The Restoration Artist Read Online Free PDF Page B

dark curly hair.”
    “Really?” He paused. “And why are you interested in this boy?”
    Was it my imagination or did he seem evasive? “Perhaps I was seeing things.” I looked away and stared out the window for a minute, then turned back to the priest. “Let me ask you a question, Père. In your capacity as a priest.”
    “Of course.”
    “Do you think the dead ever communicate with us?”
    He glanced sharply at me, then took a moment to roll another cigarette, studying me with curiosity as he lit it.
    “Is there another life after this one?” I pressed.
    “Well, I can tell you, as a priest, what the Church says. I can tell you what Science says. Or I can speculate as a man, ignorant as the rest.”
    There had been a time at the Guild when I’d made a sincere effort at praying, wanting to believe during those long dreary Sunday mornings, nauseated by the smell of incense and furniture polish, longing for breakfast, staring up at the carved wooden figure on the crucifix behind the altar in the chapel, wanting it to move, to blink, to do something. But whatever God listened to prayers had not stirred on my behalf. By the time I’d entered my teens I’d realized that you got through this life with your guile, your fists and whatever measure of talent you could scrape together.
    The priest was regarding me thoughtfully. “Why do you ask?”
    “I saw … I thought I saw … Nothing.”
    He leaned forward. “What have you seen?”
    Shaking my head I turned away and got to my feet. “I’ve taken enough of your time. Thank you for your help, Père. And for the boots. I’ll return them as soon as I can.”
    “No matter. Anytime.” He was still frowning as he accompanied me out to the garden. “Will you be staying long?”
    I looked past him, up to the woods. “No, not long.”
    He placed a hand on my shoulder. “I might not have the right answers to your questions, but it helps to confide in someone when we are troubled. Come and talk to me again. Will you do that, Leo Millar?”
    “Yes, I will. Thank you.”
    He remained standing at the gate as I turned and made my way in the direction of the hotel.

C HAPTER 6
    W HEN I GOT BACK TO MY ROOM AND I SAW MY FACE in the mirror—haggard, pale, desperate looking—I was shocked. I looked older than my thirty years. Like a man on the run, like someone being hunted.
    As I studied the cuts and scrapes on my palms, remembering, my hands began to tremble. Then suddenly my whole body was shivering and my heart started thudding against my ribs. A cold clammy sweat broke out on my skin. A terrible feeling of shame came over me. I staggered over to the bed and collapsed across the cover. How close I’d come. Even though I’d thought I wanted it, I hadn’t.
    But what
did
I want? I had no purpose. Except to find that boy. And why? Did I think it was some sort of miracle? My son come back to life? It was absurd to have such thoughts. The fact that I was even here was pure chance. This island, La Mouche, was just a speck on the map off the coast of France.
    I’d woken one morning in the apartment on rue du Figuier in Paris after drinking myself into a stupor the night before, theonly way I could fall asleep, with a dry mouth, clammy sweaty sheets tangled around my body, overwhelmed by sudden terror. All that I stopped myself from thinking about during the day I dreamed of in the night. I did not remember my dreams, but I knew I had dreamed because I woke, trembling, my hands searching out the bottle of wine on the bedside table.
    When I walked through the apartment I was overcome by a sense of strangeness—all the furniture, all their belongings, everything that had physically defined our lives together, even the contents of the studio when I glanced in quickly seemed unfamiliar, as if they belonged to other people, people I had never known. I was a stranger here.
    In less than half an hour I’d showered and dressed and thrown a few things into a bag. I left the