The Lost Relic by Scott Mariani

others.
    ‘You are English? But your Italian is excellent.’
    ‘Half Irish,’ he said. ‘I’ve travelled a bit, that’s all.’
    ‘Well, Signor Hope, I must thank you again. Are you living nearby?’
    ‘Just passing through,’ he said. ‘What is this place?’
    ‘The Academia Giordani,’ she said. ‘One of the most established and respected schools of fine art in the region. They’re celebrating the opening of the brand new exhibition wing, which has just been finished.’
    ‘The modern bit. I saw it from the road.’
    She smiled. ‘Modern monstrosity, you wanted to say.’
    ‘No, modern is fine. So is old. I like all kinds of architecture.’
    ‘What about art, Signor Hope? Is it something you appreciate?’
    ‘Some. What little I know about it. Not sure I go for sheep in formaldehyde, or unmade beds and dirty underwear – or does that make me a philistine?’
    Donatella seemed to approve of his taste. ‘Not in my book. You’ll be pleased to know there is nothing like that here. No gimmicks, no publicity stunts or con tricks. Just pure art. The owners have put together a wonderful collection of works from across the centuries, on loan from galleries all over the world.’
    ‘Hence the high security,’ Ben said. He’d already noticed the glassy eyes of the CCTV system watching from well-concealed vantage points around the room.
    ‘Oh, yes. Smile, you’re on camera. A state-of-the-art system, apparently. Not surprising that the galleries would insist on it, when you have hundreds of millions of euros hanging on your walls.’
    ‘So, do I take it you’re part of the art scene around here?’ Ben asked as he followed her through the crowd towards where the staff were checking invites and ushering guests through an arch leading to a glass walkway. He guessed it connected the old part of the building to the new wing.
    ‘My husband Fabio is. He’s one of the region’s top art and antiquities restorers. I just dabble in it, which is nice for me because I get to go to all the exhibitions with him.’
    ‘Is he here today?’
    ‘He’s supposed to be,’ she said. ‘But he phoned earlier to say he might not be able to get here. His company are helping to restore an old church outside Rome, and they ran into some kind of delay. He’ll be very disappointed if he can’t make it. And he’ll be sorry he didn’t get to thank you personally for what you did.’
    ‘I didn’t do that much,’ Ben said.
    Donatella showed her ticket, explained to the woman at the desk that Ben was her guest, and they were ushered through the arched entrance to the glass corridor. At the end of it, they stepped into a bright, airy, ultramodern space that was the pristine new exhibition wing of the Academia Giordani. The floor was gleaming white stone, laid out with strips of red carpet that wove around the displays. The paintings were encased behind non-reflective glass, arranged by artist and period. A number of guests had already started doing the rounds of the exhibition, talking in low voices and pointing this way and that. As more people filtered inside behind Ben and Donatella, the murmur of soft conversation gradually filled the sunlit room. Some seemed impressed by the new building, though one or two faces showed disapproval.
    ‘It’s hideous,’ a stringy, white-haired woman in a blue dress was muttering to her husband. He was about ninety and walked with a stick. ‘Maybe not quite as offensive as the Louvre pyramid,’ she went on, ‘but hideous just the same.’
    ‘I find the concept has a very . . .
organic
quality, don’t you?’ one of the bohemians commented loudly to the woman he was with. ‘I mean, it’s so . . . what’s the word?’ He was padding about the gallery in open sandals, which together with his unkempt hair and beard probably attracted more offended glances from the other Italians than the design of the building. The Redford clone ignored him altogether.
    ‘So what do you think, Signor