Restoration

by Olaf Olafsson

  She did so hesitantly, and he stood behind her, watching her in silence. Then he sat down, still watching. She found it hard to concentrate but finished the drawing anyway. He held out his hand and she passed him the pad. He leafed through it, neither quickly nor slowly, stopping at last at the drawing she had just completed.

  “Botticelli, Leonardo, the parapet on a bridge, and now this. What do you think of it?”

  “I had nothing else to do,” she heard herself saying and instantly reproached herself for her apologetic tone.

  “Poor Giuseppe,” he said. “You’ve captured him. His mediocrity.”

  He continued to leaf through, stopping at Raphael’s self-portrait, which she had sketched in the Uffizi.

  “Mediocrity’s easier,” he said as if to himself. “But you’re on the right track. The neutrality of the master’s expression is there. The eyes giving nothing away. The pale, almost feminine cheek. What do you think is missing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Smiling, he closed the pad and handed it to her.

  “What news of my friend Jensen? Still as earnest as ever?”

  She told him that she had heard that the German occupation of Denmark had had no impact on his job but his previous question continued to echo in her head. She was on the verge of asking him but stopped herself.

  “What do you think is missing?”

  They drank tea. He told her that eminent Fascists regularly met in the room to the left, while the rumor was that Il Duce’s opponents frequented the room to the right. “We’re caught between them. In the peaceful zone . . . By Giuseppe’s picture.”

  He did the talking.

  “You must draw Botticelli slowly. Lift the pencil regularly and inspect what’s there. Try to guess what comes next without looking at the original. Botticelli used to listen to birdsong as he worked. Kept the window open. Can you hear the birds singing when you stand in front of his work?”

  “It hadn’t occurred to me,” she said.

  “Not surprising. But it’ll come. In time.”

  Their cups were empty. He fell silent, then looked at her.

  “What can I do for you?”

  Unprepared for the question, she answered perhaps more bluntly than intended.

  “I have been waitressing but . . .”

  “But you feel you’re wasting your time?”

  She didn’t feel the right to call herself an artist and blushed.

  “You’re right,” he continued. “You should devote yourself to your art.”

  She was silent.

  “You won’t learn anything by being a waitress,” he said. “Come to my studio at ten tomorrow morning. We’ll see if I can find something for you to do.”

  Then he was gone. She remained sitting there for a little while longer before rising and putting the sketchpad and pencil in her bag. Before she left, her gaze fell on the painting on the wall. It made her uncomfortable; she suddenly felt responsible for it in some way, as if she were implicated in the artist’s inadequacy. She hurried out and before she knew it, she had torn the sketch from her pad and thrown it in a litter bin.

  KRISTÍN REMEMBERS THE FIRST TIME SHE SAW ALICE. It was in the autumn of 1940. She and Marshall were standing side by side at the Trevi Fountain, and Alice reached into her bag for a coin to throw into the water. Her movements were slow and unhurried, and she didn’t seem to say anything after she had thrown the coin. He did the talking. As always. She saw that Alice was listening as she studied the fountain and the statues above it, of Neptune and Triton and the sea horses. Then she turned to him and communicated something with her eyes before walking away. He stood still, watching her vanish into the crowd.

  Kristín had followed Marshall there from the studio. She took care not to let him see her, but it wasn’t difficult, as he had no suspicion of being pursued. He went first to the tobacconist’s, then straight to the fountain. Alice was waiting for him. Their meeting was brief.

  The smell of him still lingered in Kristín’s hair, the invisible imprint of his kisses on her breasts and neck. The echo of his voice in her head, the words he had left behind. He talked before they made love and afterward as well, whispering to her what she wanted to hear.

  “Kristín, why aren’t we alone in the world? Even for a day?”

