The Body in Bodega Bay by Betsy Draine

his scissors to cut a small rectangle from a soft flannel cloth and soaked it, holding it by a corner with tweezers, in the bowl of the darker liquid. “The solvent,” he explained, “is specially formulated for this purpose. I’ll start by applying it here.” He gently draped the patch of cloth over a section of the Virgin’s robe, flattening it with a piece of glass of the sort commonly found in a frame for a photograph.
    â€œToby, would you bring over that dictionary, please?” Toby picked up a heavy book that was sitting on a chair and brought it to the table, where Al placed it atop the glass, as a weight. “Perfect. Now we give it a chance to work.” After a few minutes, he removed the dictionary and the glass, and, with the tweezers, carefully lifted the patch of cloth from the icon. A good portion of dark gook came up with it. Quickly now, he discarded the dirty cloth and applied a new cotton ball dipped in solvent. The result was astonishing: the remaining elements of black substance were absorbed by the swab and vanished as if by magic. A rectangle of bright color sprang to life.
    Al pronounced the procedure a success. “Let’s do the rest.” Meticulously, he repeated each step of the process, covering the surface of the icon with swatches of cloth soaked in solvent and pressed under glass by the weight of the book.
    When each swatch was removed, the surface beneath it was covered with loose swirls and flakes. These were swabbed away by fresh cotton balls dipped in solvent, although here and there traces of varnish still adhered to the surface in the form of sticky moist tendrils. Working carefully, Al scraped away the remaining traces, using the side edge of the scalpel and additional cotton wads. Before long, the image was completely transformed.
    Now the Virgin’s robe appeared in rich purple, that of the baby Jesus in bright yellow clasped by a green sash. The Virgin stared directly at the viewer, with large, round eyes, her face meant to convey compassion, as she cradled Jesus in her right arm. She pointed to him with her left hand. His hand, in turn, rested on her neck. The colors, though bright, were flat, and the facial expressions, now that they were clear, seemed slightly forced.
    â€œMuch better,” said Al in a tone of satisfaction. “No masterpiece, but we’re not finished yet. We’ve only taken off the top layer. Now comes the really interesting part.” Much to my shock, he began to repeat the entire process, this time spreading a section of solvent-soaked cloth right over the newly cleaned surface. “Underneath we’ll probably find another layer of dried oil, and when that’s removed, an older painting, and a more interesting one, unless I miss my guess.”
    We looked on in fascination as Al continued his operation step by step. Gradually, as the newer paint dissolved, another layer of black varnish appeared, partially mixing with the surface pigments. Al treated the section again with solvent and replaced his plate of glass, now smudged and oily, on top, anchored by the weight of the heavy dictionary. “This time we wait a little longer. Do you mind if I smoke?”
    â€œNot at all,” I said. Al is one of the few people I know who still smokes, in his case, a pipe. He owns a large collection of handsome pipes in all shapes and sizes, and they anchor him to an earlier time. After all, how many men smoke pipes these days? He walked over to his pipe rack, chose one with a well-chewed stem, scooped some tobacco into it from a pouch, tamped it, and struck a match. He slowly drew a few contented puffs. The aroma that filled the room was pleasantly familiar.
    Toby meanwhile was looking closely at the icon under treatment. “When you talk about finding an older painting, how old do you mean? How far back do icons go?”
    â€œTo the beginnings of Christianity,” said Al, “but I’ll spare