Under the sheets is art.
He returns to stand next to me, in front of the first painting. It’s of a boat with billowing sails, tipped sideways in a storm. The crew fills the deck, yanking on the rigging, huddling against the wind. The waves crest in brilliant white, and there’s a patch of sun and blue sky above the white waves, hemmed on all sides by black clouds. I know this painting. I breathe the name softly, reverently, “Rembrandt,Storm on the Sea of Galilee.”
I walk to the next painting, an Impressionist piece. A man in a top hat. He looks out at the viewer. He holds a pencil as if he’s midstroke. There’s a glass next to him, half-full of bronze liquid. The flickering fake candlelight catches on every brush stroke. “Manet.Chez Tortoni.” I recognize the next, as well. “Vermeer.” And next, four Degas. Several of these works were stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. Others were lost in WWII. I recognize a Picasso, stolen in 1982 from a private collection.
Peter hands me the faux candle. “Stay as long as you like,” he says softly. “We’ll be outside when you’re ready.”
I look at him, and I see in his eyes: he understands. His look is tender, and for an instant, I feel so very full that I want to run into his arms and cry. I look away, not knowing where that thought came from. My gaze lands on one of the Degas paintings. So very unexpected, so very amazing. And he knows. Peter understands how amazing it is.
I lower myself to the sand floor in the center of the barn, and I let the masterpieces soak into me. I barely hear when Peter and Claire leave. I sink into the colors and the light and the brushstrokes and the lost beauty that’s no longer lost to me.
Things I found:
lots of pens
rubber bands
paper clips
scissors
a stolen Monet
several hundred single white socks
condoms
a stuffed puffer fish
overdue library books
a pair of opera glasses
stale movie popcorn
a complete bat skeleton in a case
companionship
unexpected laughter
fear
a coin from ancient Rome
Chapter Twelve
I blame the lost masterpieces for the stuffed puffer fish. After I saw the Rembrandt and the Degas, I may or may not have made a stray comment about how I didn’t think it was possible to find anything more unexpected in the garbage heap that was Lost.
Peter took that as a challenge.
So did Claire.
Over the next several days, he came back with a carousel music box, a locket with a dried rose petal inside, and a half-used notebook filled with mirror writing and sketches of helicopters that I refuse to believe was da Vinci’s. She brought vintage Barbie doll heads, diamond dog collars, and fuzzy dice with lipstick stains, as well as a World Wrestling champion belt from 1991.This,I’m convinced, blows them all out of the water.
I make a mental note to remember to say that, since I like the pun.
Gingerly, I unwrap the T-shirts around my prize, and I lay the fish in the center of the dining room table. The fish’s eyes are wide and its mouth puckered, as if it had died surprised. Its torso is swollen like a balloon. It’s clearly old. Its spines are as brittle as the prickles on a desiccated cactus, but I think there’s something beautiful in its fragility. It shouldn’t have survived the trip here in the tornado of dust, but it did, wrapped in layers of shirts. I only found it because I was looking for shirts to paint in. Not art. There’s no time for that. But I can add a few illusions to the shades to make it look like no one lives here. And then maybe I can repaint the interior: a nice yellow for my bedroom and a pink for Claire’s, if I can find enough.
