The water is icy but she doesn’t let that stop her. When she reaches out for the reflection, everything becomes still.
That was the picture she had intended to paint but she couldn’t do it. It was vivid in her imagination yet she couldn’t fix it on canvas however hard she tried. A comprehensive knowledge of anatomy, of light and color, materials and their processing was no use. She tried again and again, only giving up when she had lost all hope. By then she was in danger of missing her deadline, and so she painted the picture of the glacier. She knew where the radiance came from. It was not from within.
“A ONE-PICTURE ARTIST. YOU’RE FAMILIAR WITH THE concept, I assume?”
She is still lying in bed, with the sheet pulled up around her shoulders. He is standing beside her, fastening his belt as he talks.
They have started to meet at her flat, sometimes during the lunch hour, but more often toward evening when the light is fading, since he is afraid that someone might spot him in daylight. She goes on ahead, he follows ten or twenty minutes later, coming straight in since she leaves the door open for him. He wants her to wait for him naked. He looked her straight in the eye when he told her that. He looks her straight in the eye when they make love as well. Tells her to turn her head so they can see each other when he is taking her from behind.
He is a patient and considerate lover. His movements are fluid and uninterrupted; he has them perfectly under control. He never comes too soon, never too late. His hands are always hot, even on cold days when she has to crawl under her quilt for warmth while waiting for him. The flat is chilly, and the draft makes matters even worse. But he is always hot and sometimes puts his arms around her and pulls her against him before they start, to warm her.
She’s under his spell. She knows it but doesn’t resist. She waits impatiently for him to give her the sign to leave the studio, and then counts the minutes until he appears at the flat. At first, she had the feeling he was playing a game with her by deliberately making her wait, but when he stopped she suspected it was because he couldn’t wait to see her.
“A one-picture artist.”
She drew the sheet up to her neck because it was cold. A few snowflakes had fallen in the morning but later the weather had cleared and the temperature had dropped. They had gone to the flat at twilight.
“They do exist. Painters who appear only once to have risen above mediocrity, only once to have exceeded their own limitations to paint a picture that is in no way consistent with their ability. I’ve made a study of them because they interest me. There are not many of them, and few are household names: Jean Bourdichon, Ugo da Carpi, Jan Mostaert, Giorgio Vasari . . . You won’t have heard of them. Except Vasari, of course, for his writings about other artists, although his Lives are not as remarkable as some may think. It’s not that he lacks talent; on the contrary, he’s very perceptive. But his writing is ruined by a pervasive undercurrent of disappointment. The observant reader will pick up on it and think of the Entombment that Vasari painted as a young man. Did he himself know that it surpassed all his other work? Was it invariably on his mind when he took up his brush and mixed his colors? Did he always know in advance that the picture he was embarking on was doomed to be inferior to the Entombment? If so, what a torment that must have been. Over fifty, wealthy and respected, adviser to the elite, architect, art critic, a man who passes judgment on others. But who no longer dares to pick up a brush himself because he knows he is a one-picture artist and that any new attempt will do nothing but confirm the fact. So he stops painting, turns instead to writing and architecture, to worldly matters. Gives no explanation, doesn’t need to, is held in high esteem during his lifetime. He lives a life of luxury, erects a monument to himself—a palazzo in his birthplace, Arezzo. But time is not kind. His paintings are forgotten as he foresaw—even the Entombment—buried among the mediocrity.”
He pauses a moment, fastening the last button on his shirt, then glances in the mirror and runs a comb through his hair. There is no need as his hair has not been disarranged by their lovemaking, but he is a man of routine.
“What is it that happens on that one occasion? What is it that transforms these men for a few weeks or months, elevating them above themselves? And then abandons them, leaving them empty and forlorn. Is it divine intervention? Not if we believe that the Lord is well-disposed toward us, because that fleeting pleasure proves nothing but a curse.”
