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The new man looked up. He stood amid a pile of boxes, several large buckets, and a stack of metal pipes clearly intended to be the scaffolding needed to reach the tainted fresco. He was dressed in paint-stained working clothes, but somehow he made them look stylish. He had round, gold-framed spectacles, and he brushed a shaggy lock of brown hair from his forehead. He smiled. “Buongiorno, Father,” he said.
The priest held out a hand. “I am Father Matteo, assistant curator,” he said.
“Ah!” the new man said. He took Father Matteo’s hand in a firm grip and shook it. “Carlo Campinelli! A pleasure to meet you, Father!” He beamed and waved a hand around the Stanza di Eliodoro. “And what an amazing, truly gratifying pleasure to be here—a thrill! To work amid such glory! Raphael is absolutely one of the greatest geniuses—his composition, his use of color—the way he commands this entire space! It’s just . . . ahhh.” He turned shining eyes back to Father Matteo. “All my life I’ve dreamed of something like this. And to be here at last, using the gifts God gave me, to make some small contribution to His glory—I am a happy man, Father.”
“I am very pleased to hear it, Signor Campinelli,” Father Matteo said. He hesitated to ask, but he was just slightly concerned. Not actually worried, but aside from the scaffolding, he did not recognize some of the equipment—much of it!—that Campinelli was deploying. And as a curator, a man well versed in the fundamentals of restoration, he felt he should know what all these odd things were intended to do. “But tell me—what are all these boxes, the buckets and the machines? I am not familiar with any technique that, that—I can’t imagine what all this is for!”
“Ah, Father, you will love this!” Campinelli said. He dove into one of the boxes with the eagerness of a true enthusiast. “See here—this is the latest—from Germany! A brand-new technique! You see, this special fluid is used to carefully steam the surface— But!” he said, raising a hand to forestall an objection that had, indeed, been on the tip of Father Matteo’s tongue. “Here is the beautiful thing, Father—this special liquid turns to steam at a much lower temperature, so there is no damage from the heat—and at the same time, the condensed fluid actually protects the fresco while we work!”
“I have never heard of such a thing!” Father Matteo said, bewildered.
“You would not have,” Campinelli said. “The factory has been keeping it completely secret—I don’t know why. Perhaps only because Germans love secrets, eh? But as an Italian—I love finding secrets. I heard of this, tracked it down, and here we are!”
He beamed like a proud parent, and Father Matteo felt compelled to say, “Wonderful.”
“It is! It is indeed wonderful, Father, and because it is a German invention—well, you know what they’re like, eh? I had to sign papers, pull strings, and make promises to get it, Father, believe me—practically had to give them my firstborn child! This is the first time they’ve permitted its use outside Germany!”
“What kind of promises did you make?” Father Matteo asked. And to show he, too, was human, and appreciated a joke, he added, “Aside from the firstborn child, of course.”
Campinelli smiled. “I will only say that, first, if I allow anyone else to get near this, I am quite certain I will disappear and my body will never be found. Aside from that, Father—” Campinelli bent and pulled a thick pile of paper from the box and waved it at Father Matteo. “Instructions!” he said. “And all in German! I must follow them to the letter, and I do not speak German, more than a few words. And so—I had to promise to let their expert come along and supervise, so that—Aha! Here she is now! Direct from the factory in Frankfurt!” He nodded at the doorway. A young black woman was just entering the room, carrying a large wooden artist’s case, the kind that held dozens of tubes of paint, a number of brushes, and so on. She had large lavender-framed glasses and wore coveralls and a scarf over her carefully plaited hair.
“Katrina!” Campinelli called. The woman looked up, startled. She had a very pretty face—except that it was marked with several pale patches where the natural pigment had vanishe
d. Father Matteo was not terribly familiar with people of African ancestry, but he had seen the condition before.
The woman hesitated in the doorway, then took a deep breath and came forward. “Herr Campinelli?” she said uncertainly.
Campinelli waved at Matteo. “Das ist Pfarrer Matteo,” he said in bad, heavily accented German. “Verstehen?” He turned to Father Matteo. “She speaks no Italian,” he said with a shrug. Then, to Katrina, he repeated, “Matteo—curator. Verstehen, Katrina?”
Katrina shifted her weight uncomfortably. “Ja, ich verstehe,” she said. She nodded at Father Matteo. “Freut mich, Sie kennenzulernen,” she said. She hesitated again, then nodded and stepped past them and began to set up her materials.
Campinelli winked at Father Matteo. “All work and no play, these Germans,” he said. “Still, at a time like this—it doesn’t hurt, eh, Father?”
“No, certainly not,” Father Matteo said. Raising his voice slightly, he called, “Wilkommen, Fräulein.” He did not really speak German, but he knew a few basic words, and these seemed appropriate.
Without looking up, Katrina muttered, “Danke,” and continued her work.
“Well, Father,” Campinelli said, “perhaps Katrina has the right of it. I should get right to work.”
“Then you are optimistic?” Father Matteo asked eagerly. “You can save the fresco?”
“I think so, Father—especially with this new technique,” Campinelli said. Once more he pushed the hair away from his forehead. “It is a complicated process, and as I said, a new one. But with the help of God—and Katrina—I think we can perform a small miracle. A secular miracle, Father,” he said, smiling.
“I will settle for any kind of miracle,” Father Matteo said. “As long as the fresco can be saved.”
They spoke a few more words, but Campinelli was clearly anxious to get to his work, and so Father Matteo left shortly. And as he walked away, he allowed himself to feel a little bit of hope. Campinelli seemed quite confident, and his optimism was contagious.
Good, Father Matteo thought, Very, very good.
* * *
—
Jesus fuck, that was terrifying!” Monique said. “No fucking way I can keep this up!”
“For shame, Katrina! To use such language here, in the Holy See!”
“Aw, come on, Riley, fuck that—”
