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
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.”
“A regular Renaissance man,” I punned, then worried that the joke wouldn’t translate.
She laughed. “Ah, bon.” She checked the smaller book’s contents, then flipped to a chapter. “So. Vasari writes this about Giotto. He says, ‘When Clement Five became pope and brought the papal court to Avignon, Giotto came with him. And while he was here, he made many beautiful pictures and frescoes, which pleased the pope and the entire court very much. And so, when the work was all finished, the pope sent him back to Florence with love, and with many gifts. Giotto was rich and honored and famous.’ You see,” she said with a smile, “I told you: If the pope likes you, you don’t starve.”
“Ah,” I said.
CHAPTER 16
I made it to the library an hour before closing time. Neither of Elisabeth’s books showed paintings from Giotto’s Avignon period, but I felt sure the library would have a more comprehensive book. And I was glad to have another occasion to visit the former cardinal’s palace, which was now a palace of books.
The building was fronted by a square courtyard, which was open to the street but was flanked on its other three sides by a magnificent stone building in the shape of a low, wide U. The two wings seemed like later additions to the building’s massive central core; that part was three stories high — three very tall stories of pale, putty-colored stone, topped by crenellations. Unlike the battlements atop the Palace of the Popes, the crenellations here appeared merely decorative; the building was large, but not fortified, and the immense leaded-glass windows in its façade would have posed no barrier to attack.
I entered through a large glass door at the center of the building. Directly inside was a foyer with a massive stone staircase leading upward. One floor up, I entered the main reading room — once a cardinal’s banquet hall, it now served up a feast of books — and made for the reference desk. There I found the helpful librarian Philippe on duty again. He smiled at me in recognition. “Bonjour, monsieur. Are you back for more research on Eckhart?”
“Not this time,” I answered. “Art history this time. Do you have any books on the artist Giotto? An Italian painter. Giotto di…” I floundered for the last name.
“Di Bondoni. But of course. Magnifique. Come.” He led me down the long wall of the great room, to a section where oversized art books were shelved. They were arranged alphabetically, and midway along the wall, we came to G. Philippe pulled out two books — a thin one and a fat one — then reshelved the thin one. “That one is no good,” he said dismissively. “Everything in that one is also in this one. And more.” He handed me the fat book; it was two inches thick, a foot high, eighteen inches wide, and ten pounds heavy. The text was in French, but I figured that didn’t matter much; I was interested in the pictures.
“Thank you,” I said to the young man. “This is such a beautiful library. Is it okay if I take this upstairs to the mezzanine?”