“Good morning, Professor Menet. So good of you to visit.”
“It’s nice to finally meet you in person, Mrs. Crawly.” There was a pause and Mrs. Crawly turned to examine me. My dad followed her gaze and said, “This is my daughter—”
“Violet,” she finished with a soft smile.
“Mrs. Reed will meet you both in the library. Please follow me,” she said as she briskly led the way under tall painted ceilings and across the black and white marble floor.
The library was very bright. Three French windows on one side of the lofty room allowed light to warm the spines of thousands of books tucked into the dark cases covering the walls. On the opposite side of the room a burning fire cast a glow onto two large green sofas and a caramel leather armchair. A woman was standing in front of the fire with her hands clasped behind her.
“Mrs. Reed, Professor Menet and Violet have arrived,” Mrs. Crawly announced.
The woman looked up from the mantelpiece. To my surprise, her dark eyes were glassy with tears. When she smiled, several drops broke free. “Ah, you must excuse me,” she said grabbing a handkerchief from her dress pocket. “The price to pay for staring at a fire too long.” She dabbed her face. “You are both quite welcome. I hope you had a pleasant trip from the city?”
“Oh, there were some very nice views, and we didn’t meet any traffic,” answered Dad. “Thank you again, Mrs. Reed for inviting Violet here today.”
While my eyes searched the room’s lavish furnishings, they met Mrs. Reed’s. Thick brows curved around her big brown eyes. They looked at me as if they had never seen a girl close up. When she smiled, her sun-kissed cheeks almost touched her eyes. The elegant woman had a slight accent. From where, I wasn’t sure and thought it might be rude to ask. The way she spoke with her hands reminded me of my mom, though. Except my mom would never wear red nail polish. Grey streaks ran through dark, curly hair pinned into a labyrinth of twists. The black color of her satin dress complimented her olive skin. Even at the age of sixty or so, Mrs. Reed was very beautiful.
“Please, call me Annie. It’s kind of you to let me share in your sweet Viola’s special day … Happy birthday.”
“She actually prefers Violet. The name on her birth certificate is Viola, but I guess she thinks it’s weird,” he explained, using finger quotations for the last word. Feeling thoroughly embarrassed at being talked about in the third person, I fought an extreme urge to roll my eyes. “Teenagers,” he added.
“Well both names are lovely, but I do like the sound of Viola,” said Mrs. Reed.
“Now that I have thoroughly embarrassed her, I’ll be back to pick up Violet in two hours. Is that all right with you?”
“Of course, take your time. Will you not have some tea or coffee before you go?”
“Thank you, but I think I’ll just leave you two to it! I have an appointment.” Knowing my dad, that probably meant he was going to sneak into a bar to watch a soccer match.
“Very well, Mrs. Crawly, please see Professor Menet out.”
My dad kissed me on the cheek. “Be on your very best behavior please … and stand up straight,” he whispered. I arched my back upwards.
When he left the room, I looked at Mrs. Reed with my bravest smile.
“Please come and sit with me by the fire, Violet. Mrs. Crawly will be here shortly with tea and cake. I told her to surprise us with anything but birthday cake, as I’m sure your dad has that planned for later.” She gracefully sat in the leather armchair.
Following her example, I stepped quietly and plopped myself onto the green sofa. It was extremely comfortable. Between the fire, the chair, and Mrs. Reed’s soothing voice, it was hard to stay awake.
“How is your mother, Violet?” Her question caught me off guard, so I stammered something about Italy and her work at Herculaneum. “I’ve read her latest article … quite impressive, the work she is doing over there. You must be very proud.”
“I am,” I murmured, feeling even guiltier that I had not read the article.
“Will she be back any time soon?”
“I’m not sure. She wants me to go visit her in Italy before she comes back. That way I can also visit my grandmother.”
At hearing this her face drooped into sad wrinkles. “Violet, do you know who I am?”
“Not exactly, ma’am.” She paused and took out her handkerchief again.
“Your father and I met because I’m a donor of art and archaeological objects to the university he works at. He might not have told you, but I’m also an avid historian and art collector. When I was young, I married a brilliant inventor and explorer, Mr. John Reed. Until recently we have made it our life mission to uncover the earth’s secrets and lost histories. Mr. Reed died two years ago. I must admit it’s been very hard for me, and I’m still in mourning, as you can see,” She smoothed out the creases in her black dress.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.
“Which is why I so appreciate your company!” She continued, “Your father tells me that you are quite the artist. When he told me, I said, how lucky you are! That’s when I extended an invitation for you to visit my home so that I may see some of your drawings, and here we are!” She finished with her arms open as if to embrace me.
“Thank you again for inviting me,” I replied, trying to avoid her stare.
“It’s no trouble. In fact, it is a pleasure. I rarely get to spend time with any young people. It is very refreshing! My son Peter is all grown up and very … busy.” The light from the fire made her brooch of fine red and white stones twinkle. “I hope you brought your sketchbook. Your father told me you bring it with you wherever you go.” Her eyes searched mine as if to uncover my secrets. How could I come up with an excuse now? There seemed to be no way out.
