The Masterpiece

by Francine Rivers

  Roman told the story. Dry of ideas and looking for any inspiration, he’d gone to a flea market to sketch vendors. He spotted a man painting ceramic pots. He was skilled, and he was quick. Roman found someone to translate and offered the man a part-time position doing the fill work on a mural project in Beverly Hills. Hector Espinoza agreed, and they shook on it. “He works for me whenever I need him. I don’t know what he does in the meantime.”

  “Nice to know you have friends.” Jasper’s tone was dry.

  Roman laughed it off. He barely talked to Hector. They didn’t speak the same language, literally. They still had trouble communicating, but had come up with a system of numbers for colors so Hector knew what to do. Roman didn’t know anything about the man and figured he was probably undocumented. He paid him well, and the partnership worked. “Hard to make friends with someone who doesn’t speak my language.”

  “Is that why you hired him? So you wouldn’t have to carry on a conversation?”

  “Is this a psych session?”

  Jasper let it go. They talked of other less personal things until after midnight. Jasper unrolled his sleeping bag on the leather couch. Both were up early the next morning. Roman made omelets, French toast, and coffee.

  “You haven’t lost your touch.” Jasper raised his cup. Roman didn’t tell him he had a personal assistant who could make better. He knew Jasper would start asking questions, and Roman didn’t have any answers.

  On the way out the front door, Jasper pushed the doorbell and set off the chimes. Roman called him a foul name. Jasper laughed. “I’ll be down this way again, sooner than you think.”

  “The couch will be ready for you.” Roman stood outside until Jasper drove out of sight.

  At two minutes to nine, the chimes went off again. When Roman opened the door, he knew by the look on her face that Grace Moore had decided to move into the cottage.

  “That happy about it, huh?”

  “We’ll have things to discuss first. After work.”

  This girl didn’t make anything easy.

  The hint of triumph on Roman Velasco’s face set Grace’s nerves on edge. The coffee had already been made. “You must have been up early.” She headed toward the office. “I’ll check your messages first.”

  “Not yet.” Roman dug into his front pocket and slapped a key on the counter. “So you can come in without setting off those—” He stopped short of saying something that would offend her. “Make it the first order of business today to find someone who can reprogram that thing before I rip it out of the wall with my bare hands. I’d rather not have it go off like church bells ringing in a New Year.”

  “I’ll take care of that, but you can keep your key.” She slid it back to him.

  “It’s an extra, and it’s for convenience, yours and mine.”

  “I’m not comfortable having your house key.”

  His mouth tightened. “Take the—darn key, Ms. Moore.”

  She knew he’d almost said something else. Maybe she was being unreasonable. Harvey Bernstein had given her a key. She took Roman’s and attached it to her key chain. “I’ll knock before I come in.”

  “Just to make sure I have my pants on?”

  She started toward the office.

  “I need your cell number.”

  Grace faced him. Alarms went off inside her head. “Why?”

  “In case I need you.”

  “I work nine to five. I’m not available before or after that. Or on weekends.”

  His eyes darkened. “It’ll save you steps.”

  The doorbell sounded again, and this time he forgot to curb his tongue. Her eyes flickered at the words that came automatically. “It’s Hector. Another irritating employee. The guy doesn’t speak enough English to get what I’m saying. We have to resort to sign language, and I’m not in the mood this morning.”

  “Maybe I can help you. I took Spanish in high school.” She followed him to the front door. Roman opened it and waved her forward to face a wiry Latino with a startled look.

  She introduced herself, and he grinned broadly. Hector responded in a stream of rapid-fire Spanish until Grace held up her hands in surrender and said, “Please slow down.”

  He obliged, and Grace translated for Roman, who stood by watching them with a less-than-pleased expression. “Hector says you called, but he doesn’t know why.”

  “Follow me.” Roman headed for the studio.

  Hector fell in beside Grace, continuing to talk in his native language. “Who are you, and where did you come from?” She told him she came from a temp agency, and Roman had hired her full-time as his personal assistant. “It’s about time. He needs help.” He talked faster, and Grace had to concentrate to catch everything. Clearly, the man liked Roman. El jefe paid well and was a gifted artist. Hector considered it an honor to work with him. He didn’t pause until Roman interrupted their conversation.

