HE WAS WAITING FOR HER AT THE STUDIO WHEN SHE arrived. He had put the new arrival on an easel and was sitting in front of it, but got up as soon as she came in. She sensed that he’d been thinking about this moment, wondering what to say to her when she walked through the door.
“Kristín,” he said. “It’s a Caravaggio.”
She took off her coat.
“I know. I was here to receive it.”
“An unknown Caravaggio.” His voice was solemn but quivered with excitement.
“Are you sure about that?”
He controlled himself, didn’t scold her for questioning him, answering in the most sincere way possible, “Yes, I’m sure. There is only a record of about sixty of his works. Who knows how many have been lost to time or lie forgotten in a monastery or a palazzo somewhere? This is a godsend, Kristín. This one we can save.”
She walked over to the easel.
“It’s in bad shape,” she said.
“But you can restore it. You are capable of it.”
“I was planning to leave when I completed the Madonna and Child. I’m almost done.”
He cleared his throat. She knew he was now ready to deliver the speech he had practiced.
“Kristín, I owe you an apology. My feelings for you . . . I don’t have to tell you. I never intended to deceive you, but I never found the courage either to sort things out. I don’t blame you for being angry and disappointed . . . You’re young. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. Only time will tell whether you’ll become a great artist—I’m being completely honest with you now—but you’re already a remarkable restorer. That is a rare gift that you shouldn’t discount. If not for me, then for history, Kristín. For art, for posterity, for Caravaggio himself. There is no one I can ask but you.”
She didn’t say anything. For what seemed like a long time, she stood still looking at her painting, listening to the echo of his words in her mind. Only time will tell . . .
He walked to the easel and pointed at the painting, almost touching it.
“Look at this. The light falling on her shoulders, the shadows touching her face, the unmistakable genius in every stroke . . . Come, look . . .”
She didn’t move.
“How much will you get for it?”
He was taken by surprise. She had never discussed money with him.
“Kristín . . .”
“How much?”
“If you don’t want to work on it, I’ll do it myself.”
“No, you won’t. There is too much repainting involved.”
He looked at her. This time she didn’t look away.
“I’ll pay you 10 percent,” he said finally, forcing a smile. “You will be able to concentrate on your art without worrying about finances for a long, long time.”
As she nodded, she saw his relief. He took a step toward her, stopping when she raised her hand.
“On condition that you stay away from me until I’ve finished.”
She worked tirelessly for weeks, immersing herself in her own masterpiece of deception. What a joy it was to get reacquainted with the tools and the colors, the brushes, the spatula, the pumice, what a triumph to have gotten this far and know she was in full control. She worked as winter maintained its hold on the city, as the war escalated, and the end drew near. She tried to ignore anything that might distract her, waging her own war with brush, palette, and hatred. The Allies were approaching from the south, and hundreds of thousands of refugees poured into the city from the war zones and the coastal towns to the west and the east. Conditions grew more wretched by the day. The water supply to people’s homes was turned off and the citizens stood in long queues at the city’s fountains with containers of all shapes and sizes, while street vendors pushed handcarts through the residential areas, selling jugs of water at extortionate prices. Coal was unobtainable, the gas supply ran out, and power cuts were threatened. When the air-raid sirens blared their warning, she stayed put. When the people in the canteen talked of executions and German atrocities, she tried to close her ears. She had to stay on course, whatever the cost.
He kept his promise and did not come to the studio during the day while she was working but she assumed that Signorina Pirandello informed him the moment she left in the evening. She sometimes caught the scent of him in the morning when she came to work, and once she had the impression that the picture had been moved on the easel.
She started with the damaged background before moving to the bracelet and the pearl necklace of which only the outlines were visible. She hadn’t thought she had to do much repair on the lower half of the body but she had no choice since the cracks she had produced were too severe. That was also the case in the shaft of light high up on the wall as well as in the hands and the hairpin. She painted the face last of all, slowly summoning her courage and focusing her energy before mixing her colors and picking up her brush.
The photograph Kristín used for the face had been taken of her in Copenhagen. She had her hair tied back and was turning away from the camera. She had made Maria, her model, turn her head in just the same way, repeatedly consulting the photograph to make sure the young woman’s composure was right. Kristín wasn’t easily recognizable in the photograph. One cheek was invisible, the other in half shadow, her hair lighter and longer. A student at the Academy had taken the picture on a rainy day; Kristín had just come in from the street after having spent the morning trying to start her final assignment, desperately wanting to paint the pond and the swan taking off into the air and the girl in the yellow dress wading into the pond, but having no success. She didn’t want to pose but her friend grabbed her and begged her to do him a favor. In the photograph she was thinking of the swan and the pond and the sky above the pond and the bird disappearing into the sky. She must have opened her mouth when she thought of the cold water touching her legs.
He should be able to recognize her. That’s what she told herself. He should if he had thought about her half as much as she had thought about him, his image constantly in her mind, every expression, a record of every mood. He should be paying special attention to the face since there hadn’t been one for her to restore, he should be searching for her solution, looking through the shadows, feeling the presence of the face he had held so often in his palms.
