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In his mind, it always stopped at “if.” A stolen fresco was impossible—but all kinds of other damage was not. If damage had been done, left untouched beneath the seal for all this time so that it became permanent mutilation—no. He could not accept that. A ruined fresco was unthinkable. Of course it was possible, but no, he refused to believe it. As a man of faith—of reasoned faith, he believed—he had to believe that God, in this holy place, would not permit such a desecration.
And so Father Matteo had waited a full four weeks to remove the seal, even though every day, every moment, was torture. But he refused to weaken. He had fixed his mind firmly on the longer period. Not the minimal three weeks, but the full four. Again, there was no logical reason for this. But there was a compelling illogical reason, and Father Matteo embraced it. He had waited the extra week for what he told himself was a very Catholic motive. This fourth week was penance, punishment and atonement for a sin Father Matteo could not name and had not committed. And he was quite unreasonably convinced that it would ensure the fresco’s safety.
Pure superstition, and he knew it. But it had felt right, and the extra week of suffering gave him a certain amount of peace.
And so today, now, with the help of two junior members of the museo’s staff, he would remove the seal. He would finally see.
One last time he craned his neck up to the place where the wonderful fresco had been—where it would be again, when the seal came off! And this time, he looked up, not for any bootless attempt to see through the seal but to see what lay beneath. The two junior assistants, chosen for their strength, were up there now, on a scaffolding, one on each corner, carefully loosening the vacuum clamps that held the seal in place.
Father Matteo concentrated fiercely on the two young men, willing them to be cautious, precise in their movements. He focused on them so intently that he was quite unaware that Captain Koelliker had come up to stand behind him and watch.
One corner of the seal lurched—but the two young men steadied it, paused, and continued.
“Carefully, carefully,” Father Matteo muttered. He was covered with sweat, his heart was pounding wildly, and he held his breath as the assistants loosened the clamps that held the seal in place. And then with agonizing slowness, the clamps came off, the two assistants lowered the seal, and Father Matteo began to pray, scarcely daring to look—
It was done.
The two assistants lowered the seal to the floor of the scaffolding. “Finito,” one of the young men said triumphantly. The other called down to Father Matteo.
“Signor? Lavoro finito!” He pointed at the spot where the seal had been.
“Well,” Captain Koelliker said, so close behind Father Matteo that the priest jumped, startled.
“Oh!” Father Matteo said. “Capitano, I did not see you!”
“No,” Koelliker said. He pointed upward. “But you see this, hm?”
Father Matteo nodded, and both men looked at what the two assistants had just revealed. “I see,” he said. “I am not sure I believe it, but I see.”
Captain Koelliker nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I am quite sure I don’t believe it.”
Father Matteo sighed. “But there it is,” he said.
And they stood together and looked.
* * *
—
Doctors are all assholes. They’re usually the same guys you knew in high school who you wouldn’t lend your pen to, because they might hurt themselves. But they spend a ton of money learning to say “elbow” in Latin, and they think that somehow makes them total hot shit, and they take revenge on you for not lending them the pen. They talk down to you, try to make you feel stupid, like you can’t possibly understand what they’re really saying, like you damn well better do just exactly what they tell you to do because they are always right and you’re just a dumb lump of dog meat because you don’t have an MD after your name.
I have seen doctors all over the world, and they’re all the same. Oh, sure, they come in handy. I mean, when you got shot or get some horrible disease, I’m not saying you should go to an astrologer. You go to a doctor, and usually they make a good stab at fixing you up. They can even be heroic now and then—like Doctors Without Borders? Or the ones who risk their own lives during a plague like Ebola. Those doctors are the real deal, authentic heroes.
But you take your normal, everyday doctor, and give them a chance to show off, do something spectacular that you couldn’t do in a million years—they won’t let you forget that they are in charge and you’re only fit to sit somewhere and drink horrible vending machine coffee.
These doctors were true to type. They went into surgery all cheerful and optimistic, and came out looking sober and gloomy. Of course they had done everything possible, and done it incredibly well, but—? They gave me a whole long list of bullshit reasons why Monique would probably not recover. Too many hours lying around untreated, while the little vein in her head continued to leak and the pressure on her brain grew—and they made it sound like my fault. I mean, seriously, why hadn’t I gotten her to them sooner? What was wrong with me? And then they went on with how this type of head injury is always chancy. Impossible to tell how much damage was already done. So much depended on the individual. Blah blah blah.
And they said that I should expect either no recovery or incomplete recovery. Best case? Impaired cognitive function, slurred speech, some loss of motor control—and most likely was that she would not recover at all and I would now have two women on my hands in persistent vegetative states.
Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.
Monique would recover. I knew it. And not just the kind of recover where she opens her eyes, makes baby sounds, drools, and needs a diaper for the rest of her life. Monique was going to recover all the way, return to being Monique. She would wake up, look at me, and snarl, What the fuck have you done now? And she would go back to her studio, back to being the greatest art forger in the world, and someday, she would give in and we would hook up again. No way all that was over. No. Monique would get better. I never doubted that for even a second.
The doctors shook their heads and told me not to expect too much. They told me a complete recovery was highly unlikely.
I told them to go fuck themselves. Then I got Monique into a quiet and clean place to recover, just outside of Cape Town, and I got her the best around-the-clock nursing care I could find, and I watched them as they laid her on the bed, hooked her up to all the machines, and then tucked her in.
I stood over her and looked down at her face. It wasn’t quite the same face I knew so well. The swelling had gone down, but the bruises had darkened and gotten bigger. And of course, her head was shaved, for the surgery, and there were bandages over the incisions. But it was still her face. It was Monique, and someday soon she would open her eyes and she would be Monique again. I knew she would. She had to.
