Restoration

by Olaf Olafsson

  Marshall had more than once disrobed her from this nightgown. It gave her great pleasure wondering whether it would stir any recollection in his mind.

  She began every morning by preparing her pigments just as Caravaggio and his assistants had done. She mixed lead oxide with walnut oil and heated it so that the paint would dry faster. She ground the pigments one by one before adding them to the oil—malachite, cinnabar, and azurite; madder root; kermes and cochineal; indigo and weld; umber and ocher. She went about everything as if she were restoring a painting for him, never deviating from the strict rule of using only materials that had been employed in the original picture, as he would always detect any aberration.

  The girl posed on a low chair in the living room, with the jewelry on the floor beside her. Kristín had pulled back the curtain nearest the wall so that the light fell on her shoulders and head but everything below was in shadow. The girl had wet hair when she arrived the first day, and thinking how pretty it looked, Kristín decided to paint her like that. She made her turn away from the light, with one cheek hidden, the other in blue shadow. The girl liked to chatter but quickly learnt to keep quiet.

  In Kristín’s “damaged” picture, the shoulders and neck were intact, the hands too, the hairpin and part of the bracelet, but only the outline of the pearl necklace could be seen. The background and face were damaged, but it had never been Kristín’s intention to use the model’s face if she was given the opportunity to restore this picture. She had another in mind.

  Kristín told the girl that she would be allowed to see the picture when it was finished. Not before. The girl did not object. She regarded it as an honor to sit for her, and moreover Kristín drew a small portrait of her, which she gave her in parting.

  “Will I be famous?” she asked once. She was only half joking and Kristín was embarrassed. She didn’t like having to deceive her.

  Kristín left her damaged Caravaggio to dry for several weeks before resuming work on it. Removing the canvas from the strainer, she put it on the kitchen table and dragged it back and forth over the edge to break up the paint and produce cracks in it, which she then filled with dust and dirt that she had cleaned off various old works. The canvas tore in two places where it had been stretched over the strainer. She was pleased with this and did not repair it when she fastened it back onto the mount.

  Over the next weeks hardly a day passed when she didn’t fiddle with the picture in some way. There were always minor adjustments to make—or acts of vandalism, rather—which she knew in her heart of hearts no one but she would notice. But she did not tire of them: with each she grew increasingly convinced that she had achieved the upper hand.

  THERE IS A MESSAGE FROM SIGNORINA HARRIS ON MY breakfast tray. I sit up in bed to read it; my eyes haven’t yet adjusted to the daylight and I feel terribly weary. I cannot get the events Melchiorre and I witnessed in Montepulciano out of my mind. In my dreams, the German officer walks up to the man lying on a stretcher, points his gun at his temple, and pulls the trigger. At first I cannot see the man’s face; it’s only when I hear the shot that it becomes visible. It’s you. In my dreams, it’s always you.

  The maid finishes pulling the curtains and when I fold the note again and put it aside, she turns to me to await orders. I gaze at the sunlight streaming in through the east window and follow a ray that lights up the floor where Pritchett loosened the tiles so that I could hide my diary. I watch the sunbeam shimmering on the tiles as if stirred by a gentle breeze.

  “Bruno is here. He’s been shot in the shoulder,” says the note from Signorina Harris. “What shall I do with him?”

  I leave the breakfast tray on the bedside table: coffee, fruit, and a slice of lemon cake. I haven’t been eating much recently and it’s starting to show, or so I gather from Pritchett, who is unnecessarily concerned about me.

  On my way downstairs I see Kristín and Signor Grandinetti heading out to the garden with the children; pausing halfway down, I watch them shepherd their flock along the passage to the back door.