What would he say? Smile perhaps and take the opportunity to establish a bond? “Brilliant, Kristín. So subtle, so perfectly executed. This will be our little secret.”
She didn’t really have much left to do when the painting vanished. Nothing essential, only minor improvements around the head, a subtle touching-up of the shaft of light on the wall and one of the pearls in the necklace. Nothing that anyone but she would notice. She had turned on the light and hung her coat in the closet when she noticed the empty easel. She searched frantically around the studio, running into the storeroom, pulling one canvas after another from the racks before running down the stairs to the office.
Signorina Pirandello must have expected her but still was not prepared. She stammered, fidgeting with the pen in her hands, avoiding Kristín’s gaze. Kristín lost her temper. It was as if she was standing outside herself, watching from a distance as she yelled at Signorina Pirandello who, in the end, did not dare withhold the information.
“They came earlier this morning,” she blurted out. “The soldiers waited outside in the car. Mr. Hofer carried the painting down himself. Mr. Marshall didn’t have a choice . . .”
“Hofer? He sold it to Walter Hofer? Hermann Göring’s agent?”
Signorina Pirandello looked inadvertently at her desk. The document was still fresh, the signatures newly dried at the bottom of the page. Kristín picked it up.
“The Count wanted too much money. He’s a very unreasonable man . . .”
Kristín didn’t reply. She was reading the sales agreement and Marshall’s letter of authentication that was attached to it.
“And they have a copy too?”
“Yes, of course. They insisted tha
t everything be put in writing.”
Kristín ran out and didn’t even bother fetching her coat. It was cold but she didn’t feel it, not stopping till she got to Marshall’s house. She didn’t greet the maid who opened the door, simply insisted that she needed to talk to Marshall, who appeared a moment later. He took her arm and led her into his office where he offered her a seat. She would not sit but took a step toward him and demanded he bring the painting back.
“The buyer was in a hurry. There is nothing I can do.”
“You sold it to Hofer.”
He was taken aback that Signorina Pirandello had revealed this information and responded carefully after a brief hesitation.
“The work has been sold. Your restoration was first-rate. I was just about to walk over to tell you that. You deserve your full 10 percent for this effort, Kristín. It was absolutely first-rate. I will settle up with you tomorrow.”
“You have to get it back,” she said. “Or . . .”
She broke off. He waited.
“You can’t work on it forever,” he said at last. “Your restoration is a work of art, but all artists have to let go eventually. Even Caravaggio himself . . .”
She was not ready for a lecture, not now.
“You sold it to the Germans,” she interrupted. “You didn’t even use a middleman.”
“I sold it to an art lover who happens to be German.”
“We both know what you did and now there is documentation to prove it both in your hands and theirs. The Allies will find out. What do you think they’ll do to an Englishman who’s collaborating with the Germans? Or the partisans to someone who’s been selling national treasures to the enemy?”
“The Germans may be retreating, but the war is far from over, Kristín. This isn’t something you need to concern yourself with.”
“I want to see it.”
“Pardon me?”
“One last time. That’s the least you can do for me.”
“I’ll try.”
“When?”
Later she tried to imagine how the conversation might have ended if there hadn’t been a knock on the door. She could never make up her mind.
“Kristín,” Flora said, “it’s ages since I last saw you. Is everything all right?”
“Kristín’s just finished an important assignment,” Marshall said. “Very important.”
Flora smiled.
“May I offer you something?”
“She was just leaving,” Marshall said.
They escorted her to the door. The sound of children’s voices carried from inside the apartment, happy and carefree.
Flora took her hand. Her smile had vanished, and her expression was unreadable.
“Good-bye, Kristín.”
Halfway down the steps Kristín stopped and looked back. Marshall had gone inside, but Flora was standing on the landing, watching her. It suddenly dawned on Kristín that she knew.
Flora’s eyes followed her outside. Down the street, across the square, home. They stayed with her for the rest of the day, followed her into the evening and her restless dreams. She had never seen such contempt.
How long had she known? How long had she been pretending?
TWO DAYS LATER SIGNORINA PIRANDELLO INFORMED Kristín that the Marshalls were gone. She was frantic when she knocked on Kristín’s door at nine in the morning, tears streaming down her face as she repeated again and again, “He didn’t even tell me.” They had fled in the night with suitcases and artwork, leaving everything else behind. She was crushed that he hadn’t taken her into his confidence, the man around whom her world had revolved for so many years, crushed and terribly alone. She also maintained that she knew nothing about the painting’s whereabouts, but in that regard Kristín was skeptical. She kept pressing her, pleading with her at first but when that didn’t work threatening her and her nephew with exposure. Signorina Pirandello was shocked (“How could you after everything I’ve done for you . . .”) but, seeing how upset and determined Kristín was, she couldn’t take the chance. There was news of the Allies attacking the German defense line south of Rome, and some said it was only a matter of time before they would liberate the city.