  “Do you know what he’s saying?”

  “Most of it. He was just telling me about himself.” And you.

  “Get to know him later. Tell him I still have another transfer to go, but he can get started on the two I have ready. I’ll bring the last one down to San Diego when I’m done. Tell him I’ll call before I’m on my way. Better yet, I’ll have you call. That way, if he needs anything, you can tell me what he says.”

  Grace relayed everything. Hector had questions. “He needs to know where he’s staying while he works down there. He can’t keep driving back and forth, and he doesn’t like sleeping in his car.”

  “What the—?” Roman exploded, but managed to swallow the rest. “The hotel was supposed to put him up. We’ll get that straightened out. Pronto. Call the hotel and remind them he was to get a room free of charge so he can stay and work. That was part of the deal. They can now add meals in the restaurant, since he’s been running back and forth. And tell him to take time off and go to the zoo, where he can see some real, live animals.”

  “Is that a suggestion or an order? Zoos are expensive.”

  Roman dug for his wallet, extracted a hundred-dollar bill, and handed it to Hector, who looked confused until Grace explained. The guy grinned like a happy kid and talked fast.

  “He says—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I can guess.” Roman dismissed the thanks. He picked up two long, numbered cardboard tubes and handed them to Hector. “Tell him to charge whatever supplies he needs at the usual place. I’ll see him as soon as I can. I want to get this job finished. Pronto.” He held out his hand, and Hector shook it.

  Hector grinned at Grace. “I guess that means he’s done with me.”

  She laughed. “I guess so. I’ll walk you to the door.” She went a few steps ahead before Roman demanded her attention.

  “After you show Hector out, I could use a cup of coffee.”

  “What’s in the pot, or fresh?”

  “Fresh.”

  Hector was in no hurry to leave. Grace made coffee while they talked. He said it was going to be a relief having her around. He’d like to get to know the man he worked for. They talked for another ten minutes at the door before Hector said adiós and headed for an old Ford pickup.

  Grace returned to the studio with a mug of fresh coffee. Roman sat at his drafting table, working on the transfer. There was no place to put his mug. He gave her a strange look.

  “You two sure hit it off.”

  “Hector is very nice. He admires you. He said you do amazing work. I’ve never seen one of your murals.” She came closer, offering the mug while looking at the parade of elephants he’d finished. Even without color, the drawings looked alive and in motion. She spotted something he’d drawn near the bottom and grimaced.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She turned her head and found him staring at her intently. “Isn’t this mural going into a hotel lobby?” She pointed to the lion devouring a baby giraffe. “Children might be upset by that.”

  “It’s what happens in real life.”

  “Not in a hotel, hopeful
ly. If children are upset, you can count on their parents being upset, too.”

  “I won’t be around to worry about it.” Roman wore an odd smile. “And most people wouldn’t have noticed something hidden in the grass.”

  “It’s right there.”

  “It’s not right there. You just happened to spot the hidden picture people usually miss.”

  His scrutiny made her uncomfortable. She looked for a place to set his mug, hoping to escape, and noticed he’d done more work on the easel paintings. Talia had been calling every few days asking about his progress.

  He certainly had varying tastes in art. “Which style do you enjoy most?” She looked pointedly from the transfer to the paintings.

  “Neither.” He turned on the stool and faced her. “And both. What about you?”

  Grace couldn’t read his expression, and she wasn’t about to give her opinion. “I don’t know anything about art.”

  Roman finally took the mug of coffee, his hand brushing hers. “Worried you might hurt my feelings?”

  She admired the Serengeti migration. “You have a God-given gift, Mr. Velasco.” No wonder he was so successful. He had a wide range of work.

  “God-given? I doubt God has anything to do with me. And enough with the Mr. Velasco. You didn’t say Señor Espinoza. You said Hector. Time to call me Roman.”

