery script. It was written with black fountain ink.
“Not great penmanship for an artist,” said Caterina, coming over. “I can’t make out a word.”
“He was getting on in years and if he was in pain, it would have an effect.”
Marking the open page with his thumb, he turned to the inside cover of the notebook, and saw Treacy had written his name. Below that he had written “Diary,” then crossed it out and written “Untitled,” which was crossed out and replaced with “Painting my Outward Walls,” also crossed out. The final title seemed to be “An (im)practical handbook for . . .” but he had evidently not decided who it was for. Blume returned to the page he had found lying open.
“I can see why it was hard for you to make out,” he said. “It’s in English.”
“I know English,” said Caterina. She sounded very offended. “My father was a NATO liaison officer with the army. I studied in English-language schools in Germany, Turkey, and Canada, till I was fifteen, and later I lived in London for four years. Didn’t you read my file?”
“Sure I did. I must have forgotten.”
“You didn’t read it. You didn’t know I had a kid, either.”
“OK, I didn’t read it, then. I just read the reports about you from the immigration department, two recommendations from magistrates, the details of a few cases. I skipped the rest. What you did in your childhood is not relevant.”
“How come you know so much about painting?”
“My parents were art historians, and so I used—ah, well done. Very clever. OK, sometimes the past is relevant. But only incidentally. Still, it’s good to know you speak English, if we’re going to have to read through this guy’s papers.”
He took the book in his hands and, frowning a little at the poor handwriting and crossings-out, read:
“Chemically, Cinnabar is also called Vermilion or cinnabarite is red mercury (II) sulfide (HgS), a common ore of mercury and an essential part of our palette. Make sure your cinnabar really comes from China, as Italian dealers have been known to fake the
He went over to a leather-topped writing desk, picked up some papers, and looked through them. They consisted of bank statements, utility bills, discarded receipts, a few stubs from airplane tickets. He looked at the bank statements, and saw Treacy had a balance of € 243,722 in his Unicredit checking account. Not bad. The plane ticket stubs were all for London and Rome. Treacy had made at least two round trips in the last year. The utility bills were modest. An injunction demanding payment for a TV license lay on top of a brochure for holiday homes in Umbria.
“It’s legal to copy pictures, you know,” he said, dropping the papers back on the desk. “Only the moment a fake is offered for sale as an original does it become a crime, and even then it’s hard to prove intent. See this?” Blume pointed to a drawing of a nude male in red and black chalk on what looked like old paper.
“A naked man,” said Caterina. “He drew that?”
“It looks like a Pontormo, but it’s signed Treacy,” said Blume. “Also, it’s hanging here in his own room.”
“What does that signify?”
“Nothing. Just that he was a very good draftsman.”
Blume wandered over to a mahogany bookshelf. The lower shelves had been removed to make room for large volumes, mostly art books and reproductions, but Blume also saw coverless dictionaries, road maps, atlases, and journals piled up.
The upper shelves contained mainly novels. Amis, Arpino, Atwood, Banville, Barnes, Beckett, Brontë. An organized man. A man of leisure. A foolscap-size notebook with a marbled cover lay open on the writing desk.
“No date on this,” said Blume, looking at the spidery script. It was written with black fountain ink.
“Not great penmanship for an artist,” said Caterina, coming over. “I can’t make out a word.”
“He was getting on in years and if he was in pain, it would have an effect.”
Marking the open page with his thumb, he turned to the inside cover of the notebook, and saw Treacy had written his name. Below that he had written “Diary,” then crossed it out and written “Untitled,” which was crossed out and replaced with “Painting my Outward Walls,” also crossed out. The final title seemed to be “An (im)practical handbook for . . .” but he had evidently not decided who it was for. Blume returned to the page he had found lying open.
“I can see why it was hard for you to make out,” he said. “It’s in English.”
“I know English,” said Caterina. She sounded very offended. “My father was a NATO liaison officer with the army. I studied in English-language schools in Germany, Turkey, and Canada, till I was fifteen, and later I lived in London for four years. Didn’t you read my file?”
“Sure I did. I must have forgotten.”
“You didn’t read it. You didn’t know I had a kid, either.”
“OK, I didn’t read it, then. I just read the reports about you from the immigration department, two recommendations from magistrates, the details of a few cases. I skipped the rest. What you did in your childhood is not relevant.”
“How come you know so much about painting?”
“My parents were art historians, and so I used—ah, well done. Very clever. OK, sometimes the past is relevant. But only incidentally. Still, it’s good to know you speak English, if we’re going to have to read through this guy’s papers.”
He took the book in his hands and, frowning a little at the poor handwriting and crossings-out, read:
“Chemically, Cinnabar is also called Vermilion or cinnabarite is red mercury (II) sulfide (HgS), a common ore of mercury and an essential part of our palette. Make sure your cinnabar really comes from China, as Italian dealers have been known to fake the
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