“Caffeine,” she said. “Caffeine has these powers, too. Do you want a coffee?”
“No coffee, thanks. But I’d love a cup of tea, if you don’t mind.” She turned toward the kitchen. “Oh, Elisabeth, before I forget. You’re an artist. Did you study art history, too?”
“Only a little.”
“I have a friend—she’s an anthropologist and an artist—who thinks that the Shroud of Turin was made by Giotto.”
“A painting by Giotto?” She wrinkled her forehead and frowned. “No, I don’t think so. The picture, the image, is too maigre… what is the English word?…thin? Not the man, but the picture. It is like a ghost, almost not there. Paint would be more strong.”
“You’re right,” I agreed. “Not paint. Dust. Pigment. Red ochre. Like a cave painting.” I pretended to sprinkle powder into my palm, then puffed it onto an imaginary surface.
“Ah!” There it was again, the charming, breath-taking “ah.” Just hearing it made me smile. “Red ochre. I think it is possible.”
“Do you know if Giotto ever worked in Avignon?”
She shrugged. “Pfft. I don’t know. Peut-être—maybe. Artists came from all over Europe to paint at the palais. Also at the livrées of the cardinals. There were many walls to decorate, and much money to collect. Artists come to money like flies come to honey.”
I laughed. “I thought all artists were poor and starving.”
“Most artists are starving. But if the pope likes you, you will never go hungry.”
WHEN ELISABETH RETURNED WITH MY TEA, SHE WAS balancing the cup on a pair of books: a lavish coffee-table art book about Giotto, and a smaller book, which she opened once I lifted the cup from it. “Vies des Artists,” she said. “The Lives of the Artists. By Vasari. You know Vasari?” I shook my head. “Giorgio Vasari. Italian. Sixteenth century. He made architecture, but also biography and history.”
“A regular Renaissance man,” I punned, then worried that the joke wouldn’t translate.
She laughed. “Ah, bon.” She checked the smaller book’s contents, then flipped to a chapter. “So. Vasari writes this about Giotto. He says, ‘When Clement Five became pope and brought the papal court to Avignon, Giotto came with him. And while he was here, he made many beautiful pictures and frescoes, which pleased the pope and the entire court very much. And so, when the work was all finished, the pope sent him back to Florence with love, and with many gifts. Giotto was rich and honored and famous.’ You see,” she said with a smile, “I told you: If the pope likes you, you don’t starve.”
“Ah,” I said.
CHAPTER 16
I MADE IT TO THE LIBRARY AN HOUR BEFORE CLOSING time. Neither of Elisabeth’s books showed paintings from Giotto’s Avignon period, but I felt sure the library would have a more comprehensive book. And I was glad to have another occasion to visit the former cardinal’s palace, which was now a palace of books.
The building was fronted by a square courtyard, which was open to the street but was flanked on its other three sides by a magnificent stone building in the shape of a low, wide U. The two wings seemed like later additions to the building’s massive central core; that part was three stories high—three very tall stories of pale, putty-colored stone, topped by crenellations. Unlike the battlements atop the Palace of the Popes, the crenellations here appeared merely decorative; the building was large, but not fortified, and the immense leaded-glass windows in its façade would have posed no barrier to attack.
I entered through a large glass door at the center of the building. Directly inside was a foyer with a massive stone staircase leading upward. One floor up, I entered the main reading room—once a cardinal’s banquet hall, it now served up a feast of books—and made for the reference desk. There I found the helpful librarian Philippe on duty again. He smiled at me in recognition. “Bonjour, monsieur. Are you back for more research on Eckhart?”
“Not this time,” I answered. “Art history this time. Do you have any books on the artist Giotto? An Italian painter. Giotto di…” I floundered for the last name.
“Di Bondoni. But of course. Magnifique. Come.” He led me down the long wall of the great room, to a section where oversized art books were shelved. They were arranged alphabetically, and midway along the wall, we came to G. Philippe pulled out two books—a thin one and a fat one—then reshelved the thin one. “That one is no good,” he said dismissively. “Everything in that one is also in this one. And more.” He handed me the fat book; it was two inches thick, a foot high, eighteen inches wide, and ten pounds heavy. The text was in French, but I figured that didn’t matter much; I was interested in the pictures.
