Leonardo’s secrete.

Florence 10^th April 2002,

5 days to Da Vinci International Conference celebrating his birthday’s 550 anniversary.

It was early afternoon when after a three hours flight from Poland and short taxi journey, David King was getting out of an old Fiat Tipo at the doorstep of Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze, Italy’s largest national public library at via Tripoli just by the Arno river.

He could not refuse his old professor’s request to attend the annual conference about Leonardo Da Vinci. Professor White could not come and agreed with his Italian host to send his most trusted student instead. As David was still at the start of his professional career, he could not decline this strange request and withing a day he re-booked the plane tickets and amended hotel’s reservation. Now, with a smile on his face he was stepping onto the warm Tuscan sun, admiring almost three hundred years old façade of this impressive complex filled with treasures any book lover dreams to see.

Professor Bernadotte was waiting for him in his office and after a short introduction at the reception he was led through the labyrinth of corridors by one of young librarians. Marco, tall, curly haired and strangely vivid person for someone spending most of the day in this temple of knowledge, knocked at the dark brown wooden door and ushered David to enter a small room.

‘You must be David,’ soft voice called from behind the desk that was entirely covered with books, notebooks and loose papers, all sorted in a strange way, known only to the man in his late sixties, getting up from a chair and approaching him with an outstretched hand.

‘Yes, David King. Nice to meet you,’ answered newcomer making a hesitant step towards professor and grasping his bony hand.

Bernadotte quickly welcomed him and walked to the librarian standing by the door.

‘Thank you, Marco,’ he said warmly, ‘it is ok, I was expecting David. Do not worry, you may go.’ Professor Bernadotte smiled towards his young colleague, walking him to the door and when he was gone, he turned to David: ‘He was my student and he is the only person I shared part of my discovery with.’

David smiled listening this unnecessary explanation.

‘Professor White asked me to pass on his sincerest apologies, but he felt so weak and ill, he just physically could not come.’ he said, looking at the old man, retreating quickly to his desk.

‘I understand,’ said his host sitting heavily on the leathered chair, that must have been at least the same age as its occupier. Bernadotte looked at David for a long ten seconds, that for David seemed like eternity. He felt like he moved in time to his first year of studies, when for the first time he was having face to face exam with Professor White. The feeling of uncertainty was exactly the same, like Bernadotte was not only looking at him, but also reading his mind and assessing him. But for what?

‘Thomas, I mean Professor White, told me that you are very bright and intelligent man with a brain that is still to reach your full potential.’

‘Thank you,’ answered David, nodding his head, to hide his surprised and flattered face.

‘He has also said that I can tell you whatever I think, and you will help me.’ David did not know if it was a question or just a statement, so he decided to wait silently and listen to the next part. ‘Thomas told me that you wrote quite an intriguing paper on Leonardo during your studies. What was it about? Tell me.’ Old man asked the question and rest his back on the chair ready to listen.

David told him about the paper he wrote during his second year at Warsaw University, where he examined some of Leonardo’s work as a source and an inspiration for Renaissance starting in Europe. Professor Bernadotte was listening and nodding his head from time to time. David had an impression that a hint of smile flashed through the corner of the mouth of a graying man with brightly blue eyes.

‘There were some very good ideas,’ he said when David finished, ‘but there is one point that I must talk to you about.’

‘I am happy to discuss any of them.’ David felt much more confident now. He knew that his research was as thorough as it was humanly possible.

‘Of course back in Poland you did not have so many sources to study Leonardo as we here in Florence so I am not surprised with lack of some points that I would emphasize, but still it must have been a very good paper.’ Old man got up of his chair and walk to one of the walls of his office.

‘I don’t know how much Thomas told you about me. I spent my entire life studying Leonardo. If you look around my office, all books here are either about him, his students, his works or Italian Renaissance.’ Professor Bernadotte was pointing to various parts of his private library. Previously David was so preoccupied with discussion that he did not have the time to look around, but now he skimmed the shelves that stretched from the floor to the ceiling on all sides of his office. There was only small gap for the door and slightly wider for the window, to let the light come in. Apart of this, every inch of the walls was hidden behind the wall of manuscripts.   

Professor Bernadotte sighted, came closer and sat on the only free wooden chair, next to David.

‘You see…,’ he started but paused thinking how to express himself, ‘You see, I found out something what I want to announce to the world during the conference, but I must check it first…’

‘What is it?’

‘What is Leonardo’s most famous painting?’ Asked Bernadotte in return.

‘There are two that come to my mind straight away,’ said David, looking into professor’s blue eyes: ‘Lady with an ermine and Last Supper, which is a mural painting, not a canvas painting.’

