against Goliath. But the great artist made a blunder, claimed Al, because why would David show up on the battlefield without his pants?
Al liked to shock us with his views on religion. He maintained that theology was a form of literary criticism, since its arguments were chiefly about works of fiction (the Bible, the Koran, and so on). And he was fond of saying that if you picked a group of kids at random hanging around a street corner, any one of them could have designed a kinder universe than the one weâve got. Yes, Al enjoyed getting a rise out of us.
I once asked him why he had chosen to specialize in early Christian art, given his irreligious views. Would anyone, he replied, expect him to be an animist if he taught Aboriginal art? Half-seriously, he added that his field was less crowded than some others and so he felt he could make a mark in it. In fact, he was an excellent scholar. âBut the real reason, Nora, is that religious art can be just as beautiful as other kinds of art, and beautiful is what art history is about. Everything else is secondary.â Iâve never forgotten that.
Still, he was an odd member of his field. Usually faculty gravitate toward subjects that are in sync with their beliefs. Most professors of medieval art Iâve known have been believers, while those who teach contemporary art have not. You might ask, what about folks like me, who teach Impressionism? Considering my colleagues, Iâd say weâre all over the map. As for myself, I had a traditional Catholic upbringing, but while I still attend the occasional Mass and sometimes even take communion, my views on religion are, well, flexible. Toby, now, is the real skeptic in the family. His parents are mainline Protestants, but he jokingly refers to himself as an âOrthodox Reprobate.â
Those were some of the stray thoughts running through my mind as Toby and I stood waiting on the porch for the doorbell to be answered. We werenât kept long. Al hadnât changed much in the years since Iâd been his student. He was short, slim, and still dapper, with a full head of curly hair now gone silver and a trim white beard that reminded me of Civil War portraits. In class, he used to favor sports jackets and bow ties, but today he greeted us wearing khakis and a bulky hand-knit sweater. His wife, Irma, knitted.
âCome in, come in,â he said, beckoning. âI canât wait to hear more about your missing icon. Youâve got my curiosity up.â He gave me a hug and shook Tobyâs hand. âSo good to see you both. Make yourselves at home.â He led us into the living room, where a cozy fire crackled in the hearth. Offering us the couch, he pulled up a wooden chair for himself. The room was furnished just as I remembered, with Arts and Craftsâperiod furniture and oriental carpets, much to Tobyâs liking.
âHow are your courses going, Nora, and your work?â We made small talk as we settled in. âWill you take tea?â A tray with a steaming pot was waiting for us on the coffee table.
âYes, that would be lovely.â
âNow, whatâs this all about?â
Toby recounted the events surrounding Charlieâs death and what was known so far about the missing icon, while Al fussed with the tea cups and pouring. âCharlie bought it at auction for only eight hundred dollars,â I added, âbut we think it may be more valuable than that.â I pulled the auction catalog out of my bag.
Al cast a disdainful glance at it. âNever mind the catalog. If itâs Morganâs, the description wonât be worth a damn. You mentioned photos. May I see them?â He placed his porcelain cup on its saucer.
Toby took an envelope out of his jacket and pulled out the photos for Al, who spread them out on the coffee table. He set aside the one of the back of the panel and glanced quickly over the others. âThe archangel Michael, yes. Commonplace