The Artists' Way

‘He’d be so proud if he knew,’ she thought to herself, as she gazed at the folds of the plane’s wing out of the thick plexiglass of the cabin window. She pondered the magnificence of this moment, where she would finally touch the earth of her family’s heritage before they migrated to America. She was thinking of her Grandfather, and how he would be rejoicing if only he were still here to know of it. He’d passed away not long before she accepted the job to conserve the famous Il Bacio (The Kiss) in Milan. Her Grandfather’s passion for art had been one of the strongest bonds they shared together. Once, he too was an art conservator as a young man in Italy. But that was a lifetime ago.

She carefully pulled out his little black notebook while she reflected on her Grandfathers’ life. It was one of the most important things that he left her. Every piece of art that he had worked on, he’d captured in the pages of his notebook. She thumbed through the pages, tracing the lines of the sketches with her finger, as a soft smile traced across her lips. Some of these paintings that he’d touched then were lost in the Second World War, yet their imprint lived on, bound between the folds of the black notebook’s leather.

Finally, the descent of the plane began as she packed away her things. 'I wonder how my very little Italian will do?’ She thought, slightly nervous to put it in practice for the first time. Her family mostly spoke English at home, so she had done her best to quickly learn for this trip by practising Italian with her headphones.

***

The hotel was unlike anything she’d ever seen before. The gallery had been so kind to put her in a room in the nearest accomodation, which happened to be the grandiose Palazzo Parigi Hotel down the street. Tall black columns held up the overhanging ceiling above the entrance, and she felt the thrill of adventure stir within her as she made her way through the revolving door. She locked eyes with the concierge behind the marble desk, eyes that glimmered like golden honey.

“You must be Abigail,” the concierge called out. Feeling somewhat self-conscious of how she must present, Abigail nodded coyly.

“Sì, yes it’s me. I didn’t realise I looked so American” Abi replied as she approached the desk. The woman smiled, and the sweet melody of her laugh echoed around the room. Abi smiled in reply, trying to fix her hair as she set her bags down. She gleaned the name ‘Sofia’ from the woman’s name tag as she did so.

“No no, I have seen your picture from Luca at the gallery!” Sofia replied, full of compassion. “We’ve been waiting for you! Come, let’s get you settled.”



***

The next day Abi made her way to the Pinacoteca di Brera, the gallery where the Il Bacio was kept. Luca greeted her as she arrived, and she couldn’t help but notice the way he tucked his shoulder length hair behind his ear. His curt manner and polished look made him seem serious and well beyond his years, but she pegged him to be around her own age. She dared not to ask though, this of course was a professional visit and her own youthfulness in the industry already put her abilities under scrutiny.

Abi gazed appreciatively upon the nuances of the depreciating features of the Il Bacio. ‘Time touches art in such a beautiful way,’ she thought. She couldn’t wait to add this sketch to her own notebook. Historians believe the passionate embrace of the lovers represents the alliance between Italy and France, as the man holds the woman’s face with both hands and her body sinks into his legs under the weight of the kiss. Abi felt the weight of responsibility lay upon her, with Luca’s steady gaze suggesting that she better be as good as they say she is.

Over the days that followed she floated back and forth between the hotel and the gallery, relishing the opportunity to tend to this historical masterpiece, and also improve her Italian with Sofia and Luca, who both had grown a fondness for their American expat.

***

Sofia looked relieved the moment Abi returned. Her eyebrows raised nervously, as she motioned Abi to hurry forward. “Someone has been following you,” she said hurriedly, as she leant over the desk. “I first saw him in the lobby, and then on the street watching you as you go in and out of the gallery. Have you noticed him!?”

“Sofia, are you sure? Nobody knows me here besides you and Luca,” Abi replied, surprised at the news. 


“I mean, I could be wrong, there are many people that come and go here. Just watch yourself, okay? I don’t want anything to happen to my new American friend.”

Abi reflected on her travels around Milan and tried to recall, did anyone stand out as suspicious? Was there actually someone following her?



***

Abi left the gallery the following night, with the acute awareness of her surroundings. Sofia’s warning echoing in her head, she scanned the street waiting to see if there was any evidence of this mystery man. Suddenly, a hand reached out from the side alley and grabbed at her wrist. Abi stifled the scream that she wanted to let out, and quickly yanked her arm away. She turned to face the owner of the hand and her eyes fell on an old man, bent over a walking stick in his non-assailing hand. He spluttered and coughed in front of her, using his trenchcoat over his mouth as a shield. His eyes glanced up full of urgency, and it seemed as though he meant no harm.

“Can I help you?” Abi said finally, after finding a smooth rhythm to her breathing once again.