  “All right. Roman.” Something had him upset. He must be stressed about getting the project done. He’d told Hector he wanted it done pronto. Grace took a step back. “I’d better let you get back to work. I’ll call the hotel and clear things up for Hector. And the door chimes.” She headed for the door.

  “Grace. When Talia calls, as we both know she will, tell her the paintings are almost done. She can pick up two on Wednesday, and I’ll finish the other before I head for San Diego.”

  ROMAN, AGE 21

  Roman shoved his backpack into the overhead compartment of the Boeing 777 and slid into his seat. He stayed awake long enough to feel the rush of takeoff, coming to somewhere over the Atlantic, just in time to lower his tray as the flight attendant served dinner. He fell asleep again while the two middle-aged women to his right went over their week’s itinerary in Rome.

  Sergio Panetta had given him directions to the Cremonesis’. He got lost, but several nice-looking girls who spoke heavily accented English guided him to public transportation. Once in the right neighborhood, he walked the narrow streets with laundry hanging on lines outside windows. There were many more bicycles and motorcycles here than in San Francisco or Los Angeles, but he knew how to survive traffic.

  Baldo and Olivia Cremonesi didn’t speak English, but they embraced him in welcome and jabbered rapidly in Italian. Within an hour, their home was packed with relatives eager to meet the American who had painted a fresco for their rich cousin in Hollywood. A dozen Cremonesi aunts, uncles, nephews, and nieces, not to mention Santorini neighbors, crammed into the house. Olivia fretted over Roman not eating enough and kept pushing food at him. The table was laden with dishes he’d never seen before, and all of it smelled good. But a man can only eat so much. Younger members of the clan practiced their English on him, peppering him with questions about America and about Sergio, who had become a family legend with his success as an import-export business owner.

  Roman had hoped for quiet lodgings for a day or two until he could learn his way around the city and find a good hostel, but the Cremonesis had the next few weeks of his life all planned out. They’d even appointed a relative to act as guide to the Eternal City. Luigi was young, out of work, and eager to show their American guest around. Grinning at Roman, he raised his wineglass. “We go tomorrow. I teach you everything you need to know.” He winked. “We look for girls.”

  Olivia smacked Luigi on the back of the head and erupted in excited Italian while waving angrily at Baldo, who hollered back. Luigi laughed. Baldo raised his hands in surrender and cried out, “Olivia!” Others laughed, too, saying things to Luigi with glances at Roman.

  Roman didn’t like being the center of attention. He didn’t like being in a crowded room among strangers who had no qualms about hugging and kissing him the minute they walked in the room. He didn’t want anyone making plans for him for an hour, let alone days. And he didn’t want anyone showing him the city. He hadn’t come to Rome so people could take over his life. He’d rather sleep on the streets than stay in this house.

  The longer the evening wore on, the quieter he got. Olivia noticed and spoke to him in Italian. She put her hands together against her cheek and pretended to sleep. He saw an excuse to separate himself from the throng and nodded.

  Olivia called Luigi and waved toward the stairs. Luigi told Roman a bedroom was ready upstairs and down the hall to the left. “I pick you up at noon.”

  As soon as Roman closed the door, he pulled a sketch pad from his backpack. Leaning against the headboard, he drew rapidly: Olivia in the kitchen with Baldo leaning against the counter, an adoring look on his face. He wrote Grazie at the top and signed Roman Velasco at the bottom. He stuck the picture in the dresser mirror and looked out the window. It was a straight drop to a cobbled alley. He wouldn’t be escaping that way. He’d have to wait for the party to end and the Cremonesis to go to bed.

  He pulled out his guidebook on Rome and studied the city map. By the time the house was quiet, he had memorized the city layout. He felt a twinge of guilt leaving in the middle of the night, but not enough to change his mind. He closed the front door quietly behind him. Filling his lungs with the air of freedom, he let it out in relief. He could find his own way. He’d been doing it since he was seven.

  It was a couple of miles to the heart of the city, with several places to stay. He walked quickly, putting some distance between him and the Cremonesi house. Mopeds were locked in racks or chained to trees. He remembered what Jasper had said about traveling Europe on a motorcycle. He might buy one if the opportunity presented itself.

