Restoration

by Olaf Olafsson

  They had not come back by suppertime. Pritchett said the journey had probably been difficult in the mud, since the cart was heavy and the road was bad even in normal conditions, so there was really no need to worry about them. The children all ate together; the two groups had been a little shy of each other at first but that soon passed. Kristín read them a story after their meal and the new children, unused to her accent, asked her where she was from. She told them and showed them Iceland on the map. This led to other questions about her, but she changed the subject and shortly afterward began to read to them again. This didn’t surprise me because she seems keen to avoid talking about herself. No doubt she has her reasons, and she’s not alone in that.

  Dusk was falling when they finally showed up. Hearing the heavy tread of the oxen on the gravel, I went down to meet them. It was still raining and the air smelt of sulfur.

  I was taken aback to see that the mattresses were still in the cart. Fosco was walking beside it while Melchiorre sat in the driver’s seat, keeping a tight hold on the reins. Both were soaked to the skin and the oxen were stumbling. The mattresses kept sliding off the cart, and Fosco was continually having to push them back on.

  They said that the farm where we had intended to send the children was packed with partisans who had taken refuge from the forest when the rain set in. They refused to leave and had, moreover, taken three German soldiers hostage when their car drove off the road in the valley. Bruno was the band’s leader, back on his feet after being treated by Signorina Harris. He had declared that since we were no longer sympathetic to their cause, it would be risky to let Fosco and Melchiorre return home.

  “They’ll betray us,” Bruno said. “You can count on it. Little Melchiorre in particular. He’s weak.”

  However, not all his comrades agreed with him. They had argued back and forth, openly discussing their options. Bruno had been unusually erratic and threatening. At the end our boys were allowed to leave but only after Bruno managed to hit Melchiorre in the face for no reason at all.

  “What are they planning to do with the hostages?” I asked.

  “I think they want to exchange them for some of their comrades who are being held by the Germans.”

  I shook my head but said nothing. We seemed to be under attack from every side now. God, how I wished you were here.

  They were weary and I told them to change into dry clothes and get themselves something to eat; someone else could unload the mattresses from the cart and put them to dry.

  The children were worn-out and some had nodded off in the dining room. We discussed with Schwester Marie where to put them, and I went upstairs and looked into the rooms where the refugee children have been sleeping since the Germans requisitioned the buildings in the valley. If we were resourceful, it might be possible to squeeze in another five children. I told this to Marie and Pritchett when I returned downstairs and asked them and myself at the same time where on earth we were to accommodate the other nine.

  They exchanged glances and it was obvious that they had been discussing the matter in my absence. Schwester Marie spoke for both of them, as arranged.

  “Marchesa,” she said, “what about Giovanni’s room?”

  I wasn’t expecting this and I flinched.

  “We wouldn’t touch anything,” she added hastily, “we’ll just put some mattresses on the floor by the door. I’ll sleep in there with them.”

  I knew this was the only sensible solution but I couldn’t bring myself to agree, however much I tried to reason with myself as I stood there before them.

  “No,” I said, “they can sleep on the floor in here tonight.”

  I had disappointed them. Myself too. I left, feeling their eyes on the back of my neck as I walked out of the room.

  It was dark in Giovanni’s room when I opened the door. I switched on the lamp in the corner but the light was dim and illuminated only a small patch of floor. I sat down on the bed, meaning to talk to him as usual but I couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come and for the first time I was unable to sense his presence.

  I stood up and went over to the open window for some fresh air. The rain disappeared into the sea of leaves outside. Two farmhands trudged across the courtyard with mattresses on their backs.

  I went downstairs. Pritchett, Kristín, and Schwester Marie had started moving the table and chairs in the dining room to make room for the children, but I stopped them and asked the farmhands to take the blankets and pillows.

  Ten children were easily accommodated in Giovanni’s room once we had moved the bookcase closer to the bed. They fell asleep immediately and I told Marie there was no need for her to sleep in there with them. We could both listen out for them if we left our doors open—she from her room farther down the corridor, I from mine next door.

  At three o’clock in the morning I went in to check on them. The rain had stopped and the moon was gleaming over the peak of Monte Amiata, its light shining into the house. The fog over the valley was beginning to disperse, and I caught a glimpse of a long line of trucks on the road, carrying an aura of defeat through the darkness.

  When I finally fell asleep, I dreamed of our son. The children are in his room and he wakes up and gets out of bed to take a closer look at them. I can’t see his face but I watch him as he climbs back into bed. Then I suddenly notice that he has left his footprints in the moonlight on the floor.

  WHILE KRISTÍN WORKED ON HER CARAVAGGIO AT home in the morning, making the final adjustments after the paint had dried, she finished the restoration of Masaccio’s Madonna and Child at the studio. Unwavering in her determination, she avoided her master as much as she could, afraid that he might find words that would change her mind.

