Such were my thoughts as we retraced our steps along the cobbled streets, into the shade between the houses and out into the squares, a white, fair-weather cloud floating sedately overhead and Melchiorre rocking in the seat in front of me, his shoulders relaxed. Such were my thoughts when the silence exploded.
The soldiers seemed to spring up out of the street. First they came running but a moment later there was a roar of motor vehicles speeding up the hill, gray open-backed trucks that could drive up the main street but not through the narrower side streets and so halted in the squares. The soldiers sitting in the back leapt out and joined their comrades in storming one house after another, dragging out the people they had been looking for and throwing them into the waiting trucks. Melchiorre and I watched as we cowered together in an alley a short distance from the cathedral, unable to do anything but hope they would leave us alone.
Within minutes, bursts of firing were coming from every direction. The horse took fright and bolted with the cart and there was nothing we could do but watch it go. A troop of soldiers moved to a house down the street, and several of them forced their way into the building with yells that I didn’t understand, although my German is not bad. A frenzy had taken hold of them and when they came out with two teenage boys and threw them in the street I almost rose to my feet, but Melchiorre seized my arm and held it tight. A woman ran out after them, the boys’ mother I presume, and tearfully pleaded with the soldiers to let them go. They waved her away at first but when she wouldn’t stop, one of them struck her. Blood gushed from her face and the boys yelled at her to go inside, everything would be all right. In the end she obeyed and the soldiers disappeared up the street with the boys.
The firing continued. It had moved farther away and was now coming from lower down the hill. Finally daring to get to our feet, we began to inch our way along the street, back the way we had come, toward the hospital. We hugged the walls, Melchiorre in front, I on his heels, limping because I had twisted my ankle when we ran for cover. But it was nothing to complain about and neither was the mist that had suddenly descended over my eyes and that I couldn’t rub away.
For the first stretch we met no one and everything was eerily quiet but that changed as we approached the hospital. One vehicle after another pulled up, the square in front was in chaos, and there was a crowd in the hospital lobby where the staff couldn’t keep up with the stream of the dead and injured, both soldiers and civilians. Neither of us had wounds that required attention, so we did not really have any business being at the hospital, yet we hurried there because there was no other place of refuge. Our horse and cart were nowhere in sight but when Melchiorre said he was going to look for them, I stopped him. We walked into the crush outside the hospital and were borne to the doors with the stretchers. Only a hundred meters away they are fighting each other, I thought, yet here the wounded and the dead come together, lying side by side on stretchers or in the arms of their friends and loved ones, to these doors where everyone is equal. Perhaps a time is coming when it will be like that everywhere, when the war will end and the hatred will give way to common sense and goodness, I thought, suddenly glimpsing a ray of hope in this chaos of tears, blood, and despair. But this feeling did not last long; it was extinguished by four storm troopers who charged in, their officer in the lead. The doctor was standing in the corridor, examining the injured and issuing orders about what should be done with them, when I saw the officer move in his direction. He began yelling but when the doctor looked up, I saw that his eyes were without fear. He carried on with his work; there was a young man on the stretcher, a partisan, his chest soaked in blood, yet still conscious. The doctor was peeling off his shirt when the officer reached him and gripped his arm.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
A silence fell on the crowd; everyone stopped moving. I could hear the labored, rattling breath of the boy on the stretcher. A whole eternity seemed to pass before the doctor took the officer’s wrist in his free hand, loosened his grip, and said, “I give the orders here.”
He did not speak loudly yet his words filled the lobby. They grew in magnitude after he stopped speaking, spreading out until they had driven all other words from the building, all shouts, whimpers, and sobs.
“I give the orders here.”
The officer was momentarily thrown and I thought I could read his mind in his flickering gaze: I can’t kill him because if I did, who would tend to my injured men? But then something seemed to occur to him, something that lightened his load, some solution to his problem. He turned on his heel and did not look back until he reached the door.
“You may give the orders in here,” he said, “but outside I’m in charge.”
He walked over to the wounded partisans waiting to come inside and shot them, one after another. Walked up to them, whether they were lying on stretchers or being supported by friends or relatives, aimed his gun at their temples and fired. It may not have taken long to kill them all, perhaps only a few minutes, but it seemed a whole lifetime to me. No one in the lobby moved, not even the doctor who stood motionless by the stretcher, watching through the door. I looked at him, saw the despair in his face and the hand that lifted slightly, only to fall back to his side.
When they had finished the executions, the officer and his four troopers drove away. We listened to the car recede into the distance, then walked out into the silence.
Melchiorre found the horse by the city wall. The sun had begun to set when we left but it was still hot. We didn’t speak on the journey home. Night fell on the countryside and the stars came out as if nothing had happened. I watched the darkness settle on Melchiorre’s shoulders and the outline of his head disappear and only then did I finally allow the tears I had been holding back to fall.