  Signorina Harris is tending to Bruno’s wounds when I enter the clinic. I haven’t encountered him since I mistook him for you and don’t look forward to seeing him now. He’s always been a troublemaker, harmless but immature, and now belongs to a rowdy band of partisans. His comrades are standing guard at the door but are quick to step aside when they see me approaching. A girl from one of the farms is lying in one of the beds with pneumonia; another is occupied by a laborer who broke his leg at the quarry. Bruno is sitting on the third bed. Signorina Harris has peeled off the rag his friends had used to bandage the wound and has begun to clean it.

  “The Fascists wounded me,” Bruno says, “but I killed two of them.”

  “The nurse will tend to your injury but then you must go,” I say. “We can’t risk the Germans finding you here.”

  “The bullet is still in the wound,” he says.

  I look at Harris who confirms this.

  “Do you think you’ll be up to leaving as soon as she’s taken it out?” I ask, repeating, “You can’t stay here.”

  He grimaces and looks at the nurse in hope of support but her face is impassive and she says in a neutral tone, “I’m afraid this is going to hurt.”

  He turns his gaze back to me to see if her words have brought about a change of heart and grimaces again when he sees that they haven’t. Slowly, he nods.

  As I leave, my legs feel heavier than usual. It’s already hot and sultry; the sun is beating down on the courtyard. I see the children sitting under the linden tree in the garden, listening to Signor Grandinetti read, and I can’t help thinking how irresponsible I’ve been. I’ve allowed the partisans to waltz in and out of the place as if they own it, seeking shelter and medical attention, and sleeping in the forest and outlying farms. I’ve fed them, tended their wounds, clothed them. All in good faith. All guided by a sense of righteousness. At least I try to convince myself of this, though I have begun to have doubts about everything.

  Yesterday Pritchett stopped me as I was coming back from the cemetery. I had been smoothing the earth on Giovanni’s grave and hadn’t yet washed my hands but he took hold of them anyway and was about to say something when a group of partisans suddenly appeared descending the slope and turned in the direction of the fattoria.

  “Is it possible that you believe the painting will protect you?” Pritchett asked as we watched them go.

  Taken aback, I jerked away my hands. We never spoke of the painting, never mentioned it, and I instinctively glanced around, though he had almost whispered the words and no one could hear us. I knew the answer to his question although I may not actually have put it to myself, not aloud at any rate, and he knew it too, so I didn’t need to answer. I expected him to press me but he didn’t. Nor did he mention the trouble we’ll be in if the Allies discover that we’ve been collaborating with the Germans.

  “Have you seen it?” he asked me instead.

  I shook my head. I had more than once been on the verge of going down into the vault but had restrained myself.

  “Don’t you think we should know something about it?”

  Perhaps it didn’t matter what was in the crate, but I understood his point.

  “It might be safer to check,” I agreed.

  “We’ll go up there this evening,” he replied.

  We parted and I went inside to wash my hands. I stood with my hands under the flow longer than necessary, turning them so the water sluiced my palms and the backs of my hands in turn. Pritchett was right: I’d been convinced that the painting was of great importance to the Germans. What if this turned out to be wrong? Would its protective power turn out to be purely illusory, now that they’ve become less forgiving than ever?

  Pritchett was unusually quiet at the supper table. I was uneasy. The fattore kept up a conversation about potatoes. “They can take endless rain,” he said. “The harvest has never been better than it was in the summer of ’36 when it rained constantly and the garden
was ruined. Everything except the potatoes. They were huge, a beautiful crop. Remember, Pritchett?”

  I had no appetite and couldn’t wait to get going. The priest noticed that I wasn’t eating and kept pushing food in my direction, but I asked him gently to stop.

  We went to the mill after darkness had fallen. It was still hot and the cicadas were noisy in the quiet evening. Pritchett was carrying a bag of tools in one hand and a lantern in the other, but he didn’t light it on the way for fear of being seen. I walked on ahead of him, taking the long way around, heading farther over the hillside before starting to climb. There was a faint light from the new moon and I felt my way between the bushes and undergrowth, across a dried-up stream and up an old path, out of sight of the buildings. I had become very nervous and almost fearful of what we might discover and was on the verge of suggesting to Pritchett that we turn back. But I kept moving up the steep hill and didn’t stop until we reached the mill.