  It was after midnight, but people were out and about. He figured the rules of survival were the same in any big city. Keep your eyes and ears open. Know what’s going on around you. Just as he had in San Francisco and Los Angeles, Roman moved in the shadows, where he felt most at home.

  Roman found his way to an inexpensive guesthouse not far from the Pantheon and near a bridge that crossed the Tiber. Vatican City was only blocks away. He paid for a full week and slept for a few hours before going out to explore the maze of cobbled streets. He wove his way through groups of young and old, hearing Italian, French, English, German. Tourist groups were everywhere. He watched the locals. He ate and drank what they did while he hung out in piazzas sketching buildings, fountains, and girls in short black skirts and high-heeled black boots. The city was a visual feast by day, a hive of activity at night.

  He spent a day wandering the Roman Forum and the Colosseum, another sitting on the Spanish Steps and drawing the Trevi Fountain. He bought a ticket to the Vatican and gawked at art-glutted halls, lingering in a corner of the Sistine Chapel, studying Michelangelo’s masterpiece until his neck cramped. Rubbing it, he watched groups of tourists with their guides driving them like cattle. He followed along. Every wall, ceiling, and floor was a work of art. Priceless treasures were everywhere: jeweled crowns, gold-covered statues, diamond rings and pendants; masterworks by da Vinci, Raphael, Titian, Caravaggio; tapestries that had taken dozens of artisans decades to weave; mosaic marble floors.

  Within minutes of entering the vast complex, his awe transformed into disquiet. By the time he stood in Saint Peter’s Basilica before Michelangelo’s Pietà, encased in bulletproof glass, he wondered whether the vast collections of priceless treasures, the massive acquisition of wealth through the ages, was really for God or merely a show of power. Where had all the money come from to build this monument to religion? From conquest and the conquered? Did the devout fork over offerings?

  Hundreds of visitors streamed through, jamming the basilica. Hundreds more walked the halls, and more lined up outside, all eage
r to pay the hefty admission prices. How much money did it take to get into heaven, anyway? Was there a heaven? Or hell? Did God even exist? Roman had never lived with anyone who thought God was real, let alone necessary. “Live and let live” was religion enough for him.

  The crucifix bothered him. Why would anyone worship a man who claimed to be God and yet died on a cross? He thought of a sign in the Tenderloin, right across the street from the flat where he and his mother lived: Jesus Saves. Saves from what? Jesus couldn’t save Himself. How could He save others?

  Two old women in black dresses and shawls stood nearby, tears running down their faces. When they walked away, he followed, curious. They went into an alcove and knelt on a low wooden bench. They held strings of beads and murmured prayers. Roman stood by the wall and sketched them. They stayed for an hour, rose, moved to the aisle, knelt, and touched their forehead, heart, and each shoulder before they rose and quietly left. The tears had dried, and they looked peaceful. He stared up at the statue of Jesus, hands and feet nailed to the cross, body emaciated and twisted, face contorted in agony.

  Anger filled Roman. He didn’t know where it came from or why. He left the basilica and walked the streets surrounding the Vatican. He saw plenty of graffiti, but none he’d be proud to leave behind. A group of avant-garde youths were hanging around San Lorenzo in Roma Centro. He moved among them, listening and watching until an English girl stopped him and started up a conversation. An Italian girl joined them and said they were all going to Trastevere. Roman spent the evening drinking and asking where he could buy art supplies.

  Returning to his lodgings, he sketched a cassocked priest, fingers encrusted with rings, an elaborate crucifix hanging from his neck. He wore pirate boots and had one foot on top of a treasure chest while nearby a skeletal peasant woman cowered with her hand outstretched. He crumpled the drawing and tossed it across the room.

  Roman slept fitfully and dreamed about his mother.

  Next morning, exhausted and in a foul mood, he found his way to Ditta G. Poggi and bought another sketch pad and more charcoal pencils. He loved the smell of the store and lingered as patrons came and went. A buzz spread when one man entered. He bought tubes of oil paint and expensive brushes, then placed an order for cochineal insects he could grind into powder to produce a specific shade of carmine.