The parents of the children, tourists from Sydney, looked delighted at having found some impromptu entertainment for their children as they enjoyed their breakfast. The kids sat giggling, mixing colours, trying to copy the outline of St Peter’s Basilica that Stella was working on.
‘Hey, look at you go! I love that shade of orange you’ve created,’ Stella said to the girl, who blushed with pride.
‘And what about my brown?’ asked the boy.
‘You know what? That’s the best brown I’ve ever seen! You see that guy over there?’ She pointed to Marco, who stood by their parents’ table. ‘He’s my boss. Make sure he doesn’t see how clever you are, else I reckon I’ll lose my job.’
The boy gave a hearty laugh. ‘I’m going to show him!’
‘No, you will not!’ Stella joked.
‘Try to stop me!’ He darted away.
‘Hope you can work weekends!’ Stella called back. ‘The hours are manic!’
The boy ran to his parents to share the compliments he had received, brown-covered plate in hand. Both parents looked drained. The father ordered a second coffee from Marco, while the mother mouthed a simple ‘thank you’ from across the table. Winking in reply, Stella knew these two must be a handful.
Unbeknown to Stella, she was being carefully watched by a woman in her mid-sixties sat in the opposite corner of Bar Luna e Lupa, completely engrossed by the interaction between Stella and the children. Quietly sipping her cappuccino, she discarded her half-moon glasses and copy ofLa Repubblicato make some notes on a small pad.
Eventually, the family left, but not before taking photos with Stella and her half-completed mural. The story of their interaction would no doubt be shared as a highlight of their trip, remembering how they were artists for a day by chance, having stepped into the right bar in Rome at just the right time.
‘You are so good with kids,’ Marco said, handing her one of Ignazio’s hazelnut toppedbiscottini. ‘Mangia.’
‘Ooh,grazie.’ She popped the treat in her mouth, but not without removing the hazelnut first.
Marco bit down on his lower lip to muffle his smile.
Chewing, Stella said, ‘They are so wonderful. Children have such a beautiful way of viewing the world. Adding art to the mix is just fun. They interpret and translate what their imaginations create more freely than adults do. They are less self-conscious.’ Clearing her throat, she popped the hazelnut in her mouth and licked her lips. ‘I miss itsomuch.’
‘Working with—’
‘Kids. Yes.’ She exhaled and reached for the plastic-wrapped plates. ‘The mess. The madness. I miss it all. Education is where I belong. Not some stuffed-shirt uppity gallery.’ She couldn’t help but scowl.
Marco gave Stella’s forearm a reassuring squeeze before returning to the till, as the lady who had been seated at the back approached the counter. Stella returned to her mural, consulting her sketchbook and design ideas. Happy with the outline she had prepared in grey lead, now came the time to fill and block the depiction of St Peter’s Basilica. Turning to add paint to her palette, Stella had the eerie feeling she was being watched. Instinctively, she turned around.
The woman was now sat at the service counter, watching Stella work. ‘Don’t stop on my account,’ she said, adjusting her glasses. ‘Go on.’
There was something cold about her. Her thin lips didn’t so much as crack a smile and her gaze was calculating and analytical. Stella noted how the woman’s English accent was flecked with a refined and elegant air, forcing her Os to round pompously with each syllable. Her greying hair was neatly clipped back to one side, counterbalanced by the colourful silk scarf tied neatly in a bow over her opposite shoulder. Other than the scarf, she wore classic black – a button-down cardi teamed with a knitted pleated skirt. Her knee-high boots were simple but of exceptional quality and her hosiery was undeniably Italian, black sheer with a houndstooth print. She was graceful and exuded timeless good taste. Stella couldn’t help but feel intimidated.
‘Sorry, do I know you?’ Stella asked with a crackling voice.
‘No, you clearly don’t,’ the woman started. ‘But you ought to.’
She walked over to Stella and handed her a business card. The paper stock felt as if it had been layered in velvet. It was mostly white with a black logo in the centre – an ornate picture frame, within which sat the lettersAAIin a bold typeface. Stella wondered why that sounded so familiar. Turning over the card the reason became clear:Gabrielle Belmont. Director. Accademia dell’Arte Italiana.Stella immediately felt a rush of blood to her face, slightly embarrassed she hadn’t recognised the legendary woman. A groundbreaking force in the art world, exceptionally private and hardly ever seen in public. Stella had read many interviews with her over the years in art journals and various other publications, all with one common theme – privacy and professionalism, above all else.
Gabrielle Belmont had established the AAI as a means of eliminating corruption in the Italian art world; dodgy deals, fakes and frauds, quality care and restoration. She wasn’t in the business of making or trading art, she was all about protecting it. The AAI worked alongside the world’s biggest auction houses to authenticate work, offer truthful valuations on selling estimates and restoration costs, not to mention partnering with the greatest galleries of Europe to safeguard art while in transit between exhibits. Her work, and the work of the AAI, were critical to maintaining integrity in the art world.
As expected, she had many critics. Those in the black market would avoid her like the plague and feared her legal wrath. Similarly, those in possession of fraudulent and replica works, whether they knew it or not, stood to be challenged in a very public, humiliating way if they crossed her path. She had the reputation of a tyrannical dictator: ill-tempered, curt and embarrassingly direct. There was no mincing words with this woman.
Time stood still, and Stella, still frozen in Gabrielle’s presence, was in awe of the woman in front of her. ‘Oh, my goodness,’ she gushed. ‘Ms Belmont, I’m delighted—’
‘Doctor.’
‘Oh, sorry!’ She corrected herself. ‘Dr Belmont, I am so honoured to meet you. I have followed your work for many years now. This is a privilege.’
Gabrielle was used to receiving these effusive pleasantries, though had no time for them. She changed the topic immediately. ‘I was watching you. Just now. With the children.’
Stella suddenly felt even more self-conscious. Covered in paint, wearing dirty clothes, surrounded by equipment, this is not how her ideal version of this meeting would’ve gone.