“Well, I did bring it, Mrs. Reed, but I’m not sure if you really want to see it. You are probably used to better artwork.” I hesitated with the silent hope she would forget the idea completely.
She responded with a concerned look, which was interrupted by the sound of swirling skirts and silver tolling.
“Tea time!” rang Mrs. Crawly, swiftly putting the tray on a neighboring table and leaving the library.
“Do you take sugar or milk in your tea?” asked Mrs. Reed as she busied herself with the contents of the silver tray.
“Both, please,” I said.
She handed me a gold-rimmed teacup laced with flower drawings and a generous slice of fruitcake. Trying not to spill it all over my jeans and the beautiful sofa, I balanced the cake on my lap and sipped my tea.
“Violet, do you consider yourself an artist?” she asked, preparing her own tea.
In all honesty I didn’t. I mean, how could I be? After all, I was only fourteen years old and I barely knew anything about art. Living in New York City, I had plenty of opportunities to go to any of the hundreds of galleries or museums, but it was always so intimidating. Every time I walked out I felt so defeated. There were so many artists, how could I have something great or unique to share with the world of art?
“Not really, Mrs. Reed.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, I guess it’s because I am only fourteen years old and I don’t really have enough experience.” I piled the moist, nutty fruitcake into my mouth.
“I beg to differ,” she said, cutting a slice of fruitcake for herself. “Of course you know who the artist Leonardo da Vinci is?”
Although I knew of him, I couldn’t point out any of his artwork or a picture of him. “I’ve heard of him but I don’t think I’ve seen his art in person,” I said, feeling more and more embarrassed.
“Well, he was the definition of a Renaissance man … He was an extraordinary draftsman, painter, sculptor, scientist, architect, musician, and even inventor. He was only seventeen years old and was already ve
ry accomplished when he was an apprentice under another famous artist’s workshop by the name of Andrea de Verrocchio...” She sipped her tea. “...How much do you know about art history?”
“A little, but that’s not really anyone’s fault except my own.” It was good my dad was not there as I was starting to sound dumb.
“It’s important because it can tell you quite a bit about the present … Much of what we know about past kings, battles, laws, and ways of life comes from art. I like to think that history is a great adventure, and art history is just one of the many paths that takes your hand and leads you through it … I think it’s important to know about where you, the artist, comes from. To know what has brought art to this unique moment in time. Many people think, like you do, that experience is most important for an artist, but don’t let age define your limits, Violet.” She paused and took a bite of her cake.
“You should be proud of your work! One of the survival skills of an artist is to have supreme confidence in yourself and in your art.” The room was quiet save for the soft drip of the rain sliding down the windowpanes. “Dear, life will bring you opportunities disguised as obstacles or problems, but it is from these challenges and moments of adversary that you learn to trust and discover yourself.” Mrs. Reed placed her free hand on my knee. “Only then will you find the confidence you need to be a supreme artist and person. If that is what you want, of course.” A brief smile crossed her face before she pulled her hand back into the folds of her black dress.
“I won’t ask to see your sketchbook again until you’re ready to show it to me, but I do think it’s important that you broaden your horizons and self-confidence.” She shot up from her seat and walked back over to the fire.
It was strange to be lectured by an almost complete stranger. Although I knew it was mostly good advice, part of me jolted at being told what to do. While I contemplated her words, she raised her left arm and consulted her slender wristwatch. Then she pulled a second object from her gown. It looked like a pocket watch but it was diamond shaped. It had a hard gold shell and long chain that grazed the lush carpet. She glanced back at me. “Would you be interested in seeing my art gallery? I think you might find it enlightening.”
“Oh … yes please!” I said placing my teacup and plate on the tray. Mrs. Reed wound several knobs on the pocket watch and closed its metal case.
“After you, dear Violet,” she said, pointing graciously at the entrance. I stood up and retracted my steps towards the doorway. When I turned around, Mrs. Reed was right behind me holding my satchel.
“Oh thank you! Sorry, I’m sort of forgetful.”
“I leave my purse in a room and often forget all about it until weeks later,” she said, guiding me back towards the main entrance and up the maroon carpeted staircase.
On the walk up, I could see several exotic paintings of landscapes and portraits hanging on the wall. We continued up a second and third staircase. Mrs. Reed turned down a long hallway and opened a door to her left with a key. After turning on a light switch, she beckoned me to follow her. The room's lofty ceilings hovered above hundreds of paintings, sculptures, and objects. My dad would have loved to catalog even the dust mites.
Mrs. Reed drew back the thick navy curtains blocking the sunlight.
“Violet, I’ll come back and get you when I feel you’re ready. May I suggest you spend some extra time looking at the painting at the end with the red curtain hanging over it. It happens to be the masterpiece of the whole collection. I think you could learn a lot from it. And remember, leave no corner unturned.” She was almost at the door when she paused. “Take extra care of yourself.” The faint sound of a lock turning caused goose bumps to sprout on my arms.
Something about Mrs. Reed’s words made me feel that something wasn’t right. Maybe this was a test? She must have meant to be careful with the artwork, right? My dad probably told her how clumsy I was and not to let me within a hundred feet of anything valuable.
