hinge,” Fred ordered.
“I continue to stand by my original identification of this work as being from Leonardo’s hand. You’ll accuse me of presumption,” Clay fretted. He struggled to keep the panel in place. Nature, it seemed, had intended him to arrive in this world already clothed in the blue suit he was wearing. Neither it nor he had expected him to be called on to perform physical labor. “Considering that the
Ginevra,
now accepted by all scholars as an autograph work by da Vinci, was earlier dismissed as the work of Ghirlandaio, or Lorenzo di Credi, or Verrocchio, or even—and here words fail me—of Lucas Cranach! Leonardo had been Verrocchio’s pupil, granted, in Florence, before he was indicted. And his earliest works are primitive, as they should be coming under Verrocchio’s guidance. But the
Ginevra
is a mature work, nothing like…”
“Got it,” Fred said. He let the freed pin fall to the floor and, taking the full weight of the panel from Clayton, gently gave it the forty-five degree turn it needed.
“We should be wearing gloves,” Clay pleaded. “Both sides are precious now, remember. Be careful. Both sides are precious.”
Fred stood, holding the panel, freed now, by its edges. “Where do you want it, Mac?”
“You are going too fast,” Clay said. “From the outset. I am not accustomed to such haste. I…”
“You like anticipation,” Fred interrupted. “Rather than get it done. You like anticipation. Therefore you prolong it.”
“Perhaps. Without anticipation life is flat, pedestrian and sad. Language itself, if lacking the spice offered by anticipation, is monotone. Anticipation is a quality of hope, without which…”
“Let’s get it done. Upstairs or down?”
“It’s not my habit to bring a work into my living quarters until it has been cleaned and framed, “ Clay said. “But in this case…”
“Upstairs, then,” Fred concluded. “Let’s get it where we can look at it.” He led the way to the staircase they’d come down, the panel almost warm between his hands.
“Be careful. Be careful on the stairs. We’ll wrap it first.”
Clay disappeared upstairs and came back carrying a Kashmir shawl, which the two men wrapped around the panel before Fred carried it up the spiral staircase and into Clayton’s parlor. The room was a maze of comfort and beauty and almost immediately as they entered it Clayton Reed made sense. It was a mixture of Oriental, Victorian, antique European, and solid American objects and influences. “Put it on the love seat,” Clay said, leading Fred to a rosewood frame covered in pink plush. “It will be safe here. I’ll take the shawl.”
While Fred propped the painting against the love seat’s upholstered back, Clay crossed to a baby grand piano and smoothed the shawl over it before he took from its bench a photograph framed in silver, and placed it on the shawl. It showed a young woman, tender and beautiful, standing in an evening gown before a hazy background.
“My wife,” Clay said. “Prudence Stillton. She was called Lucy. This was her family’s house.” He paused and stroked the shawl. “She died of an awful illness. Very suddenly. And very young. We’d been married…” He did not finish.
The Hopper over the mantelpiece, with its roofs and impending storm, might once have dominated this room, but it was challenged now.
“I have made a decision,” Clay announced. “The new painting shall be entitled
Madonna of the Apes.
”
Chapter Thirteen
Fred found a chair whose solid design seemed likely to accommodate his bulk, and moved it to where he could sit in front of the
Madonna.
“She’s better right side up,” he said. He stared at the painting for five minutes while Clayton hovered in silence. “It’s a grand painting,” Fred said at last. “I don’t care who it’s by.”
Clayton said, “There’ll be books written about it. Academic conferences. Ph.D. theses. Letters back and forth in academic
“I continue to stand by my original identification of this work as being from Leonardo’s hand. You’ll accuse me of presumption,” Clay fretted. He struggled to keep the panel in place. Nature, it seemed, had intended him to arrive in this world already clothed in the blue suit he was wearing. Neither it nor he had expected him to be called on to perform physical labor. “Considering that the
Ginevra,
now accepted by all scholars as an autograph work by da Vinci, was earlier dismissed as the work of Ghirlandaio, or Lorenzo di Credi, or Verrocchio, or even—and here words fail me—of Lucas Cranach! Leonardo had been Verrocchio’s pupil, granted, in Florence, before he was indicted. And his earliest works are primitive, as they should be coming under Verrocchio’s guidance. But the
Ginevra
is a mature work, nothing like…”
“Got it,” Fred said. He let the freed pin fall to the floor and, taking the full weight of the panel from Clayton, gently gave it the forty-five degree turn it needed.
“We should be wearing gloves,” Clay pleaded. “Both sides are precious now, remember. Be careful. Both sides are precious.”
Fred stood, holding the panel, freed now, by its edges. “Where do you want it, Mac?”
“You are going too fast,” Clay said. “From the outset. I am not accustomed to such haste. I…”
“You like anticipation,” Fred interrupted. “Rather than get it done. You like anticipation. Therefore you prolong it.”
“Perhaps. Without anticipation life is flat, pedestrian and sad. Language itself, if lacking the spice offered by anticipation, is monotone. Anticipation is a quality of hope, without which…”
“Let’s get it done. Upstairs or down?”
“It’s not my habit to bring a work into my living quarters until it has been cleaned and framed, “ Clay said. “But in this case…”
“Upstairs, then,” Fred concluded. “Let’s get it where we can look at it.” He led the way to the staircase they’d come down, the panel almost warm between his hands.
“Be careful. Be careful on the stairs. We’ll wrap it first.”
Clay disappeared upstairs and came back carrying a Kashmir shawl, which the two men wrapped around the panel before Fred carried it up the spiral staircase and into Clayton’s parlor. The room was a maze of comfort and beauty and almost immediately as they entered it Clayton Reed made sense. It was a mixture of Oriental, Victorian, antique European, and solid American objects and influences. “Put it on the love seat,” Clay said, leading Fred to a rosewood frame covered in pink plush. “It will be safe here. I’ll take the shawl.”
While Fred propped the painting against the love seat’s upholstered back, Clay crossed to a baby grand piano and smoothed the shawl over it before he took from its bench a photograph framed in silver, and placed it on the shawl. It showed a young woman, tender and beautiful, standing in an evening gown before a hazy background.
“My wife,” Clay said. “Prudence Stillton. She was called Lucy. This was her family’s house.” He paused and stroked the shawl. “She died of an awful illness. Very suddenly. And very young. We’d been married…” He did not finish.
The Hopper over the mantelpiece, with its roofs and impending storm, might once have dominated this room, but it was challenged now.
“I have made a decision,” Clay announced. “The new painting shall be entitled
Madonna of the Apes.
”
Chapter Thirteen
Fred found a chair whose solid design seemed likely to accommodate his bulk, and moved it to where he could sit in front of the
Madonna.
“She’s better right side up,” he said. He stared at the painting for five minutes while Clayton hovered in silence. “It’s a grand painting,” Fred said at last. “I don’t care who it’s by.”
Clayton said, “There’ll be books written about it. Academic conferences. Ph.D. theses. Letters back and forth in academic
Similar Books
