Restoration

by Olaf Olafsson

  Marshall stands up once the first course has been served and addresses his guests. His words sound familiar to her—“In the face of great art we are all equal; it unites us, its sublime intent raises us above petty squabbles, its pure and unadulterated claim on a higher purpose, its universal quality, independent of nationality, of longitude or latitude, of the soil from which we are sprung, of the vagaries of our times.” His guests nod, some hesitantly, others enthusiastically, and applaud when he sits down after concluding his speech. Smiling at him, Flora takes his hand. “Bon appétit.”

  The American is sitting next to Kristín. He has visited the studio more than once and knows her from there. Now he whispers to her, “The prince is angling for the Guercino. So are we. You don’t happen to know what he’s offered for it?”

  No, she doesn’t know.

  “I gather it was so badly damaged that Marshall got it for a song?”

  She says it is correct that the picture had been in bad shape.

  “He’s going to make a buck or two,” the American says. “And he deserves to, though I’m not exactly thrilled seeing the Germans buy up all these masterpieces.”

  “But the prince is married to the king’s daughter,” she says. “Isn’t he buying for himself and his wife?”

  “He’s a middleman,” he replies. “The paintings he acquires end up with Hitler for his planned museum in Linz.”

  She must have looked skeptical, for he continues, “The prince works with Hans Posse, the director of the Führermuseum. Posse uses the prince’s social connections to find the best pieces and his political influence to circumvent the export restrictions. They’ve made some great purchases, I’m afraid to say. But they do have competition.”

  “You, I assume?”

  He smiles.

  “I do my best but that’s usually not good enough these days. No, Hitler’s competition is Göring. Both ravenous collectors with full-fledged buying operations here in Italy. Göring’s agent is Walter Hofer. Has he come to visit?”

  “I don’t know,” she answers after a brief hesitation.

  “Here, they’re at least paying. In the occupied territories, they don’t bother. There they just take what they want. We hear there is massive confiscation of art going on in France and the Low Countries. Massive. Greater than anyone could imagine.”

  A waiter pours wine into their glasses.

  “Cheers,” the American adds. “Your boss has class. Can’t take that away from him. Pitting us against the Germans over quail and Brunello di Montalcino.”

  And that is how she realized that she was present at an auction. It should not have come as a surprise, which may have been why she was so upset. It was as if a veil had suddenly been stripped from her eyes, and she felt she had been stupid and pathetically naïve; she who had let herself dream that he wouldn’t sell the Guercino because of the hand she had painted. What childishness, what self-delusion. She was ashamed.

  Later, when she lay in the clinic at San Martino, listening to the cicadas singing outside the window and watching Melchiorre’s shadow by the door, it occurred to her that she had begun to change that evening. It took a long time; there was more than one veil over her eyes, and they were not stripped away all at once but little by little, until she finally saw Robert Marshall in a cold, pitiless light. And that was when she committed the crime, in the light that spared no one and was devoid of all beauty or forgiveness.

  YESTERDAY MORNING THE COOK CAME TO SEE ME and reported that there had been a theft from the pantry in the night. It has never happened before, and I asked her twice if there was any way she could have been mistaken. She stuck to her story, listing with characteristic precision what was missing—a loaf of bread, a piece of ham, two jars of fruit, some nuts, and a bottle of red wine. I accompanied her to the pantry and she showed me where the provisions had been stored—ham at the back, bread at the front, tins on the top shelf—and I said (more to myself than her), “How can you remember all this?”

  She was deeply attached to you and although it may be my imagination, I get the impression that she knows your absence is somehow my fault. Instead of giving me a direct answer, she said that the least she could hope for was that her kitchen would be left in peace. I nodded and made myself scarce. I always have the feeling she is accusing me. “The least I can hope for . . .”

  I didn’t have a clue who the culprit might be and neither did anyone else. It was awful having to speculate whether this or that person might be guilty, about people who are all dear to me. So I avoided naming any names, although I admit I ran over a mental list.