With some hesitation, I walked down rows crammed with delicate sculptures, dusty paintings, and jammed cabinets. Several glass cases held corroded coins and glittering jewelry. Farther down, gleaming in the low light, was an Egyptian sarcophagus encrusted with gold and precious stones. Two eyes made of shell and some sort of black stone looked up at the Heavens. Close to its belly was a latch that looked like it was easy to open. With my luck it would probably topple over and a mummy would roll out.
Resisting the urge to open the sarcophagus, I walked past mannequins wearing antique costumes exploding with lace and soft tulle. On the walls hung several rolls of fabric with scenes of people dancing, eating, and praying. Some of the sculptures were very realistic and were probably the faces of famous or important people. They looked like they might come to life and walk down the art gallery with me.
After about half an hour of wandering, I thought Mrs. Reed might be back soon, and I decided to take a shortcut to the painting she had encouraged me to look at. I pulled back the velvet curtains, tied them in place, and stood back. The painting underneath was at least five feet tall and four feet wide. Even though my family wasn’t religious, I could tell it was a story about Christ’s baptism. The blue sky in the background changed from dark to light and two hands with a dove were coming down from the top of the painting. In the center was a man dressed in a loincloth. His eyes were cast down and his hands in prayer. There was another man on the right who was dressed in flowing robes of blue and brown. He held a crucifix staff and was pouring a bowl of water on the praying man’s head. Both of the men’s bare feet were submerged in a stream of clear water. The water seemed to be spreading life to the surrounding oasis full of palm trees and rocks.
On the left were two angels dressed in pale blue garments. The folds of the fabric were so lifelike I wanted to crinkle them with my fingertips. Both angels were kneeling with their hands clasped together while gazing up at Jesus, and one held what might have been Jesus’ clothing. The angelic face looked as if light was coming from it and that it might turn to look at me. All four of the figures had golden halos floating above their heads.
Thinking that I might be quizzed on the painting later, I decided to take an extra-long look at Mrs. Reed’s masterpiece. Something metallic poked out from beneath the red curtain on the right side of the painting. Stepping closer, I saw it was a latch similar to the one on the sarcophagus. Thinking it would be hard to break something like that, as it looked like the wall was doing a pretty good job of holding it in place, I pulled back the latch. It was heavy and made a loud noise.
I looked behind me expecting to see Mrs. Reed burst into the room. Listening hard, I turned back to the latch. The painting had swung open a little on its own. Pulling back the heavy wooden panel, I saw there was a tunnel behind the painting and what looked like a dim light at the end.
“Is this what Mrs. Reed meant by leave no corner unturned?” I asked the angels. “She must have wanted me to go in. If not, why would she point at the painting to start with?”
With my mind made up, I pulled myself up into the tunnel and started to crawl on my knees.
The tunnel was dead silent. As I crawled, the light at the end grew brighter. With each reach the temperature dropped. It was impossible to crane my head around to look back. In order to go back, I had to go forward. Telling myself it would be easier to turn around at the end of the tunnel, I continued. What if I got stuck in here? Hopefully, Mrs. Reed would know to look behind the painting. Regret started to creep up my stiff limbs. All I could see was the illuminated outline of a door, but I could feel the mist of my breath against my face. My palms started to hurt from the frosty stone surface below.
Eventually the tunnel became large enough for me to stand up straight. I walked but my steps felt strangely heavy. Maybe this path led to the rose garden I saw coming up the driveway? When I reached the end of the tunnel, my chest was thumping and I no
longer felt I could stand up straight. The illuminated doorframe belonged to a metal door. There was a lot of noise coming from the other side. That couldn’t be the garden! I turned the knob but nothing happened. Using my shoulder, I pushed against the door but it didn’t budge. Taking a few paces back, I broke out into a run. Before I reached the door, it flew open and I stumbled hard onto a dirty cobblestone street.
CHAPTER THREE
Lost
My hands flew out to break my fall. The cacophony of sound that surrounded me was overwhelming. Trying to get up was impossible as several feet walked around or on me. A fresh surge of pain seized me. Looking up at my hands, I could see blood leaking from my palms onto the smooth stones. My knees stung and the side of my face pressed against the muck of the street.
The sounds of a clock’s ticking, tongues wagging, hooves beating, and wheels rolling echoed in my ears. Fumes of smoke and manure smothered me. Trying to protect my head, I propped my elbows up and covered it with my arms. Although I shut my eyes tight, there was a steady salty stream dripping down my face and under my chin. Suddenly, I felt hands grasp my shoulder struggling to lift me to my feet. When I opened my eyes a part of me wished my head was still wedged between shoes and the ground.
The first thought that crossed my mind was that Mrs. Reed had slipped something in that Earl Grey tea or spiced the fruitcake. Bodies pushed against me from all directions, yelling in a language I could not yet comprehend. Dirt-covered hands and ringed fingers pointed in the direction of a wooden platform. A young woman stood with her knees bent and hands tied behind her back. Brown curls, cut off in clumps, clung to her linen smock. Sobs drenched her round face. People had begun to throw whatever they had at the platform.
Lost in the City of Flowers (The Histories of Idan Book 1) Page 3