‘Yes. Agree.’ Bernadotte, straighten up and asked: ‘What would you say if I told you that Leonardo did not created Last Supper?’

‘Not possible.’ David said without a shadow of any doubt.

‘Why would you say it?’

‘Sir,’ David thought for a moment about the next words. He knew that his knowledge of Leonardo, although good, was most probably like a pond compared to the ocean of knowledge Bernadotte possessed. Before he said anything more, he looked at his host and tried to guess his play.

After a long pause, when professor was waiting for his answer he decided to ask.

‘Sir, why did you actually ask about it?’

‘You see…’ hesitantly Bernadotte said: ‘He did not create it.’

‘But how? There were so many scientists, who confirmed the authenticity, who actually saw him working on it. How can you decline it?’ David finally understood the secrecy. Bernadotte found out something that would shake the horizon of our knowledge of Leonardo as a creator of one of the most important painting in Christianity and needed to talk to somebody before stepping on the podium during the conference that is to start in few days.

‘You see my friend, I studied Last Supper for almost a decade. Microscopic photographs, core samples, infrared reflectoscopy and all other methods to reach Leonardo’s original painting and examine it. In the meantime, I read every possible book about it. The result is always the same. It is not his…’

After his last words tense silence fell in the office. David was shocked and he muttered: ‘But…. It is Leonardo, it is Last Supper we are talking about, professor.’ Was the only phrase he could choke out of his mouth at the moment.

‘I know. And I know that there are people who do not want to know the truth.’

‘Why?’

‘Now is my turn, it is Leonardo and Last Supper we are talking about. The person and the painting that laid foundation for Renaissance. For many it would be better if this was never revealed.’

Suddenly David realised close they were sitting and how quietly professor was talking. Like they were some spies, in hush voices confiding secretes others were not supposed to know. Suddenly Professor Bernadotte straighten up, got up of his chair and walked round his office collecting two books from the shelves and one from his desk. As he was walking around the office, he was quietly talking to David:

‘I will give you some of the books. One is mine.’ At this moment he turned and smiled, like a young proud boy. ‘Read them but most importantly read my comments. Come back tomorrow and we will talk a bit more.’

He handed David three volumes and told him to put them into his backpack, so nobody would ask him about the books. They agreed to see each other next day at the same time at professor’s house, just outside Florence.

David’s stay was booked at neighbouring Plaza Hotel Lucchesi, next to the Library, so within next ten minutes he checked in, unpacked his luggage and ordered a bottle of wine to his room. His mind was already set up for reading and he could not withstand the seconds of delay. That night was really short. He switched the light when it was already getting brighter outside his window, but with three glasses of red wine in his bloodstream he quickly fell asleep.

11^th April 2002,

4 days to Da Vinci International Conference.

On the outskirts of Florence stood an old house with a plaque confirming that the rusty gate with an old coat of arms was the entrance to professor’s house. Holding the note with an address written on it, David pushed the iron gate and stepped into an overgrown green garden that would have looked magnificent providing the owner spent more time in the garden than among old books and paintings.

Narrow path, two small slabs wide, led to two storey building. As instructed earlier, David walked to the door, pressed the bell and without waiting walked into the house. Faint steps at the upper floor seemed to come closer and after a moment professor Bernadotte appeared on the top of the stairs.

‘So, you found my humble abode. How do you like it?’

‘The garden might need some attention,’ David said, smiling.

‘Yes, I know. I hope to get to it after the conference. I must get ready. It is only few days and I need to make sure my points are watertight.’

‘I am happy to help,’ David offered, knowing perfectly well that this was the reason why they met here, not in the library.

‘I will get us a glass of wine and we will go to my office.’

In a quarter they were busy working through the most important points off the thesis.

Professor Bernadotte was explaining his discovery.

‘It all clicked when I was reading Bandello’s novel and the way he described Leonardo’s work. I don’t know why it was bothering me and this was my starting point.’

‘What was it, could you tell me one more time, please?’ Asked David, trying to follow his partner.   

‘Bandello was a novelist, Leonardo’s contemporary. He is the most important witness describing how Leonardo was working on the painting.’

‘OK, I get it.’

‘Now is the most intriguing part.’ Bernadotte made a pause for a bigger effect. ‘As you read last night, he elaborated how on some days Leonardo was coming and working from sunrise to sunset. Non-stop. But then he used to take two- or three-days breaks. You did read it, didn’t you?’

David, asked suddenly a direct question, managed to nod quickly, as professor was already talking again.

‘I asked myself, why he was having such long breaks? What was going on in the meantime?’