  “It can hardly be the children. What would they want with red wine?” Pritchett said finally. “Anyway, they get enough to eat like the rest of the household, so whoever the thieves are they can’t be stealing for themselves. But for someone else? Could that be it?”

  I cut short this speculation, as it was futile and would do nothing but sow suspicion in our minds.

  “She may be mistaken,” I said, and he nodded, although he didn’t believe it any more than I did.

  However, he did not let things rest there but ordered Melchiorre to stand guard in the kitchen last night. That proved to be the right decision: the thief appeared after everyone had gone to bed, creeping indoors with the moonlight on his heels, and would no doubt have made a beeline for the pantry if Melchiorre hadn’t started up in the rocking chair in the corner. The thief ran for his life, with Melchiorre in hot pursuit, but he was too slow and lost sight of him. Nevertheless, he insisted that he had recognized the culprit; it was the young German who turned up here the other day in the truck marked with the Red Cross.

  I had forgotten him as soon as he had driven away down the road but Pritchett claims that his concerns had not disappeared with the boy.

  “Where could he have gone? We should have seen this coming.”

  The fattore and the farmhands found the truck this morning. The young man had hidden it in the woods a couple of miles down the road and set fire to it. They looked for him for hours but couldn’t find him. Pritchett told the fattore to send word to the people on the outlying farms to keep a lookout and let us know if he was spotted. This bore fruit within hours when the farmer from Pietraporciana, at the top of our hill, caught sight of him at the edge of the forest.

  “What are you going to do with him?” I asked.

  “We’ll decide that when we’ve caught him,” Pritchett replied.

  He took the fattore and two workmen with him. I watched them leave in the rain, feeling terribly nervous. The weather doesn’t help as leaves rain down in the mud outside. The temperature has dropped sharply and the rooms are so cold and dank that we decided to light a fire in the big hearth in the drawing room, which is now being used as a classroom. The children huddle in front of the blaze where Kristín is reading them a story. I’m cold too; this damp pierces one to the marrow. It’s even worse than the winter chill since we are unprepared for it in the middle of summer. It is dark, even in the middle of the day, and I have difficulty picking out the road down in the valley. Earlier I thought I heard the roar of a plane but realized when I looked out and saw lightning in the distance that it was probably nothing but thunder. What I’d really like is to wrap myself in a blanket and curl up in the rocking chair in the kitchen, but I’m too restless.

  They are soaked to the skin when they return. The horses hang their heads in the downpour, their hooves sinking into the mud. Pritchett dismounts slowly, shaking his head, and follows me inside. He takes off his boots in the hall and I help him out of his raincoat before he goes into the drying room to change his clothes. We sit down by the fire in the kitchen. He rubs his hands together.

  “We found where he’s been sleeping in the forest,” he says, “but he’d gone. We looked everywhere.”

  “We’ll survive even if he does pilfer the odd loaf,” I say.

  He looks up and stops rubbing his hands.

  “We both know this is not about loaves of bread, Ali
ce. How long do you think it will be before he tells someone that we’re hiding something of great value for the Germans? The partisans, if they find him. The Allies, if he ends up in their hands.”

  “He said he didn’t know what was hidden here.”

  “He knows it’s important. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been sent here with a high-ranking officer. In the middle of a battle. Here . . .”

  “What are you going to do with him if you find him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Hold him hostage?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Where?”

  “He could jeopardize everything, Alice. Everything.”

  I hear a slight noise at the door. It is Melchiorre. He has obviously been standing there for some time, listening to us.

  “Melchiorre,” I say. “Why don’t you come in?”

  “I didn’t want to disturb.”

  “You’re drenched. Go into the drying room and change your clothes.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “It was my fault he got away. I was careless.”

  “Nonsense,” Pritchett retorts. “Go and put on some dry clothes.”

  “His horse slipped in the mud as we were approaching the forest and made a lot of noise,” he says after Melchiorre has gone. “He thinks the German must have heard him. Of course it’s only his imagination.”

