The Last Promise

by Richard Paul Evans

  She cocked her head to one side. “Okay, we’re almost there.”

  She switched on a desk lamp directed toward her canvas; then she turned off the room lights. She studied him again then sat down on a leather-capped stool.

  “So what’s the routine?” Ross asked.

  “I start with a pencil sketch. Then, sometime after you’re gone, I’ll paint in the background, for balance. Then I start painting.”

  “Are you using acrylics?”

  “No, I only use those to practice because they dry fast. This is special so I’m using oils.”

  Ross scratched his forehead, careful not to move. “That reminds me of something. Francesca, she’s the woman I work for at the Uffizi, told me this story about one of the paintings. A newly wealthy merchant asked Leonardo for a portrait. They agreed on a price; then the merchant asked what medium Leonardo would be painting in. ‘Oils,’ Leonardo said. His patron was incensed. ‘Where do you think you are, Naples? In Florence we do everything in butter.’ ”

  Eliana smiled slightly. “I would believe that’s true.”

  “Oils. Linen canvas. So what makes this portrait special?”

  “You. You’re my first real model in Italy. Not counting Alessio.”

  “So after you paint the background, then what?”

  “Over the next several sittings I’ll paint a black-and-white picture of you. Then I’ll start applying the paints. I’ll start with your hair, just because it’s higher on the picture and I can still rest my hand against the canvas, then on to your nose and work out from there.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “That depends on how many questions the subject asks.”

  “At this rate?”

  She grinned. “About ten years.” She sat down at the easel. “All right, I’m ready.”

  She lifted her pencil and began to sketch, sometimes hidden behind the canvas, sometimes peering around it at Ross. Her pencil made a smooth, comforting sound against the linen. After about twenty minutes she said, “All right, let’s take a break.”

  Ross took a deep breath and exhaled. Eliana rolled her stool out from behind the easel.

  “You doing okay?”

  “Yes.”

  He stood, walked over near her. “May I see?”

  She held up her hand. “No. It’s bad luck.”

  “You artists are all mad.”

  “È vero.” It’s true. Her eyes darted away from him as if she was suddenly embarrassed. “Speaking of crazy, I want to apologize for the other night.”

  “For what?”

  “My tongue was too loose. I’m sorry for dumping all of that on you.”

  “For the record, I really enjoyed myself the other night. A little honesty is refreshing.”

  “I think you’re just being polite. My husband says that American women talk too much. In this case he’s right. But it just felt so good to talk to an adult in English.”

  “It was fine. Really.”

  She took a sip from her glass, emptying it. “Thank you. Let me know when you’re ready to start again.”

  “Just a minute.” He stretched again. Then he sat back down. “Okay. Is this right?”

  “Scoot back a little . . . to your right a little more . . . no, your other right. Perfetto.”

  She looked at him for a moment then raised her pencil to the canvas. “So I realized that every time I asked you about yourself you changed the subject.”

  “Not much to tell.”

  “Right. You move to a foreign country—alone—plan to stay forever and you don’t have a story?”

  Ross grinned. “Maybe a little one. What do you want to know?”

  “To begin with, what did you do in the States?”

  “I was . . .” He started to turn toward her as he spoke.

  “No, don’t move.”

  “Sorry. Is this where I was?”

  “Your shoulder was back a little more. There.”

  “Okay. I was the art director for an advertising agency in Minneapolis.”

  “You left that position to be a tour guide?”

  “You make that sound so stupid.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, that’s not why I left. I had a”—he stumbled on the sentence—“a falling-out with my partners. Besides, I was getting burned out on the caffeine-buzz lifestyle of the advertising world. The other night when you were telling me why you didn’t sell your paintings, I kept thinking that I wish I had had that kind of integrity. I got into art design because I loved art and I thought I could make a good living from it. I was successful, I made a lot of money, won a few awards, but after five years in the business I felt like a prostitute, selling myself to deadlines, the latest graphic fad or the client’s whim. Art by committee. I felt like I was losing my soul. And your theory’s right. It lost its joy. So I understand how you feel and I respect you for that. That’s also why your work is so brilliant. It’s honest. It’s an irony you’re going to have to deal with someday, because people will want to buy your pictures for the very reason you don’t want to sell them. It’s because they want to have back that part of themselves that they sold.”

  At that moment she was glad to have the canvas to hide behind. His understanding meant more to her than he could have ever imagined. Maurizio just thought that she was a fool for not making more money from her work.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said softly. “So what else do you want to know?”

  She returned to her drawing. “Do you have family? Any brothers or sisters?”

  “I have a brother.”

  “He lives in Minneapolis?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You’re not close?”

  “We’re very close, actually.” Ross frowned. “At least we were. I haven’t heard from him in more than three years. I tried to find him just before I came to Italy, but I couldn’t.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. So am I. I miss him.”

  “How about your parents? Are they in Minnesota too?”

  “My parents died in a car accident when I was twelve. My brother, Stan, and I were raised by our aunt.”

