The Last Promise (16 page)

Alessio frowned.
“Devo?” Do I have to?

“Yes, you do. Give me a kiss.” Eliana crouched down and Alessio kissed her on the lips then turned to Ross. “Bye, Ross.”

“Mr. Story,” she corrected.

Ross winked. “See you later, Alessio.”

“Ciao.”
He walked slowly up the stairs.

When he was gone Ross said, “He’s a well-mannered little boy.”

“He wasn’t twenty minutes ago. He wouldn’t go to bed because he knew you were coming.” She put the last plate in the cupboard. “He was so upset that he missed you the last time. I had to promise him that he could stay up until you came.”

“He told me about the scorpion.”

Eliana rolled her eyes. “I hate those things. It’s one of those things you want a man around the house for.”

“To kill scorpions?”

She dried her hands with a towel. “They’re good for other things too,” she said with a smile. “Would you like some dessert wine?”

“Please.”

She stowed the towel under the sink then took a bottle of Vin santo from the counter, took two glasses and poured them half-full. She handed a glass to Ross then leaned back against the counter with her own. “You should have just come for dinner. I always make too much.”

“I should have. It smells good.”

“Tonight was simple.”

He sipped his wine. “How good is Alessio’s Italian?”

“Perfect for a seven-year-old. Probably better than mine. He doesn’t have an accent. He’s grown up here, so his Italian is as good as his English. Maybe better.” She took a drink and held it in her mouth before swallowing. “Maurizio won’t speak to him in English of course.” She set her glass down on the counter. “Well, are you ready?”

As they climbed the stairs to her studio, Ross asked, “How many portraits have you done?”

“Maybe a dozen or so. I’ve done a couple portraits of Alessio. But he lasts about two minutes in a chair, if that. So I just worked from photographs of him. A couple years ago I did a portrait of Maurizio. I knew he’d never find the time to sit for one, so I found some pictures and painted it from those. I gave it to him for his birthday.”

“What did he think of it?”

“He said he liked it. In fact he praised it.” Eliana frowned. “Then I found it in the back of his closet a month later. He doesn’t really care for my painting.” She turned on the light in the studio. “Here we are.”

Ross glanced around the room. Though he had seen the room before, he had not paid much attention to it then. It was cluttered with art supplies, charcoal sketches and paintings.

“You have such nice art in the house. Even besides yours. Did you choose it all?”

“Not all of it. Maurizio has good taste in art, but he only values it as an investment.” She sharpened a pencil then touched the point of it with her finger. “Anyway I guess it hurt my feelings enough that it was the last time I painted someone I knew. Last year I went on an Italian
antico
kick and I painted some historical figures like Marcus Aurelius, St. Francis, Caesar, people like that. I just did them in acrylics. My models were pictures from
GQ
, so they’re pretty sexy for historical figures. They’re stacked over in the corner if you want to see what you’re in for.”

“
GQ,
huh?” Ross looked to the shadowed section of the room. “Back there?”

“I’ll get the light.” She flipped another switch, turning on the lights on the other side of the studio. Ross walked over to a stack of canvases leaning against the wall. He squatted down and one by one lifted them forward, examining each in turn. He stopped halfway through the pile at a picture of a young woman in a dark scarlet robe tied at one shoulder then secured at her waist with a golden sash. In one hand she held an oil lamp. In the other hand she held a loaf of bread.

He stood, lifting the portrait from the others. “This is interesting.”

Eliana had just put on her painting smock and looked up. “That’s my Vestal.”

Ross looked back. “Vestal?”

“One of the Vestal Virgins.”

“I don’t know much about them, but this fall there’s an exhibit coming to the Uffizi called
The Vestals
.” His eyes traversed the picture. “Mostly sculptures though, I think.”