  It was a cold winter, and life in Rome became increasingly difficult. Food shortages were chronic as the Allies advanced from the south and the Germans tightened their grip on the city. Those who supported the Allies had gone into hiding, many of them in monasteries outside the city, and the canteen where she took her meals was half empty. There were daily skirmishes in the streets and bus and tram services were suspended at night. At the canteen, she would hear stories about the increasing cruelty with which the Germans treated their enemies, but she did her best to keep fear and worry from her mind.

  No one knew how long the Germans could hold Rome, but few believed it would be much beyond the autumn. Kristín assumed that Marshall would now be more careful and give up all his dealings with the Germans, indirect as they were. But on the contrary he seemed to despair when he sensed that the boom might soon be over, with nothing to look forward to but uncertainty. He had already sold the Masaccio and put pressure on her to finish it—as good-naturedly as possible—because he was in a hurry to start on the next job. He was vague about when it would arrive and who the artist was, but he talked as if he was expecting it any day and even hinted that there might be two works.

  It was early in the morning when she decided she was ready to take her Caravaggio to the studio. She tidied up the tools she had brought home, fingering each in turn—the pumice, the brushes, the spatula—before wrapping them in a cloth and placing the bundle in a small bag along with what was left of the walnut oil, pigments, and lead oxide. She worked slowly and methodically, thinking of the day ahead of her and the weeks behind her, the hours in front of the canvas, her accomplishment. As she studied her forgery in the faint morning light, her perfect representation of the master’s technique and, more important, his brilliant but troubled mind, she was sure that Marshall would be incapable of seeing through her deception. She took it off the easel, wrapped it in a white blanket, and placed it more carefully than necessary by the front door.

  She made sure she would get to the studio before Signorina Pirandello. The streets were empty, but she was on edge and walked as fast as she could. She looked left and right before entering the building and climbed the stairs quickly. She was alone but she still locked the door to the studio behind her before putting the picture away in the back of the s
toreroom where she had prepared a perfect spot the previous day. Then she placed the tools and materials in the drawers against the wall and waited for her heart to stop racing before unlocking the door and forcing herself to turn her attention to the Madonna and Child.

  She had no idea how long she would have to wait for an opportunity to introduce her Caravaggio. At first she felt the rush of anticipation but soon that was replaced by tension and restlessness. She kept her schedule and tried to concentrate on her work, racing to complete the restoration of Madonna and Child, arriving early and not leaving until dusk. Never had she been guided by such a powerful impulse, a current that pushed her forward and didn’t allow her a moment to reconsider, let alone turn back. At night she stayed home, often sitting in the dark, waiting for the night to pass. And then, a fortnight later, when she had begun to doubt and despair, her prayers were finally answered.

  It was a clear morning with birdsong and a light southerly breeze. Signorina Pirandello greeted her excitedly as she entered the building and informed her that Marshall had purchased two paintings that her nephew had set off to collect an hour ago.

  “They come from the same monastery as the Madonna and Child,” she said. “The abbot has no choice but to sell them in order to support all the people who are seeking refuge with the monks.”

  “What are they?” asked Kristín, unsuccessfully trying to conceal her enthusiasm. “Do you know what they are?”

  Signorina Pirandello said she knew very little since neither Marshall nor Berenson had seen them yet.

  “But Berenson has spoken to the abbot and is convinced that one of them may be a real gem. At any rate, you’ll see for yourself when my nephew brings them this afternoon. Before Marshall does. He won’t get back from his travels till tonight.”

  She waited, pacing back and forth in the studio, cleaning, dusting, examining the Madonna and Child once again to make sure there was nothing more to be done. She didn’t go out for lunch; she had no appetite and didn’t want to risk not being there when the paintings arrived. She stopped herself when she was about to go into the storeroom for the fifteenth time, telling herself to calm down. The sun was now shining through the south window and there was a smell of salt on the breeze when she opened it and looked down the street. Marshall had not yet come back when Signorina Pirandello’s nephew arrived with two mediocre works from the monastery that afternoon. Kristín carried them up to the studio while Signorina Pirandello waited in the street with her nephew. Once upstairs she unwrapped them from the blanket, took the more damaged of the two works into the storeroom and replaced it with her unfinished picture of Maria from the canteen. She laid it together with the other painting from the monastery on the worktable before returning the blanket to the young man.

  At first she thought she would wait for Marshall. She pictured him coming running up the stairs, stopping in front of the two paintings, quickly pushing the inferior one aside. She saw the excitement in his eyes as he leaned forward and adjusted the table light, staring at the faceless girl and her jewelry. She saw him running his finger over the paint, smelling it, even breaking off a small flake and putting it in his mouth, examining every crack, noticing the dark ground layer visible in the wall behind the girl and in the shadow under her chair. Smiling to himself, hardly able to believe his good fortune.

  When she imagined him fixing his eyes on the girl’s nightgown, she realized she had to leave before he arrived.

  It rained that night. She lay in bed, listening to the drops on the window, unable to sleep. At dawn she got up and waited for the clock to strike nine. Then she put on her coat and, shaking with trepidation, forced herself to walk down the stairs and out into the morning.