  “I can’t imagine how hard that must have been, losing both parents at that age. When my father died I thought my world was over. And I was eighteen.”

  “We survive. Somehow. I turned to art. Stan turned to drugs.”

  Eliana suddenly stood, walked over to him and adjusted the light. She moved calmly, with a natural grace that was pleasant for Ross to watch. But it was more than that. There was something honest about her movements, something indefinable that made him trust her—that made him feel as if he could tell her anything. In fact he just had told her something. She was only the second person he had ever told about Stan. She smoothed the shirt above his shoulder then sat down again.

  “Is that spotlight too hot?”

  “A little.”

  “You’re sweating. Don’t sweat.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She started drawing again. As she traced the outer lines of his face, she thought again what nice features he had. She felt a little guilty in the pleasure she experienced in drawing him, as if she had run her hand across his face. “Have you ever been married?”

  He hesitated. “No.”

  “Near misses?”

  “I was engaged once. Four years ago.”

  “What happened?”

  Again he hesitated. “It didn’t work out.”

  Eliana wondered what that meant, but from his demeanor she decided that it was best left alone for now.

  “Your hand looks kind of awkward like that. Let’s try something different. Put your one hand on your knee, like this. Move the book over.” She demonstrated, Ross obeyed. “That’s good. Now turn your other hand this way a little, so your palm’s up.”

  He paused momentarily then slowly turned his hand. For the first time she noticed the thick scar that ran diagonally across his wrist. S
he flinched when she saw it but said nothing. Ross’s gaze did not leave her, and she tried to act as if she hadn’t seen it, which, as the silence grew, became only all the more obvious.

  “It was a hard time,” Ross said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  They were both quiet for a moment; then Ross spoke. “So what was the last portrait you did?”

  “I haven’t done any for a while. My last was a portrait of an elderly Italian man I took a picture of in a piazza. He was just sitting there reading a newspaper. My mother-in-law liked it, so I gave it to her.”

  “What’s it like having an Italian mother-in-law?”

  “You don’t want to get me started on that.”

  “Are they as close to their sons as they say?”

  “Butter on toast isn’t that close. She has a key to our apartment, which kind of says it all. I once came home and found her ironing Maurizio’s underwear. She tore into me for neglecting her son and grandson.”

  “That’s awful. How do you deal with that?”

  “At first I just did my best to ignore it. But she had a stroke about three years ago and she doesn’t leave Siena anymore. Maurizio has another sister who lives with her and takes care of her.”

  “I noticed that there’s a lot of coming and going around here.”

  “The villa is pretty open. Our home is what the Italians call a porto di mare—a harbor. Everyone just walks in: Anna, Manuela, Vittorio, Luca. In fact you’re about the only one who knocks.”

  “Does that bother you? Not having any privacy?”

  “Not really. I have three uncles in America and they never knocked before walking into the house.” She grinned in remembrance. “We’ve had a few embarrassing moments. Once I came walking out of the shower to get some underwear and one of my uncles was sitting there reading the paper. I don’t know who was more embarrassed. He was so shocked he started stuttering. But that’s just Vernal. Even our neighbors don’t knock when they come in.”

  She stood up again, went to him and ran her fingers back through his hair, messing it up a little on the top. “There, it looks a little fuller. The heat flattens everything.”

  Ross liked the feel of her fingers through his hair.

  “So when you’re done what are you going to do with the painting?”

  “Give it to you. Maybe. Then again I might just decide to keep it.”

  He looked over to the other portraits. “To add to the stack.”

  “No, I’ll frame this one.”

  She stopped talking as she sketched. After another twenty minutes she set her pencil down.

  “I think that’s enough for one night.”

  “May I move?”

  “Not yet. Let me take some pictures.” She brought out a disposable camera and snapped a few shots. “That’s so I can work on this while you’re not around. You can move now. Let me get the lights.”

  Ross exhaled, yawned. He stretched, raising his arms above his head. “Modeling is tougher than it looks.”

  Eliana turned on the lights. “In a college art class we were sketching a nude model when he passed out. Not enough circulation, our instructor said.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  “It’s okay, I know CPR.”

  She put away her brushes; then she followed him down the stairs.

  “I hope that wasn’t too boring.”

  “Not at all.” Then he said, “It’s nice being with you.” Eliana was suddenly quiet. “You too,” she said softly. They stopped at the door.

  “So when is the next sitting?”

  “Is Saturday good for you?”

  “Anytime Saturday is good.”

  “Good. Then we’ll just play it by ear.”

  For a moment they just looked at each other. Both of them were unsure of how to punctuate the evening. Finally Eliana said, “How about if we just hug?”

  “That would be good.”

  She leaned forward and hugged him. “Buona notte, Ross.”

  “Buona notte.”

  As he left her, her thoughts lingered pleasantly on their conversation. Then she thought again about the scar on his wrist. After an evening together she was left with more questions than answers. What had happened to this man?

  CHAPTER 14

  “La vita è un sogno.” Life is a dream.

