The Gilder (8 page)

She stood with her back to him, washing the cup as if her life depended on getting every last germ, when suddenly Thomas stepped toward the front door and opened it.

“Look, I brought you something. Come see.”

Marina dried her hands and followed him into the alley, where a blue bicycle leaned against the wall. It had been well used—the paint was worn and the beginnings of rust showed on the handlebars—but the tires looked new and the chain glistened with grease.

Thomas looked pleased with himself. “I’ve done a little work on it. I think it rides pretty well. Don’t worry”—he chuckled—“I didn’t find it in the street. A friend gave it to me. Why don’t you give it a try?”

Marina knew Thomas often wandered the streets at night when he couldn’t sleep, reappearing at first light with all sorts of things people had put out on the street for the rubbish men, things Thomas considered treasure, but Sarah considered junk. Marina hesitated a moment, then mounted the bike and pedaled down the alley and around the corner toward the main street. She hadn’t been on a bike in years, but it felt glorious, and it would make the trek to the other side of the river so much faster. She made a tight turn at the end of the tunnel and headed back toward Thomas, ringing the bell.

“This is great!” The brakes squealed a little as she came to a stop next to him. “Thank you so much. It’s just what I need.”

Thomas smiled. “I know. Sarah told me that your class is over near my studio in Santo Spirito. That’s quite a hike from here. You should stop by some time when you’re in the neighborhood. It’s not fair for Sarah to have all the fun.”

Sauro’s workshop was located in a warren of streets behind Santa Croce, where it appeared that every ground-floor space was some sort of workshop. Some had glass windows so grimy Marina couldn’t see inside, and from all of them came either the hum of machinery or the softer vibrations of handheld saws and hammers. She moved down the street, searching for the number Sauro had given her. She was excited to see his workshop and show him the completed frame. Arriving at a wide wooden door that stood open to the street, she paused, then stepped over the threshold. It was dark, and only the muted chatter of a radio announcer came from the shadows. As her eyes adjusted, she saw three heavy wooden workbenches with built-in adjustable vises, each lighted by a goosenecked lamp. Three men were at work. At the bench nearest the door, a stooped, old man with thin, white hair stirred something on a Bunsen burner. At the next, an older version of Sauro with salt-and-pepper hair was engrossed in carving a large frame. Toward the back of the workshop, she saw Sauro stacking boxes against the wall.

She took another step and stopped. The old man looked up, but Marina could not tell if he saw her, since he bowed his head again and continued to stir. Sauro’s father nodded at her and called to Sauro, who stopped what he was doing and came to greet her. He shook her hand and, indicating the old man who was now muttering into his pot, said, “That’s my grandfather,” but he didn’t take her close enough for a personal introduction. Instead, he turned to introduce her to his father as his
“studentessa Americana.”
Sauro’s father shook her hand, then folded his arms across his chest as if to say, “I’ll believe it when I see it.” Thomas had warned her that she would not be taken seriously, but the fact that Sauro had invited her to his grandfather’s workshop confirmed that at least
he
had faith in her ability and dedication. She didn’t think the grandfather would be much of an obstacle, as he seemed already to have one foot in another world. But Sauro’s father, that was a different story. She would just have to do her best and let him see she was serious about the work. He looked her up and down, and it occurred to her that perhaps he thought she was after his son, which was a ridiculous notion, since Sauro was married with two children, too old, and definitely too chubby. But she’d have to take care not to inadvertently cross any boundaries.

Sauro touched her elbow and she followed him to his bench in front of a set of double doors that opened out onto a courtyard, which had probably been beautiful in its day, but now, with several other workshops opening onto it, was littered with piles of discarded metal, plastic containers, broken bottles, and wood scraps.

“I like to have natural light and some fresh air when I work, but we must keep the doors closed when any of us is working with the gold. You know how this is.”

Marina nodded. She knew that the slightest draft could interfere with applying the tissue-thin gold leaves. She still held her breath when she worked with it, while Sauro, she noticed, had mastered some way to breathe without disturbing the air around him.

