On August 22, 1911, the world was shocked by an unthinkable crime: Leonardo Da Vinci’s masterpiece, the Mona Lisa, disappeared from the walls of the Louvre. While artists such as Picasso and Apollinaire were suspected of the theft, no arrests were made. Two years later an Italian, Vincenzo Peruggia, was detained when trying to sell the Mona Lisa to an antiques dealer in Florence—but the mystery of the theft itself was never satisfactorily resolved.
Fifteen years later, someone calling himself “the Marquis de Valfierno” cannot tolerate dying without the world knowing of his audacious exploits. And so, he decides to confide his life story to an American journalist: from his impoverished émigré origins as the son of a servant woman in Buenos Aires to his rise as the most dangerous conman in the world. Through a series of remarkable but evolving masks of identity, beginning as a marginal criminal of Argentina’s lower depths and ending up a wealthy aristocrat of the Belle Époque, first in Buenos Aires, then in Paris, he slowly transforms himself into “Valfierno.” Only then is he prepared to undertake the unthinkable, his own “masterpiece” of the criminal arts.
On August 22, 1911, the world was shocked by an unthinkable crime: Leonardo Da Vinci’s masterpiece, the Mona Lisa, disappeared from the walls of the Louvre. While artists such as Picasso and Apollinaire were suspected of the theft, no arrests were made. Two years later an Italian, Vincenzo Peruggia, was detained when trying to sell the Mona Lisa to an antiques dealer in Florence—but the mystery of the theft itself was never satisfactorily resolved.
Fifteen years later, someone calling himself “the Marquis de Valfierno” cannot tolerate dying without the world knowing of his audacious exploits. And so, he decides to confide his life story to an American journalist: from his impoverished émigré origins as the son of a servant woman in Buenos Aires to his rise as the most dangerous conman in the world. Through a series of remarkable but evolving masks of identity, beginning as a marginal criminal of Argentina’s lower depths and ending up a wealthy aristocrat of the Belle Époque, first in Buenos Aires, then in Paris, he slowly transforms himself into “Valfierno.” Only then is he prepared to undertake the unthinkable, his own “masterpiece” of the criminal arts.
The Vanishing of the Mona Lisa: A Novel
352
The Vanishing of the Mona Lisa: A Novel
352Paperback(Reprint)
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Overview
On August 22, 1911, the world was shocked by an unthinkable crime: Leonardo Da Vinci’s masterpiece, the Mona Lisa, disappeared from the walls of the Louvre. While artists such as Picasso and Apollinaire were suspected of the theft, no arrests were made. Two years later an Italian, Vincenzo Peruggia, was detained when trying to sell the Mona Lisa to an antiques dealer in Florence—but the mystery of the theft itself was never satisfactorily resolved.
Fifteen years later, someone calling himself “the Marquis de Valfierno” cannot tolerate dying without the world knowing of his audacious exploits. And so, he decides to confide his life story to an American journalist: from his impoverished émigré origins as the son of a servant woman in Buenos Aires to his rise as the most dangerous conman in the world. Through a series of remarkable but evolving masks of identity, beginning as a marginal criminal of Argentina’s lower depths and ending up a wealthy aristocrat of the Belle Époque, first in Buenos Aires, then in Paris, he slowly transforms himself into “Valfierno.” Only then is he prepared to undertake the unthinkable, his own “masterpiece” of the criminal arts.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780743297950 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Atria Books |
| Publication date: | 03/08/2011 |
| Edition description: | Reprint |
| Pages: | 352 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.30(w) x 8.10(h) x 1.00(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
1
I am Valfierno.
Let's just say that I'm Valfierno. Or that I used to be. It was as Valfierno that I pulled off the most amazing caper — the story of a lifetime.
"Why did you choose the name Valfierno?"
"Didn't we agree that you would limit your questions to matters of fact?"
"Yes, of course. Isn't that a matter of fact?"
"My dear fellow..."
Tuesday, August 22, 1911. The Paris late edition was selling like crazy. On every street corner, paper boys shouted out the news: someone had stolen the world's most famous painting.
"The Mona Lisa is gone! Read all about it! La Joconde has disappeared!"
