“That was twenty-five years ago, master.”
“Amazing,” he repeats. “Just think, Simone—if you’re already painting so big and so well at forty-four, what will you be doing at sixty-two, when you’re as old as I am?”
“I’ll be studying the things you’re painting at eighty,” the younger man answers, “despairing of ever catching up.”
“Nonsense.” Giotto shakes his head and rolls his eyes, but Simone can tell by the half-suppressed smile that the compliment is appreciated. “I hear you married into a family of painters. Memmo’s daughter—what’s her name?”
“Giovanna.”
“Ah, yes. I remember her as a pretty little girl. And do you and Giovanna have a brood, a passel of little Martinis?”
“Not yet,” says Simone, wishing that Giotto had not broached this subject, a source of sadness between him and Giovanna.
“A man as handsome as you should make many babies, Simone. Look at me—I am the ugliest man in Florence, but I have six children. Do you wish to know my secret?” Simone nods, miserable but polite. “The darkness.”
“The darkness? How do you mean?”
“In the darkness, Simone, I am as handsome as any man!” The old painter laughs at his joke. “Now clean your brushes and come with me. We’re dining with your father-in-law. I’ve just seen his frescoes in San Gimignano, and I want to know how he did it.”
“Did what, Master Giotto?”
“Got paid to paint men and women—naked men and women!—bathing together, going to bed together! On the walls in the palace of government! A man can bear to paint only so many martyrs and virgins. Let us move to San Gimignano, Simone—or better yet, to Avignon; that’s where the money is now—and let us start a new fashion of painting there. Courtesans, concubines, and lusty country wenches. Get me those commissions, my boy, and I will pay you ten times more than I paid you to mix plaster.”
Simone laughs. “At that rate, Master Giotto, I would still starve.”
CHAPTER 11
Avignon
The Present
I’D BEEN UP SINCE 5 A.M., DESPITE THE FACT THAT I’D been wandering the streets with Stefan until one, and I was obsessively checking my e-mail inbox every five minutes. I’d hoped Joe might send me a picture of his facial reconstruction by now. It was 8 A.M. in Avignon, which made it 2 A.M. for Joe; I couldn’t imagine he was still up and working.
I’d just decided to head downstairs for a croissant when my computer chirped to announce a new e-mail. My heart began to thump when I saw that it was from Joe. I opened it eagerly but there was no message, only a small icon indicating that an image file was attached. I clicked on the attachment, and with maddening, line-by-line slowness the masklike image of a clay face materialized on the screen. Joe had done it; he’d restored a face to the skull from the Palace of the Popes.
As I studied the features, I had the eerie feeling that I knew the guy, or at least that I’d seen him before. Was it just that I’d seen Joe’s work before? Facial reconstructions, especially when done by the same forensic artist, do share similarities: “white female #7”; “black male #4.” Was that the reason this face looked familiar? I turned away, looked out the window to clear my mind, and then directed my gaze at the screen again.
Again I felt the tingle of unexpected familiarity. Who was this guy, and why did I think I knew him? It wasn’t simply that this was another generic white male, similar to a hundred other reconstructions I’d seen. This face was distinctive, the face of a unique individual: long and narrow, with prominent cheekbones and a slightly crooked nose, perhaps broken once in a fight. I’d noticed the general features when I’d examined the skull, but they were more pronounced now that Joe had fleshed out the bones.
Suddenly a synapse in my sleep-deprived brain fired. Pulse racing, I fired off a message to Joe: got it. great work—thanks. are you still there?
yes, came his answer a few seconds later.
can you do a couple of quick tweaks?
A pause. what sort of tweaks?
can you give him long hair? and a mustache and beard? oh, and maybe smooth out some of the wrinkles, take 10 years off him?
As I waited for his response, I feared he might balk.
so, you want me to give him rogaine & botox—er, claytox, right, doc?
right, joe.
no problem.
I breathed a sigh of relief, then sent another message: not to sound pushy, but how long will that take?
depends. you want it fast, or want it good?
I smiled. start with fast, I wrote back. if i need good, I’ll beg you for that tomorrow.
good answer. fast is lots easier for me right now—just got a new case I need to jump on. give me twenty minutes. i’ll tinker with it and shoot you a revision ASAP.