“Well, then you should know something about them,” she said. She walked over to his side. “In ancient Rome, the Vestals were the keepers of the temple of Vesta—the goddess of home and family. The ancient Romans believed that their empire was founded on the family, so these women were very powerful. They were given large dowries, saluted in public places, even given the best seats at the Colosseum, all the nice perks.” She looked at Ross. “They were the only women in Rome allowed to own property.”

“The Old World’s first liberated women.”

“Not exactly.” She glanced from Ross to the painting. “They had three requirements, each with serious consequences should they fail them. First, they were to commit themselves completely to the goddess Vesta. Second, they were to keep the flame of the temple burning at all times. The last promise was that they were to forswear love for themselves by taking sacred vows of chastity.”

She paused. “The last vow carried the most serious punishment if broken. It was horrible. Their lovers would be whipped to death before their eyes. Then they would be taken to the field of the damned, where they were placed in a small stone room beneath the ground. They would be given a loaf of bread and an oil lamp; then they would be buried alive.” As she gazed at the picture, she spoke with a faraway look, as if she had witnessed it herself. “Their own families weren’t even allowed to mourn them. They died alone, forsaken by everyone.”

Ross looked at the painting. “Why did you choose a fallen Vestal?”

“I don’t know. It just intrigued me that someone wanted, or needed, love so badly that they would risk everything, even their lives.”

“So it did happen—one of them
was
buried alive.”

“Eighteen of them.”

Ross was surprised. “Eighteen?”

She looked up at him, as if suddenly woken from the trance. “Though one of them was raped by the emperor and punished for it. Hardly fair.”

“No, I think not.”

“The world has always been full of double standards.”

Ross felt as if she were talking about something else.

She turned back. “Shall we start?”

Ross returned the portrait to the others then came over by a chair in front of the easel.

“You want me here?”

“Yes. Just sit down, make yourself comfortable. I’ll do my best to make you uncomfortable in just a moment.”

Ross sat back in the chair.

“Have you ever sat for a portrait?”

“No.”

“Like I said, it’s easy.” She was suddenly quiet as she stared at him. “Move a little forward. Okay, now put your hands here. No, like this.” She came around the canvas, took his hand, moved it to his thigh, but still didn’t like the pose. “Maybe you should be holding a closed book in your lap, just something to give the picture some balance. Let’s try this.” She handed him a book; its leather cover was dyed dark maroon, with the Florentine lily embossed on it. “Nice. That works. I was thinking of doing something a little more dramatic, so I want to try using a spotlight on you and dimming the lights.”

She moved the light until it surrounded him with a small halo. Then she stepped back to her easel and studied him. Ross sat quietly and his eyes darted around the studio. It was like peeking into her mind. Not just what she painted, but what she surrounded herself with while she painted.

On the counter behind her there was a stack of books, mostly religious, intermingled with Italian love stories. There were photographs. Dozens of pictures, mostly of Alessio, chronicling his age. There was one picture of the entire family, shot at a photo studio, though it was obvious that it had been shot a while back. Alessio looked scarcely two years old in the picture. There was another of an older American woman with silver hair leaning against a fence post in front of a horse. It was pinned to the wall next to a picture of a man. The man was dressed in corduroy jeans and his hairstyle dated the picture. Ross guessed it was Eliana’s father. There were several other pictures of horses, and also an actual horseshoe with writing on it that looked like a signature next to
Happy trails.

She cocked her head to one side. “Okay, we’re almost there.”

She switched on a desk lamp directed toward her canvas; then she turned off the room lights. She studied him again then sat down on a leather-capped stool.

“So what’s the routine?” Ross asked.

“I start with a pencil sketch. Then, sometime after you’re gone, I’ll paint in the background, for balance. Then I start painting.”

“Are you using acrylics?”

“No, I only use those to practice because they dry fast. This is special so I’m using oils.”