“Thank you,” I said to the young man. “This is such a beautiful library. Is it okay if I take this upstairs to the mezzanine?”
“Sure. I prefer the mezzanine also. Very tranquil, and the view is the best.”
I lugged the book up another flight of stone stairs, emerging onto the balcony that overlooked the grand hall. I could easily imagine five hundred guests—cardinals, bishops, wealthy merchants, dukes and duchesses, and other lords and ladies. Twenty feet below me, where the banquet tables would have been set with gilded china, sparkling crystal, and platters of food, row upon row of shelves now marched across the tiled floor. Twenty feet above me were the timbered squares of the coffered ceiling, whose main joists measured at least eighteen inches square.
I was headed for one of the balcony’s wooden study tables when I spotted a chair tucked into a deep recess beneath a leaded-glass window. I settled into the cozy niche, imagining myself living and working in such opulence: a visiting scholar, perhaps, or the personal physician to his eminence the Cardinal, stealing a few moments in this out-of-the-way nook to peruse an illuminated manuscript from his prized collection.
Soon I forgot sumptuous surroundings; all my attention was riveted on Giotto’s paintings, especially a series of frescoes in a jewel box of a chapel in Padua, Italy. The chapel, belonging to the wealthy Scrovegni family, couldn’t have held a hundred people, but every square inch of the walls was covered with frescoes—more than fifty of them—depicting themes and scenes from the Bible, including numerous episodes in the lives of Mary and Jesus. The images were overwhelming in their number and richness; the little church reminded me of the Sistine Chapel, except that the paintings were smaller and closer to eye level. What refined and devout people the Scrovegnis must have been to commission such glorious art.
Finally I looked up from the paintings, rubbed my eyes, and then flipped to the index. I ran my eyes down the A section, toward the bottom, to see which pages featured Giotto’s Avignon paintings. I found no entry for Avignon. Puzzled, I lugged the book downstairs to the reference desk and showed the index to Philippe. “There’s nothing in this book about Avignon. Do you have another book on Giotto? One that shows what he painted while he was here?”
“Here?” He looked puzzled.
“Yes, here. In Avignon. This city.” I smiled. He frowned. “Pope Clement the Fifth brought him here,” I explained, proud of my knowledge. “He painted beautiful pictures and frescoes here, then he went back to Florence, more famous and beloved than ever.”
His frown deepened. “Monsieur Giotto did not paint here. He never even visited here.”
“But he did. I read it in an art history book.”
“What book?”
“The Lives of the Artists. By…Vasari?”
“Ah, oui, Vasari.” He laughed. “He just made up that stuff about Avignon.”
“What?”
“Yeah, it’s pure fiction. Vasari does that all the time. He tells great stories about famous painters and poets, but half of them are made up. Invented.”
This was a twist I hadn’t expected—another wrinkle in the Shroud, or at least in my theory that the Avignon bones were intimately tied to the Turin Shroud. I thanked him and began walking away, disappointed. Then a thought occurred to me, and I turned back toward Philippe. “Are there any famous fresco painters who did come
to Avignon?”
“Ah, oui. The one who did the beautiful frescoes in the Palais des Papes. He is the neighbor of Giotto.”
“Excuse me?”
“Come.” I followed him to the oversized art books again, and he led me once more to the G section. “You are finished with Giotto?” I handed him the tome, and he tucked it into its slot on the shelf, but not before sliding out an adjacent volume, a much slimmer one. I noticed the word “Avignon” in the book’s title—an encouraging sign. “See,” Philippe said, smiling. “Giovanetti. Giotto’s closest neighbor on the bookshelf.” He translated the title for me: “An Italian Painter at the Court of Avignon.”
“Sounds perfect. I’ll take it.”
