The Restoration Artist by Lewis DeSoto Read Free Book Online Page A

had seen the explosion that day and pulled me unconscious from the rubble had turned me over tothe United Nations Peacekeeping force. After a few days in hospital, where my shock at what had happened was worse than any injuries, the French consulate arranged for my return to Paris. Our return, I should say. Claudine and Piero’s bodies were on the same flight, enclosed in their coffins in the cargo hold.
    My desire for justice, for revenge, had burned out in the long months afterwards, until only despair remained. In the end, I was responsible. No one else.
    I looked back across to the main island, which was so silent and still that it might as well have been completely uninhabited. But if I did not go forward, where else was there to go?
    Fighting off the memories, I grasped the handle and pushed open the door. I was surprised to find not darkness but light, not emptiness but life. About a dozen or so people were gathered in the pews in front of Père Caron, who stood before a simple altar with his hands raised in a blessing.
    Hearing the door, most of the congregation turned to observe me. With an embarrassed nod I slipped into the nearest seat as the priest inclined his head in a greeting and resumed the service. Was it Sunday? I had long ago stopped keeping track of the days, but I must have wandered into a Mass.
    The interior of the chapel was very plain, just a few rows of wooden benches and an altar covered with a white embroidered cloth. A wooden model of a schooner, about six feet long, hung from the ceiling against the wall where a crucifix would normally be. I guessed that this was a mariner’s chapel, for I’d seen similar wooden boats in country churches along the Normandy coast.
    While the priest continued with the service, my eyes searched among the people seated in front of me. The onlychildren were two youths in their teens and a small girl of about two sucking her thumb. But no boy.
    I’d been sitting there for only a few minutes when the door behind me creaked and a thin shaft of daylight fell across the pew where I sat. I looked back over my shoulder. A figure was framed in the doorway. The woman from the cliff. She slipped into a seat across the aisle. The light from a high window fell on her face but her eyes were dark as ink as she looked at me. It was one of those looks that can sometimes pass between two strangers, on a street or bus, of recognition, not in the sense of knowing each other, but of possibility. I remembered her leaning over me on the path, like an apparition. I stared at her, thinking how striking she was. She wore a thin transparent scarf over her hair, tied under her chin, and she had pulled it forward a bit over one cheek. As she turned to face forward, I remembered the bruise.
    At the altar, Père Caron made a final benediction and exited through a low doorway into the vestry. Mumbles of
Amen
sounded from the congregation and the shuffle of people rising to their feet signalled that the service was over. A murmur of conversation started up. Somebody opened the doors wide to admit daylight and the flood of brightness dazzled my eyes.
    I remained in my seat, subject to the curious glances of the congregation as they filed out. Victor and Linda from the hotel passed and nodded with smiles. I dropped my eyes, avoiding curious glances. What did they know about me? Père Caron had probably guessed what had happened on the cliff, but I doubt he would have gossiped. On the other hand I knew nothing about him, and it was a small island after all. My presence had undoubtedly been noted and remarked upon.
    When I looked around moments later, I was alone in the church. I got up from the pew and walked towards the doorway. For the first time I noticed the painting hanging over the entrance. Curious, I drew nearer and studied it. Although the surface was not in good condition and obviously needed a cleaning, I could make out the subject.
    The scene showed two figures dressed in classical