Sauro indicated the massive frame on his bench, pointing out several places where it had needed extensive repairs. He shuffled through a pile of papers and produced several Polaroid pictures that showed the original damage as well as the various stages of restoration. As Marina’s admiration grew, her self-confidence dwindled. How could she ever hope to reach this level of expertise? Sauro had grown up in this workshop, probably gilding his building blocks at age three and carving by five. For all she knew, it was in his damn genes. She tried to think of some excuse to leave, to escape before he asked to see her work, but before she could come up with anything, he moved his things aside and said, “Show me what you have done.”

Marina opened her pack and pulled out the frame, which, in the shadow of his masterpiece, seemed but a glorified piece of junk. She handed it to him but looked away as he turned it in his hands.

“Brava,”
he said, nodding his head.

His father had stopped working and was watching from the other bench. Sauro said something to him that Marina didn’t catch, and gestured with the frame. His father put down his brush and came over to examine the piece. After a moment, he nodded, then, without a word, handed it back and returned to his bench.

“He agrees with me. This is good, but let me show you the places that need more work.”

By the time she left his workshop, she was feeling a little better. Sauro said she was ready for something more challenging and had given her an intricately carved candlestick with a number of deep gouges, nearly a third of the base missing, and almost all of the gold leaf worn off. She wondered where he found these things. Maybe he wandered the streets, like Thomas, looking for objects his students could repair, although she imagined even Thomas might pass up the candlestick Sauro proffered.

Over the following weeks, under Sauro’s tutelage Marina duplicated the candlestick’s missing pieces, the most arduous part of the reconstruction. This required studying the piece from every angle, sketching her interpretation of what was missing, deciding which carving knives had the right blade to duplicate a tight curve or a sweeping one, then carving an experimental piece. Once the repairs were complete, she applied a layer of gesso to the entire candlestick in preparation for laying the gold leaf. Even though this was one of her extracurricular projects, Sauro had asked her to bring it into class for gilding and had promised to let her use the real thing, twenty-three-karat gold leaf, instead of the sixteen karat she’d been practicing with.

CHAPTER 5

S
weat trickled between her breasts, but her hand was steady as she floated the gold leaf into place with the gilder’s tip. Then she let out her breath, relaxed her shoulders, and put the brush down, shaking the cramp from her fingers. She took a deep breath and blew it out slowly.

“Calmati,”
Sauro said, patting her back, urging her to relax.

Marina nodded and picked up the gilder’s tip, a thin, flat, squirrel-hair brush used for lifting and laying the gold leaf.

As promised, Sauro had brought in a small packet of twenty-three-karat gold for her to use. Each leaf, about the size of a business card and thinner than a Kleenex, was pressed between individual pages of waxed paper into a miniature booklet. After sanding the gesso with fine sandpaper, Sauro helped Marina prepare the bole—red clay mixed with rabbit glue—that was applied to create a smooth surface for gilding. Red, in addition to warming the patina, would help hide any faults that occurred in the application of the gold. Once the leaf was in place and dry, she would burnish the entire piece with a smooth agate, rendering the seams invisible.

Marina stroked the brush lightly over her forearm, picking up enough oil from her skin to lift a sheet of gold and carry it to the candlestick. She repeated the painstaking process until the entire candlestick was covered with overlapping squares, ragged edges drifting like golden seaweed on the surrounding air currents. She stood back and admired her work, marveling at how a thin veneer of gold could conceal so much damage.

Marina was elated as she stepped from the cool shadows of the stone building after class. She had used her first high-karat gold, practically solid gold! She took off her sweater, letting the sun caress her bare arms and neck. Behind her, the two English girls clattered down the stairs, urging her to join them for lunch.

Jocelyn, a tall, buxom blonde with a gap-toothed smile, elaborated. “There’s the greatest little trattoria over near Santo Spirito. Dead cheap, but good.”

“And the blokes are dishy,” added Felicity, her cap of dark curls bouncing against flushed cheeks.