  The day grows darker and the thunder intensifies in the afternoon. Lightning illuminates the countryside and Monte Amiata appears from time to time, bathed in violet light, before vanishing into the rainy gloom. The fattore has kept up his search for the boy, going around to some of the other farms to ask for news of him. He returns toward evening and tells us that the Germans have taken control of the towns at the mouth of the valley and that their numbers are increasing. They have been joined by reinforcements from the north and are now preparing for fierce fighting with the Allies, who are rapidly approaching from the south.

  “We’ll end up on the front line,” he says. “It’s just a question of time.”

  The fattore has a tendency to worry unnecessarily but in this case we all know he’s right. We eat in silence, staring into the fire that has been burning since morning. From time to time Pritchett gets up and adds more wood. After dinner, he goes out alone to check for signs that anyone has been searching for the underground vault by the mill and is gone a long time. Growing uneasy, I put on my raincoat and follow him. The rain is cold on my face and the courtyard is covered in leaves and twigs that the wind has torn from the trees. I can’t find him by the mill but stay away from the trapdoor for fear of leaving footprints in the mud.

  On the way back I stop and survey the buildings—the fattoria with its silent olive press and cold baking ovens, the chapel, the clinic, the main villa. I gaze at their outlines in the rain and darkness and all at once I feel as if this world is slipping from my grasp and I have only myself to blame, not the war or the political turmoil but myself.

  I go to bed early, utterly worn-out. Pritchett is reading in his study. I can tell that his mind is not on his book and we exchange a few words before saying good night. He tells me that Melchiorre is insisting on guarding the kitchen tonight, though there is no likelihood that the German will return.

  “From now on we’ll lock the doors at night,” he says.

  “If you like,” I say.

  I am awakened by a commotion outside in the courtyard. It is two o’clock. When I look out the window, I see shadows moving in the darkness. I hear Pritchett’s voice. His agitation is plain, although I can’t distinguish a word he says. I hurriedly pull on a dressing gown and head downstairs.

  They are in the courtyard by the chapel—Pritchett, Melchiorre, and Kristín. The door is wide open and I can see a candle burning by the altar. Outside a man is lying facedown on the ground. Pritchett looks over at me, then at the man.

  I do not need to see his face to know that this is the young German we have been searching for. He is motionless, his arms by his sides, his right cheek pressed to the cold stone. Pritchett has a torch and when he flashes it on the ground I see that the pool around the boy’s head is red. The blood is thinning in the rain but I can follow the trail over the threshold and into the chapel.

  Pritchett and Kristín stand still and Melchiorre is staring at the young man on the ground, scrutinizing him with single-minded absorption as if looking for something, perhaps waiting for him to open his eyes and sit up. I’m too shocked to speak. Finally Pritchett takes my arm and leads me into the chapel.

  I take care not to step in the trail of blood. It glistens in the feeble candlelight, a slender, intermittent trail, ending in a pool before the altar. We stop and Pritchett says in a low voice:

  “He must have come in here to pray—the boy, I mean.”

  I gaze at the pool before automatically glancing out at the rain. I can glimpse the shapes of Melchiorre and Kristín outside; they are still standing in the same place, with the body between them, as if guarding it.

  “Melchiorre found him kneeling by the font,” Pritchett says. “He panicked when the boy jumped to his feet and he shot him. You can’t blame the poor wretch.”

  “No, you can’t,” I manage to say. “Poor Melchiorre.”

  “He’d dragged him outside before I arrived,” he says. “Couldn’t bear watching him on the floor in here.”

  Pritchett suggests that he wake up the fattore to help him take the body to the quarry on the hillside to the east because it would be too risky to bury him in our cemetery.

  “We must bury him in consecrated ground,” I reply, adding quietly, “how would they ever know? There are so many new graves . . .”

  He looks at me and sighs, then goes to get the fattore. I take Melchiorre inside. He’s crying. I do my best to console him and give him a glass of wine to calm his nerves before I tell him to go to bed.