  —Italian Proverb

  “I had a dream last night that has filled me with foreboding, like a harbinger to unknown events in which I must somehow play a part.”

  —Ross Story’s diary

  For a moment, in the blurred twilight between slumber and consciousness, Ross thought his dream real. Then his senses came to him and he groaned and rolled over off his pillow. He reached to the floor and dragged his fingers across the cool tile until he found his alarm clock and lifted it to view. It was only three a.m. He rolled to his back and thought of the dream as he fell back asleep.

  He had dreamt that there was a woman standing next to his bed. The Vestal Virgin from Eliana’s portrait. She was young, but ancient, clothed in a pale linen tunic partially concealed by the dark scarlet robe that draped from one shoulder. In one hand she held an oil lamp, without flame. In the other hand she held a loaf of bread.

  Though he couldn’t see her face, he knew she was looking at him. It was as if a cloud masked her. He didn’t know how long she had stood there before he asked her who she was. Only then did he see her eyes—dark and fearful and sad. Then she stepped back into the shadows and vanished.

  As he lay back in bed he thought about Eliana’s painting. There was a reason for every painting.

  Ross woke four hours later. There were no tours for him, so he went on a run, then showered and dressed, and drove off to the ancient city of San Gimignano, riding his scooter through the winding back roads of Chianti, past Greve, west at Castellina in Chianti, to Poggibonsi and into San Gimignano—the ancient city some guidebooks called the “medieval Manhattan,” due to its abundance of bell towers. Though only thirteen of them remained, still a fair number for any town, at one time there were more than seventy bell towers in the city.

  Ross quickly fell in love with the town. It was smaller than Siena, less commercial, quieter. Do tourists know that a city changes to meet them, Ross wondered, to fulfill their expectations? The very act of tourism seemed to defeat itself. As he wandered through the cobblestone streets, he stopped where a crowd of tourists stood in line, awaiting access to an exhibition. He stopped to see where they were going. Il Museo degli Strumenti di Tortura (The Museum of Torture Devices): a collection of instruments of torture, mostly remnants from the Inquisition, when men and women were tortured in the name of God. Ross turned away. After the last three years of his life he didn’t need reminders of man’s inhumanity to man. He certainly wasn’t going to pay to see it on display.

  He ate lunch at a sidewalk pizzeria, where he had a pleasant conversation with an elderly Italian woman from the town who wanted to know why he spoke such good Italian for an American, then invited him over to meet the family, which he carefully declined as he had an appointment back at home.

  On his way from town he passed a hotel. He stopped and stared at it: Albergo dei Gigli (Hotel of the Lilies). He must have passed it on the way in, but hadn’t noticed it then. Why did it seem so familiar to him? The longer he looked at it the more convinced he became that he had seen it before.

  He walked up to its glass doorway and stepped inside. The lobby was small, marble floored. A red-and-gold rug led to a dark walnut registration counter, the wall behind it emboldened with a bright brass lily—the symbol of Florence.

  Suddenly it occurred to him why it was familiar. This was one of the hotels he had seen in a travel guide four years ago. It was one of the hotels that she had chosen for their honeymoon.

  The man behind the counter spoke. “May I help you, sir?”

  Ross looked at him, momentarily speechless. “No. I’m in the wrong place.”

  His heart raced. He walked out of the hotel and s
tood in the street, directionless as if suddenly lost. Two worlds had unexpectedly collided. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. This hotel was to be a pleasant memory pasted in a photo album, not a reminder of all he had lost. He held his hand over his face until his thoughts calmed then walked back to his scooter.

  It was past six when he arrived at Rendola. Alessio was in the corner of the courtyard kicking a soccer ball against the wall, its dull thud echoing in the square. Ross stopped to watch, his hands in his pockets.

  “Looks like you’re pretty good.”

  Alessio coughed. “I’m not.”

  “You’re not?”

  “The other kids call me lumaca. I can’t run very fast. Sometimes I run out of breath.”

  Ross frowned, watched him kick the ball. Lumaca, he repeated to himself. He’d have to look it up. “May I see the ball?”

  He kicked it to Ross.

  Ross picked it up and spun it in his hands like a basketball. “Do you ever watch American football?”

  He shook his head.

  “Do you know how they play football?”

  He shook his head again.

  “It’s like soccer except you carry the ball. And people try to throw you down to stop you from crossing the goal. Sometimes the coach decides to kick the ball into a little goal instead. When I was little I was smaller than the other kids. I tried hard, but everyone just ran over me like I wasn’t there. So the coach never let me play. I just sat on the side and watched everyone else play. Then I had an idea. I decided it didn’t matter how big I was if I was a goal kicker. I practiced kicking the ball every day until I was the best kicker on the team. I won our biggest game of the year by kicking the ball through the goal.”

  “Wow.”

  “Just because you’re not the fastest runner doesn’t mean you can’t be a good soccer player. Maybe you’re just playing the wrong position. You look to me like the kind of guy who should play the most important position on the field. You look like a goalie.”