  She had followed him out of curiosity, not suspicion. His kisses were still strange to her, the words that accompanied his caresses still unfamiliar. He had dressed slowly, reaching for the trousers that he had folded and hung over the back of the chair by her worktable, the shirt and jacket that he had laid on top of the trousers. She had watched him putting on his tie in front of a fragment of mirror on the shelf; the long, strong fingers as they adjusted the knot, then reached into his jacket pocket for a comb. He did not speak while he looked in the mirror, but turned to her and gave her a quick smile as he slipped the comb back into his pocket.

  “Even for a day.”

  He kissed her on the cheek, then strode out, down the stairs and outside into the narrow, cobbled street.

  “Who are you?” she had asked herself under her breath, and quickly pulled on her clothes and ran out so as not to lose sight of him.

  He walked neither quickly nor slowly, glanced once at his watch, and swung the cane that became him so well but was only for show. The day was cloudy but still, with a few puddles on the streets after last night’s rain. He picked his way around them, not stopping until he came to the tobacconist’s. He did not spend long inside.

  He had made her kneel on a bench by the wall, clasping her hips in both hands. She turned her head to look into his eyes, those eyes that saw through time. Saw everything, knew the brushstroke even when it was hidden under dust and dirt, could distinguish countless colors in every shadow, found a ray of light where others saw only darkness. He was her master.

  As he dressed, he examined the painting she was cleaning. A soldier in a breastplate with a sword in his hand, probably mid-eighteenth century.

  “He has blue eyes,” he said. “And his breastplate’s dented on the right-hand side. You’ll see that when you’ve resolved the water damage. A mediocre artist. But the owners don’t know that. And there’s no need to enlighten them.”

  She listened with only one ear. She was wondering why he always talked about her work when they had made love. He had done so on the first two occasions as well. She had been restoring an altarpiece. He had talked about the ground layer as he dressed.

  Kristín didn’t know who Alice was and couldn’t tell from her and Marshall’s manner how well they knew each other. She tried to guess what had passed between them but soon gave up. She was struck by the grace of Alice’s movements. The same thought occurred to her the next time she saw her. Almost three years later.

  Now Alice is standing by her bed when she opens her eyes. Signorina Harris is with her. They are discussing her.

  “Her leg’s in a bad way,” the nurse says. “I had to give her morphine.”

  Kristín closes her eyes again.

  “And the wound?”

  “I stitched it. It seems to be healing reasonably well.”

  “Has she said anything?”

  “No.”

  They are silent. She has the feeling that they are looking at her but does not get the sense that Alice recognizes her. And why should she? she says to herself. I was a fool thinking she might.

  “I don’t understand how she could have walked in that condition,” the nurse says.

  “When will she be back on her feet?”

  “In a few days.” She adds, “God willing, and as long as the infection doesn’t return.”

  “We need the bed as soon as possible,” Alice says. “We’re bound to get more casualties in the next few days.”

  Alice leaves. The nurse remains.

  “When will we have ham again?” asks Bruno.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “I’m always hungry.”

  “That’s a sign of recovery.”

/>   “She’s awake some of the time,” he says. “I can tell from her breathing. But she doesn’t say anything.”

  In the summer of 1943 Kristín saw Alice the second time at a party at Marshall’s home. Kristín had bought herself a yellow dress for the occasion and wore it with a blue scarf knotted around her neck and blue shoes. It was two years since she had been invited to their home, but she remembered the apartment in detail. The room was crowded, and apart from acknowledging her briefly when she arrived, he left her alone. He greeted many people with kisses, but not her. He merely took her hand and said politely, “Welcome, Kristín.”

  She withdrew and stood by the wall, watching the dancing. He danced first with his wife, who was as beautiful as always. Whenever Kristín had asked him about her, he had always changed the subject, often with a look of disapproval. Now she watched her smiling in his arms.

  There were a number of prominent figures at the party, particularly Italians and Germans: Marshall’s clients. Some of them she knew by sight, having seen them at the studio. Von Hassel, the German ambassador, greeted her. Others did not recognize her. They were not used to seeing her dressed up like this.