Marina accepted and pushed her bike along as they filled her in on their lives, which seemed to revolve around sleeping with as many men as possible before their time in Florence was up. She was a little envious as she listened to their stories, not that she was interested in sleeping around, but a little sex might be nice. After all, it was spring, and she hadn’t slept with anyone since her misguided-by-alcohol and very forgettable New Year’s Eve date with the friend of a friend of a friend.

She wasn’t familiar with Santo Spirito, other than having visited the church during her first week there, but knew that students, drug addicts, and dealers frequented the piazza. The streets were narrow and claustrophobic with the smell of rotting vegetables. They walked single file for a few blocks until Jocelyn stopped and said, “You can lock your bike up here. Best lock it to something or someone will just lift it up and carry it off.”

Marina locked the bike to a signpost and followed her classmates down a stairway and into a large room lined with long tables flanked by benches. The place was packed with students and workmen, some still wearing their dark blue
grembiulini,
the workingman’s version of a lab coat. Loud conversation filled the space, and a thin layer of smoke clung to the ceiling. They found a spot at one end of a table when several people moved over. A grubby plastic-coated menu was passed down to them, and Marina ordered
spaghetti alla puttanesca
and a side serving of spinach.

During the meal, which was simple and fresh, an unending stream of young men passed the table, stopping to greet Felicity and Jocelyn, who spent more time squealing and kissing cheeks than eating. It seemed the Persian students were their favorites. During a lull in all the attention, the girls explained to Marina that there was a large community of Persian students studying at the university, mainly in the school of architecture, and evidently they both had slept with most of the group at one time or another before settling on their steady boyfriends. “You should come to one of our parties. They’d love you. They’re hot for Americans.” Felicity leered at Marina and elbowed Jocelyn. “Don’t you think, Jo?”

Marina was about to ask about these parties when she felt warm hands on her shoulders. Startled, she turned. “Thomas!”

“This is the last place I’d expect to see you,” Thomas said.

“This is my first time. I love it! What about you?” Her voice was loud, whether from too much red wine and twenty-three-karat gold, or being recognized by an older, handsome man in front of her friends, she didn’t know and didn’t care.

Thomas smiled at her. “I’m here almost every day. My studio is around the corner.”

Marina did her best to gather her composure. “Yes, right, Santo Spirito.”

“Come and see. Are you finished?” He gave Felicity and Jocelyn a nod. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

Marina turned back to her friends as Thomas left the restaurant. Felicity leaned forward and raised her eyebrows up and down. “So, an older man, and a dishy one, too. You’ve been holding out on us.”

Marina blushed and explained that he was just a friend, but that she had to go, she was going to see his studio.

“Ah. Going to see his etchings, are you?”

Marina waved dismissively, turning her back on their lecherous cackling.

The simplicity of Thomas’s studio, with its whitewashed walls, tiled floor, and vaulted ceiling, was unexpected, as was the feeling of relief she felt standing in the clean, open space. Florence had saturated her senses with the ocher and sienna of stucco and terra-cotta, the green scent of virgin olive oil, and the clatter of hooves and high heels across stone, leaving the taste of centuries thick in her throat. But here, bathed in the cool northern light from the massive windows, all the turmoil and excitement of the past three months settled quietly at her feet.

She was surprised, too, to discover that Thomas had an orderly side. She had assumed from his unruly hair, shabby clothes, and dented Vespa that organization was not a part of his makeup, imagining it was Sarah who kept their lives together. Along one wall, metal shelving was filled with neatly arranged photography equipment: camera bags, film canisters, tripods, a collection of lenses, floodlights, and darkroom supplies. At the far end of the long, narrow studio, Thomas had built a darkroom, leaving the center of the studio clear to accommodate sets and lighting, although he explained that he rarely did studio photography. In one corner, out of the way, two armchairs sat next to a velvet-covered daybed that Thomas said he had inherited with the studio.

On one wall, photographs of varying sizes held in place by tape or thumbtacks were layered, one on top of the other like a collage. Over this, as if it were wallpaper, hung framed photographs. This was his early work, mainly nudes, many of Sarah.