people appointed to decide which pieces of decadent art should be disposed of by galleries and museums.’
‘Disposed of?’ Brunetti asked.
‘It was one of the diseases that came down from the North,’ the Count said drily, and then continued.
‘There was a long list of painters who were declared objectionable: Goya, Matisse, Chagall, and the German Expressionists. Many others, as well: it was enough that they were Jewish. Or that the subjects of their paintings weren’t pretty or supportive of Party myth. Any evidence had to be removed from the walls of museums, and many people took the precaution of removing paintings from the walls of their houses.’
‘Where did they go?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Well you may ask,’ the Count answered. ‘Often, they were the first paintings that were sold by people who needed enough money to survive or who wanted to leave the country, though they got very little for them.’
‘And the museums?’
The Count smiled, that peculiarly cynical tightening of the lips his daughter had inherited from him. ‘It was Guzzardi
figlio
whose job it was to decide which things had to be removed.’
‘And was it his job,’ Brunetti asked, beginning to see where this might be leading, ‘to decide where they were sent and to keep the records of where they were?’
‘I’m so glad to see that all of these years at the police have done nothing to affect the workings of your mind, Guido,’ the Count said with affectionate irony.
Brunetti ignored the remark, and the Count continued, ‘Many things seem to have disappeared in the chaos. It seems though, that he went too far. I think it was in 1942. There was a Swiss family living on the Grand Canal in an old place that had been in their family for generations. The father, who had some sort of title,’ the Count said with an easy dismissal of all claims to aristocracy that did not go back more than a thousand years, ‘was the honorary consul, and the son was always in trouble for saying things against the current government here, but he was never arrested because of his father, who was very well connected. Finally, I can’t remember when it was, the son was found in the attic with two British Air Force officers he’d hidden there. The story was very unclear, but it seems that the Guzzardis had found out about it and one of them sent in the police.’ He stopped talking, and Brunetti watched him try to call back these memories from more than half a century ago.
‘The police took all of them away,’ the Count went on. ‘Later, the evening of the same day, both of the Guzzardis paid a call on the father in his
palazzo
and, well, there was a discussion of some sort. At the end of it, it was agreed that the boy would be sent home and the matter dropped.’
‘And the airmen?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘The Guzzardis, then?’ Brunetti asked.
‘They are reported to have left the
palazzo
that night with a large parcel.’
‘Decadent art?’
‘No one knows. The consul was a great collector of early master drawings: Tiziano, Tintoretto, Carpaccio. He was also a great friend of Venice and gave many things to the museums.’
‘But not the drawings?’
‘They were not in the
palazzo
at the end of the war,’ the Count explained.
‘And the Guzzardis?’ Brunetti asked.
‘It seems that the Consul had been at school with the man who was sent here as British ambassador right after the war, and the Englishman insisted that something be done about the Guzzardis.’
‘And?’
‘Guzzardi, the son, was put on trial. I don’t remember what the exact charges were, but there was never any question about what would happen. The ambassador was a very wealthy man, you see, as well as a very generous one, and that made him very powerful.’ The Count looked at the wall behind Brunetti, where three Tiziano drawings hung in a row, as if to ask them to prompt his memory.
‘I don’t know that the drawings were ever seen again. The rumour I
‘Disposed of?’ Brunetti asked.
‘It was one of the diseases that came down from the North,’ the Count said drily, and then continued.
‘There was a long list of painters who were declared objectionable: Goya, Matisse, Chagall, and the German Expressionists. Many others, as well: it was enough that they were Jewish. Or that the subjects of their paintings weren’t pretty or supportive of Party myth. Any evidence had to be removed from the walls of museums, and many people took the precaution of removing paintings from the walls of their houses.’
‘Where did they go?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Well you may ask,’ the Count answered. ‘Often, they were the first paintings that were sold by people who needed enough money to survive or who wanted to leave the country, though they got very little for them.’
‘And the museums?’
The Count smiled, that peculiarly cynical tightening of the lips his daughter had inherited from him. ‘It was Guzzardi
figlio
whose job it was to decide which things had to be removed.’
‘And was it his job,’ Brunetti asked, beginning to see where this might be leading, ‘to decide where they were sent and to keep the records of where they were?’
‘I’m so glad to see that all of these years at the police have done nothing to affect the workings of your mind, Guido,’ the Count said with affectionate irony.
Brunetti ignored the remark, and the Count continued, ‘Many things seem to have disappeared in the chaos. It seems though, that he went too far. I think it was in 1942. There was a Swiss family living on the Grand Canal in an old place that had been in their family for generations. The father, who had some sort of title,’ the Count said with an easy dismissal of all claims to aristocracy that did not go back more than a thousand years, ‘was the honorary consul, and the son was always in trouble for saying things against the current government here, but he was never arrested because of his father, who was very well connected. Finally, I can’t remember when it was, the son was found in the attic with two British Air Force officers he’d hidden there. The story was very unclear, but it seems that the Guzzardis had found out about it and one of them sent in the police.’ He stopped talking, and Brunetti watched him try to call back these memories from more than half a century ago.
‘The police took all of them away,’ the Count went on. ‘Later, the evening of the same day, both of the Guzzardis paid a call on the father in his
palazzo
and, well, there was a discussion of some sort. At the end of it, it was agreed that the boy would be sent home and the matter dropped.’
‘And the airmen?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘The Guzzardis, then?’ Brunetti asked.
‘They are reported to have left the
palazzo
that night with a large parcel.’
‘Decadent art?’
‘No one knows. The consul was a great collector of early master drawings: Tiziano, Tintoretto, Carpaccio. He was also a great friend of Venice and gave many things to the museums.’
‘But not the drawings?’
‘They were not in the
palazzo
at the end of the war,’ the Count explained.
‘And the Guzzardis?’ Brunetti asked.
‘It seems that the Consul had been at school with the man who was sent here as British ambassador right after the war, and the Englishman insisted that something be done about the Guzzardis.’
‘And?’
‘Guzzardi, the son, was put on trial. I don’t remember what the exact charges were, but there was never any question about what would happen. The ambassador was a very wealthy man, you see, as well as a very generous one, and that made him very powerful.’ The Count looked at the wall behind Brunetti, where three Tiziano drawings hung in a row, as if to ask them to prompt his memory.
‘I don’t know that the drawings were ever seen again. The rumour I
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