Death and Restoration Read Online Free PDF Page A

the artist had in mind. And as he crouched there, oblivious of the hours passing by, and not even feeling the strain as his back muscles began to protest about the unfair treatment they were receiving, he realized that he was entirely happy. He must, he decided when the light had become so bad that he could work no longer, do this more often. Once a year, he thought as he stretched and washed the grime off his hands, he should do a painting on his own, with no one around. Well, maybe once every two.
    Any of his colleagues in the restoring business, had they known about this tranquil, introspective mood would probably have been stunned into silence, so little did it fit his reputation or normal means of behaving. Menzies was known as something of a showman, never missing an opportunity to thrust himself into the limelight, and had earned plaudits and criticism in equal measure through the dramatic, and some said vainglorious, way in which he went about bringing pictures back to life. This he knew and accepted; it was an inevitable part of a competitive business, as far as he could see. For his own part, he thought he did his best, however much he might dress it up dramatically to please the audience. He also wanted very much to be liked, for he considered himself a likeable fellow, and never understood why his colleagues and rivals were so unfair. Dissimulation was simply an unknown skill, that was all. He had opinions, lots of opinions, and when someone asked him, he could never resist the opportunity of giving full chapter and verse. Was it his fault some of his rivals were fools?
    And that was why he was here. He did not believe the best man won without working for it. There was a big project dangling there, waiting to be plucked, and he was determined to get it. If it meant spending six months in Rome in advance, that was part of the price. Restoring this dubious Caravaggio was a way of keeping himself occupied. A work of charity, just the sort of thing to arouse favourable comment. And a perfect excuse to be in the right place, talking to the right people as they made up their minds. It would be the high-point of his career, if he could get it. No one was going to stand in his way.
    Suddenly, he was aware of a presence standing behind him, watching what he was doing. Bloody tourists, he thought. He tried to ignore the unpleasant sensation that tickled at his concentration, and succeeded for a while. But he ended up trying so hard not to be bothered that eventually he made a small mistake. His patience snapped.
    “Piss off,” he said furiously, turning round to face the man. His eyes narrowed when he saw the figure, standing meekly there, foolish look on his face. That look of bovine stupidity on his face. Jesus.
    “I’m sorry …”
    “I don’t care if you’re sorry or not. Just go away. How the hell did you get in here, anyway?”’
    “Well, I …”
    “You have no right to be in here. It’s not a public monument. Aren’t there enough of those in this city without you having to come barging in here?”’
    “I’m not …”
    “Go on. Go away.”
    The little man stood his ground, so Menzies, who weighed maybe twice as much as he did, lost his temper. He rose from his knees, walked over and grabbed him by the arm, then frogmarched him to the main door that led on to the street, taking the vast old key from the hook as he went. Unlocked it, pulled it open a foot or so, then ushered the man out.
    “So nice to have met you,” he said sarcastically as the pathetic fellow walked blinking into the sunlight. “Do drop in again sometime. Like next century. Goodbye.”
    And as he waved, Giulia, sitting on the steps of the church as she had been all that day, furtively took a photograph of Menzies waving in what seemed to be a friendly fashion. No reason to do so, but she was bored beyond endurance. Apart from spending her hours wondering whether the police was the right career for her, this was the first moment of