"Mesdames, Messieurs, we have lost La Joconde! La Joconde has escaped!"
The heat was unbearable. It had been like this for weeks, and except for the few who were profiting from it, everyone was miserable. The topic dominated every encounter, every café, every ornate salon, every church and fancy brothel. In such a cruel heat, Paris couldn't be its usual festive self, and this made everyone feel all the more miserable, and cheated. Men and women would talk to each other of nothing but the heat. They'd move on listlessly to some other topic of little interest only to mop their faces and return to the subject again. "The world is not what it used to be," they sighed.
"It's progress, my dear, progress. If it weren't for the Socialists and this foul heat..."
For weeks, the heat sucked all conversation dry, until suddenly, that afternoon, everyone was talking again.
"They've stolen La Joconde! France is a laughingstock! Extra! Extra!"
I am Valfierno.
I was a very happy child. My mother called me Bollino and I thought that was my name — Bollino, I'm Bollino.
One time in the street, a woman said, "What a lovely child, what's his name?" and I told her Bollino, and my mother laughed a lot, and said, "No, Señora, his name is Juan María," not knowing I also called myself Eduardo. But I — Bollino, Juan María, not yet Enrique, still Bonaglia, also Eduardo — was a very happy child.
The boy has dark hair, a wide face and delicate features, and is somewhat short for his eight years. He has a decisive way about him; he gives an order and the other two children follow. The other two are both blond, the boy is older — about six — and the girl is perhaps five. Around them the park is dazzling — a sea of lush, perfect lawn, a pond sprinkled with lotus flowers, hedges trimmed in the shape of small houses, magnolias, monkey puzzle trees, oaks, islands of lilac bushes, white statues of animals and goddesses and warriors, also a peacock. At the top of the park the windows in the Frenchstyle mansion reflect the sunlight. The dark-haired boy announces that they are going to the statue of the deer. The blond boy objects.
"Don't tell me what to do! You can't tell me what to do! You're no one to tell me what to do, you're no one!"
Diego is shouting, on the verge of tears, and launches himself at the dark-haired boy. Bollino is half a head taller than him and stronger, too. Diego tries to hit him, but Bollino dodges his blows, not hitting back. Marianita laughs. Diego tries again, swings, and loses his balance. He falls, clutches his eye, and yells from where he lies on the ground that Bollino has hit him in the face. His little sailor suit is dirty.
"Bollino hit me! Bollino hit me! I'm going to tell my Mamá," he yells, his face stained with tears and mucus, as the heavy woman in the maid's uniform rushes over. Her skin is pale, she has blond hair and feet like platters. Up close she looks younger. She picks him up and cleans him off. Diego doesn't like her to touch him, and he recoils, yelling, 'Annunci, Annunci, don't touch me!' Mariana and Bollino watch them, holding hands. The air smells of orange blossom and loquat.
"What happened?" asks the maid, in her Italian accent.
"Bollino hit me! He's bad! I'm going to tell Mamá!"
"I did not! I really didn't! He fell, he slipped and fell. I didn't touch him!" says Bollino. The maid strikes him once across the face, hard. It makes a noise.
"So you learn not to mess with the kids," she says to Bollino, and he looks at her without any expression, all his effort going into not crying.
"But, Mamá, I didn't do anything!"
Suddenly, no one gave a thought to the heat. The painting's theft was a national scandal, and nothing stirs a population more than to be witness to a national scandal. Nothing grabs them quite like being at the center of a real disaster, cast as actors in a real drama — the consolation of knowing they have lived through a moment that many others will for years just pretend to remember, of knowing that this time they have actually felt the touch of history, normally so aloof and disdainful.
My mother raised me valiantly. I remember her feeding me once — it must be one of my first memories — she speared tiny pieces of meat for me on the end of a fork, and with each bite of mine she said, "Bollino, chew each piece well with your mouth closed, or you will hurt both your belly and your reputation," and she laughed. I laughed, too: "reputation" must be a very funny word.
