lying is not alien to you, Father Giocondi. Nor is crime.”
Another shrug from Giocondi. “I will not take your insult personally. And I will not go through with this unless you pay me more.”
The door opened and Court Whitney poked his head into the boardroom, a practiced smile lighting his face. “Ready, Father?” he asked. “Your audience awaits.”
Giocondi looked to Mason; arched dyed eyebrows asked a question. Luther’s face was tight as he nodded. “All right,” he mumbled.
“Yes, I am ready, Signor Whitney. I look forward to meeting your honored guests.”
Mason stood and waited for Giocondi to do the same. “Court, I think it would be wise to spare the Father from the media who are here. We’ll handle all the questions at a later press conference. Father Giocondi should be sheltered from that.”
“Probably prudent, Luther. By the way, I’ve decided that after I announce the discovery of
Grottesca
, I’ll introduce you to say a few words and to introduce Father Giocondi.”
“I really don’t think that’s—”
“Spare me your modesty, Luther.” He slapped his senior curator on the back. “Come on. The hors d’oeuvres will be gone.”
They rode down in the elevator and took the underground moving walkway connecting the East and West buildings. As they stepped off, Giocondi stopped to admire a waterfall created by twenty-four jets of water in the exterior courtyard that linked the buildings. The water spewed six feet into the air and then ran down multiple tiny concrete steps to an expanse of glass that ran floor to ceiling.
“Bello! Bello!”
he exclaimed.
“Come,” Whitney urged.
By the time they joined the cocktail party, most of the guests had become aware of a painting covered by a red-velvet drape and mounted on an easel on steps leading up to an inactive fountain in the West Garden Court. It was flanked by two uniformed guards. Spotlights on portable metal stands were trained on the easel but had not yet been turned on.
“What is it?” one person asked another.
“Is this the big surprise we’ve been hearing about?”
“What could it be?”
“Scott, you must know what’s under that drape.”
Only satisfied, knowing smiles from M. Scott Pims. “Patience,” he replied to those inquiries. “All in due time.”
“That pompous, phony bastard,” a man said. “He doesn’t know any more than we do, just likes to make us think he does.”
With the appearance of Mason, Whitney, and the skinny little old priest in brown robe and sandals, attention went to them. People speculated on who the monk was.
Whitney circulated with his wife, leaving Mason and Giocondi on their own. Luther led Giocondi to a relatively quiet area behind the musicians. But he couldn’t hide. People kept coming up to congratulate Luther on his success at mounting the Caravaggio exhibition, which meant, of course, having to introduce Giocondi. “This is Father Pasquale Giocondi,” he said quickly. “He’s here from Italy and is my special guest this evening.” That sufficed for most people, although others attempted to engage Giocondi in conversation. Mason answered most of their questions for the priest.
Eventually, the guests were seated for dinner at candlelit tables of eight in the West Garden Court and the West Sculpture Hall. There was no dais. A lectern and microphone had been positioned to the side of the dry fountain, near the shrouded easel.
Court Whitney, the gallery trustees, and the vice president and other high-ranking representatives from government occupied tables nearest the fountain. A large contingent from the Italian Embassy, including Carlo Giliberti, took up two tables. Luther Mason and Father Giocondi sat at a table surprisinglydistant from the center of the action, considering that Luther was, in most eyes, the star of the evening. But he hadn’t wanted to be close to others. He chose this table when Special Events was making seating assignments and arranged for
Another shrug from Giocondi. “I will not take your insult personally. And I will not go through with this unless you pay me more.”
The door opened and Court Whitney poked his head into the boardroom, a practiced smile lighting his face. “Ready, Father?” he asked. “Your audience awaits.”
Giocondi looked to Mason; arched dyed eyebrows asked a question. Luther’s face was tight as he nodded. “All right,” he mumbled.
“Yes, I am ready, Signor Whitney. I look forward to meeting your honored guests.”
Mason stood and waited for Giocondi to do the same. “Court, I think it would be wise to spare the Father from the media who are here. We’ll handle all the questions at a later press conference. Father Giocondi should be sheltered from that.”
“Probably prudent, Luther. By the way, I’ve decided that after I announce the discovery of
Grottesca
, I’ll introduce you to say a few words and to introduce Father Giocondi.”
“I really don’t think that’s—”
“Spare me your modesty, Luther.” He slapped his senior curator on the back. “Come on. The hors d’oeuvres will be gone.”
They rode down in the elevator and took the underground moving walkway connecting the East and West buildings. As they stepped off, Giocondi stopped to admire a waterfall created by twenty-four jets of water in the exterior courtyard that linked the buildings. The water spewed six feet into the air and then ran down multiple tiny concrete steps to an expanse of glass that ran floor to ceiling.
“Bello! Bello!”
he exclaimed.
“Come,” Whitney urged.
By the time they joined the cocktail party, most of the guests had become aware of a painting covered by a red-velvet drape and mounted on an easel on steps leading up to an inactive fountain in the West Garden Court. It was flanked by two uniformed guards. Spotlights on portable metal stands were trained on the easel but had not yet been turned on.
“What is it?” one person asked another.
“Is this the big surprise we’ve been hearing about?”
“What could it be?”
“Scott, you must know what’s under that drape.”
Only satisfied, knowing smiles from M. Scott Pims. “Patience,” he replied to those inquiries. “All in due time.”
“That pompous, phony bastard,” a man said. “He doesn’t know any more than we do, just likes to make us think he does.”
With the appearance of Mason, Whitney, and the skinny little old priest in brown robe and sandals, attention went to them. People speculated on who the monk was.
Whitney circulated with his wife, leaving Mason and Giocondi on their own. Luther led Giocondi to a relatively quiet area behind the musicians. But he couldn’t hide. People kept coming up to congratulate Luther on his success at mounting the Caravaggio exhibition, which meant, of course, having to introduce Giocondi. “This is Father Pasquale Giocondi,” he said quickly. “He’s here from Italy and is my special guest this evening.” That sufficed for most people, although others attempted to engage Giocondi in conversation. Mason answered most of their questions for the priest.
Eventually, the guests were seated for dinner at candlelit tables of eight in the West Garden Court and the West Sculpture Hall. There was no dais. A lectern and microphone had been positioned to the side of the dry fountain, near the shrouded easel.
Court Whitney, the gallery trustees, and the vice president and other high-ranking representatives from government occupied tables nearest the fountain. A large contingent from the Italian Embassy, including Carlo Giliberti, took up two tables. Luther Mason and Father Giocondi sat at a table surprisinglydistant from the center of the action, considering that Luther was, in most eyes, the star of the evening. But he hadn’t wanted to be close to others. He chose this table when Special Events was making seating assignments and arranged for
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