Ross scratched his forehead, careful not to move. “That reminds me of something. Francesca, she’s the woman I work for at the Uffizi, told me this story about one of the paintings. A newly wealthy merchant asked Leonardo for a portrait. They agreed on a price; then the merchant asked what medium Leonardo would be painting in. ‘Oils,’ Leonardo said. His patron was incensed. ‘Where do you think you are, Naples? In Florence we do everything in butter.’ ”

Eliana smiled slightly. “I would believe that’s true.”

“Oils. Linen canvas. So what makes this portrait special?”

“You. You’re my first real model in Italy. Not counting Alessio.”

“So after you paint the background, then what?”

“Over the next several sittings I’ll paint a black-and-white picture of you. Then I’ll start applying the paints. I’ll start with your hair, just because it’s higher on the picture and I can still rest my hand against the canvas, then on to your nose and work out from there.”

“How long will it take?”

“That depends on how many questions the subject asks.”

“At this rate?”

She grinned. “About ten years.” She sat down at the easel. “All right, I’m ready.”

She lifted her pencil and began to sketch, sometimes hidden behind the canvas, sometimes peering around it at Ross. Her pencil made a smooth, comforting sound against the linen. After about twenty minutes she said, “All right, let’s take a break.”

Ross took a deep breath and exhaled. Eliana rolled her stool out from behind the easel.

“You doing okay?”

“Yes.”

He stood, walked over near her. “May I see?”

She held up her hand. “No. It’s bad luck.”

“You artists are all mad.”

“È vero.” It’s true.
Her eyes darted away from him as if she was suddenly embarrassed. “Speaking of crazy, I want to apologize for the other night.”

“For what?”

“My tongue was too loose. I’m sorry for dumping all of that on you.”

“For the record, I really enjoyed myself the other night. A little honesty is refreshing.”

“I think you’re just being polite. My husband says that American women talk too much. In this case he’s right. But it just felt so good to talk to an adult in English.”

“It was fine. Really.”

She took a sip from her glass, emptying it. “Thank you. Let me know when you’re ready to start again.”

“Just a minute.” He stretched again. Then he sat back down. “Okay. Is this right?”

“Scoot back a little . . . to your right a little more . . . no, your other right.
Perfetto.
”

She looked at him for a moment then raised her pencil to the canvas. “So I realized that every time I asked you about yourself you changed the subject.”

“Not much to tell.”

“Right. You move to a foreign country—alone—plan to stay forever and you don’t have a story?”

Ross grinned. “Maybe a little one. What do you want to know?”

“To begin with, what did you do in the States?”

“I was . . .” He started to turn toward her as he spoke.

“No, don’t move.”

“Sorry. Is this where I was?”

“Your shoulder was back a little more. There.”

“Okay. I was the art director for an advertising agency in Minneapolis.”

“You left that position to be a tour guide?”

“You make that sound so stupid.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s not why I left. I had a”—he stumbled on the sentence—“a falling-out with my partners. Besides, I was getting burned out on the caffeine-buzz lifestyle of the advertising world. The other night when you were telling me why you didn’t sell your paintings, I kept thinking that I wish I had had that kind of integrity. I got into art design because I loved art and I thought I could make a good living from it. I was successful, I made a lot of money, won a few awards, but after five years in the business I felt like a prostitute, selling myself to deadlines, the latest graphic fad or the client’s whim. Art by committee. I felt like I was losing my soul. And your theory’s right. It lost its joy. So I understand how you feel and I respect you for that. That’s also why your work is so brilliant. It’s honest. It’s an irony you’re going to have to deal with someday, because people will want to buy your pictures for the very reason you don’t want to sell them. It’s because they want to have back that part of themselves that they sold.”

At that moment she was glad to have the canvas to hide behind. His understanding meant more to her than he could have ever imagined. Maurizio just thought that she was a fool for not making more money from her work.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said softly. “So what else do you want to know?”

She returned to her drawing. “Do you have family? Any brothers or sisters?”

“I have a brother.”

“He lives in Minneapolis?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You’re not close?”