She was always looking after me, and that family was also very good to me. When I was little we spent all our time with Diego and Marianita. Those were long and happy days, swimming, riding the horses, playing games in the park and the playroom, my mother watching over all three of us. The family would give me presents — toys and clothes — and every now and then the father would tell me that he loved me like a nephew, and that I was very intelligent and would do well in life.
Until I turned ten we were inseparable, those children and me. Afterward, when Diego began his studies with the governess they'd brought in for him, his father gave my mother money to send me to study at school with the monks. The day before I was to start, he called me into his study and told me that nothing was more important than education, and that only without it were you truly poor, and that if I had any problems I was to tell the Father Superior, he would take charge of me, and that he wished me all the best things, and that if there was anything I needed I was to come to him, and he gave me a smart leather folder for my papers.
The day that he had Angel take my mother and me in the carriage to my first day of school, I discovered that beyond the walls of that park there was a path that led down to a large town on the banks of a river. It was very ugly. I'd heard people talk about it before, but until then I had never paid any attention.
"But Valfierno, that's not where you were born."
"Are you asking me this, or telling me?"
"You told me your mother was a foreigner. You told me you were a foreigner."
"A foreigner, you say? From where?"
The woman waits at home. Home is a squalid room in a big house that had once been a palace. Ages pass. She sits wringing her hands and waiting, knowing that she will have to wait many more hours. In those hours she will ask herself a thousand times why she wasn't able to find the words to persuade him not to go. Neither words of love, nor threats, nor reminders of his paternal responsibilities could help her, and she will ask herself again and again what could have made him choose that supposed duty that had called him away.
She will also wonder if maybe he was right, as he was so many other times — that she exaggerates her fears, that they are just a woman's hysteria, nonsense. Surely he is right, and yet she is still scared, and she still expects to hear how he left, arrogant as always, bidding a careless farewell with that condescending smile. "Don't worry yourself, woman, these are not things for you." And "you" could have meant her and the boy, but she knows that it didn't, that it meant women, all women, and it saddens her to be mixed in with them all like that, as the smell of burnt grease on his clothes in that room saddens her, the smell he leaves behind for her so that she won't forget that it's him she is waiting for.
The woman is not yet twenty but already heavy from motherhood and her diet of bread and beans. She has unusually light eyes in a face that is dark and streaked from wiping tears away with dirty hands. She sits, and sitting, you notice the weight and roundness of her arms. She would make a beautiful Madonna.
Her name is Annunziata — Annunziata Perrone, born in Trimoli, in Italy, on the twenty-fifth of March, 1850, a Monday, the Feast of the Annunciation. Daughter of Giovanni, wife of Gian-Felice Bonaglia, ex-seamstress, a woman now.
She continues to wring her hands slowly, then dries them on her brown skirt, which is clean but for the small grease spots that won't come out, and she thinks again of the words she couldn't muster and tries to comfort herself. She never knew how to use words; he was the one who knew how. When he was first pursuing her, after work at the dress factory, when she was fifteen and had a smile — everyone agreed — that would be her fortune, she knew that she was supposed to keep quiet and listen to him. She was quiet when he asked her to sit with him beside the dry fountain in the square, and she was quiet each afternoon when he came back to find her again and extended his hand for her — he did not reach for her hand, but would extend his hand so that it was she who, quietly, would grasp his. She said "I do" quietly when the priest asked her, and she kept her screams as quiet as possible for the midwife who told her how happy her man would be now that she'd given him a son. "A healthy boy! Your man is going to be very happy!"
She knew to be quiet, and was learning that her silence could give her power, as well — that perhaps she didn't need words. She thinks now that when she did need them — this morning, for example, those words of love or duty or sadness that she didn't know how to say to him — it was too late, and she twists her hands and dries them on her skirt, and the boy grabs them and asks her, "Are you hot, Mamma? Your hands are wet."
The boy won't stop asking silly questions: "Are you hot, Mamma? Are we having bean soup tonight, Mamma? Will Papà bring me a candy tonight when he gets home, Mamma? Why are you hot, Mamma, when it's so cold?" She tells him to be quiet and concentrates on her waiting. For her, waiting is knowing that terrible news can come at any moment and that if she waits intently enough perhaps she can head it off, prevent it from coming. That waiting like this is the price she must pay so that it doesn't come. And that if it should finally come, the waiting will have made it less terrible; it might be less terrible.
