Part One
Sfumato
1
San Polo
The straight-backed wooden chairs in Dottoressa Saviano’s anteroom were instruments of torture. Chiara, try as she might, could find no arrangement of her limbs that provided even a moment of comfort. At present she sat with the erect carriage of a dancer, with her hands folded atop her knees and her feet together on the scuffed wooden floor. Thedottoressa’s secretary had cast several admiring glances at Chiara’s stylish pumps—and at her stylish husband as well. She was used to women staring at Gabriel; he was still impossibly handsome. He also happened to be one of the world’s finest art conservators, which conferred upon him an unwelcome local celebrity. Chiara managed the restoration company that employed him. For better or worse, they were among the most prominent couples in Venice.
Their young twins, a boy named for the painter Raphael and a girl called Irene, attended a publicscuola primariaa few minutes’ walk from the family’s apartment overlooking the Grand Canal. Dottoressa Elenora Saviano, the school’s principal, had asked Chiara to drop by her office at 2:00 p.m. to address a matter of the utmost urgency, the nature of which she had refused to discuss over thetelefonino. Thedottoressahad insisted, however, that Gabriel attend themeeting as well, for what reason she declined to say. The implication was that the undisclosed problem was serious. Chiara was confident she knew the identity of the culprit.
The secretary stole another glance at Gabriel, who pretended not to notice. He was scrolling through the headlines on his new iPhone, a replacement for the device that was damaged during a recent visit to the west of England. His chair was identical to Chiara’s, and yet he looked the very picture of contentment.
“What’s your secret?” she asked.
“I spend all day on my feet in front of paintings. This is a welcome change of pace.”
“What about your back?”
“I swallowed a few of my little green friends before I left the apartment.”
Chiara turned her head toward the anteroom’s only window. It overlooked the school’s central courtyard, which was deserted and darkened by shadow. There was a climbing apparatus and a space for games involving balls, but otherwise the students were left to their own devices during recess. Such was the existence of children in Venice. They played in thecalleor thecampoand afterward went to thepasticceriafor a sweet. It had never occurred to Chiara, a Venetian by birth, that children might live any other way. When she was a young girl, she had loved her enchanted city of canals and bridges and ancient churches filled with art. Occasionally she went to the Giardini Pubblici for a bit of peace and quiet. But for the most part the only flora she saw were the six trees in the Campo di Ghetto Nuovo, the broad square in Cannaregio where her ancestors had lived for centuries.
She awakened her phone and discreetly checked the time. The ever-vigilant secretary noticed nevertheless.
“I’m sure it won’t be much longer, Signora Zolli.”
“We were told—”
The secretary’s phone rang before Chiara could finish the thought. It seemed thedottoressawould see them now. And only fifteen minutes later than promised.
She received them with a doge-like solemnity while seated behind her desk. She was a short woman of perhaps fifty with the figure of a wine barrel. Her hair was pulled back severely from her face. Oversize spectacles magnified a pair of unblinking eyes.
They settled first on Gabriel. “Is it true, Signore Allon?”
“Is what true, Dottoressa Saviano?”
“That you have received a commission to restore the Titian in Santa Maria della Salute.”
The painting,The Descent of the Holy Spirit, hung above one of the basilica’s chapels. The Tiepolo Restoration Company, under Chiara’s capable leadership, had been awarded the contract to conduct a long-overdue cleaning of the canvas—with the proviso that the work be carried out by none other than the renowned director of the firm’s paintings department. A story to that effect had appeared the previous week inIl Gazzettino. Of course it was true, thought Chiara. Everyone in Venice knew it was true.
Gabriel’s reply was more diplomatic. “As a matter of fact, I began work on it yesterday.”
“Is it your first Titian?”
Chiara counted slowly to ten while her husband, with admirable forbearance, explained that he had restored numerous paintings by Titian and his workshop. He might have added that he had restored the Bellini altarpieces in San Zaccaria and San Giovanni Crisostomo, one of the Veroneses in San Sebastiano, and a Tintoretto in dell’Orte. And then, of course, there was Caravaggio’smagisterialDeposition of Christ, one of several paintings he had cleaned clandestinely for the Vatican Museums. As it happened, his old friend was now the supreme pontiff. Not surprisingly, Gabriel neglected to mention that as well.
“Might I impose on you for a small favor?” inquired thedottoressa.
“How small?”
“I was wondering whether you might agree to show the children how you go about restoring a painting. We won’t stay for long. Perhaps an hour or two.”
Gabriel, with a glance, requested Chiara’s assistance.
“I’m sorry, Dottoressa Saviano, but my husband never allows anyone to observe him while he works.”
“And why is that, Signore Allon?”