  She noticed the woman from the fountain the moment she entered the room. She held her head high but without being haughty. She was wearing a backless dress and Kristín’s eyes were immediately drawn to her long, slender neck and her broad but delicate shoulders. Count Ciano, the foreign minister and Mussolini’s son-in-law, went straight over to her and kissed her hand. They danced. Her movements were effortless and graceful. Kristín asked a waiter who the woman was. “The Marchesa Orsini,” he answered.

  Feeling hot, she went into the adjacent room, walked over to the French window and looked out. It was open and faced a square where pigeons fluttered after bread crumbs and young Blackshirts horsed around in the warm evening air. Waiters passed through the room with trays of wineglasses and a young man came over to her, glass in hand, and asked if she was alone. When she said she was, he began to tell her about himself. She did not pretend to be interested at first. But then she noticed her master standing at the door, watching them, and forced herself to turn her attention to the young man. He raised his voice, his gestures becoming more extravagant. She saw out of the corner of her eye that her master was still at the door and couldn’t resist the urge to look in his direction.

  He was leaning against the doorpost, smirking. He had seen through her and was letting her know it. She was ashamed of her childishness, of her submissiveness and dependence, ashamed of loving this man who she knew would never be hers. She left abruptly, abandoning the young man in midflow, slipping quickly past her master in the doorway, fleeing the scene of her humiliation.

  On her way down the stairs she came face-to-face with Marchesa Orsini and another guest, a man she didn’t know but assumed was her husband. They were startled and the man quickly let go of Alice’s shoulders, but Kristín hurried past them, bumping into Alice, who dropped her bag on the floor. The man bent and picked it up.

  “Excuse me,” Kristín said, “please excuse me,” and hurried into the dusk.

  That night she dreamt of her master and his wife. They were dancing in bright sunshine to the sound of gently lapping waves. The sound was clearly audible yet there was no water to be seen. She looked for herself in the dream but in vain. Then she woke up gasping and could not get back to sleep for the rest of the night.

  KRISTÍN IS AWAKENED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT by a movement in the room. The moon casts a shadow on the wall opposite her bed; it looms larger as the man moves closer. She is in the hinterland between sleep and waking, and the remnants of a dream cling to her for a moment, then vanish. She raises her head from the pillow but cannot see his face until he is right by the bed. She lies back and watches the moon shining on his large, round eyes.

  Melchiorre stares at her in silence, then whispers as if to himself.

  “You moaned. I thought there was something wrong. But you must just have been dreaming.”

  He slowly backs away, without waiting for an answer, and resumes his position by the wall. He stands still for a while, then sits down on a chair. His presence does not make her uneasy and soon she closes her eyes again.

  She is just about to drop off when she hears a whisper from the other bed.

  “Melchiorre, are you in love?”

  Melchiorre hushes him.

  “Shut up, Bruno. You’ll wake her.”

  “She’s not asleep,” the other whispers back. “She’s awake. She’s awake and wondering what you’re doing here.”

  “Shh,” Melchiorre says, “let her sleep.”

  Bruno stops talking. His bed creaks as he turns over and for a while he is quiet.

  “Melchiorre,” he starts again, “is she the first woman you’ve ever seen naked?”

  Silence.

  “I saw how you looked at her when you brought her in. Do you think Signorina Harris noticed?”

  She hears Melchiorre shifting on his chair.

  “Have you come to try and get another peek at them? Her breasts and . . .”

  “Shut up, Bruno!”

  Melchiorre tries to whisper but his voice emerges louder than intended, and breaking off at once, he rises to his feet and goes over to the partisan.

  “There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just pretending so you get proper food and don’t have to work. You healed days ago.”

  “If you’d ever fought, my little friend . . .”

  “Call yourselves partisans!” Melchiorre retorts. “You’re nothing but thieves. You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

  “I must say, I’m surprised that you should fall in love with a woman, Melchiorre.”

