faded blue smock smudged with a rainbow of hues hung from a peg.
I poked at the colorful blobs ringing the palette. Their crusted skins yielded to my forefinger. “Look, Gussie, these paints are still soft. Luca must have been using them recently.”
My friend came over to study the palette and the soaking brushes. “Maybe. It’s hard to say. Oils can take days to dry out, especially in thick blobs like these. Let’s see what the painting can tell us.”
He threw the cloth off the rectangular canvas, and we stared at Luca’s work for a few seconds of stupefied silence. Finally, Gussie gave a low whistle and said, “I’d like to know where this fellow hired his model.”
“I recognize her. She’s not a professional model. She’s a seamstress who makes costume pieces for the theater. Her name is Liya Del’Vecchio.”
“A most attractive woman, painted in loving detail.”
“Yes,” I answered absently, absorbed by the striking depiction in front of me. The woman I had admired in the heavy skirts and modest bodices of a working seamstress sprawled across Luca’s canvas in a state of exuberant undress.
Liya lay on her stomach, left leg hanging off the low couch so that the tip of one pink toe barely touched the floor. The twisted sheets angled across her arched back leaving her smooth, rounded bottom as the focal point of the painting. Her chin rested on her raised left hand. With head slightly turned, she gazed out from the painting with a mischievous, challenging look. The braids piled on top of her head struck an incongruously formal note in this riot of dishabille.
I shook my head slowly. I didn’t like the sensation that was rising from my gorge. “I had no idea that Luca and Liya were on these terms,” I muttered.
Gussie gave me a sharp look. “You know her well?”
I affected an indifferent tone. “No, not really. She’s a Jew. Her family has a workshop in the ghetto. A young man usually comes to the theater with her, some brother or cousin I think.”
Using two fingers, Gussie patted around the edges of the canvas, then bent close to take a long whiff. “It’s not totally dry. He’s been working on the background bits, but not for four or five days I’d say.”
As Gussie replaced the cloth, I reluctantly tore my eyes away from the easel to examine the cupboards that lined the lower walls of the studio. Glass phials of oily liquids, tin boxes filled with powders, and twists of paper from a chemist’s shop stacked the shelves in chaotic profusion. Most were unmarked, but one ceramic pot was labeled
dragon gum
in faded ink. It contained yellowish granules but gave no clue to their intended use. On top of the cupboard stood a mortar and pestle that contained remnants of reddish-brown powder.
I questioned Gussie. “Are all these substances used to make paint?”
The big Englishman rummaged through Luca’s stock of materials. “Most serious artists grind their own pigments, and I do recognize some of these.” He rubbed the powder from the mortar between thumb and forefinger. “I’d wager this is cinnabar. It makes a lovely scarlet. But most of these have me stumped.”
We explored further. A trunk with a coverlet thrown across it held a number of books on magical lore and occult sciences. I reached for the largest volume and carried it to the long windows. “
The Keys of Solomon
,” I read from the gilt letters stamped on its worn leather cover. The book fell open to a page marked with a strip of torn paper. The wording of the passage was flowery and esoteric, but it seemed to be a treatise on how to conjure demons and spirits.
Gussie was flipping through another volume illustrated with pyramids of oriental symbols and fantastic figures labeled with Latin names. “Does the artist also fancy himself a magician?” he asked.
“Who knows? Luca has never mentioned anything of the kind within my hearing. At least he has enough sense to keep these books hidden. A person can get away
I poked at the colorful blobs ringing the palette. Their crusted skins yielded to my forefinger. “Look, Gussie, these paints are still soft. Luca must have been using them recently.”
My friend came over to study the palette and the soaking brushes. “Maybe. It’s hard to say. Oils can take days to dry out, especially in thick blobs like these. Let’s see what the painting can tell us.”
He threw the cloth off the rectangular canvas, and we stared at Luca’s work for a few seconds of stupefied silence. Finally, Gussie gave a low whistle and said, “I’d like to know where this fellow hired his model.”
“I recognize her. She’s not a professional model. She’s a seamstress who makes costume pieces for the theater. Her name is Liya Del’Vecchio.”
“A most attractive woman, painted in loving detail.”
“Yes,” I answered absently, absorbed by the striking depiction in front of me. The woman I had admired in the heavy skirts and modest bodices of a working seamstress sprawled across Luca’s canvas in a state of exuberant undress.
Liya lay on her stomach, left leg hanging off the low couch so that the tip of one pink toe barely touched the floor. The twisted sheets angled across her arched back leaving her smooth, rounded bottom as the focal point of the painting. Her chin rested on her raised left hand. With head slightly turned, she gazed out from the painting with a mischievous, challenging look. The braids piled on top of her head struck an incongruously formal note in this riot of dishabille.
I shook my head slowly. I didn’t like the sensation that was rising from my gorge. “I had no idea that Luca and Liya were on these terms,” I muttered.
Gussie gave me a sharp look. “You know her well?”
I affected an indifferent tone. “No, not really. She’s a Jew. Her family has a workshop in the ghetto. A young man usually comes to the theater with her, some brother or cousin I think.”
Using two fingers, Gussie patted around the edges of the canvas, then bent close to take a long whiff. “It’s not totally dry. He’s been working on the background bits, but not for four or five days I’d say.”
As Gussie replaced the cloth, I reluctantly tore my eyes away from the easel to examine the cupboards that lined the lower walls of the studio. Glass phials of oily liquids, tin boxes filled with powders, and twists of paper from a chemist’s shop stacked the shelves in chaotic profusion. Most were unmarked, but one ceramic pot was labeled
dragon gum
in faded ink. It contained yellowish granules but gave no clue to their intended use. On top of the cupboard stood a mortar and pestle that contained remnants of reddish-brown powder.
I questioned Gussie. “Are all these substances used to make paint?”
The big Englishman rummaged through Luca’s stock of materials. “Most serious artists grind their own pigments, and I do recognize some of these.” He rubbed the powder from the mortar between thumb and forefinger. “I’d wager this is cinnabar. It makes a lovely scarlet. But most of these have me stumped.”
We explored further. A trunk with a coverlet thrown across it held a number of books on magical lore and occult sciences. I reached for the largest volume and carried it to the long windows. “
The Keys of Solomon
,” I read from the gilt letters stamped on its worn leather cover. The book fell open to a page marked with a strip of torn paper. The wording of the passage was flowery and esoteric, but it seemed to be a treatise on how to conjure demons and spirits.
Gussie was flipping through another volume illustrated with pyramids of oriental symbols and fantastic figures labeled with Latin names. “Does the artist also fancy himself a magician?” he asked.
“Who knows? Luca has never mentioned anything of the kind within my hearing. At least he has enough sense to keep these books hidden. A person can get away
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