He puts on his jacket, goes over to the bed, kisses her on the brow and says in parting, “Most mediocrities are content, Kristín, because they don’t understand greatness. We both know that this doesn’t apply to you. You’re critical; you spare neither yourself nor others.”
He left and she sat up in bed. Doves cooed in the eaves but otherwise all was quiet. He had found her that morning painting a hand with rings on two of the fingers. There was a red stone in one ring, a green one in the other. It was a male hand, small and stubby, with short, pudgy fingers, a right hand that was missing from a painting she was restoring. There was a hole in the canvas that she had to patch before filling in the gap and painting the hand from scratch. The left hand was visible in the picture, so she was able to use it as a guide, but even so the task was not easy.
When he had brought the painting, she had asked for his guidance, concerned about how extensive the damage was and unsure how far she could go when fixing it. He had responded firmly:
“Our job is to fight the ravages of time, Kristín. It requires not only technique and skill, but also judgment and intuition. No canvas lasts more than two centuries. If left alone, they all turn into dust. Those who think that art restoration is simply dusting and cleaning exhibit incredible naiveté. Interpreters, Kristín. That’s what we are.”
The rings were her idea. She felt they suited the owner of the hand, a wealthy seventeenth-century landowner, a corpulent figure with a low brow and slack jowls. Rather than painting directly onto the patch that she had glued to the back of the canvas, she decided to do a few trials first. Having prepared a small stretcher, she placed it on the easel beside the portrait of the landowner, then got down to work.
He came in just as she was finishing. She did not put down her brush but continued working. He stood behind her. She could hear his breathing. At last he said, “I can’t suggest any improvements.”
It felt like ages since she had painted for herself. The days at the studio were long and her master kept her busy. Rosselli did not show up again after Marshall took him to task over his drinking. They met in the office, so she didn’t know what had passed between them, but Rosselli disappeared after their conversation. He stopped by the studio to fetch his coat but did not say a word and left in haste. When she asked Marshall when Rosselli could be expected back, he did not answer, merely shook his head with a look of chagrin as if he didn’t know, and repeated what he had said before about Rosselli’s failings. She pitied her colleague, but her joy proved stronger than her sympathy. Pure joy at being able now to learn from her master and show him what she was capable of. She hoped, deep down, that Rosselli would never return.
She painted not only the hand but the arm as well and part of the body, the red sleeve, the gilt buttons on the robe, because she wanted to be sure that her hand would fit seamlessly into the picture. She would have painted more of the landowner if the canvas had been larger, because she was enjoying the work and felt there was nothing standing in her way—no doubts about her own ability, no feeling of apprehension—and her eyes seized each square centimeter, transferring it instinctively from the original to the canvas she had strung on the little stretcher. The brush obeyed her every command and she did not hesitate once; it was as if she had always been meant to paint this picture and it was only by coincidence that Guercino had done so three centuries before.
Although she knows that her work has come off well, his praise takes her by surprise, since he has always been sparing with it. A smile steals across her face and, turning, she tells him how much she has missed painting, h
ow she longs more than anything else to paint the entire picture again from scratch but that there is no room on the canvas; she should have used a larger piece. And then the shutters come down. She notices where others might not; his eyes darken but he says nothing at first. He is thinking. Then he seems to come to himself and says in the gentle, paternal tone that she has come to know so well, “The last thing I want is to hold you back, Kristín. It would be a pity if you felt you hadn’t done what you wanted. In the long run, I mean. If you want to paint, you must paint. I can find someone else. Someone more experienced so I wouldn’t need to spend as much time here as I have recently. Not that I haven’t enjoyed it. But it’s been for your sake. I wouldn’t have done it otherwise. Because you have potential in this field, Kristín. Rare potential.”
She opens her mouth to say something but he continues, “You must paint if you feel the need to. Perhaps it would be for the best. Of course I should have employed someone to replace Rosselli years ago. I’ll employ someone else. Then you can come and give him a hand if you need to eke out your money. Unless you’d prefer a waitressing job, as I think you mentioned the first time we met.”