“You are Abigail Rossi, no?” He asked her, with desperation in his voice.

“I am,” she replied cautiously, examining the poor state of the man in front of her. “And who are you? How do you know me?” She felt concerned for the old man.

“Please, we must speak. Please.” He begged her, and began to cough again.

“Come with me, we can go inside the lobby and speak” she said endearingly, thinking to herself, ‘and this man needs to sit down with a warm drink.’

***

She returned to the stranger with two cups of coffee, and he gratefully embraced his in both hands. She looked at him quizzically, waiting for him to explain himself. Finally, he took a deep breath and met her gaze.

“It is my deepest regret that you do not know me,” he began, solemnly ready to deliver his story. “Once, your Grandfather and I were best friends. Antonio was like my own brother, and we dreamed of how our families would be like one, when we were young.” He looked down at his feet, and Abi could see his lip trembling with emotion as he paused. “I did something terrible. Oh, Antonio!” He exclaimed in anguish, “how much I wish I could change what happened!” He began to weep into his hand, and Abigail felt compelled to offer her condolences.

“Whatever happened, I think my Grandfather would have forgiven you… He was one of the most compassionate men I’ve known.” Abigail offered encouragement to him, hoping to ease his burden.

“I still do not know your name,” she said, giving him a chance to collect himself.

“Giovanni Di Marco, I am so glad to meet you” he said, reaching out his hand to grasp Abi’s. She smiled, and met his handshake fondly. “Granddaughter of Antonio, I am not long for this world,” he continued, “and I know that this is a gift from God that you come to Milan now. I only wish Antonio was still alive to hear my confession.”

His eyes began to well with tears again, but he seemed intent to complete what he needed to say.

“The reason he left Italy, the reason he stopped working on art, it was me. I was careless, drunk, and spilt the ethanol he used to clean onto the art piece he was working on. I ruined him! He never knew, he thought it was an accident. I was a coward and convinced him a bird must have come through the window. But the guilt of what happened has never left me.”

Abi reflected on her Grandfather’s life, it was true- he never worked as a conservator again, but he had a wonderful life in America, teaching eager students the artists’ way.

“I must make amends. You must take this, it is not much, but it is all I have left to my name. I cannot take another breath unless I make this right.” He reached into the inner pocket of his trench coat and pulled out a large yellow envelope. “This is my peace offering. Please, Abigail Rossi, you must take this.” He passed the envelope to her, and she looked inside to see $20,000 bundled together.

“Surely you have family who need this Giovanni,” she started, unwilling to take money from a dying man. Her conscience was torn, she wanted to give him peace but it felt wrong to take this from him. 


“Please Abigail, there is no one left for me, and this is my portion for my many mistakes. I must make it right between our families.” He wheezed into his coat again, as the weight of his confession lifted off his chest.



Abigail was moved deeply by Giovanni’s request. A lifetime of pain came to the surface in that moment, and Abi could see how languish had weathered him over time. She thought of her Grandfather and his notebook, and tried to figure out which painting Giovanni was talking about. She then remembered a photograph in the back of the notebook of two young men together, and she suddenly realised how her Grandfather had never let go of his love for his friend.



“Giovanni,” she said finally, after a long moment of contemplation, “I can see how important this is to you, and I know that my Grandfather would have embraced this opportunity to bring you peace. I accept, but I have a condition.” She paused, and a demure smile crept into the corner of her mouth. “Let me stay with you awhile. I can see that you need some care, and I have nowhere else that I need to be.”

Giovanni’s eyes reflected the swelling of his heart as they twinkled in response. “This would make me so happy!” He couldn’t hide the joy he felt inside.



***

Abigail was finally ready to reveal her art piece. The photograph that was kept in the back of her Grandfather’s notebook, she had transformed into a work of art as a gift for Giovanni. The money he had given her had been helpful in purchasing only the best in canvas and paints, so she could do justice to their legacy. Thankfully, the work in the gallery had also paid very well and she was able to get the best medical aid for Giovanni. She was even offered a retainer to stay at the gallery and in Milan.

She’d been slowly working on her private masterpiece in between caring for Giovanni and visiting her friends, so it had taken much longer than she anticipated. But, the excitement of finally being able to give this to him was almost too much to bear. Abi quickly sketched the painting in her notebook for her collection before hiding the canvas under a sheet.

“Giovanni!” She called downstairs, hoping he was not asleep as usual in his armchair.

“Mia bella...” he replied sleepily; clearly his nap was due.

“I have a surprise for you, I’m coming down!” Abigail paused, her eyes lifting up joyfully to the ceiling as she thought to herself, ’Grandpapa, this is for you too.’