  I WAS AWAKE WHEN THEY HAMMERED ON THE DOOR at five in the morning. I had been keeping vigil since the children from Chiusi arrived earlier in the week, checking on them several times a night although there is no need, as they do not stir. I put on my dressing gown and went downstairs where I encountered Fosco, who had been standing guard that night and now came rushing down the passage from the back door. He told me the Germans were on the property; they had broken into the corn store and the fattoria, but he hadn’t dared to draw attention to himself, let alone try to stop them.

  “I must have nodded off,” he said rather shamefaced, but there was no time now to comfort him and tell him that it would have made no difference if he had been awake.

  I opened the front door. It was still dark and the only light outside came from the headlights of the vehicles that lit up the drive. Not even bothering to introduce himself, their captain asked bluntly where the partisans were. I said I didn’t know.

  “They’ve taken three of my men captive,” he said, “so I wouldn’t dream of putting on an act if I were you.”

  “They’re not here,” I said, handing him the certificate of immunity that I had been given by the German lieutenant who brought the orphans.

  He scarcely glanced at it.

  “I’m telling you the truth,” I added. “I wouldn’t risk putting the children in danger.”

  “Come outside with me,” he said.

  I followed him. He walked around the villa, not stopping until we had reached the courtyard behind it.

  “Where is the road to the farms?” he asked.

  I told him.

  “Is that the only way?”

  I hesitated for a second, then not daring to try deceiving him, I shook my head and said quietly, “No, you can also go straight up over there, but the road is bad.”

  He regarded me in the faint illumination of the headlights; it was dim behind the villa and I could see nothing but the silhouette of his face under his cap. Then he turned on his heel and immediately started issuing orders to his men.

  Pritchett was awake and had come out to join me, with Fosco at his side.

  “Should we try to warn them?” Fosco asked.

  I felt so powerless—so compromised—that I didn’t even have the strength to pretend.

  Pritchett saved me the effort.

  “It’s too late. They will get there before us. We’d be risking our lives for nothing.”

  We watched their progress up the hill. They drove their vehicles along the better road, but took their horses up the track I had pointed out to the captain. The headlights grew distant, vanishing and reappearing as they drove in and out of thickets of trees. Dawn was turning the sky gray and we had long since ceased to hear the rumbling and backfiring of the engines by the time we finally lost sight of them.

  We walked slowly across the courtyard. Fosco stayed in the kitchen but Pritchett and I went upstairs. I felt numb and sat down on my bed.

  “There was nothing we could have done,” he said.

  “I should have seen it coming. I should have gone up there. I should have tried to reason with Bruno.”

  “It wouldn’t have done any good,” he said.

  “But I didn’t even try.”

  “We cannot be responsible for everyone, Alice. We have more than enough on our plates.”

  Of course he was right, but it didn’t make me feel any better.

  “They won’t necessarily find them,” he said then. “They might have gone.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Maybe they’ve gone.”

  He went into his room and I remained sitting on my bed, repeating those words in a feeble attempt to keep my fear away.

  It was light when the Germans returned. They did not stop by the buildings but continued on down to the valley. I was relieved to see the back of them and convinced myself that they had been out of luck, that the partisans had gone, taking their hostages with them.

  I went downstairs. Pritchett was already outside with Fosco and Melchiorre.

  “They’re going up the hill,” he said. “In case help is needed . . . In case someone is injured . . .”

  “Be careful,” I said.

  In the kitchen, breakfast was being prepared for the children who were now waking up, one after another, their voic
es chiming merrily from inside the house.

  I sat with them while they ate, dreading Fosco and Melchiorre’s return. In the middle of the meal, there was a droning roar overhead and when I went to the window I saw two Allied aircraft heading down the valley. The children carried on eating as if nothing had happened and I sat down again, asking myself whether I would let them down as I had Bruno and his flock.

  They had gone off to the classroom by the time Fosco and Melchiorre came back. I could tell what had happened from their faces; they didn’t need to say a word.

  “How many did they get?” Pritchett asked.

  “All eight,” Fosco replied, his voice a whisper.

  “Where are they?”

  “We carried the guards into the house. They’re all there now. Some were shot in their sleep . . .”

  “And the hostages?”

  “Gone.”

  There was silence. I felt I had failed them all. Not only Bruno and the partisans but Fosco and Melchiorre as well. Everyone.

  “There was nothing you could do,” said Pritchett finally. “Nothing.”

  There was a strange urgency in his voice so I assumed he was addressing me rather than Fosco and Melchiorre although he didn’t look at me.

  The farmhands fetched the bodies. Signor Grandinetti and Kristín made sure the children were nowhere near when they brought them. The priest was in Montepulciano, but we couldn’t postpone their burial, not in this heat, and not when the Germans might come back any minute. We couldn’t risk them catching us with the bodies.

  Signor Grandinetti read a passage from the Bible, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Bruno in your green sweater, which was now torn and bloody. We should have cleaned them, I said to myself, at least their faces. Of course that wouldn’t have changed anything, but still I regretted it and kept torturing myself for the rest of the day, overcome with unbearable sadness.