"When are you going to start making the soup, Mamma? It's getting late."
I didn't know where we had come from, but I knew I hadn't been born there, in that river city they called Rosario. At first, of course, I didn't know that; later I thought that if I'd been born anywhere it was in the big house, in the little room I shared with my mother under the roof. In the end, I figured out that we must be from somewhere else because my mother, who was so good and whom the children obeyed and who looked after us all, had a strange accent. It wasn't hard to notice. It was the first real thing I ever noticed, that I remember noticing: my mother spoke in a strange accent. At the time I thought it must be a way she spoke to make the children do what she said.
Sometimes I asked my mother about my father. Or rather, I once started to ask her about him. I suppose that in the early days, while we were happy in the big house, it never occurred to me. Diego and Mariana were the ones with a father because they were the ones who had things; I had some things, too, and they also had a mother who was very pretty and had lighter hair than my mother and I never thought to ask. But later, in school, boys often talked about their fathers, and then I had to keep silent.
One day I decided to ask my mother where my father was. I didn't say "Mamá, why don't I have a father?" or "Who does he think he is, leaving us all alone like this?" or "Why did you leave him?" or "What happened, Mamá?" Instead, I asked her where my father was, and she thought a moment before answering. It's strange, now that I think of it, that she had to take a moment before answering; she must have expected that question, imagined that question and her own answer for years before it finally came. But she thought for a moment and then told me that he was not around because he'd had to go away to work somewhere — I don't remember where — to earn money. I asked her when he was going to come back with the money and she asked me right away if I'd ever lacked for anything. I didn't say, "A father, Mamá." I lied instead and didn't say that.
"The papers all said that a theft like that had to be the work of a diseased mind, or some obscure genius. See that, Newspaperman? It never occurred to them that it might be something much simpler: a work of art."
I am Valfierno.
I was a very happy child. My mother called me Bollino and I thought that was my name — Bollino, I'm Bollino. I was such a happy child. But my father wasn't there. Perhaps I should say that I was a very happy child because my father wasn't there. My father wasn't there because he'd gone to make money somewhere. Because they hadn't let him come with us when we moved to our new city, and he was trying to get there now. Because he had to look after our other house. Because his mother wouldn't let him go that far. Because he was killed in such-and-such war. Because who could love a boy like me, who was so bad? Because he'd left something very important behind and had to go and get it, and he definitely was going to find it and come back.
Once, I asked my mother what my father's name was and she didn't want to tell me. "What kind of a question is that?" she said, as if she didn't know.
Copyright © 2008 by Martín Caparrós Translation copyright © 2008 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Table of Contents
Contents
Prologue
Bollino
Juan María
Perrone
Bonaglia
Valfierno
The Marqués de Valfierno
The Jocondes
Becker
Reading Group Guide
Introduction
On August 22, 1911, the world was shocked by an audacious crime: Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa was stolen from the Louvre. Although some people suspected subversive artists such as Picasso and Apollinaire of perpetrating the theft, no arrests were made. Two years later, an Italian named Vincenzo Perugia was detained after attempting to sell the Mona Lisa to an antiques dealer in Florence — but the mystery of the theft itself was never satisfactorily resolved.
In his spellbinding novel Valfierno, Martin Caparrós tackles this enigma, presenting us with a fascinating criminal unable to go to his grave without divulging the details of his outrageous heist. In tantalizing conversations with an American journalist, the Marqués de Valfierno sheds light on his past secrets, including his sordid origins as Bollino, son of a Buenos Aires servant woman, a man ultimately transformed into the most notorious con artist in the world. A sly and consummate entertainer, Valfierno reveals the shifting identities of the anonymous Argentine boy who has gone on to become a veritable artist, creating for himself the perfect role of wealthy aristocrat in Belle Époque Paris as he prepares for his crime.
Featuring an engaging cat-and-mouse drama and unforgettable characters, Valfierno is a brilliant fictionalization of the greatest art theft of the twentieth century, as well as a compelling psychological portrait of a true mastermind. Valfierno, Caparrós's eighth novel, won the prestigious Premio Planeta award in 2004.