Beginning to shake now, she flings her arms round his neck.
“No, I don’t want to leave. You’re so good to me. I only said it because I so enjoyed painting this hand, creating something. I felt at last I’d achieved what I’d set out to do. I don’t miss anything, I’ve never been happier.”
“Kristín, I don’t want to stand in your way . . .”
“I don’t want to go. Really I don’t . . .”
She presses herself against him, kissing him, but he frees himself gently, saying quietly, “Not here . . . Not now.”
He goes and she is left standing by the picture with the patched hole and the little canvas on the easel beside it on which she has painted the right hand; bewildered and trembling as if she had received a physical blow. Yet he could not have been more considerate, his voice could not have been gentler, his eyes kinder.
She stands by the easel, waiting for her heart to cease its pounding in her chest.
FLORA INVITED HER. SHE TURNED UP AT THE STUDIO one Friday morning just before eleven and was halfway across the room before Kristín noticed her. She was wearing a light-colored coat with a yellow scarf around her neck and a yellow bag over her shoulder, and looked about as if remembering something. Kristín was startled; they hadn’t seen each other since she bumped into the couple outside their house the previous autumn.
“So this is where he hides you.”
Kristín did not answer but put down her tools and wiped the paint from her hands with a damp cloth.
“I decided to invite you myself, as he still hasn’t managed to get you to accept an invitation to pay us a visit. Eight o’clock tomorrow evening. Clients mostly.”
It came as no surprise that he hadn’t mentioned these invitations to her. They didn’t discuss his family, Flora or the children. He expressly forbade it and she didn’t go against his wishes, although she sometimes found it hard.
“Thank you.”
“So you’re not otherwise engaged?”
“No,” she says.
“I’d forgotten how peaceful it is here. And how good the smell of canvas and paint is. It must be nice working here.”
“Yes.”
“I know he’s demanding but he thinks very highly of you. He says you’re talented. I wanted you to know that, because he doesn’t say that about many people.”
She smiles and Kristín tries to smile back.
“Tomorrow evening. Eight o’clock.”
“Eight o’clock.”
“See you then.”
She left. Kristín went to the window, opened it, and watched her walking away down the street. It was as if she had brought the summer with her, that cheerful brightness that seemed to float over the city on cloudless mornings before the temperature rose and it was oppressed by the sultry heat. Those light footsteps. That warm smile. Why was he unfaithful to her?
They are in the living room; he had wanted a change of scene. The door is locked and she hands him the key that she keeps in one of the kitchen drawers. He folds his clothes as usual, laying them over the piano stool; there are white dust sheets draped over the furniture. The sunlight, entering through a crack between the curtains, trembles in the air between them. Everything is quiet.
He kisses her on the forehead and throat, breasts and belly. She stands in the shaft of light from the window, and he kneels and continues to kiss her. It is then that she says, “She came to the studio this morning.”
He says nothing but stops kissing her and releases his hold on her thighs.
“She invited me to your house tomorrow evening.”
He stands up.
“There was nothing I could do but accept the invitation.”
He studies her. Unable to endure his gaze, she looks away.
“What did you talk about?”
“Nothing.”
He turns away from her and reaches for his clothes on the piano stool.
“Why?” she asks.
“I must go.”
“Why are you here with me? She’s so . . .”
She doesn’t finish the sentence, she can’t go on. He stops buttoning his shirt and looks up. She is sure that he will say it now, use the word that she has never heard him utter:
“Because I love you.”
But he doesn’t say it; he opens his mouth only to close it again and hastily does up the last few buttons.
She hears the front door close, his footsteps descending the stairs, then silence.
The afternoon sun shines on her nakedness. She feels the imprint of his dried kisses on her body and lifting her hand, unconsciously runs her fingers over them one by one before stepping out of the sunbeam to be enfolded by the gloomy silence.