MARSHALL’S BUSINESS BECAME MORE DIFFICULT AS the war intensified. After Italy declared war on the United States in the wake of Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbor in December 1941, Wildenstein and Marshall’s other buyers in America disappeared, as had his British clients the previous year. The Germans, on the other hand, became increasingly active, easily bypassing the laws and regulations intended to limit the export of national treasures. Not only did the Italian government bend the rules for them, but the Germans also employed agents who had local connections and were energetic in pursuing their interests, foremost among them Prince Philipp of Hesse and Count Contini Bonacossi. While the Prince and the Count did look to Marshall now and then to restore pictures or establish their provenance, the remuneration was slight in comparison with the business he had gotten used to, restoring paintings he had bought himself and selling them for a profit. He lacked these men’s connections and found it hard to hide his envy, though he managed to disguise it behind a show of politeness.
Nevertheless, Marshall kept up his custom of throwing dinner parties when he had something to sell. It was not he but Signorina Pirandello who told Kristín of these gatherings so she was surprised when he handed her an invitation out of the blue one day, with the comment that she might want to come by.
“It’s been a long time since you last visited.”
The city lay under a thin covering of white. The snow continued to fall during dinner and she watched the flakes against the lights outside, forgetting to listen to her master when he got to his feet to describe the painting that was hanging on the wall where the Guercino had last hung. He had restored this picture, a painting of the Virgin Mary, himself and she thought it beautiful. However, the artist, Bicci di Lorenzo, was little known and failed to capture the guests’ interest, although they were polite. They said little as they stood before the picture after dinner; indeed, they didn’t get much of a chance, so voluble was Marshall in his praise of both painting and artist. Kristín felt uncomfortable; she had never found her master pitiable before. She was glad he didn’t notice her when she heard Flora whisper to him that Prince Philipp had sent his regrets.
“Why?” he kept asking, trying to keep his voice down. “
Why?”
“The snow,” Flora whispered, but he shook his head, repeating sarcastically, “the snow . . .”
Two days later he told her he had sold the painting, making the announcement the moment he walked into the studio. Kristín had been so absorbed in her work that she didn’t hear him enter and so failed to hide her look of disbelief. By the time she realized, it was too late. He stood still, looking her up and down, then walked over to the easel and remarked without any particular emphasis, “You’re capable of this.”
That was all. He left and she felt her stomach disappearing, a sense of inadequacy welling up inside her. She tried in vain to take herself to task. Her teacher Jensen’s words echoed in her head as so often before when she was filled with self-doubt: “It is to be hoped that . . . she is maturing from a first-rate technician into a promising artist . . .” The glacier appeared before her mind’s eye, the radiance “lending the barren waste an aura of tranquil sanctity.”
Marshall knew. He didn’t need to define what she could not do. His praise was like a blow.
For Christmas, he sent her a present via Signorina Pirandello: a book about Caravaggio. The accompanying card wished her a merry Christmas and a happy New Year from him and his wife, in Flora’s handwriting.
The studio was closed between Christmas Day and New Year’s, and Kristín set up an easel in the living room, having decided to use the holiday to draw and paint for herself. She spread a canvas over the floor and drew back the curtains to let in the meager light which was all that was available at this time of year.
She rose early, made coffee, and watched the gray, watery sunrise. The living room was cold, so she put on a sweater before arranging a vase, a book, and a magnifying glass on a table by the window. It took her a long time; she kept moving the vase, changing the book, repositioning the magnifying glass until it reflected the gray light from the clouds outside. Then she began to draw, tentatively at first, trying to drive his words from her ears: “You’re capable of this.”
She was not displeased with her progress but proceeded cautiously nonetheless. It was like walking on ice, not knowing if it was safe, inching slowly forward, stepping lightly. But the ice held, and as her courage grew, her tense muscles relaxed. She worked tirelessly at the easel till noon, continuing later in the day after a break for a walk and a light meal at a café. She did not lay down her brush until the light began to fail, and she spent a long time clearing up after herself, happy to stand in the living room with her work before her eyes—the cloth on the table, the red spine of the book, the half-painted handle of the magnifying glass, ivory with a black diamond pattern.
She finished the picture on New Year’s Day. But instead of taking it off the easel, she covered it and decided not to look at it for a week or two, knowing that she would not be able to see it objectively until then. She pulled the curtains, locked the door, and put the key in the kitchen drawer.
Two days later Flora turned up at the studio. She had come to see Signorina Pirandello but looked in to wish Kristín a happy New Year before she left.
“We missed you over the holiday,” she said. “I hope you enjoyed your trip. Florence is always lovely, even in winter.”
Smiling, she added, “Especially when one’s in love. Perhaps you’ll introduce him to us some time.”
When Kristín looked away, Flora said, “I’m sorry. Perhaps I wasn’t supposed to know?”
He avoided her. She knew when he was in the building and was on edge, ready for him to appear in the doorway any minute. But he did not show his face, not until a week into January.
