Modern Art, Page 2

About two weeks later, when I was standing at the “Daughters of Jethro,” I noticed the beautiful woman that first greeted me in the chapel, looking at me with admiration. I turned quickly toward the fresco, my heartbeat picking up, and tried to posture my body in a way that made me seem thoughtful, but relaxed. While I was imaging her undress me with her eyes twenty feet away, a finger tapped me on my shoulder. The finger belonged to Her, Concettina. Although it couldn't have been, it seemed to be the first time that I'd seen her hands free of that clipboard and pencil, which seemed to be surgically attached to each respective hand.

  “Signor Garner?” Something about her tone got me. She was always a warm woman, but she seemed to remain on professional terms with everyone I had seen her interact with. With a nearly-whispered phrase, she let me know that this would be a conversation between friends. “Do you have a minute?

  “Are you still upsetting about not working on the ceiling?” I tried a look of confusion, but her eyes stayed on me, seeing through the act.

  “Okay...I admit, I was disappointed at first.” As seemed to be more often the case, I walked a thing line between disclosure and outright deceit. “Michelangelo is indescribable. It seems that lately I've worked with lesser artists. I mean, Botticelli is no slouch, don't get me wrong. He was a master in his time, but his work just doesn't make the cut these days. Look at it. The work bears every mark of his ear. Artists like Michelangelo, some of Da Vinci, the Dutch Realists... their work is beautiful. It will always be beautiful. Restoring them can't even be called work.” I paused, looking up to make sure she was still listening and also not brandishing a weapon. My eyes went back to the ground, and I continued, “but I feel like these artists, they really need to be in the absolute best condition to be appreciated. They give my work a sense of purpose.”

  She disagreed with my view of Botticelli, of course, and listed several points as to why his work was great. I glossed over them, but we debated for over twenty minutes and it was wonderful engaging someone with my actual opinion, although it was a distilled version of it.

  “Excuse me a moment,” I told her. I felt bold and began strutting to the bathroom. Within seconds, I tripped and fell to the ground. Little pieces of broken glass in my pocket pierced my skin and pain rushed through as my leg got moist.

  “Charles! Are you okay?”

  “It's...nothing,” which is second only to “It's fine,” of things to say when something is horribly wrong. I couldn't let her see. I gave some mumbled apologies and ran out of the Sistine and out of the Vatican as fast as I could. Terror grasped me when I got home and the glass in my pocket only made up three vials. Where was the fourth? I ran to the sink and let the red disappear into it. The desire to replenish them as soon as possible was incredible, but it would be far too dangerous tonight. I ran back to the Vatican. Concettina approached me as soon as she saw I got back. She was saying something, but I couldn't hear her. The vial was nowhere near where I had fallen; of course it wouldn't be. They kept the floor pristine, thought the same couldn't be said for the walls. Had she taken it? Picked up the vial and figured out what I was? My only option was to pretend it never happened, and hope the police wouldn't show up at my door. My work wasn't done.

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