Chapter Fourteen – Outside Havana – February, 1934
The
Dying Tobias,
by Mattia Preti, known as the Cavaliere Calabrese, 1613-1669
(Neapolitan
School)
9 am, Monday morning,
February 12, 1934. Salvatore Buffardi sat at his desk in his
underwear drinking strong Cuban coffee sweetened with six small
spoonfuls of pure cane sugar. Striped garters held up thin black
socks over purple, swollen veins that read like a map of the Cuban
countryside. His navy blue suit hung on a mahogany valet stand
behind his office chair, gold cuff links, his Bulova watch and a
diamond stickpin sat in a well-worn tray on top of the stand. This
would have been his usual morning ritual if it hadn’t been for the
long-awaited yet unavoidable and unfortunate “request” of
President Zayas. Today’s event was announced the day before by a
short telephone call from Carlos de Vargas, aide to El Presidente:
“Buffardi. it’s
time. We will be there tomorrow at 9 am. Have everything ready.”
He was expecting Alfredo
de Zayas himself but knew he would not get “El Presidente” to
actually come to Buffardi’s home without his full entourage and
hand-picked bodyguards and that would mean far too many eyes on Zayas
prize. Reluctantly, he got up and dressed carefully as if he were
going to an art show instead of his own funeral. Dressed for both he
thought to himself.
Buffardi watched as a
long, black Cadillac limousine followed by a huge, dirty white truck
lumbered up his driveway. The truck’s springs were shot and its
body rocked from side to side with every pothole he himself had dug
to slow all visitors; family, friends, customers, would-be robbers
and assassins, and other enemies, known and unknown. Two men could
be seen inside, probably more in the back of the truck. He was
expecting them and he was ready. Cuba in 1934 was a time of violence
and deception after the Sergeants Revolt led by Fulgencio Batista.
Buffardi knew that the Zayas government was under attack from several
fronts and could not last much longer. However, to refuse this
request would be suicide.
Zayas’ aide and deputy
assistant, Carlos de Vargas y Montoya, stepped out of the limousine,
looked down at the dust swirling around his perfectly shined cap- toe
oxfords and sniffed the air, recoiling at the olfactory assault and
digging deep into his vest coat pocket for a silk square.
“Country life!
Disgusting. An “artist” in the country. Perfect!”
Dripping sarcasm and a
superiority complex were the sad distinctions of this little man,
whose political future would never match his egotistical aspirations.
Yet, for now, he was a key figure in the Zayas government and the
discreet manner in which he carried out Zayas’ instructions were
key to his survival, for now.
In 1925, Salvatore Buffardi, known throughout Cuba as a famous art
historian and collector had donated 43 pieces of priceless European
artwork and sculpture to the
Museo
Nacional de Bellas Artes de La Habana.
President Zayas
was furious for being upstaged by this Italian, non-Cuban and
insisted that the donation be “re-named” as coming from
him. The announcement, covered by all Cuban papers, edited and
overseen by Zayas aide Carlos de Vargas appeared as:
“President
Alfredo Zayas government has made a generous donation
the
Italian collector Salvatore Buffardi, the collection included 43
works
from
the Italian, French, and Dutch Schools and the first one from the
English
School, they have now been integrated into the museum.”
To ensure that this
donation would be properly announced, earlier that week Alfredo de
Zayas and his aide paid a social visit to the collector. They were
not happy.
“Greetings Senor
Buffardi! Congratulations on your success here in Cuba which has
enabled you to make such a generous donation to our museum.”
“Thank you El
Presidente. It is indeed an honor to welcome you to my home”
“Yes, yes, it is our
pleasure. However, there are a few things we should discuss...”
Buffardi’s blood froze
in his already cholesterol clogged veins. He knew that discussion
meant demands which could not be ignored and certainly would not b a
subject of a casual “discussion”. He invited his guests to join
him in the library and quickly dropped his large bulk into an
overstuffed leather chair with a sigh.
“Wonderful, how may I
be of assistance?”
“I have been thinking
about how it would appear in our papers if this donation were to come
from my government instead of from a non-Cuban immigrant such as
yourself. “
Buffardi was speechless
and knew that the next words spoken could be his legacy or his last:
“That is very
interesting Presidente. You may be correct.”
This was the wrong thing
to say and Buffardi knew it as soon as the words left his trembling
lips.
“I am correct and that
is why I am leading this country. I have also been thinking about
how you, should you wish to consider my offer rather than accept it
with gratitude, would look in a painting of you by someone like
Francisco Goya when you have no eyes and no hands and are sitting in
front of a blank canvas. You would be the perfect subject!”
The silence in the room
was deafening. Finally, Buffardi spoke;
“I have an excellent
idea, if you agree, of course! Why don’t we announce that the
donation came from you and your government! Further, and as a way of
apology for my crass presumption, why don’t you select a few items
from my own personal collection here!”
“A wise decision and a
good idea. Carlos! Hand me the list.
A LIST? Buffardi was
again speechless and terrified at the same time. What list could
this smug little pathetic ignorant politico have prepared? Carlos de
Vargas enjoyed the abject fear in Buffardi’s pale, fat face as he
shoved the list into the collector’s shaking hands.
Before he could stop
himself, after reviewing the list quickly, Buffardi blurted out:
“You can’t be
serious!”
Again, the wrong thing
to say to El Presidente.
Vargas spoke next and
probably saved Buffardi’s life.
“I will return next
week with my men and a truck to collect these few items, pack them
up, and deliver them to the President’s private residence. Shall
we say Monday at 9 am?”
That Monday meeting did
not occur for over ten years. For all that time, Buffardi felt he
was under “house arrest” until the delivery of the paintings
could be completed and he would be free to leave Cuba for the United
States and New York, where his own provenance and reputation would be
an asset rather than a liability.
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