“Mr. Hofer insisted. Mr. Marshall had no choice. His concern was for the painting. Mr. Hofer wanted him to persuade his friend to store other works as well but Mr. Marshall said this was all he could ask her. I told him he should have paid the Count. I told him . . .”
“Where is it?”
“With Marchesa Orsini at San Martino. Between Siena and Lake Trasimeno. The Germans have been moving their art north, out of harm’s way.”
On her way out, Kristín turned around.
“Did he say anything about the face?”
“Pardon me?”
“The face. Did he say anything about it?”
“No.”
She didn’t leave immediately. She had the impulse from the moment Signorina Pirandello gave up the location but not the strength. Maybe he would return, she said to herself, maybe the Allies wouldn’t succeed, maybe the painting wasn’t even at San Martino any longer.
She was at her wit’s end, unable to sleep at night, a shadow of herself by day. She would go regularly to the studio to see if there was any news of him, only to listen to Signorina Pirandello’s desperate complaints and disappointments. Twice she walked over to his house and stood outside, looking up at the darkened windows. He was gone. She sensed that she would never see him again.
At the end of May, she couldn’t bear it anymore. The Allies had finally fought through the Winter Line south of Rome and were advancing toward the city. She didn’t know what she would do once she got to San Martino, but she told herself that anything was better than the crippling guilt and anxiety. She packed in a hurry before she would change her mind yet again and ran to the train station.
It was hot and airless in the carriage and their progress was slow. She was exhausted but couldn’t get a seat until she had been traveling for two hours. She fell asleep with her suitcase in her arms. Opposite her sat a man in a dark suit with a cigarette in one hand and a soft drink in the other.
She didn’t notice his eyes until after the explosion when he was lying on the floor with the cigarette burning beside him. His eyes were large and colorless and looked as if they were staring at her through a thin, watery film. His hand was still clamped on the bottle and for some reason she grabbed it as she fled the burning carriage.
She has now looked for her Caravaggio all over the villa and in the neighboring buildings. In the fattoria, the corn store, the greenhouses, the sheds, the clinic. In the old mill and the chapel. She steals the opportunity to search during the day when she is alone, or wakes up in the night and wanders about while the others are sleeping. She is careful and so far no one has spotted her except Melchiorre one night when he was standing guard. She told him she couldn’t sleep and needed some fresh air. He didn’t ask any questions and she stayed with him for a while outside the back door, both silently gazing out into the night. Pointing up at the sky, he named a few stars and their hands touched. Nothing more.
She has looked all over the house, even in Alice’s and Pritchett’s bedrooms. And she searched Giovanni’s room before the children from Chiusi arrived; twice, in fact, because she felt so uncomfortable about being there that she had to give up in midsearch the first time.
She has begun to despair and sometimes when she is lying awake at night, pursuing her unruly thoughts, she worries that Signorina Pirandello has either lied to her or been misinformed. But then she comes to her senses and ponders yet again all the places where the painting might be hidden, telling herself yet again that she has to find it before the Allies arrive and discover it or the Germans take it with them on their retreat, making it impossible for her ever to get her hands on it. The booms of explosions sound from beyond Monte Amiata but in the valley the fog is lit by the moon. The whirring of the cicadas is loud and frantic, and there is no breath of wind.
She int
ends to search the barn again and also the sheds at the bottom of the slope. She mustn’t give up hope. Leaving the courtyard, she picks her way along the track toward the greenhouse. The gravel crunches underfoot and the cypresses cast long, thin shadows across the path in the moonlight. Doubt dogs her heels, whispering that her search is futile, that her journey from Rome has been in vain, that she can’t save Marshall, who will inevitably be prosecuted. She counters with the usual objections: if she destroys the painting, the only proof that it ever existed will be the documents, the sales agreement and authentication, which they may never find. “Unlikely,” that’s the word she uses: which they are unlikely to ever find. The voice that used to whisper that he didn’t deserve her efforts to save him from disaster has fallen silent.
She opens the door to the greenhouse where the lemon trees are stored in winter and lights the lantern. Her leg is aching but she ignores it. The backdrop that the children made for the play has been taken down but is still stored in the corner along with the empty flowerpots and gardening tools. The building smells of earth and stone, and all the windows are open to the night air. Although she searches the storeroom again and peers around for new hiding places, she knows it is pointless. Yet she persists in her search, going from the greenhouse to the shed beside the chapel, from the shed to the stables, pursuing her despair until eventually she gives up and sinks down in the hay with the horses. She is still sitting there in the soft hay next to the animals when she hears the Germans arrive, and she does not even try to get up.
WE LEAPT OUT OF BED, OUR HEADS STILL FULL OF unfinished dreams, as if a bomb had fallen or a storm had struck. Everything happened at once—the night watchman yelled, the back door was flung open, the roar of engines filled the house. Melchiorre, who had been on guard, was standing in the hall, impotently watching two soldiers who had forced their way in through the back door and were now opening the front door for their comrades.
“Entschuldigung,” I said, but they didn’t give me so much as a glance. Perhaps they didn’t even hear me.
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