  We found the trapdoor to the underground vault after some difficulty. It was well hidden, covered by a thicker layer of earth and vegetation than I remembered. We didn’t exchange words but hesitated before kneeling down and pushing it aside. What good can come of this? I asked myself. What good?

  Pritchett descended the stone steps first, lighting the lantern when he was halfway down, and turned with the glow on his face to light my way. It was damp in the vault and smelt of earth, and we looked around before going over to the crate that stood by the wall where we had left it on that snowy spring evening. Pritchett handed me the lantern in silence, laid the crate on the floor, removed the tarpaulin, and began to pry off the lid with a claw hammer and screwdriver. I had difficulty keeping the lantern steady in my hand and he turned around to see if I was all right. He worked slowly, taking care not to damage the crate so that he would be able to close it again without leaving any sign that it had been opened.

  Neither of us could see the painting properly at first. I had put down the lantern and knelt to help Pritchett unwrap the paper that it was packed in, but now I reached for the light again and held it over the crate. Then we saw her, the girl in the white shift, looking away from us, light and shadow on her cheeks. And I said to myself—or rather to her: “So you’re the one I’ve been relying on.”

  “Caravaggio,” Pritchett said in a low voice. “I wonder how they got it.”

  Maybe he didn’t mean to be accusatory, maybe it was all in my head.

  “I didn’t have a choice,” I said.

  “So they’re planning to take the art with them. They’ve been planning it for months. And Marshall is helping them. Why am I not surprised?”

  At first sight there seemed to be an aura of peace and calm about the girl in the picture, but the longer I looked, that all changed. To my surprise I began to sense not only sadness but profound loneliness.

  “Who are you?” I asked under my breath and was on the point of putting out my hand to touch her when I stopped myself. Pritchett knelt down on the cold stone floor and started to wrap the paper around the picture again but then stopped. I looked at him. He was staring at the girl as if something of great significance had caught his eye.

  “What?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer. Lost in his thoughts, he took the lantern out of my hands and held it up to the painting, leaning so close to it that I thought he would touch it. It wasn’t until I asked him again that he shook his head and said, “My mind’s playing a trick on me.” Then he finished wrapping the picture, stuffed the straw back into the crate, closed the lid, and replaced it under the tarpaulin by the wall.

  We shoveled the earth back over the trapdoor and then picked our way down the beaten-earth path, our shadows so faint that they were barely visible. When we got back, I sensed that Pritchett wanted to talk but I was in a strange mood and, saying good night, went straight up to my room.

  THE GERMANS CAN NO LONGER AVOID TRAVELING BY daylight. The Allies have taken Viterbo, Vetralla, and Tarquinia, and the front has moved up into the hills to the north of them. Pritchett and the fattore wondered over breakfast how the Germans were getting supplies to their retreating forces and agreed that it would be practically impossible given the sheer numbers involved. So they will have to forage for themselves and we all know what that means. According to the fattore, the Allies dropped firearms to the partisans in the forest to the west of San Martino yesterday evening so we can expect more bloodshed. I ask Signorina Harris if Bruno has left the clinic. She says yes and the fattore glances up from his plate. I make no attempt to hide my opinion that the partisans ought to realize their presence is putting everyone here in danger.

  “Has something changed?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say, “the valley is filling with Germans. Perhaps you haven’t noticed?”

  This comes out more sharply than intended, as I’m exhausted from lack of sleep. The fattore doesn’t answer, and Pritchett and Signorina Harris sit with lowered eyes, unused to my speaking in such a tone. Of course, the fattore didn’t deserve it and I am about to say something conciliatory when Melchiorre appears in the doorway with the news that there are military vehicles on their way up the road to the house.