‘He rested, didn’t he?’ Offered David.

‘Yes, and not,’ old man smiled and continued ‘You see, Leonardo was well known for having around himself numerous students whose ideas he tended to use to his own advantage, develop and claim as his. The best example might be famous Vitruvian Man. We all know that it is Leonardo’s drawing, but only a handful of specialists knows that the idea originated from one of his students. It was not Leonardo, who was the author, but one of his students. He just listened, then mastered the idea, improved and now everyone knows it is Leonardo’s.’

‘How does it apply to Last Supper?’ Asked David.

‘Interesting question,’ Bernadotte quickly looked into his notes. ‘At this time, Leonardo was quite often a bit ill, not himself, what extended the work on the painting. I created almost daily calendar of how much of the work was done. What comes out of this is that some people on the picture were drawn when he was sick. This led me to a suspicion. What if the whole painting was in fact more of student work, than Leonardo’s own one?’

‘Like the Vitruvian Man?’ David interjected.

‘Exactly!’ Professor Bernadotte could not compose himself now. ‘My idea is, that the students were sketching the Last Supper for him. Yes. He painted it, but it was more of colouring exercise than painting. Off course some ideas over there, on this wall were his, but I would say that eighty percent of this mural was his students.’

‘You must be really brave to make claims like that.’ David nodded thoughtfully.

‘As I told you, I have spent almost ten years of my life to this research. I want it to be my legacy to the world.’ Bernadotte smiled, but there was a sadness hidden behind his joyful face.

Another few hours have passed on a discussion regarding Leonardo’s authorship of Last Supper, when they eventually decided to call it a day.

‘I will see you tomorrow. The same time, ok?’ Asked professor Bernadotte, when David was almost at the door.

‘With a great pleasure!’

‘I will tell you who actually painted it and how they did it.’

His young guest was leaving with another set of books. He waved his hand and called back: ‘I am dying to know!’ Then with a smile he walked the path to the iron gate and disappeared consumed by the ordinary, everyday life.

12^th April, 3 days to the Conference.

There was something not right. Taxi could not get through the firefighters’ vehicles blocking all width of the road, so David paid a charge and vacated the car. He was not allowed to go any further, but he did not have to. All what was left from professor’s house in lush garden was a burnt down bare walls with evident marks of fire.

‘Professore?’ He asked people nearby, trying his Italian, but they only shook their arms. Suddenly David got scared that someone might have overheard his revelations and target the old man. ‘I need to check in the library,’ he decided and quickly looked around in search for the nearest taxi.

Half of an hour later he was back, climbing set of stairs at the National Library portico. There was different receptionist at the desk, but this time David felt more confident. He approached the desk and asked to talk to Professor Bernadotte.

‘I don’t know anyone with this name, Sir.’ Answered the receptionist.

‘How is it possible? He has got his office here.’ Said David.

‘Does he? I am new. If you know where it is, you can lead the way and we can check it up. Let’s go.’ Offered receptionist and they went the same corridors as David walked with Marco few days earlier. Eventually they got to the same wooden door, the receptionist knocked and open the room.

‘What happened here?’ gasped David looking at oddly looking room resembling more a storage room for cleaners than the office. ‘I…. I was here. It did not look like it. It was an office with plenty of books...’

‘I can guarantee you, there was no office here for last few years,’ said the man and David heard a sound that warned him to better not to argue with this man. Receptionist, who was a massive man, walked him back to the reception and even to the door, like he was making sure he leaves the premises.

David walked down the steps not knowing what to do and where to go. He stopped for a longer moment at the bottom of the steps, looking blindly across the plaza and into the river. He decided to go to his hotel room to gather his thoughts. It took him just few moments to get to the lobby, but when he was waiting for the lift, a young woman in hotel uniform approached him and asked:

‘Mr King?’ He looked at her in utter surprise, so she repeated her question: ‘Mr David King? Professor’s Bernadotte friend?’ David nodded without saying any word, measuring woman with his eyes.

She gave him an envelope saying: ‘A tall young man with black curly hair left this for you.’

‘Thank you,’ said David and waited for her to leave before he opened the envelop. On a small piece of paper was only one word: ‘RUN! M.’

David looked around. The door to the lift opened and a young couple walked out holding their hands and laughing quietly. Smell of sweet perfumes followed them. It took him less than five minutes to pack his things up, including the books he was given, and leave the room. Half an hour later he was on his way to the airport, hoping nobody was following him.

‘Sometimes it is not safe to find the truth about old paintings and old masters,’ he thought turning to see the lofty doom of Florence Cathedral disappearing on the horizon.