  Lifting the body between them, Pritchett and the fattore carry it to the cemetery. I give Kristín a broom, a bucket, and cloths and leave her behind in the chapel while I fetch the priest, who has been in Montepulciano for the past two weeks but is now staying with us for a few days. I’m surprised to find him awake.

  “I don’t sleep much these days,” he says.

  Pritchett and the fattore have already dug the grave when I arrive with the priest. The fattore climbs back down into it and receives the body as Pritchett lowers it to him.

  In the rain and darkness, the priest’s movements seem even slower than usual. His words merge into the noise of the rain and disappear with it into the ground. We stand in the mud, eyes straight ahead. When the priest stops speaking, Pritchett fills in the grave over the body.

  Kristín has cleaned the chapel by the time we return. I tell her she is not to discuss the events of the night with anyone. She nods but I feel compelled to repeat myself.

  The candle on the altar has gone out and I feel how cold it is inside. The priest takes my hand and we stand there in silence for what seems like a very long time.

  KRISTÍN WAS AWAKE WHEN SHE HEARD THE SHOT. Her room was upstairs in a small building beside the main villa. Signorina Harris and Schwester Marie slept on the ground floor, Signor Grandinetti in the room next to hers. The teacher had moved there from Pienza when the roads were no longer safe for him to travel on his bicycle. He was quiet and unobtrusive, missing his girlfriend back home. Sometimes he played his guitar in his room and sang in a very low voice.

  Her leg ached but she didn’t mention this to Signorina Harris. It generally began to ache in late afternoon or evening when she had been on her feet for a long time. That day it had been unusually bad. She was sitting with her leg up on the table, trying not to let her thoughts stray to Robert Marshall, trying not to think about anything, listening to the infinitesimal changes in the rhythm of the rain on the glass.

  She wouldn’t have heard the shot if she hadn’t been paying attention. She knew about the theft from the kitchen and had heard Schwester Marie telling the teacher that Melchiorre was going to
stand guard that night. Clasping her leg, she lifted it down from the table, grimacing involuntarily as the pain returned, then stood up as quickly as she could and put on her shoes. There was no one in the kitchen, but the door to the courtyard was ajar. Grabbing a raincoat from the peg next to it, she went outside.

  Melchiorre was dragging the body out of the chapel when she found him. He stopped when he saw her but did not let go of the German’s legs. The shot had hit the young man in the neck and a small pool quickly formed on the floor around the boy’s head. Glancing at the pool, Melchiorre started to stammer.

  “I don’t know what happened . . . I thought he . . .” And then, echoing Pritchett: “He could have jeopardized everything.”

  The German lay on his back, his eyes open, staring up at the chapel ceiling.

  “Jeopardized what?” Kristín asked.

  Melchiorre hesitated, as if trying to remember what exactly Pritchett had said to Alice. Befuddled, he continued to drag the corpse toward the door.

  “He could have told someone . . .”

  “What?”

  “That we’re hiding something for the Germans. Something of great value.”

  As he was dragging the corpse over the threshold, Pritchett loomed out of the darkness. He was wearing a hat and rain was dripping from the brim. His face was in shadow until he raised the lantern he held in his right hand.

  Kristín began cleaning when Alice had gone to fetch the priest. Listening to Melchiorre’s words echoing in her head, she tried to concentrate on her task but her mind was racing. Finally she had her confirmation. The painting was here. They hadn’t changed their minds, hadn’t taken it elsewhere as she had begun to imagine. Where could they have hidden it? Where should she start looking? And when? There was always someone around. She thought about Alice. Would she be held accountable if Kristín destroyed the painting? By now Kristín knew that Alice’s husband was gone. Not that anyone spoke about it but she had seen pictures of him in the house and asked a maid about him. She also knew that this was not the man she had seen with Alice in Rome. Who was that man who had so hastily let go of Alice’s shoulders when Kristín came running down the stairs?