Questions and Topics for Discussion
1. The narrator comments on the concept that different people in a community have their individual roles. His mother, however, "has no place there, on the cobblestone streets of the center of that town, and yet she continues to take her walks there." (p. 17) What does this reveal about her character as well as the character of her son, Juan María? What does it mean to not have a role in a community?
2. "A father can be either a path or an obstacle for a man, but not both....He will be a path if his own failures offer the secrets to their avoidance, an obstacle if they loom still as dangers." (p. 59) Do you think the narrator is right? Why or why not?
3. Ruthlessness and wealth relate to each other in many contexts throughout the novel. "I don't believe that it is possible to become rich without being ruthless. In order to get rich, you must be fixated on one single, immutable idea: the desire to make a fortune." (p. 65) Do you think this is true? Must these two characteristics come hand in hand?
4. Due to her experience, Valerie has a different take on love, thinking it is "either a luxury or folly." (p. 77) She proposes that she and Valfierno are both fakers. Valfierno, however, disagrees. Who do you think is right?
5. "One of the most common ways to prove that a false story is true is to tell an even bigger lie and confess that the first story was a lie, but that this new one now, this one I'm telling you now is the real truth." (p. 97) Valfierno's narration is inherently untrustworthy. As a reader, when do you trust him? When do you not?
6. Valfierno quotes an old saying: "morals are the substitute for intelligence." (p. 135) Do you agree with him?
7. Throughout the novel Valfierno grapples with the question of self, and self determination. "How do you decide who to be? And why?...When I am already me, when I am already this person here." (p. 187) How do you think of his questions as they relate to the novel, and as they relate to your own life? Does one have true self-determination, or is one formed more fully through outside influence?
8. In changing his identity, Valfierno "asks himself: what will I have to forget? Not: what things will I need to learn or to copy...in order to become someone else?" (p. 198) This thinking suggests that it is more difficult to break old habits or personality traits than it is to form new. Is he correct, or is it the other way around?
9. Valfierno and Aliaga argue whether or not a past can be bought for a country. "We're a young country. And powerful. We are the future; what we don't have at the moment is a past." Valfierno replies, "That, too, can be purchased." (p. 213) Who is right? What are the ramifications of your conclusion?
10. Chaudron speaks passionately about the nature of art and of replication. "If it weren't for the copy, the world wouldn't exist. We are ephemeral. Originals don't last; someone has to make a copy of them for them to keep existing." (p. 244) What are your thoughts on his view? Is the world born from newness or from a copy?
11. Chaudron argues that "an artist who makes a copy is more skilled than the one who is being copied." (p. 244) Is he right?
12. The narrator did not quite understand Valfierno's ending poem. (p. 341) What do you think it means?
Enhance Your Reading Group
1. Take a tour of your local art museum with your reading group. For a full list of fine art collections in your local area, visit: artcyclopedia.com/museums.html.
2. To learn more about the Mona Lisa, read Mona Lisa: Inside the Painting by Jean-Pierre Mohen, Michel Menu, and Bruno Mottin.
3. If you enjoyed this book, also read The Art Thief, by Noah Charney. To learn more about art theft, read Museum of the Missing: A History of Art Theft, by Simon Houpt, or The Rescue Artist: A True Story of Art, Thieves, and the Hunt for a Missing Masterpiece, by Edward Dolnick.
Introduction
Introduction
On August 22, 1911, the world was shocked by an audacious crime: Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa was stolen from the Louvre. Although some people suspected subversive artists such as Picasso and Apollinaire of perpetrating the theft, no arrests were made. Two years later, an Italian named Vincenzo Perugia was detained after attempting to sell the Mona Lisa to an antiques dealer in Florence — but the mystery of the theft itself was never satisfactorily resolved.
In his spellbinding novel Valfierno, Martin Caparrós tackles this enigma, presenting us with a fascinating criminal unable to go to his grave without divulging the details of his outrageous heist. In tantalizing conversations with an American journalist, the Marqués de Valfierno sheds light on his past secrets, including his sordid origins as Bollino, son of a Buenos Aires servant woman, a man ultimately transformed into the most notorious con artist in the world. A sly and consummate entertainer, Valfierno reveals the shifting identities of the anonymous Argentine boy who has gone on to become a veritable artist, creating for himself the perfect role of wealthy aristocrat in Belle Époque Paris as he prepares for his crime.
