The Body in Bodega Bay (23 page)

“Mid to late 1600s is my guess,” Greeley observed. “A nice example from that period. Worth something, too, but even so, still not what you're after. What now?”

I felt like a roulette player faced with the choice of leaving her chips on the table or walking away with sure but modest winnings. This version of Michael, compared to the others, seemed worth keeping.

“What now?” Greeley repeated, as he photographed the latest result of his work. I hadn't responded, unsure of what to do. “I understand,” he continued as I hesitated. “Too many decisions, too fast. Anyhow, it's time to take a break. In fact,” he said, checking his watch, “it's past time for lunch. What would you say to a grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of soup? You can think it over while we're eating.”

That sounded great.

W
e sat at a rickety table in Greeley's old-fashioned kitchen, eating our sandwiches and making conversation, which served to distract me from my upcoming decision. Winter light slanted through the windowpanes, reflected from the bright snow outside. The furnace groaned from the basement, and I caught a faint whiff of oil from the doorway leading to the cellar stairs. I noticed the linoleum floor was peeling. But the soup was tasty: Campbell's Tomato, my favorite.

We chatted, casually at first, about our respective workplaces, shop talk mostly. He wanted to compare teaching loads, benefits, and so on. But as we went on, Greeley began to seethe. He was furious at Scott Walker, the newly elected governor of Wisconsin, who was trying to ram a bill through the state legislature ending collective bargaining for public employees. The protests at Madison's Capitol Square had made national news, and earlier in the day I had noticed people with signs at the far end of State Street. Even to an outside observer like me who knew nothing about Wisconsin politics, the actions of the governor looked heavy handed.

But for Greeley the issue was bitterly personal. Madison Area Technical College, where he taught, belonged to a state teachers' union. “For the first time in my life I'm making a decent salary, and now this son of a bitch is going to cut our compensation package, take away our benefits, and pile on more work, and we won't be able to do a damn thing about it. And that's just the beginning!” He actually pounded the table, rattling the plates. “Next he's going to privatize the retirement system, which I finally got vested in. It's the best one in the country—fully funded, good benefits, pension guaranteed by the state. If he has his way, that'll be gone too, just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

“Why would he want to do that if the system is fully funded?” I asked.

“Because he's got big donors in the financial and investment sector. Think of the commissions they'll make if the system goes to private retirement accounts. Plus the payouts will never match the returns that the state system provides now. Which means the taxpayers will be asked to cover the difference. Which they won't do. Which means the whole system will eventually collapse. And that will be fine with him, since he doesn't believe in decent benefits for state workers in the first place. I was counting on retiring in a couple of years. Now …”

His voice trailed off and he stared at his empty bowl for a moment. “Al's at the top of the heap,” he went on. “Berkeley. Big salary. Prestige. Cushy retirement package. But me?” He waved at the refrigerator. It and all the other appliances in the kitchen looked like they dated from the fifties. “I was living from hand to mouth until I got this job. And even now, it's tough making ends meet. I have a mortgage that's under water …” He made a dismissive gesture of disgust with his hand.

I didn't know what to say, so I just mumbled, “I'm sorry.”

He shrugged. “There's no point my laying this on you. Forget it. Sorry I brought the whole thing up. Well, what about the icon? Have you decided?”

“Yes. We keep going.” I hadn't come all the way to Madison to stop halfway.

He sprang to his feet. “Let's get back to work.”

B
y now each step of the process was familiar. The result of the latest cleaning, however, was dramatic. Greeley was right. Underneath the previous image, there was an older inscription that read “Archangel Michael,” in lettering more elegant than the overpainting. This version of Michael was more gracefully painted and posed differently. Now Michael was in profile, facing left, whereas in the other versions, he faced the viewer. Here he gripped the hilt of his sword with both hands, with the blade resting on his shoulder, as if poised to strike. His wings, unfurled behind him, were impressive, and the colors were brighter than any we'd seen so far. This painting was older and much finer than the previous painting, which I'd been hesitant to destroy. But now that I was determined to press on, it was Greeley who was cautious.

“Maybe it's time to stop. The style and calligraphy date from the Renaissance. At this point I can't say if the panel is any older than the painting.”

“But it's not Rublev. Couldn't there still be another painting beneath it?”

“Possibly. But taking off more paint could be risky.”

I recalled Al Miller's warning of overdoing a cleaning and ending up not with a work of art but with a blank layer of gesso, the white ground used to prepare the wood for painting. That was a stomach-churning prospect. “Couldn't you do another small test area like the last time?”

“I could, but remember, original paint that's removed can't be restored. It can be retouched, but that isn't the same thing.”

“I understand. I'd like you to try.”

“It's your call. I'll start near the damaged corner then, where I'll have to do some retouching anyway.”

“Wait. Let me take a picture of this one on my cell phone,” I said. Just in case, I thought. Greeley stepped aside obligingly and then resumed his work. I felt the tension mounting as the restorer methodically swabbed a small area with cotton wool and applied his solvent, waited, lifted the soaked piece of cloth with tweezers, and dabbed again with clean cotton wool. The softened-up paint came off as expected on the cotton, but this time, instead of dark varnish underneath, or even another layer of paint, there was nothing but a plain white surface. Gesso!

“Let's not panic,” he said quietly. “It's possible the gesso was exposed when you gouged the icon and the damage caused some paint loss in the area. The gouge is deep enough. I'll try a different spot.”

