“I prefer genres with a little more erotic content.”
I grin across at him. “Oh, there’ll be plenty of that.”
But we spend the morning doing touristy things, and then in the afternoon we have an appointment with a Dr. Bonaventura, the lead art historian and restorer at a small, private company that works for the most prominent galleries in Italy and Europe. Our interest in their work has been sudden, but extremely profitable for them; just under a week ago, they received a sizable donation on our behalf, with more promised over the next five years.
Luca seems genuinely pleased that he can now add Patron of the Arts to the list of his achievements.
I just hope they can actually help us.
On our arrival, we’re shown into the boardroom, where we have to sit through a presentation on the work of the company, and which is performed twice over—every sentence stated first in Italian, and again in English, for my benefit, I assume. Luca is almost literally on the edge of his seat, hanging on every word, asking questions that sounds intelligent and appropriate.
I have to struggle not to yawn too obviously, smothering each wave of tiredness behind a hand. At least the coffee is good, and it helps keep me awake.
“Your donation to our work has come at amostfortunate time,” Dr. Bonaventura says at last, once Luca has finally exhausted his questions, and the rest of the senior company staff have vacated the boardroom. We’re making our way toward the door, having been promised a tour of the facilities. “You cannot imagine how grateful we are. It will allow us to—”
“I’msoglad,” I say, seizing the initiative. “Really thrilled. We’resuperinto art. And since we’re here, I wondered if you could take a look at something for us. As a favor?”
Dr. Bonaventura beams. “But of course! Please, send any artifact straight to our laboratories and we will be delighted to—”
“Actually, I have it right here.” I take his hand and shove the rosary into it. “There. What can you tell me about it?”
He peers down at it, glasses flashing as he turns it this way and that in his hands. He frowns, begins to say something, and then hesitates. He gives me a faltering smile. “Is this some American joke, perhaps?”
“No joke,” I tell him. “It belonged to my mother.”
“But sir, you understand, this is not…” He gives an awkward, nervous giggle. “This is not an artifact that needs…specialconsideration. It is very precious to you, no doubt,” he adds hastily. “A precious gift passed down in your family, but—”
“It’s not the rosary itself,” I try to explain. “We think—we think there might be somethinginit. In the crucifix?” My voice goes high and thin. “But, like, I don’t want to destroy it to find out. If I’m wrong, I mean. You must have something that could look at the different layers under the top layer, like they do with paintings? Or if not, you could check the density, or—or something?”
“But what makes you think—” Dr. Bonaventura begins, bewildered.
“Please, doctor,” Luca interrupts, in that no-nonsense tone that evenIlisten to. “We understand that it’s probably a fool’s errand. But will you indulge our curiosity?”
The man’s eyes blink rapidly behind his glasses as he thinks it over.
“As patrons of your work,” I add, because I can’t stand waiting any longer.
“Of course,” he says at once. “Forgive me, I did not mean to suggest I would not—of course, of course.” He gestures us out the door, then follows us out. “We can go now.”
Luca follows him towards the staircase, but I hang back.
“Now?” I ask.
The art historian, his foot already on the first step down, looks back at me with owlish surprise. “If you are in a hurry to leave, sir, I would be happy to send you a report, instead. But it won’t take long.”
“It’s just…” I start, but then I look at Luca. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
It’s just that I feel real fuckin’ nervous now that we’re about to find out if this whole trip has been a waste of time, or that my mother has hidden bone fragments from some murder victim in there, or something equally horrifying.
Luca holds out his hand, and I take it. He gives it a quick squeeze, searching my face until I give a slight nod.It’s okay.
He turns back to Dr. Bonaventura. “We’d love to see the work of the laboratory,” he says. “We didn’t realize it would be permitted.”
The professor, leading us down the stairs, laughs. “Oh, we have no secrets here,” he says, breathing hard as we make our way down three flights. “None of our work is restricted. In fact, most people find it quite boring. People outside our sphere have little interest in art restoration—unless it’s a Michelangelo or the Mona Lisa, people simply do not care.” He puffs as we reach the bottom landing, slowing his pace as he walks, and we slow down behind him. The hallway is quite narrow, but door after door comes off of it. It kind of reminds me of the bowels of Harvard. I sucked more than one post-grad dick in similarly windowless, tiny offices before I got myself kicked out.
Dr. Bonaventura stops abruptly in front of one door, opens it, and feels around for the lights inside. “Here we are,” he says, gesturing us after him. “Come in, come in.”
It’s a sizable room, reminiscent of a hospital or medical research lab or something, with various machines and workstations that include test tubes, Bunsen burners and chemicals. Dr. Bonaventura is headed straight for one particular machine.
