Page 48 of Burning Caine
He narrowed his eyes at me. “It does mean beautiful.” Turning to her, he continued. “But in Italia, some use it to refer to any girl.”
“Well, we’re not in Italy right now!” Her laugh was in my direction.
“I like her.” He gestured to Lucy. “She understands me.”
We walked into the studio, and Lucy gasped. “This space is amazing! It reminds me of a shop my parents took me to once in Greece, where they made books. Open, airy, big workspaces. Did you know—”
“Lucy.” I put a hand on her arm before she started spouting statistics. She clammed up.
The female restorer was at the front of the room, with two of the rolling tables together, working on a painting I estimated at ten feet tall. Lucy drifted over to it, and I followed her, curious.
It was a portrait of a semi-reclined woman in a voluminous blue and purple dress, holding a sword. At her feet lay an empty plate and a whip, and she rested on a wooden wheel covered in metal studs, with a large crack through its middle.
“Saint Catherine of Alexandria,” I mused. “Italian Baroque. Late sixteenth or early seventeenth century?”
The restorer nodded appreciatively. “Dead on. How do you know?”
“Saint Catherine was martyred in the fourth century in Roman Egypt because she was a Christian. She was a brilliant young woman and convinced hundreds to convert.” I pointed to the elements of the painting that stood out to me. “The emperor wanted to make an example of her. First, they whipped her, but angels tended her wounds. Then they starved her, but the dove of God fed her. The emperor was frustrated his plans failed, so she was to be broken on the wheel, but it shattered when she touched it. In the end, they got out a sword and lopped her head off.”
“I didn’t know all of that,” said the restorer. “You know your saints!”
“Not to mention your Italian Baroque.” Antonio stood precariously close to me, hands casually tucked into his pockets. He leaned close enough to keep his words private. “Impressive again.”
I tried ignoring him, but the air around him intruded on the air around me, and the scent of vanilla overcame me. All it would take was one step to back into him and feel his body against mine. Bad idea. But so tempting.
The restorer continued. “This was flown in from a church in France last month. I’ve been dying to work on it.” She stood back for a moment, admiring her early progress.
Focus on the painting, Sam. “This reminds me of the one Caravaggio did of her. Just a cleaning?”
She nodded again. “My name’s Alice, by the way.” She gave Antonio a look. I introduced myself and Lucy, but we didn’t shake since her hands were clean and under gloves. She was maybe Lucy’s age, a little round at the edges, and pretty.
Antonio said, “They gave me trouble for not introducing them the last time you were here. Alice has been with us for five years. At the easel is Zander, but he wears headphones most of the time, so he’ll not say hello.”
He walked us over to the third restorer and introduced him. “My cousin Gianfranco, but he insists on being called Frank.” He paused, avoiding my gaze for a moment. “I was having dinner with him Saturday night.”
How could I forget?
Frank, like his cousin, had the dark southern Italian hair, olive skin, and deep brown eyes, but the similarities ended there. He was my height, light on muscle, had a disfigured nose which had seen one too many fights, and his face invited you to sit and have a beer, rather than to swoon.
And the restorers were all in jeans. Antonio was the only one dressed up, aside from Lucy and me. And Sofia.
After finishing the introductions, he ushered us to his work desk, and Lucy navigated her way between us.
Number Veesat near the middle of his desk, in all its three stripes of glory. To the side sat two manila envelopes and a small white boxboard container tied with a string. Antonio retrieved some paperwork from the top envelope and reviewed it with us.
“There was a tear four inches long exactly here.” He pointed to the spot where the painting had been torn, but I couldn’t see any difference between that area and the rest of the light blue stripe. “At the north end of the tear, it extended one-eighth of an inch to the painting’s left side.” He continued to explain the steps he’d gone through to make the repair, and we listened quietly.
Once he finished, he returned the paperwork to the envelope and slid it back into the stack. “All of the paints and the varnish are archival and fully reversible. If another repair is required, this work can be removed first.” He folded his arms, clearly proud of himself. “It’sperfetto, no?”
“Impressive,” said Lucy. “I can’t tell this was ever torn!”
I, on the other hand, excused myself to grab a flashlight and a magnifying loupe from under the desk. Time to test Dr. Ferraro’s work.
I shone the light at the spot where the damage had been and got close. I looked at it directly from the front, then from each side, noticing how the brush strokes of the repair matched the original, as though the artist himself had put them there. No bumps or lines indicated where he’d patched the hole. I examined even closer with the loupe.
“Can you take it over to one of the easels?” I asked.
He picked it up, and we all went to look at it in the direct sunlight beaming in the window. Sunshine often spoiled a restoration effort, as the colors could vary under different types of light. I took another close look, using the loupe. It was perfect.