Their apartment is large and bright, with paintings on the walls, sculptures on the floor and shelves—a torso here, a bust there. Everything is expertly placed, every object arranged with thoughtful precision, even the books on the shelves, which either lie piled one on top of the other or stand on end, the colors of their spines perfectly matched. There is nothing lacking, nothing superfluous; it is neither too heavily nor too sparsely furnished; the Persian rugs on the polished wooden floor are suitably large, their colors muted so as not to distract from the paintings on the walls. The windows are floor-length, letting in the sun by day and the streetlights by night; when open, they let the city inside.
She pauses in the middle of the room and looks around. The party is crowded but she recognizes no one. Outside, the dusk has begun to deepen in the streets, the shadows are merging, evening bringing its calm. Inside, lights twinkle on the silver trays that the waiters carry among the guests and on the crystal glasses that they leave behind in their hands. There is a steady hum of voices but instead of listening or entering into conversation with the other guests, she sticks to the walls, reading the spines of the books, examining the ornaments on the shelves, the photographs and paintings. She stops in front of the Guercino, her eyes on the ringed hand, moving close to the work to smell the freshly applied paint. When she steps back again, she nearly collides with another guest.
She had not noticed him before. A middle-aged man, hair graying at the temples and combed back, a high forehead and slightly jutting chin. He is tall and lean, and the hand he offers her is pale and elegant.
“Excuse me,” he says and introduces himself. “Prince Philipp of Hesse.”
She has heard Marshall talk of him as a prospective client. He is married to Mafalda, daughter of King Vittorio Emanuele III of Italy. A German of aristocratic birth, who could pass as English with his dark-blue double-breasted Savile Row suit, starched white shirt, and gold cuff links. There is a gold pin too in his blue-striped tie.
“He’s a genius. I saw this picture when it had a hole in the middle the size of my palm. Unbelievable how he does it. It’s like a new picture.”
She s
ees her master out of the corner of her eye. He has spotted them and is heading their way.
“We were just admiring your work,” the prince says. “This young lady . . .”
Kristín introduces herself, having had no opportunity before.
“My assistant,” Marshall adds.
“So you have observed this miracle in the making. I envy you. The rings . . . the colors in them . . . What is it that’s reflected in the red one?”
The prince steps closer to the picture, bending and inspecting the red ring. She looks at Marshall. He coughs.
“Guercino means ‘the squinting one,’ ” he says. “His real name was Giovanni Francesco Barbieri; he worked mainly in Rome and Bologna. Some put him on a par with Caracci, others with Guido Reni or Caravaggio. It’s worth taking a trip to Piacenza to see the fresco he painted in the cathedral. It’s one of four and transcends the others by Caracci, Procaccini, and Morazzone. They’re all first-class but can’t compare to the Guercino.”
The prince turns to Kristín.
“I’m trying to persuade him to sell me this picture,” he says, smiling. “Can you put in a word for me? He seems suddenly reluctant to part with it.”
Can it be true? she asks herself. Is it possible that he’s keen to hold on to it because of me? Does he feel that I am near when he looks at it?
“Apparently he had a dreadful squint, but it doesn’t show in his self-portraits,” Marshall continues, “where his eyes appear normal. Vanity? I don’t know. Who can blame him? Wouldn’t we all have been tempted to do the same?”
The guests take their places for dinner. They are Italian or German, apart from an American who represents the Wildenstein gallery in New York. Kristín didn’t know much about Marshall’s business dealings and he never discussed them with her. Every now and then Signorina Pirandello, his secretary, would mention a customer or a sale, but she mostly complained that Marshall had had to stop doing business with his countrymen after Italy had declared war on them. His finances had suffered initially, she said, but he had bounced back thanks to interest from other parts of the world, as she put it. Kristín didn’t ask her to elaborate, it was not her place and, frankly, she wasn’t that interested.
Restoration Page 8