  Pritchett and I go out to meet them. We have been expecting them to requisition the buildings here on the hill, but I didn’t think it would be until later when the front had moved closer. There are three vehicles, a jeep and two trucks. The colonel who emerges from the jeep is polite. Instead of announcing his business immediately, he looks around, walks out onto the veranda and takes in the view of the valley—the wet fields, the garden nearest the house. He has not put on his cap since stepping out of the car; his hair is thinning and the rain runs down his face but he doesn’t bother to wipe it away.

  “It must be very beautiful here in good weather,” he says.

  We nod.

  “We can thank God that it’s overcast and raining,” he continues, his eyes on the armored column in the valley. “And so can you, because we will have to take shelter once the skies clear and then we will come here.”

  The trucks are still halfway up the slope, driving with extraordinary caution.

  “I advise you to put up a sign, both at the bottom of your road and also here by the villa, stating that this is an orphanage. I have also drawn up a certificate that you can show for confirmation. I don’t know when the front line will reach you—it depends on the weather—but I can’t see us holding out much longer. Two, maybe three days. We have delayed them at Lake Bolsena but they have got past Orbetello and are making for Grosseto. The troops are exhausted and this affects their behavior toward civilians. I don’t expect you to understand.”

  Pritchett and I exchanged glances. Everything about this visit was odd, his soliloquy not least, and the purpose remained unclear until the trucks finally rattled up to the house.

  There were eight children in one truck, six in the other.

  “I have three children myself,” the colonel said. “Two boys and a girl. It is a long time since I last saw them.”

  The soldiers helped the children down from the trucks. They had been chattering and singing but stopped when they saw us and stood uncertainly by the vehicles.

  “They are from an orphanage outside Chiusi,” he said. “It was hit by a bomb yesterday. These children were outside playing. The staff and all the children inside were killed.”

  “How many are there?” was the only thing I could think of asking, although I could have counted them for myself.

  He answered, adding, “I had heard about you. That is why we came here.”

  “How?” I meant to ask, but instead said more to myself than him, “Where are we going to put them?”

  His expression hardened when he looked at me.

  “You have room,” he said, quietly but firmly.

  I was ashamed and could say nothing but Pritchett came to my aid.

  “There’s no point letting them stand out here in the rain,” he said. “Let’s get them into the kitchen.”


  The soldiers escorted the children around the back of the house, through the garden and past the fountain. One of the boys stopped beside it and pointed out the dolphins to his companions who said something to one another and laughed. It was strange to see these children laughing in the rain after their horrible ordeal; perhaps they felt they had nothing more to fear; perhaps they were simply too young to understand.

  There was a commotion in the kitchen when we appeared with the group of children and soldiers. I called Schwester Marie, and she and two maids took the little ones under their wing, and washed and dressed them before they were fed. The soldiers sat down at the table and accepted some breakfast; with the exception of the colonel they seemed so young and vulnerable that I felt sorry for them. I expected the colonel to carry on talking but he didn’t, simply ate in silence, then signaled to his men that it was time to go. The children were sitting at the table in the dining room, but all stood up when the soldiers came to the door to say good-bye, and went over to them. They took the soldiers’ hands and one of them, a boy of about five, began to cry. The officer bent down, patted the boy on the head and gave him an encouraging smile. I won’t deny that this sight ignited in my breast a spark of hope that we might in time succeed in patching up this world that for years now we have been so intent on destroying.

  I watched the vehicles heading away down the drive. The rain fell unrelentingly and the water collected in the ruts left by the tires in the mud.

  THERE WAS NO ROOM FOR THE CHILDREN TO SLEEP in the house with us, so we sent Melchiorre and Fosco by oxcart with mattresses and blankets to one of the outlying farms. It lies highest up the hill and we have made plans to send all the children there when the hostilities intensify, since the fighting is likely to be fiercest down here. They set off in the afternoon; the rain was no longer falling as heavily. We had started to hear explosions in the distance where the weather had probably begun to clear up, and from time to time there was a roar of planes from somewhere in the clouds.