  “I know you stole the Englishman’s food.”

  “How am I supposed to have done that? I’m stuck in bed. Just ask your girlfriend who doesn’t speak. Why do you think that is? Why do you think she stays mute and pretends to be asleep whenever anyone comes in?”

  Kristín knows that Bruno is directing his words at her. She is also aware that he is not afraid she will tell anyone of his getting out of bed and walking around. He peers over the screen but doesn’t come any closer, just whispers or rather repeats in a singsong voice: “I know you’re not asleep. Open your eyes . . .”

  “She was in a bad way,” Melchiorre says. “You saw for yourself. She needs rest.”

  He sits down on the chair. Bruno can’t be bothered to tease him anymore.

  “Melchiorre, Melchiorre,” he says with a sigh. “You’re such a puppy.”

  Just before dawn, Melchiorre gets up, walks over to her bed, and looks at her before leaving. She listens to his footsteps disappear; the sun is rising and light enters the ward, driving the shadows into the corners.

  Later, when the nurse arrives, Kristín tries to sit up.

  “You’re awake.”

  “I feel better,” Kristín hears herself say.

  The nurse only asks her about the wound. Kristín tells her that the pain in her leg has settled down and no longer moves about.

  “It is just above the ankle,” she says.

  “A couple more days,” says the nurse after examining her.

  Bruno wakes up.

  “So she can talk?”

  “Yes, and you can walk,” Signorina Harris replies. “Time for you to go.”

  He tries to protest.

  “Don’t listen to Melchiorre. I’m really feeling terrible . . .”

  She orders him to get dressed as if she’s talking to a child.

  “Don’t I get breakfast?”

  The nurse doesn’t bother answering, fetches his clothes, and puts them on his bed. Waits while he puts them on.

  “Damn Melchiorre,” he says. “Damn idiot . . .”

  The nurse opens the door and gestures to him to leave with her. When she’s about to close it behind them, Kristín says, “Thank you.”

  Signorina Harris stops.

  “My name is Kristín. I’m from Iceland.”r />
  Signorina Harris nods as she takes hold of the door handle, indicating that this announcement has not escaped her. Then she closes the door and leaves.

  ALICE SWITCHES OFF THE WIRELESS IN THE MIDDLE of the news broadcast but then, unable to resist, switches it back on again. The announcer is speaking loudly, but his voice is only faintly audible above the crackle of the static that comes and goes like gusts of wind. She leans toward the set, adjusting the dial a millimeter to the left, listening to the voice fade, then regain its strength as she turns the needle back.

  She is alone in the sitting room as usual; she woke up early and watched the sunrise before coming downstairs. All was still and quiet, the smoke from the houses on the other side of the valley standing straight up in the air. She went into her son’s room and stood by the empty bed for a while, saying her morning prayer. She felt well and was careful to do nothing that would disturb her peace of mind. She said good morning to the boy, as had been her custom when he was alive, told him it was six o’clock, the sun was up, and the dawn chorus had started. She answered his questions, his voice so clear in her mind.

  She carried on talking, afraid that the sense of well-being would vanish. The bad feeling never gives warning but creeps up on her when least expected, even in the midst of a smile. When that happens, she withdraws, shuts herself in her bedroom, and waits for the worst to pass. Afterward she gets up, weak and groggy, and washes her face with cold water in the basin.

  The broadcast ends, the BBC announcer falls silent, and the crackling takes over uninterrupted. Her thoughts are elsewhere, and she does not turn it off straightaway. By rights she should be glad, should rush to the kitchen where the nurse, Schwester Marie, and Pritchett are eating breakfast and blurt out the news the moment she opens the door: “The Allies have reached Rome!” But she doesn’t. She sits still, staring through the window at the trees in the garden and the dolphins that she can glimpse spouting water between the shrubs. His best friends . . .