“And yet the world didn’t come to an end.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Chiara and the children headed back to the cottage in the Range Rover, and Gabriel, alone, made the six-mile trek to Penzance Harbor, where he took delivery of a new Beneteau sailboat. The vessel was thirty feet in length and nine feet across the beam, smaller than the Bavaria 42 he kept in Venice but large enough to accommodate a family of four comfortably. He ran it across Mount’s Bay on the prevailing southwesterly wind and was back in Penzance in time fordinner. Chiara and the children met him at a quayside restaurant called the Boatshed. Irene and Raphael, after reviewing the menu, placed their orders in English.
“How did you manage that?” Gabriel asked Chiara quietly.
“I threatened them, darling. How else?”
The children spoke only English for the remainder of dinner and over breakfast the following morning, which dawned cloudy and cold. Gabriel read a book by the fire until eleven o’clock, when he spotted a white transit van bumping up the property’s long drive. Inside, entombed in a protective wooden coffin, wasView of the Grand Canal with the Rialto Bridge, oil on canvas, 136 by 242 centimeters, by the eighteenth-century urban landscape painter Bernardo Bellotto. Gabriel disassembled the crate, then, with Chiara’s help, secured the enormous painting to a pair of Italian-made studio easels.
He pointed toward the terra-cotta palazzo on the left side of the canvas. “Yourotherhome,” he said. “The one I’m still paying for.”
“Lovely, isn’t it?”
“Quite. But I’m afraid it needs a bit of work.”
“And the rest of the painting?”
“I won’t know until I strip it.”
“How long do you suppose it will take?”
“Suffice to say,” replied Gabriel, “I won’t be spending much time aboard my new sailboat.”
In the lexicon of art conservation, to strip a painting meant removing the dirty varnish and the overpainting of previous restorations. It was a mind-numbing task that involved cleaning the surface of the canvas with hand-fashioned swabs of cotton wool dipped in a carefully calibrated solution of acetone, methyl proxitol, and mineral spirits. Most conservators were trained in basic chemistry, but Gabriel, who had no formal education, relied on instinct andexperience when preparing his solvent. The mixture had to be strong enough to dissolve the unwanted material but not so strong that it damaged the underlying painting. Each swab could clean about a square inch of the surface before it became too soiled to use. Then Gabriel had to fashion a new swab and start again.
By early evening he had cleaned the facade of the terra-cotta palazzo and the two gondolas moored along the landing. He took a break for dinner, worked late into the evening, and was back in his studio before Chiara and the children had awakened. The skies poured with rain all morning, but by midday the sun was shining brightly and the wind was blowing fifteen to twenty. Deserving of a break, or so he assured himself, he sailed the Beneteau out to Wolf Rock, then, after rounding the lighthouse, returned to Penzance.
He adhered to a similar schedule on Wednesday and Thursday—toil at the canvas in the morning, take to the sea in the afternoon—but on Friday he became so engrossed in his work that he lost track of time. At two fifteen, as he was removing the dirty varnish from Bellotto’s rendering of the Rialto Bridge, he became aware of a motorcar advancing up the drive. It was an unusual sight; the cottage was isolated, and a prominently displayed sign at the entrance readprivate. Also unusual was the vehicle itself. It was a Rolls-Royce saloon model, silver and midnight blue in color. The car eased sedately to a stop outside Gabriel’s studio, and the engine died. Then, into the crystalline Cornish sunlight, stepped none other than Edward Knight.
He was dressed for a day in the countryside in a zippered pullover, corduroy trousers, and stylish chukka boots. Spotting Gabrielemerging from his studio, he flung an arm into the air as though hailing a taxi.
“Allon,” he called out genially. “I hope I’m not intruding on your work.”
“As a matter of fact, you are,” said Gabriel with a smile. “Mind telling me how you managed to find my house?”
“You’re the famous spy. You tell me.”
“You either searched the property records, or you asked Julian Isherwood. I’m betting it was the latter.”
“He assured me that you wouldn’t mind if I dropped by.” Knight surveyed the cottage with a practiced eye. “What a lovely place you have here. Very charming indeed.”
“It’s not exactly Wickham House, but we’re quite fond of it.”
Knight glanced toward the entrance of Gabriel’s studio. “Do you allow visitors?”
“Never.”
“Julian seemed to think you would make an exception in my case.”
“Did he?”
“I’m interested in acquiring the Bellotto,” explained Knight. “Julian said you would allow me to have a look at it.”
“He didn’t mention it.”
“It must have slipped his mind.” Knight took out a mobile phone. “We can ring him, if you like.”