This time Greeley chose a test area at the bottom of the panel. The result was the same. He tried a third time in the center, wiping away—forever—a small patch of the archangel's robe. Everywhere he applied the solvent, paint gave way to empty white spaces: dreadful spaces, accusing spaces. I felt a pain at my waistline, the tug of despair.

“There's one last thing I can try,” Greeley said. “It's a long shot, but at this point you have nothing to lose.” He placed the icon on the tray of the microscope again and focused on the damaged corner. “I see tiny traces of pigment ground into the gesso where it meets the wood, which could mean a painted surface.” He placed the icon back on its towel on the bench and took up his scalpel. “I'm going to chip off some gesso.” He slanted the scalpel sideways at a low angle and inserted it into the gesso that had been exposed near the damaged corner. “Hand me that hammer, please.” He pointed to a small hammer that was out of his reach. I did as I was told. He gave a light tap on the scalpel and knocked away a tiny chunk of brittle gesso.

There was gilding underneath.

My heart took a leap. “Is there another painting?”

“I think so. And if there is, it would square with the legend. Usually an icon was repainted only when it darkened naturally over time and you could barely see the image. But if you wanted to cover up a painting to hide it, one way would be to add a new coat of gesso and then paint something different on it.”

I gulped. “Can you remove the gesso without damaging what's under it?”

“I can, using my secret solution.”

I gave him a questioning look.

“Water. Normally old gesso was made of chalk or calcium carbonate mixed with water and rabbit-skin glue. Warm water will dissolve the glue, but it's got to be done slowly.”

Greeley was as good as his word. What followed was a painstaking process that began with the complete removal of the last Michael painting until nothing remained but a smooth, blank, ivory-colored surface. Then he set to work with a fresh supply of raw sterile cotton balls on toothpicks. Each was dipped in warm water, then applied to the gesso using a rhythmic circular motion, with light pressure. When the cotton was saturated, it would be replaced. The work went in stages. He would stop periodically to check his progress using the microscope. He had decided to concentrate on the top of the panel, working his way down.

Outside, the afternoon light waned. Greeley signaled me to move so that I didn't block light from the window. I pulled my stool into a corner of the room and sat, stifling the impulse to peer over his shoulder as he worked. Finally he said, “Come look.”

Just the top portion of the new painting was revealed. It was magnificent. Against a muted gold background, the serenely beautiful head of a graceful feminine figure inclined downward and toward the left. A halo encircled her thick, braided hair, and a blue robe draped her shoulders—a blue so vibrant that it could have been painted only with lapis lazuli. The angel's face was infinitely expressive, tragic. Her downcast eyes directed the viewer's gaze toward what I knew would be a chalice on a table—but of course there was no chalice visible, nor table, nor any other detail, for no other part of the painting had been exposed. Nevertheless, I knew the object of her gaze, because I recognized her as one of the three angels from Andrei Rublev's great
Old Testament Trinity
. My mind's eye filled in the rest. The chalice, the table, and the majestic angel seated next to her belonged to another painting, still missing: the central panel of the triptych.

“She's …” I searched for the right word.

“Sublime,” said Greeley. His eyes were shining.

T
OBY SHOULD HAVE BEEN THERE
. He deserved to share my joy at seeing the long-lost image emerge from under the crust of ancient gesso. I snapped a dozen shots for him, using my cell-phone camera. Now the question was how long we would have to wait to view the fully cleaned panel. I put that to Greeley.

“After I finish the cleaning, the corner will have to be rebuilt and retouched. If things go smoothly, the icon could be ready to transport in about a week. It may take longer if there's additional restoration to consider. In any case, if you want to go home as planned tomorrow, I can give you regular progress reports. Do you use Skype?”

I said I did. “Good. Then you can watch the work as I go along.”

That sounded like a reasonable plan. I didn't want to spend a week or more away from home, especially when I had a houseguest. “I'll have to come back to Madison to pick it up. I wouldn't want to rely on a shipping service.”

“Of course you wouldn't,” he snapped back. “And neither would I. Or you can take it with you in its present state and have someone else complete the work, if you'd prefer. That's up to you.”

Now he was insulted. Al had warned that Greeley could be testy. I didn't want to alienate either of these allies, so I hastened to set things right. I expressed my admiration for his skill and my gratitude for his taking on the project at short notice. Al had the highest confidence in Greeley's expertise, and everything I had seen so far confirmed Al's judgment.

Mollified, Greeley wrote out a receipt for the painting and proceeded to clean and put away his materials, as he gave me directions for taking the bus back to my campus hotel. He insisted that Madison's bus system was a model for the nation, and there was no reason to call a taxi, now that I wouldn't be carrying a precious work of art.

As I waited at the stop at the end of Greeley's block, I wished for a pair of long johns and a down coat. Freezing there, I berated myself for letting Greeley's prickliness intimidate me into a decision I wouldn't have made on my own. Right then, I would have given my wallet's entire contents for the warmth of a taxi and a chat with another PhD candidate.

The bus came quickly enough, though, and it gave me a pretty tour of the town at evening's fall. Icy sidewalks were being trampled by boots heading home from school or work. White lights decorated the trees around the Capitol Square, intensifying the midwinter feeling. Small groups of protestors still clustered around the Capitol, stamping their feet to keep warm. When we turned onto State Street, the crowds surprised me, until I remembered that it was Friday night, the start of the weekend. I'd better find a restaurant and grab a seat before they were all taken. That's how I wandered into Humal Chuli, which I now declare to be the best Nepalese restaurant on either coast. I ended the meal feeling supremely pleased with Madison and the choices I had made there.