It was cold that morning and Kristín hurried inside and up the stairs, failing to notice him until she had shut the door behind her. He had neither turned on the light nor taken off his coat but was sitting on a stool in front of the easel, his eyes lowered. He did not look at her when she came in but said quietly, “I’ve decided to leave her.”
She stood motionless in the middle of the room, feeling the strength leave her body together with the contempt that had been growing inside her since Flora’s visit. Did she believe him? She didn’t stop to wonder about this, not until later. Now she merely stood without moving, aware of how much she wanted him and needed him in spite of everything. That’s what she said to herself as she stood there in the half-light: in spite of everything.
A long moment passed; she standing in the middle of the room, he sitting on the stool, both silent, not looking at each other, until he stood up and came to her. He did not put his arms around her immediately, not until she turned her head and looked him in the eye. Then, receiving the confirmation he needed, he pulled her against him and said quietly, “I’m sorry. I thought I could live without you.”
Later that day, after they had made love at her flat and he was dressing, he suddenly asked, “Where’s that smell of paint coming from?”
She answered evasively but he went out into the corridor and took hold of the door handle to the living room.
“What are you hiding?”
“Nothing,” she said.
“Don’t be silly. Let me see. You’ve not set up in competition with me?”
He smiled. Neither his words nor his smile contained the slightest hint of accusation; he was joking.
She had not entered the living room since covering up the still life; she hadn’t had the courage. But now suddenly she decided to take the key from the kitchen drawer and unveil the painting with him at her side, perhaps from a sense of anticipation, perhaps to see how he would react.
She didn’t want to turn on the light but there was no avoiding it. She walked slowly over to the easel, hesitating halfway, perhaps waiting for him to take the initiative. But he took care not to preempt her and stood behind her, waiting.
“It’s really nothing,” she said, “only a still life.”
She tried to appear nonchalant as she removed the white sheet from the picture and placed it on the table where the vase, the book, and the magnifying glass still stood untouched. She folded the cloth before looking at the picture, as if in no hurry. He moved closer to the easel, bent forward and eventually said, “It’s a fine picture, Kristín.”
Her heart lurched. Did he mean it? She turned and asked him.
“Of course. A beautiful picture, Kristín.”
The verdict was delivered without any caveats, even minor ones. She wanted to fling her arms around his neck but, restraining the impulse, merely took his hand and squeezed it. He looked at his watch, kissed her quickly on the cheek, and said, “It’s past five, I must be going.”
After he had gone, she stood for a long time in front of the still life. First, she studied it as if she had never seen it before, then, closing her eyes, she continued to view it like that. And suddenly, without warning, the doubts set in. She retreated, hurriedly turning out the light and locking the door behind her.
SHE HAD ALWAYS ASSUMED THAT SHE WOULD change with age and that the aspects of her character that troubled her would disappear. Since childhood she had waited for this to happen, picturing herself older and free from her weaknesses. Then she would look like the daughter of the couple who lived in the house next door to her grandparents; she wore a blue coat, had fair, wavy shoulder-length hair, and smiled, full of self-confidence, when she said farewell to the village, waving to friends and family before climbing onto the Reykjavík bus. That’s what she herself would be like when she was older—full of self-confidence, free from fear.
She didn’t stop to consider that the world might change. In her imagination it stood still—the mountains remained where they had always been, the sky above them, the sea below. And the waves that sucked to and fro, came and went and came back again.
When she herself moved to Reykjavík, she acquired a blue coat. Although she persuaded herself that it was a coincidence, she sometimes thought about the girl next door to her grandparents. She didn’t know what had become of her, never saw her again, yet she pictured her turning around in front of the bus to smi
le and wave good-bye to the people at home. No hesitation, no doubts, all roads open to her.
Did he see that girl when he looked at her? Did he see the village and the mountain above it, the waves that had caressed her father’s cheek on his voyage into the depths, then whispered messages from him to her as she stood on the beach? He encouraged her. When she mentioned to him that she didn’t think much of the still life, he told her she was wrong.
“Paint more,” he said, “anything you like. Keep at it.”
She had the leisure for this now because he was spending more time on restoration work himself since business had started to fall off. He offered her the chance to work part-time, in the afternoons.
“Mornings are the most productive time,” he said, “use them for your own painting.”
He had never paid her much, no more than was customary for an apprentice, and now that her hours had been reduced, her wages dropped correspondingly. But she was thrifty, so it didn’t matter. She gathered from Signorina Pirandello that he was in a tight spot financially and, unwilling to be a burden to him, felt only relief when her wages were cut.
His words gave her the courage to paint. That was the most important thing. For that, she would have done anything for him.
She painted every day. When spring came, she rose at dawn to make the most of her time. And as the weather grew gradually warmer, she started opening the windows in the living room. The breeze stirred the curtains, bringing in wafts of birdsong.
She felt she was making progress and Marshall agreed, offering her steady encouragement. He was gentler than he had been for a long time, and she couldn’t help concluding that financial success had confused him.
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