I returned to my window nook on the mezzanine and buried myself in the book. Most of the images showed frescoes in the papal palace—frescoes I hadn’t seen, since my forays had been confined to the subtreasury and the dark staircases leading to it. Giovanetti and his apprentices had painted three chapels in the palace, as well as the pope’s private study. Unlike the religious murals in the chapels, those in the pope’s private study showed scenes of French country life: a stag hunt, the deer portrayed at the very moment it was caught by the hounds; a rectangular pool where men fished with nets and with lines; a pair of gentlemen hunting with falcons. Despite the passage of nearly seven centuries—and obvious signs of damage—the frescoes remained vibrant. But were they the work of the same hand that had created the Shroud? I studied the faces, looking for similarities in features or style. But just as with the image on the Shroud itself, the harder I looked, the less I could see with certainty.
Immersed in art and uncertainty, I was slow to notice the electronic warble reverberating through the cavernous stone chamber. Someone’s cell phone was ringing. Frowning, I scanned the balcony and the reading room for the culprit; that’s when I noticed several faces frowning at me. I was the culprit. Embarrassed, I scurried to the staircase and checked the display; it read Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. “Hello, this is Bill Brockton,” I said in a low voice that I hoped would carry through the phone but not throughout the stone building.
“Dr. Brockton? Is that you? I can barely hear you.”
“Yes, it’s me,” I said, a bit louder, cupping my hand around the phone to muffle the sound, which tended to echo in the stone stairwell.
“Doc, it’s Steve Morgan at the TBI.”
“Steve. How are you? I hope you’re calling to say that the TBI and the DEA have rounded up that whole drug ring. I know Rocky was hot on the heels of one of them in Amsterdam.” The phone fell silent. “Steve? Did I lose you?”
“No. No, I’m here. I hate to say it, but I’ve got bad news, Doc.”
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay. It’s not me; it’s Rocky. He…he was killed last night, Doc.”
“What?”
“In Amsterdam,” he went on. “Morales, the guy Rocky tracked to Amsterdam? He and Rocky shot each other. Both dead.”
I sat down on the stairs. “Oh, God,” I said. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah. I’ve got photos from the scene.”
“Damn it. Damn it. Does his wife know yet?”
“I just left the house. She’s mighty torn up.”
“Oh, dear God. Bless her heart. And those two kids. I…” My head was swirling with grief and guilt. “Steve, he went to Amsterdam because of me. He was trying to make sure I was safe.”
“He was doing his job, Doc. The DEA was running a dangerous operation, and it got compromised. He couldn’t trust anybody else. You’re not the only reason he went. He had people working undercover in Amsterdam, and he needed to reel them in. It’s not your fault.”
“I wish I could believe that.”
“Believe it, Doc. Not your fault.” In the background, I heard another phone ringing, and I heard Steve answer it, then speak tersely, though I couldn’t make out the words. “Doc, I gotta go,” he said when he came back on the line. “I know he was a friend of yours. I’m really, really sorry.”
“Yeah. Yeah, me, too. He was a good man. I…thanks for the call, Steve. Be careful out there.” My left arm dropped to my side; the phone slipped from my fingers and fell to the floor, bouncing down two of the stone steps before clattering to a stop. I left it there.
Years before, I had lost a wife to cancer. More recently—just as I’d emerged from my cave of grief—a woman I’d begun to love had been murdered. And now Rocky Stone, a good man, a dedicated cop, a devoted husband and father. At the moment, my heart felt like a graveyard full of tombstones.
I don’t know how long I sat there, staring unseeing at the stone steps. After a few seconds or many minutes, I felt a hand on my shoulder and a voice asked, in Irish-accented English, “Are you all right, lad?” I looked up. Standing before me, two steps down, was a silver-haired priest. He was dressed like a priest, at any rate—the black pants and shirt with the white clerical collar—but he didn’t look like a priest, or at least like any priest I’d ever seen. I guessed him to be ten years older than I was, but he had the physique of a man half his age: tall, broad shouldered, flat stomached. His shirt was short sleeved, and it strained to contain his chest and his biceps. He leaned closer, looked into my eyes, and asked again, “Are you all right? Anything I can do to help you?”
I took a deep breath to steady myself, then another. “Thank you, but no.” Another breath, which came in very raggedly. I forced it out between pursed lips, as if I were blowing out birthday candles. Rocky Stone was what, forty-four? Forty-eight? “It’s kind of you to offer, though. I just got some bad news. It blindsided me.”
