“Depends,” she answered, “on how you define ‘Christian.’”
Just then the ring of my phone sounded—a startling noise high in the Alps, miles from any city. I snatched it from the console, narrowly missing a road sign as I sneaked a glance at the display. Private number. “Hello?”
“Hello, is this Dr. Bill Brockton?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Dr. Brockton, my name is Dr. Adam Newman. I’m the scientific director of the Institute for Biblical Science, in Charlotte, North Carolina.”
“Ah, yes,” I said. “I got your letter a few days ago.”
“Are you going to be able to help us with our project? We’re very anxious to get to work, and we’re very much hoping you’re interested.”
I hesitated. I’d been dubious when I first read the letter, and Stefan’s report had only confirmed my uneasiness. But I didn’t want to be offensive. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you with that, Dr. Newman.”
“I think you’d find it a fascinating opportunity,” he said. “If you’ll let me tell you more about it, I think you might reconsider.”
“Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t take it on right now,” I said. “I’m out of the country. I’m in France.”
“France?” There was a silence, and I thought I’d lost the call. “Well, gracious, lucky you. What part of France?” Something about his hearty tone sounded false, but before I could decide how—or whether—to answer the question, the world went dark, we plunged into the Mont Blanc Tunnel, and Dr. Adam Newman was gone.
CHAPTER 15
Avignon
The Present
AFTER DROPPING MIRANDA OFF, I EASED THE PEUGEOT through Lumani’s wooden gate just in time to see Elisabeth arranging purple stalks of lavender in a tall vase on one of the garden tables. She waved and nodded. “Ah, bonjour. You are back so soon. How was your trip? Did you see the famous Shroud?”
“No, we didn’t. It was impossible.”
“Ah, quel dommage—too bad.”
“It’s okay. It was a useful trip. We bought a copy of the Shroud. A life-size photograph. For three hundred dollars.”
She gasped, and as she drew in her breath, she exclaimed, “Ah!” I’d never heard anyone do that before—speaking while inhaling. The intake of breath somehow invested the “ah” with a little more wonder and a lot more charm. “Mon Dieu. For so much money, I hope it has the power to make miracles.”
“Well, I didn’t fall asleep and crash your car in the mountains, so maybe it does have miraculous powers.”
“Caffeine,” she said. “Caffeine has these powers, too. Do you want a coffee?”
“No coffee, thanks. But I’d love a cup of tea, if you don’t mind.” She turned toward the kitchen. “Oh, Elisabeth, before I forget. You’re an artist. Did you study art history, too?”
“Only a little.”
“I have a friend—she’s an anthropologist and an artist—who thinks that the Shroud of Turin was made by Giotto.”
“A painting by Giotto?” She wrinkled her forehead and frowned. “No, I don’t think so. The picture, the image, is too maigre… what is the English word?…thin? Not the man, but the picture. It is like a ghost, almost not there. Paint would be more strong.”
“You’re right,” I agreed. “Not paint. Dust. Pigment. Red ochre. Like a cave painting.” I pretended to sprinkle powder into my palm, then puffed it onto an imaginary surface.
“Ah!” There it was again, the charming, breath-taking “ah.” Just hearing it made me smile. “Red ochre. I think it is possible.”
“Do you know if Giotto ever worked in Avignon?”
She shrugged. “Pfft. I don’t know. Peut-être—maybe. Artists came from all over Europe to paint at the palais. Also at the livrées of the cardinals. There were many walls to decorate, and much money to collect. Artists come to money like flies come to honey.”
I laughed. “I thought all artists were poor and starving.”
“Most artists are starving. But if the pope likes you, you will never go hungry.”
WHEN ELISABETH RETURNED WITH MY TEA, SHE WAS balancing the cup on a pair of books: a lavish coffee-table art book about Giotto, and a smaller book, which she opened once I lifted the cup from it. “Vies des Artists,” she said. “The Lives of the Artists. By Vasari. You know Vasari?” I shook my head. “Giorgio Vasari. Italian. Sixteenth century. He made architecture, but also biography and history.”