Page 51 of Burning Caine

“Hi, Antonio. What can I do for you?”

“I need you to come to my office. Now.”

“Hold on a minute.” I slowed and pulled off the side of the highway. “Say that again?”

“I need you to come to my office,” he repeated.

“Why?”

“There is something you need to see on the Chagall.”

“Something?”

“Sì, this is important.”

“One sec.” I punched Ferraro’s location into my GPS. “I’m about a half hour away.”

“Can you come?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” I said, and he hung up.

Was there something wrong with it? Were we back to him refusing to clean it? I was miffed at being summoned, but it wasn’t entirely with him. It was more at myself for leaping at the opportunity to see him again.

True to the GPS’ estimate, thirty minutes later, I pulled up in front of Ferraro’s. I turned the bike off and walked into the building, pulling off my helmet once inside.

Sofia smiled at me from her chair but didn’t get up. Antonio was already there, leaning against her desk, arms folded. How long had he been standing there? Today, he was in pale jeans again, with a blue V-neck shirt and white sneakers. Usually so clean and tidy, he had dark stains on his clothes.

“You’re dirtier than usual.” I cringed. That sounded rude, didn’t it?

“Sì, your Chagall is filthy.” He uncrossed his arms and strode across the room to me.

“True.”

But he walked right past me. “You ride a motorcycle?” He looked out one of the large front windows. “A Ducati?”

“Yeah?”

He crossed his arms and tilted his head, smirking at me.

“What?” I asked, when we’d been staring too long.

Sofia got up and walked over to me, taking the helmet and placing it on her desk. “Antonio, show her.”

“Sì, sì! Andiamo.” He beckoned me to join him. As we walked into the studio area in the back, he explained. “As promised, I’m doing my best. I worked on your burned painting a couple of hours each day. It’s tedious and difficult work, and I can’t focus on it longer than that.”

“Thanks for starting on it so quickly.” Given the pressure to rush along the claim, this news finally let me exhale. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a disaster, after all.

The three restorers were working away in the studio space, barely noticing our progress through the space.

“I’ve been going through my father’s notebooks for any references to similarly burned paintings.” He waved his hands in the air. “Decades of paper.”

“Did you find anything?

We rounded his desk to look at the painting. He’d stabilized the burned edges, so they wouldn’t crumble when he removed the frame and stretcher. The photos I’d left with him were taped to the side of the desk and the formerly pristine white surface was covered in soot and debris.

“Only that we need to hire a summer student or something to digitize his work.” He handed me a pair of disposable gloves, putting his own on, as well. “I added some canvas underneath the burned areas to give them strength. I started at the bottom right, where you pointed out the signature, dabbing with a dry sponge.”

I nodded, still not understanding what was going on, but I pulled out my phone to snap a picture for the claim file.