But it was unlikely to be a more intact one than this.
“Now that that’s been settled,” Mr. Hudgins interrupted, as if uncomfortable with this unmediated conversation, “we should really get on with the business at hand. We have some additional material to be transferred,” he said, nodding at the bulky envelope on the table and making it plain that David should open it.
As David drew it close, Hudgins continued. “Mrs. Van Owen has graciously decided to leave these manuscripts and drawings in the care of the Newberry Library, for further examination and study. She wishes to know as much about them as the curatorial staff is able to discover and is prepared to underwrite the costs of all such work.”
Although David was happy to hear that she would bear the expenses, he was already concerned that something very old and valuable had been transported in such a casual manner as this. He grew even more concerned when, after unsealing the envelope, the unmistakable scent of smoke emanated from inside.
“Their final disposition, however, remains an open question,” Hudgins said. “Much will depend on how the completion of the work goes and whether it yields success. If it goes as well as we hope, the Newberry can expect to receive these materials on a permanent basis, along with a very generous and unrestricted gift to support the library. If not …” He trailed off. “Other arrangements may be made.”
David had just removed the packet of papers, as deftly as he could, from the padded envelope, and already he was astonished at what he saw. Just from the feel of the paper and the ink, he could tell that these papers were hundreds of years old. Fifteenth or sixteenth century, if he had to guess. They reminded him of the many ricordanze he had studied over the years—the memoirs and diaries of Italian businessmen, documents that provided a fascinating glimpse into everyday life during the Renaissance.
This handwriting was in Italian, too, and though faded by time, still more than legible. The edges of the papers were singed here and there, accounting for the smell of smoke, and there were dots of mold and decay, like age spots on an elderly hand, sprinkled throughout. But as he turned one page over and glanced at the next, and the next, he could see that they were a virtual treasure trove. These weren’t mundane records of grain purchases or wool deliveries. This was a rough draft, with many crossouts and markings, of something called La Chiave alla Vita Eterna. The Key to Life Eternal. And in its margins, and in some cases on the backs of the pages, there were drawings and schematics, and references to smelting processes and glassblowing. There was a sketch on one sheet that could only have been the plans for a kiln—a large kiln, big enough to cast a mighty statue. David’s heart was hammering in his chest, and he distractedly removed his glasses and wiped them clean on his tie before exploring an underlying page, a page that had been folded over. His fingers paused above it, until Mrs. Van Owen herself said, “Unfold it.”
Still, he paused, afraid of doing it some damage—normally he’d be doing this on a lab bench, with some cotton and tweezers, under a dim and indirect light—but Dr. Armbruster, her own curiosity piqued, said, “Go ahead, David. Somebody has to.”
Standing up, he unfolded the sheet of paper, maybe two feet square, then simply stood there, stunned.
It was an elaborate drawing, in red and black ink, of the Medusa—the mythological Gorgon whose gaze could turn an onlooker to stone. It was circular, and a reverse view—largely blank, or unfinished—was drawn at its lower right. Although he could not tell what artist had done it, David could see that it was the work of a master—a Raphael, a Verrocchio, or a Michelangelo. And because of its shape, it must have been the design for a medallion, a coin, or the cope on a cloak.
“It was a looking glass,” Mrs. Van Owen said, answering his unspoken question. “La Medusa, as you can see it was called.”
Indeed, the words were written on the page. And of course—that made perfect sense. The back was simply a mirror. “But do you know whose design it is?” He scanned the page for a signature, but there was nothing. Nor had there been one on any of the previous pages.
“I do.”
He waited.
“Like all of this, including the copy of Dante, it is from the hand of the greatest and most versatile artisan who ever lived,” she said, her violet eyes holding firmly on his. “Benvenuto Cellini.”