Featuring an engaging cat-and-mouse drama and unforgettable characters, Valfierno is a brilliant fictionalization of the greatest art theft of the twentieth century, as well as a compelling psychological portrait of a true mastermind. Valfierno, Caparrós's eighth novel, won the prestigious Premio Planeta award in 2004.
Questions and Topics for Discussion
1. The narrator comments on the concept thatdifferent people in a community have their individual roles. His mother, however, "has no place there, on the cobblestone streets of the center of that town, and yet she continues to take her walks there." (p. 17) What does this reveal about her character as well as the character of her son, Juan María? What does it mean to not have a role in a community?
2. "A father can be either a path or an obstacle for a man, but not both....He will be a path if his own failures offer the secrets to their avoidance, an obstacle if they loom still as dangers." (p. 59) Do you think the narrator is right? Why or why not?
3. Ruthlessness and wealth relate to each other in many contexts throughout the novel. "I don't believe that it is possible to become rich without being ruthless. In order to get rich, you must be fixated on one single, immutable idea: the desire to make a fortune." (p. 65) Do you think this is true? Must these two characteristics come hand in hand?
4. Due to her experience, Valerie has a different take on love, thinking it is "either a luxury or folly." (p. 77) She proposes that she and Valfierno are both fakers. Valfierno, however, disagrees. Who do you think is right?
5. "One of the most common ways to prove that a false story is true is to tell an even bigger lie and confess that the first story was a lie, but that this new one now, this one I'm telling you now is the real truth." (p. 97) Valfierno's narration is inherently untrustworthy. As a reader, when do you trust him? When do you not?
6. Valfierno quotes an old saying: "morals are the substitute for intelligence." (p. 135) Do you agree with him?
7. Throughout the novel Valfierno grapples with the question of self, and self determination. "How do you decide who to be? And why?...When I am already me, when I am already this person here." (p. 187) How do you think of his questions as they relate to the novel, and as they relate to your own life? Does one have true self-determination, or is one formed more fully through outside influence?
8. In changing his identity, Valfierno "asks himself: what will I have to forget? Not: what things will I need to learn or to copy...in order to become someone else?" (p. 198) This thinking suggests that it is more difficult to break old habits or personality traits than it is to form new. Is he correct, or is it the other way around?
9. Valfierno and Aliaga argue whether or not a past can be bought for a country. "We're a young country. And powerful. We are the future; what we don't have at the moment is a past." Valfierno replies, "That, too, can be purchased." (p. 213) Who is right? What are the ramifications of your conclusion?
10. Chaudron speaks passionately about the nature of art and of replication. "If it weren't for the copy, the world wouldn't exist. We are ephemeral. Originals don't last; someone has to make a copy of them for them to keep existing." (p. 244) What are your thoughts on his view? Is the world born from newness or from a copy?
11. Chaudron argues that "an artist who makes a copy is more skilled than the one who is being copied." (p. 244) Is he right?
12. The narrator did not quite understand Valfierno's ending poem. (p. 341) What do you think it means?
Enhance Your Reading Group
1. Take a tour of your local art museum with your reading group. For a full list of fine art collections in your local area, visit: artcyclopedia.com/museums.html.
2. To learn more about the Mona Lisa, read Mona Lisa: Inside the Painting by Jean-Pierre Mohen, Michel Menu, and Bruno Mottin.
3. If you enjoyed this book, also read The Art Thief, by Noah Charney. To learn more about art theft, read Museum of the Missing: A History of Art Theft, by Simon Houpt, or The Rescue Artist: A True Story of Art, Thieves, and the Hunt for a Missing Masterpiece, by Edward Dolnick.
Martín Caparrós, prolific novelist, essayist, and travel writer, won the 2004 Planeta Prize in Argentina for Valfierno, which has been published in over a dozen languages. He has also worked as a journalist for print, radio, and television. He currently lives in his native Argentina.