He kept his left hand on my shoulder and extended his right, which held my cell phone. “I’m thinking this was the bearer of bad tidings; would I be right about that, lad?” I nodded, taking it from him. “I got a phone call like that once,” he said. “Long ago. Changed my life. It’s been an interesting life, and lots of it’s been good. But I’d give anything not to have gotten that call, you know?”
I nodded again, intrigued now, or maybe just desperate to be distracted from my own sadness. “Do you mind my asking what your bad-news call was?”
“Ah. No, lad, I don’t mind. Part of me penance is tellin’ it.” I looked up, puzzled. “It was bad news that I had a hand in bringin’ about, see?” I didn’t see, but he seemed to be diving into deep inner waters, so I waited for whatever it was that he felt bound by penance to tell. “I was twenty-two when the Troubles began. A young hothead livin’ at home with me mum in Banbridge, not far from Belfast. I had no job, no goals, and nothing better to do than to brood and rage, and blame everything that I hated about my life on the British Army and the Protestants. So I joined the Provisional IRA. I didn’t actually do much; I suppose I was provisional. Mostly spouted off a lot, in front of me mum and my little brother, Jimmy.”
He paused a moment before continuing. “Jimmy was sixteen, and he looked up to me more than he should’ve. ‘Rivers of blood,’ I liked to say, ‘that’s the only thing can wash the devils out of Northern Ireland.’ And while I was talking such stuff, Jimmy was listening. Jimmy was believin’. So Jimmy joined up. He didn’t even tell me. Jimmy wasn’t a talker—Jimmy was a doer. Nothing provisional about Jimmy. Jimmy planted a culvert bomb under one of the roads into town—that was our version of the IEDs that maim so many soldiers in Iraq these days. But the bomb went off prematurely. It wasn’t a British Army vehicle that Jimmy’s bomb blew up; it was a school bus. Three kids died; seventeen were injured. Some of them lost arms, legs, eyes.”
He stared out the window of the stairwell, as if watching the story unfold. “The army hunted Jimmy for weeks; it was hard for him to find food or shelter because the one thing all sides agreed on—Protestants, Catholics, Loyalists, Brits—was what a terrible thing young Jimmy Halloran had done. They finally found him in a barn on the coast at Mill Bay, alone and weak with hunger. He wouldn’t give up; I’m not sure they gave him a real chance, but even i
f they did, he wouldn’t have taken it. He wounded three soldiers during the gun battle. It took six bullets to bring him down. And you know the last thing he said?” His voice had gotten thick, and as I glanced up, I saw him wiping his eyes before he resumed. “Sorry, lad. Tellin’ it brings it all back. Jimmy’s dying words, said the officer who phoned with the news, were my very own words: ‘Rivers of blood.’ God forgive me.” He crossed himself, and breathed out a sadness that came from deep in his core. “So you can see why I might feel the need to do a bit of penance.”
“I’m sorry, Father,” I said. “That’s a heartbreaking story.”
“Ah, the heart—not as easily broken as we think it is, lad. Bruises often but rarely breaks, truth be told. Now, how about we go and get you something for that freshly bruised heart of yours, eh? Maybe a dram of brandy or a pint of Guinness to revive you?”
“Thanks. But I don’t drink.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t drink.”
“What? Not a drop?”
“Not if it’s alcohol.”
“Well, then, it’s a piss-poor priest you’d have made, lad.” I looked up, startled, and his eyes—red rimmed—were now twinkling. “No alcohol? You’ve got no aptitude for the priesthood. No vocation, no calling.” To my surprise, I found myself smiling at his cheeky irreverence. “Well, no matter—I’ve got vocation enough for the both of us. Come along, if you like; I’ll have the brandy and the Guinness, and you can have coffee, or tea, or broccoli juice, or whatever other wretched beverage American teetotalers consume instead of nectar from heaven.”
He reached out a hand; to my surprise, I took it and let him haul me to my feet. As he headed down the staircase toward the library’s exit, he turned and looked over his shoulder. “Coming, lad? I’m Michael Halloran, by the by.”
I started down the steps after him, abandoning the Giovanetti book in the window alcove where I’d left it. “Do you serve a parish here in Avignon, Father Halloran?”
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